Page 2 of Mayfly

“That's why I've got my best man on it. You’re in. You’re out. It’s why I love you.”

“Fuck you, you Romanian bastard.”

“Hey, hey. No need to get personal… But go on,” he continues after a long pause. “Why don’t you say you love me, too? It might make you feel better.”

“Why don’t you tell me where the fuck I have to benowinstead of forcing me to play your stupid games?”

“Because no matter how much I trust you, you’re still a wildcard.”

“We’re done here,” I grunt with bitter obligation as I stand—the satchel already back over my shoulder as I continue the journey I’d started before Marius’s little check-in. “You know I’ve arrived, so I better not hear your voice again before ten o’clock tonight. And fuck you again for sending me here.”

I have the back cover of the phone pried off within a second, because if I don’t end the call, there’ll be a scene. And when I cause a scene, people get hurt.

Tearing out the phone’s battery pack, I shove it in my jacket pocket. After fishing out the SIM card, I toss the empty phone and case into the final rubbish bin I pass when exiting the park. Crossing onto Montague Street, the British Museum and its tall cast iron fence flanking me to my right, I snap the SIM card in half inside my pocket. Then, as a bus full of early morning tourists pulls up at the museum's main gate, I stumble into a passerby and drop the satchel in the gutter. Apologizing, I step into the gutter to retrieve the bag—tossing the broken SIM into the stormwater drain in the process. A jogger stops to ask if I’m alright, and with a reassuring nod, I take the battery pack out of my other pocket and dispose of it into the rectangular metal bin of a passing street cleaner.

CCTV might be a pain in the ass, but at least it makes me thorough.

With the exertion of feigning politeness behind me, I crack my neck, dust my gloved hands together, and breathe out Marius’s bullshit.

He may be all I have. But that still doesn't mean I owe him shit.

The Ritz London’s restaurant with its theater-style seating that overlooks the gardens of Buckingham Palace, is about as metaphorically far from Dagenham as I can get whilst still being in the same city.

Smoked salmon, avocado, grilled tomato, and an egg white omelet that tastes like blood money—all for the exorbitant price of £50. It spits in the face of thebread so stale all toasting it did was warm it upI used to survive on. Butter, if there was any. Once I dug through the rubbish for an empty jam jar so I could scoop my hand as far in as it would go before licking thesweetness from my fingers. It was like a dream—what I imagined getting a room full of birthday presents must feel like.

When my waitress—dressed in a black tails tuxedo—walks past, I order an organic berry smoothie. I don’t want it, but for £15 I’ll let it sit on the white linen-covered table between the silverware and the crystal glasses so I can imagine they’re watching me frivolously spend more money on one meal than they allocated to my care for a year.

Mum and Dad.

That’s who everyone at school thought they were.

I’m not sure if I ever had the opportunity to call Cheryl anything, but Harry… he really loved it when I called him Daddy. He’d rub my shoulders. My thighs. He’d fetch me an ice cream, then drag me to the shed at the back of the overgrown garden through weeds even taller than I was.

“Are you staying with us, sir?” my waitress asks when she returns with the smoothie.

I don’t look up right away, choosing instead to let the moment stretch so I can savor the power that courses through me with the delay. And when I do, I nod with an arrogant hum. It’s an effortless lie, as though Harry himself is speaking through me. Then it begins, just like every time I think of them; my regression into that powerless child. And this time it’s made even more real by the young woman standing to my side in men’s clothes.

As I suck in air, I can taste Harry’s breath and feel its heat heavy on my face.

My eyes flicker towards the redhead across the room who’s been vying for my attention since I walked into the restaurant, and find her looking at me.

She’s willing.

This could work.

Maybe this time I can claim back control.

Maybe this time I can brush the heaviness of him from my shoulders, or dilute the thickness of his words in my ears.“You’re mine. Tell Daddy you love him."Who was I to question him when no one had ever taught me otherwise?

I quickly stand, but instead of my chair scratching against the floor, I hear the waitress gasp so loud the next table looks over. The confusion mixed with lust in her eyes pushes aside the poison inside of me. I can feel my longer chestnut waves fall forward around my neck as I tilt my head down to her. And suddenly, destroying this girl’s innocence is far, far more appealing than how that ginger-haired woman’s lips might feel wrapped around my cock.

"How old are you?"

"Um. Just turned twenty, Sir."

My chest swells with misogynistic pride, and I wonder how long it will take to turn her curiosity into tears. “I’m gonna fuck you.”

She blinks twice, as if the words are foreign. As if she was ever going to say no. “Excuse me?” The tremble in her voice dances down my spine. It’s delicious; that flicker of panic.

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