Page 37 of Sinful Crimes for the Artistically Inclined
“I’d call it a heist. Of sorts.” Percy made for the door.
Joe reached for his hand. “We can take a few minutes. You seem really anxious.”
That was an understatement and a half. This being around Joe thing was messing with his head. He started to say, “Joe, I just killed…” But then,Shut the fuck up, he thought to himself, correcting aloud with, “a lot of people. That makes me anxious.”
“No doubt.”
Percy waited, his hand in Joe’s, but he cast his gaze to the floor rather than meeting Joe’s worried examination of him. “Can we just sit and have a drink? And then we’ll talk about whatever you like. I just need a few minutes to walk and sit before we go over… all that.”
“All right,” Joe replied doubtfully.
Percy made to leave, but just as his fingers were pulling free of Joe’s, he gripped twice as tight, and instead pulled Joe in close, wrapping his arms around his waist. “I wish you hadn’t come today.”
Joe’s concerned expression offered up a nervous half smile. “I’m sorry.”
“But I’m glad you did.” Percy kissed him, wincing a little at the pain, yet feeling the vast majority of his tension slip away as he closed his eyes and felt the soft lips kiss him back.
Remarkable, the way almost all the worry went so easily in Joe’s embrace.
But there remained a short, tight, hard knot in his chest. Strange and unaccustomed.
He imagined it would be loosened easily enough with a good deal of gin.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
COCKTAILS ON THE TERRACE
They told the staff on the door that Percy had been mugged. Percy summarily ordered both their cocktails and an ice bucket to be brought to the table. They found a spot for two on the edge of the terrace, overlooking the old town square and the city beyond, flowering vines lining the low walls beside their table. All was softly lit by long strings of yellow lights and the gentle sunshine fading over the horizon, and all was very welcoming and very civilised.
Percy didn’t seem to notice how lovely it all was at first, not that it was his first time there. He only seemed anxious for Joe to find it pleasant and relaxing, and once he was satisfied that was the case, he went about filling a napkin with chunks of ice which he flinchingly applied to his cheek, then his eyebrow. Joe wondered how much of his distraction was the pain in his face and body, so he made no more than small talk for a time, reflections on the beauty of the old town below, the decor and the weather, the sublime fusion of flavours in the icy, dusky brown-pink cocktail. “You would think it was a whiskey drink, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Percy replied. “You think it’s onething, then it turns out to be something else entirely.” Then, without pausing for breath, “I’m sorry about today.”
“About all the Nazis you killed over an old painting?”
“No. Maybe a little. Not really that. I’m sorry that…” His half smile slowly faded as his words drifted away, so Joe caught him.
“Oh, you mean you’re sorry for trying to blow yourself up in front of me?”
“Admittedly, I didn’t know you were there.”
“That doesn’t make it any better.”
“It makes it a bit better.”
“Only a bit.”
Percy took a sip of his drink, a large one, then motioned to the waiter for two more. Joe took a sip of his own. It was very good after all. His conversation-changing reflection on the skill involved in creating such a cocktail was cut short when he took in the grimace on Percy’s face. Joe put his drink down, leant back, and waited.
Percy let out a long sigh. “Joe, I’m not doing well.”
Joe kept his voice calm and sympathetic. “You know, I think I may be an empath because I had sensed that about you.”
Percy choked a little on the last of his drink. “Could you not make light of my suffering?”
“I’m not,” Joe laughed.
“You are. And Christ, you’re so pretty the whole time you’re doing it. I don’t want to throw a thing at you.”
