Page 42 of Charlie Sunshine
EIGHT
MISHA - SIX WEEKS LATER
I let myself into the flat and lean back against the door with a weary sigh. It’s been a fucker of a morning. I was called into work on a Saturday to solve an emergency, and coming home to an empty flat puts the cherry on top of the shit-sundae.
I straighten up. I’m going to make a drink and then I’m going to lie on the sofa, watch rugby, and order a takeaway. That’s the extent of my plans, but everything changes when I step forward and spot the case laying in the middle of my lounge and spewing clothes everywhere. He’s back!
I whirl around. He’s leaning against the bookcase, his arms folded, watching me with a smile playing on his lips.
“Charlie,” I gasp. “You’re home.”
He smiles, steps forward, and then we’re both moving. We reach each other in two long strides, wrapping our arms around each other and starting to laugh as if synchronised.
“God, Imissedyou,” I say.
He snorts. “I missed you too. This is a such a symbioticrelationship.”
“I have no idea what that means,” I say mournfully.
“You need to read more, Misha,” he sniffs, hugging me close.
“But then how would we ever communicate? Two bookworms in one flat. We’d die of the silence. No, you need me to keep the conversational ball rolling along the road for both of us.”
“God help me.”
I laugh and pull back. “Let me look at you.” I feel like I haven’t seen him for ten years. It’s been a long six weeks, and I smile helplessly as I look him over. “You look good, Charlie,” I say hoarsely.
He’s dressed in jeans and a V-neck forest-green jumper over a white T-shirt. He’s gained back the weight he lost. The dark shadows are gone from under his eyes, and his skin has regained its natural golden hue. His eyes sparkle back at me as he grins.
I blink, his good looks hitting me like a blow. His lips are full and pink, his hair long and golden. I catalogue almost absentmindedly the high cheekbones and the long, rangy body. It’s only when my gaze dips, and I find myself sneaking a look at his crotch and wondering what underwear he’s wearing, that I apply the mental brakes with a screech.
Whoa. What the fuck was that? This is my friend. I’m a fucking pervert.
I think about a certain activity I’ve been doing while he’s been gone and flush. He’d fucking kill me. I look up at him, prepared to meet a confused stare, but he just looks happy.
It’s because I haven’t seen him in so long. Everything will snap back to normal soon.I take a firm step away from him.
“How are you?” I ask. “Any more turns?”
We’ve kept in constant contact, so I already know the answer to this, but I ask it anyway, mainly so I can see the light in his face when he answers.
“Only one in the last week.”
“That’s good, sunshine,” I say softly. “I’m so pleased.”
He shrugs. “They’re good for the moment,” he says quickly, as though he’s feeling superstitious. “I could have another tomorrow.”
“You could,” I say calmly. “And we’d deal. Same as usual.”
“Same as usual,” he echoes and hugs me again.
I force my fucking mad brain away from its immediate preoccupationwith how his long body feels against me and how happy his scent makes me. He smells of vanilla, and it’s warm and rich. His hair brushes silkily against my face, and to my horror, I feel my dick twitch.No. No fucking way.
I jerk backwards and stumble on his case. My arms windmill as I struggle to keep my balance.
“Are you alright, Misha?” he asks as he braces me.
“Don’t think I can’t hear the laughter in your voice,” I say darkly, and he bursts into peals of laughter. I try to frown, but I’m so fucking happy to hear that merry sound again that I just grin at him like a fucking muppet.
