Page 18 of After Felix
“Are they wanting to meet up? We can do this another day. It’s only a pint and a shag, after all.” I hold my breath because, despite my careless words, I’ve been looking forward to meeting him.
He immediately shakes his head, and I exhale slowly. I haven’t seen him in days. I don't know if he was in London or out of the country. He doesn’t ring when we’re apart, and I’m okay with that, but the fact is that he’s a bloody excellent shag. Nobody has ever taken me apart the way he does until I’m a boneless sprawl on the sheets. And I’ve missed that. I love being out of my head like that where all my worries fly away, and I’m just a cock needing to come.
“Fuck no,” he says. “Nothing’s more important than this.”
I endeavour to brush away the flutter of happiness his words inspire. “Well, of course,” I say lightly. “I’m an excellent shag. There isn’t much that comes before that.”
“I think it’s because I had to work so hard to get you,” he muses, a grin twitching the corner of his mouth. “You were so shy and retiring. Like a little mouse.”
I assume a modest expression, which obviously fails because he starts to laugh. The sight makes me smile a little because he’s so charming. Funny and smart and naughty.
His phone buzzes again, and I wrinkle my nose at him. “Someone definitely wants your attention.”
“And you soundsoastonished about the fact.”
“Well, I’m just wondering if they’ve actually met you.”
His laughter attracts glances from the other people in the garden. It fades away though, as he takes his phone out and looks down at the screen. “It’s an old mate wanting me to do a job with him. I don’t know what to do, to be honest.”
I stare at him. His tone is off, and this isn’t the way we do things. We meet up. We banter. We shag. We leave. That’s it. Although the last couple of times, I haven’t exactly rushed out of the bed, and he’s seemed content to lie and chat. However, we’ve never done completely serious before. I bite my lip. Or pained. The idea of him being sad makes my belly clench. It sits wrong on him, like he’s trying on someone else’s clothes.
“What sort of favour? Are you tiling a bathroom in exchange for them buying you a few pints?” I ask, watching his downcast face intently.
When he glances up at me, the wrinkles around his eyes seem to have deepened, making him appear closer to his actual age. “Not exactly. More like a trip to Syria.”
I feel sick at the thought of him going to that warzone, but it’s none of my business, is it? I expel a low whistle. “That’s definitely worth a takeaway at the very least.” He smiles, and I take a sip of the pint that he had waiting for me. “So, what’s the problem? You’ve retired, haven’t you? Tell him no.”
His nod seems begrudging.
“Oh,” I say softly. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t want to say no?”
He shifts in his seat—a pose that strikes me as defensive.
“There’s nothing wrong with that, Max,” I say softly.
His eyes are dark, almost bruised, as he stares up at me.
“Canyou go back?” I ask. He hesitates, and I put my hand up. “Sorry, that was a bit rude. Ignore me.”
“No, it’s okay.” He sighs. “I can’t go back,” he says slowly, staring down at his finger as it rubs across the wood of the pub table. “I tried,and it didn’t work out.”
“How?” I suddenly remember he’d mentioned this before—when he’d talked about not going back to reporting.
He shrugs. “My reflexes were for shit. Me and my photographer ended up taking a bullet.”
I jerk in reaction and hope he doesn’t notice.
He rubs his shoulder. “It was a skin wound for him, but the whole thing was my fault. I didn’t pay attention to my instincts.” He huffs. “I’m not even sure those instincts were there anymore, to be honest.”
“Were you hurt badly?” I hate the thought of him being hurt.
He shrugs in that casual way he has of dismissing any illnesses or injuries. “It was clean through the shoulder, but it hurts now when a cold spell is on the way.”
I know the scar he’s talking about—it’s a mottled starburst that I’ve traced with my fingertips and lips. “You’re like a weathervane,” I say lightly. “You’d make a fortune as a sexy version of Michael Fish.”
“Aren’t you a bit young for that reference?” he asks, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t even thinkI’mold enough for it.”
“Are you sure? I’m pretty sure he was post-Jurassic period.”
