Page 19 of After Felix
He smiles.
I’m not sure I should continue the conversation, but decide to just go with the flow. “It’s a bit like when I packed up smoking,” I say. It’s a stupid and trite analogy, especially when talking to a wordsmith, and my cheeks begin to heat.
However, he looks at me as if fascinated. “Go on.”
“Well, I knew smoking was bad for me. Everyone told me so. My friends, the government, and those particularly gross adverts they keep plastering all over the Tube. So, I gave in and packed it up.” I lean forward. “But it’s like the more they told me no, the more I wanted to do it, and the less I wanted to listen to them anymore. I only remembered the good things about smoking. The feel of the cigarette in my mouth, that first sharp inhale.” He’s silent, but his eyes are intent on me. I sit back. “So, I started smoking again.”
“Felix, is this your own version of an anti-smoking campaign? Because I think the government adverts are probably more effective.”
I snort. “No. What I’m saying is that no one could tell me to stopdoing it. They were absolutely right in what they said, but I wouldn’t listen. So I went back to smoking, and that first cigarette disabused me of the notion that it was great.”
“Why?”
“I threw up in my mouth. It was fucking rank.” I grimace. “And then I packed up, but it worked that time, because it wasmecalling the shots.” I smile at him. “It’s the same with your job. Anyone can tell you that it’s dangerous and you could die, but you have to decide for yourself, Max, and then maybe you’ll stick with it.”
He watches me for a too-long second and then suddenly smiles. “You’re actually very wise, Felix, aren’t you?”
“Should not be said in such a tone of surprise.” I smile at him as he laughs, relieved to hear the familiar sound of his laughter. “So, what do you think you’ll do?”
He sits back and drains his pint, giving me a heated glance. “I’m going to take you in the toilet and suck you off. Then I’m going to wank until I come all over you. And then I’m going to treat us to a pub lunch and so many pints that we’ll have to be rolled home.”
“You silver-tongued charmer, you,” I say faintly. But my smile stays in place as he laughs again. We’re obviously both happy to put away intimacy and get back to what we do best. Shagging.
A FEW WEEKS LATER
It’s quiet on the boat, the only sound the lapping of the water outside and Max’s gentle snores.
I roll over and look down at him. He’s tangled in my duvet with his feet sticking out over the end of my bed. He’s patently too tall for my mattress, but I never realised it before because we’ve never actually spent the night in the same bed.
Usually, we’ll lie together for a bit after sex, and then he starts to get fidgety—my cue to get up and leave. It’s one reason I occasionally suggest we hook up on my boat. At least this wayhecan be the one who has to get dressed and fuck off, and I can ignore the slight dip I get in my stomach lately when I know that he’s waiting for me to go.
But last night he didn’t choose to leave. He passed out after sex as quickly as if I’d coshed him. There are dark circles under his eyes and lines of weariness in his face. My stomach takes another worrisome dip.
I sigh, trying to keep it quiet, so he doesn’t wake up. I’m getting attached to Max, and it’s a fucking disaster in the making. My safeguards aren’t working. Like the idea of meeting here on the boat—it’s backfired spectacularly. He’s absolutely fascinated by boat life, and, as seems to be Max’s raison d’etre, he’s nosed his way into my neighbours’ lives and now knows everyone on a first-name basis.
It’s starting to become the norm for people to see me and automatically look around for Max. What makes it even worse is that I actually want him here all the time and not just for a shag. All of it makes me very uneasy.
I drink in the lines of his body, something I can’t normally do, as he typically deflects any interest on my part. His body is beautiful—long and taut with the hair-roughened chest and muscled arms roped with veins. His genes must be excellent, because he does very little to keep himself this way. Although he is a restless spirit, always on the move and looking for entertainment—so maybe that explains it.
The moonlight turns the scars on his body into dark splodges. I trace them with my eyes, particularly the one on his shoulder which is a knotty, mangled mess. He’s dismissive of his scars, saying they’re a product of roaming the globe in areas where people don’t serve tea and want a cosy chat. However, I know from things he’s let slip that there are at least another two bullet wounds. He was either spectacularly brave or the unluckiest person alive.
His face is peaceful in sleep. Almost innocent-looking. All his energy is gone for now, although he’s probably recharging his tank even as we lie here.
Max moves suddenly, flinging one long arm over his head and turning his head restlessly. He mutters something in another language with a few English words thrown in, and I lean closer to listen. I pull back immediately when his hands clench into fists. “Ivo,” he rasps. “Ivo.”
I wonder what that means. His voice is so intense. Is “Ivo” a place? Some small part of the world he’s dreaming about so fiercely?
My thoughts scatter as I hear the scrape of footsteps on gravel and the sound of my name being called in a very drunken slur.
“Shit,” I mutter, rolling to the edge of the bed.
“Felix!” comes the shout again. “Where the fuck are you, you little shithead?”
My stomach cramps. He’s going to wake the whole row of boats—stupid fucker.
When the shout comes again, Max wakes with a start. There’s no bleariness from sleep or confusion in his eyes. He snaps into comprehension with an eerie swiftness. I suppose it’s a hangover from his journalism days.
“Who’s that?” he asks, his voice hoarse and deep.
