Page 79 of By the Pint

You can’t stop other people from being twats, I countered.

No, I’m sorry I said what I said. He shoved harder into me. The tip of his nose brushed along my temple. His eyes closed.You’re more than that to me. More than just great sex.

“Stop,” I whimpered the word out loud before I realised what was happening.I can’t … Don’t give me another reason to… I mentally cleared my throat, my thoughts. “I’m here for you. Whatever you want to do, I’ll be here for you.” I cupped his cheek in my palm and gazed into his warm, hazel eyes.

“We don’t have to do this. We can go back to yours. You can show me your apartment. I could meet your flatmates.”

A laugh burst free from me. “Fuck that. I’m not letting you anywhere near my flatmates. I like you, remember? I do not need to subject you to the utter depravity of their minds.”

Casey sucked in a lungful of air, choking on his laughter. “Fair.” He paused for another moment and blinked in slow motion, as though biding his time while he decided something. I watched his face, unable—unwilling—to read his thoughts. After a few moments, he whispered, “Okay, let’s do this.”

He took my hand once again and pulled me across the corridor to where an orc woman stood. She wore smart black trousers and a black polo shirt withSECURITYprinted across the chest. The lanyard around her neck indicated her name was Lana.

“Mr Freckleman, what an honour. Nice to see you back.”

“Good to see you, too, Lana. You look great,” Casey said. I whipped my head round so fast I could have pulled a muscle in my undead neck. Casey said something nice to someone? “Happy, I mean. You look happy.”

“Oh, you know, can’t complain.” A blush crept up onto Lana’s green skin.

Though Casey’s barrier was up, Lana’s obviously wasn’t. Images and memories and feelings flashed through her mind all at once.

Never understood why everyone dislikes him.

Been nothing but kind to me.

People can be cruel. Goading him. Not his fault.

As I watched these thoughts, or rather was assaulted by them, I realised Lana had never wanted anything from Casey, never expected anything of him. She never wanted to sleep with him, or have a selfie taken, or be introduced to someone with more power or influence, or have him sponsor a dying whale. Not even an autograph. And in return, he rewarded her by treating her like a person.

Every day was peeling back another layer of Casey. Was revealing another clue why he was the way he was.

Lana spoke into her radio, “Pete? Two more VIPs for you. Casey Freckleman and guest.” She flashed us both a brilliant, betusked smile, and pressed the button on her radio again. “Courtside.”

The speaker crackled back, and a tinny voice emitted, “Freckleman? Freckleman? Holy moly. Yep, sure thing.”

“Enjoy the game, boys,” Lana said, unhooking the velvet rope barrier.

We were escorted to our seats by a very handsy fae named Pete. Only handsy with Casey, though. They ignored me, avoided me even. Like they might catch vampirism if they came too close.

Casey’s demeanour switched back to its default mode, and he continued to acknowledge people with a brief flick of his hand, occasionally deigning a small nod for patrons already settled in their seats. I recognised most of their faces from cover pictures of the magazines Joey left around our apartment.

Pete sat us directly behind the Barracudas bench, apologising profusely to Casey that they couldn’t get us any closer. Vinyl lettering on the floor spelled out the wordAWAY.

“Freckleman!” someone in a blue jersey shouted. He was human, easily as tall as Casey, if not taller, and about Casey’s age, perhaps a little younger. It was the same human from the video I’d watched with my flatmates, the one who Casey’d laid flat with a single right hook.

Casey leapt to his feet. “Storm!” He manoeuvred to the front, and they did a chest-slappy kind of one-armed bro-hug. He held the guy by the back of the head and his smile went from you’re-famous-and-I’m-being-polite to genuinely-euphoric-to-see-you.

They started talking, but I couldn’t hear any of it because the woman next to me — pretty sure she was a popstar —thought,That’s gonna be the fucking headline. The Temper and Alex Storm Bury the Fucking Hatchet.

And I realised here, where I could hear twenty-thousand thoughts, smell everything, where the lighting was so bright it was already triggering a migraine, where I was treated like some kind of noxious chemical spill, was where Casey belonged.

His smile was now genuine, his laughter easy, not affected for the crowds or cameras, and despite what people had said about him in the past, printed in the papers etc, most were truly pleased to see him.

Casey in his element was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Even if the woman next to me had swapped seats with her equally famous husband because my core body temperature was making her nipples stand to attention. But come on, who wears lacy sleepwear to a wingball game?

Isn’t that the guy you punched in the face?I asked Casey once he returned to his seat.

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