Page 25 of Cherry Beats

“I thought you’d turned yourself into the police.”

Presley’s eyes tore away from the screen, and he blinked furiously before he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, the erm… the guy I punched dropped charges already.” He shook his head. “Something to do with his girlfriend threatening to end him if he had me locked away.”

“It pays to have super fans.”

“I guess.”

“You okay?”

“Never been worse.”

I hated seeing him so torn up. I could smell the alcohol weaving its way around the air of my apartment, and it was probably the absolute worst thing I could have done, but I found myself stepping closer to him and doing it anyway.

“You look like you need a beer.”

He glanced at me over his hand and stared intensely. “You sound like an angel.”

“That’s a good title for a song. Write it down.” I smiled weakly, making my way around him, squeezing through the small space behind his body and the wall before turning the corner to the kitchenette and hoping with all the hope I had that he wasn’t watching me walk away.

I don’t have any underwear on. I don’t have any underwear on, and these shorts are as thin as tissue paper.

Bending down on an angle so it didn’t look like I was purposely flashing my full-moon arse at him, I grabbed two bottles of Peroni, popped the caps and made my way back to him.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the bottle from me. I could feel his eyes burning into my body as I went back into the middle of the living area and sat down on the matching purple chair in the corner.

I felt better once I was sitting down, knowing he couldn’t see as much of me. Grabbing a cushion, I curled my legs under my bum, placed the cushion on my lap and held my Peroni bottle in both hands, trying to pick at the label edge.

“You can sit down,” I said quietly, nodding to the free sofa he was leaning on.

“Right.” Presley moved slowly like a stalking lion, eventually planting himself down on the edge of the sofa. He kept his legs apart and rested his elbows on his knees as he, too, began to pick at the label on his bottle.

“I mean, I have an excuse for being sexually frustrated,” I confessed with a small smile. “What’s the deal with you, Heat Magazine’s hottest man of the year?”

Presley scowled at me, confusion taking over until I signalled to his twitching fingers.

“They say when you peel the labels off your beer bottles, it means you haven’t had sex in a while,” I explained. “And you’re frustrated.”

“No sexual frustration here.”

“Shame.” Real shame.

Presley focused on his bottle, his own smile lingering on the edges of his mouth. “Sorry, Cherry.”

“For what? Getting laid?”

He shrugged a shoulder and glanced up at me. “That, and turning up here out of the blue. I know we promised each other that wouldn’t happen.”

“Promises were made to be broken, Pres.”

“Not mine.”

I hitched in a breath and pushed my bottle to my lips in a hurry.

“I didn’t know who else to go to,” he said. “The shit hit the fan this morning. I lost it. It’s been a long three years, you know? Too long.”

“You’re not enjoying it?”

“It’s the ultimate orgy,” he said as he stared at the bottle in his hands. “Do you know how quickly you can get tired during a fucking orgy?” He tilted his head again and looked up at me through sad eyes, one side of his hair falling free.

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