Page 24 of The British Bastard

He doesn't mind what I said. Since he has never told me he loves me, I wondered if he might feel uncomfortable with endearments, especially since he knows I'm in love with him.

"I have champagne," he whispers into my ear. "Shall I pop the cork?"

"Yes."

He reaches under the bed and pulls out a bottle of sparkling white grape juice.

I laugh. "That's not champagne, Alex."

"Let's pretend it is. I couldn't find genuine bubbly anywhere in this charming hamlet, and I couldn't get real alcohol either. Apparently, this is a dry town."

"Donnae care. Let's pretend it is champagne."

He nuzzles my neck. "I'd love to pour this all over your body so I can lick it off."

"Only if I get to do the same thing to you."

For the rest of the day, we hide out in Alex's 'presidential suite' and make believe the sparkling white grape juice we pour onto each other's bodies is really the most expensive champagne on earth. We laugh almost as often as we moan and gasp, and I lose count of how many times he makes me come. Sex with Alex is always more than just a path to orgasms. It's an experience.

Alex wants to throw out the empty bottle of sparkling grape juice. But I snatch it away. He tries to steal it from me while I dig in my purse to find my lipstick. It's a bonnie pink. I apply a thick coating to my mouth, then kiss the bottle's label, leaving my lip print.

"What's this?" he asks.

"A memento of our time in a luxurious hotel."

He smirks, then kisses me. And he takes the empty bottle with him when we leave.

Alex drives me back to the motel and kisses me again at the door to my room. He promises to come back every Sunday since he claims I'm the only thing that will sustain him and he will "die of starvation" if he can't devour me every weekend. I want to see him too, so I don't complain about his overblown claims.

During my last week in Nevada, I volunteer to drive to the nearby town of Fernley to get supplies—food and tools, not booze. As I'm walking out of the hardware store holding bags in each hand, I notice a man across the street just exiting a grocery store. His head is down, so I can't see his face, but something about his posture and gait seems familiar.

Then he lifts his head, revealing his profile, though it's partly in shadow.

Alex? No, it cannae be him. He's in New Mexico. My brief glimpse of the man as he climbs into a car parked along the street doesn't provide conclusive evidence. It can't be him. But a tingle swept down my spine when I saw that face. I rush across the street, but the man has driven away before I get there.

Was it Alex? Why would he keep it a secret that he came to Nevada? Maybe he means to surprise me.

I hurry back to the dig site and get to work, but I keep thinking about what I saw in Fernley. I glance at the road repeatedly during the rest of the day, hoping to see Alex driving up to surprise me. He doesn't. After a long day of work, we all head back to our motel. I ring Alex, but he doesn't answer. I take a shower, then try again. This time, he picks up.

"Good evening, Cat," he says. "Did you dig up any thrilling new finds?"

"No." I hesitate, afraid to hear his answer to the question I need to ask. But then I just do it. "Were you in Fernley, Nevada, today?"

"Fernley where? What are you on about?"

He sounds sincere in his confusion. As far as I know, Alex has never lied to me. He invents grandiose tales to entertain me, like when he called a dilapidated mobile home the "presidential suite." But he wouldn't outright lie. Would he? Of course not. I know Alex, and he's a good man.

"Why would you think I'm in Nevada?" he asks.

"I saw—I'm an eejit, that's all. Seeing mirages in the desert, I suppose."

"Your mirage was of me? I'm flattered."

We chat for a bit longer, then say goodbye so I can go to bed. A long day at the excavation site has left me jeeked. But as I'm falling asleep, one thought haunts me.

Did I imagine seeing a man who resembled Alex? Or is he hiding something from me?

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