Page 30 of Oz
He looks startled and shakes his head. “No, of course not. I trust you to do it properly.”
I don’t feel happy because he approves of me,I tell myself sternly.I don’t need anyone’s approval.I pause. Except my mum’s, of course.I pause again. And Auntie Vera.
His voice breaks into my thoughts. “I need to borrow you, Oz, if you’re free for a couple of hours.”
“Borrow me?” I stop to clear the Mickey Mouse squeakiness from my voice. “I mean, why do you need me?”
He bites his lips. “Well, you’ll find out if you come with me.”
Our eyes meet and tangle and everything seems to be muffled around me. The only thing I can see are the warm depths of his hazel eyes. They’re clear and limpid today like a shallow stream where the water runs clear, but they darken as the other night seems to rise up in front of us like a hologram inStar Wars.Only that film never had holograms of a man anally pleasuring himself with a dildo. I think even Darth Vader would have been a bit startled by that.
I swallow hard and he licks his lips almost nervously. Milo coughs and shifts and we both start as if he’s woken us up.
Silas looks at me questioningly and I abruptly remember what he’s just said. I don’t want to be alone with him. I’ll either say something really fucking stupid or crawl onto his lap and beg him to fuck me. Or both. He looks at me expectantly, and for just a second, I think I see worry in the soft depths.
I immediately smile at him reassuringly, watching him relax almost instantly. I then compound my stupidity by turning to Milo and saying, “Are you okay with me pushing off?”
He takes the plans from me. “I’m fine. It’s self-explanatory.”
I turn back to Silas and gesture. “Well, lead on then.”
He smiles before turning to Chewwy who has sat up and is watching our movements. “Stay,” Silas says to the huge dog. Chewwy gives him a face that implies Silas is torturing him and then collapses onto the floor next to Milo with a long and disgusted sigh. I turn and follow Silas, trying hard not to look at his arse in the faded jeans he seems to favour. They’re mostly worn to within an inch of their life with interesting holes, and they hold his lower body shape like a lover. He looks back suddenly and missteps almost comically as he catches me looking at his arse.
I flush and instantly burst into talk.Hello stupidity.Here you are again, my old friend. “Don’t you own any new clothes?” I come to a dead stop. “Oh my God, that was really tactless. I’m so sorry. I know you don’t have much money and–”
He looks startled but then follows my glance to the holes in the knees of his jeans. When he looks up his eyes are soft. “Oh no, I’m okay for money myself, Oz. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I earn a good living with my practice, but it’s the house and the estate. The figures involved in that are way out of the park.” He pauses. “And a few other parks too.” He shrugs, looking almost bashful. “I just like being comfortable, and I like jeans best when they’re–”
“Almost on the verge of extinction?” I say sympathetically and smile as he laughs.
He shakes his head. “I like old things.”
“Please don’t ever say that if I take you to leather daddy night in Camden. They’d eat you alive.”
He grins. “You do make me laugh,” he says almost impulsively and then blushes again.
“Well, it’s nice I can do that. I think my humour is slightly lost on Milo. He hovers between a twitchy smile and horror.”
“He likes you. He doesn’t say boo to a goose normally.”
I shake my head. “What does that even mean? Why would anyone go around saying boo to a farmyard bird? It’s not like they’re going to turn around and engage you in conversation.”
“Swans are birds and they’ve been known to break people’s arms,” he says casually.
I stop dead. “What?”
He turns back. “They are not good-tempered birds, especially if you get near them during spring nesting. They can hurt you if they’re defending their nest.”
“You’re joking.”
He grins. “Nope. There was a swan called Mr Asbo on the River Cam. He got the name because he kept attacking the rowers.”
“But you’ve got swans in the lake,” I splutter. “Shouldn’t they be behind bars?”
“They’re not Charles Bronson, Oz. Just don’t say boo to them.”
“You’re so funny,” I mutter, following him down past the tea rooms to the private car park. “Where are we going?” I finally ask.
He comes to the concreted area and stops by an old red Volkswagen Polo. “Voilà!”
