Chapter 12 December 12th #2
Sparks sizzle and bang around us, a kaleidoscope of colour erupting in my darkness, his hot tongue lapping around mine with a gentle ease.
The pressure is perfect. I could kiss him forever and never come up for air.
Never relent to the scratch of his bristle across my skin.
Never get tired of hearing his quiet hums of pleasure.
I know I’ll be devasted if he slows this kiss to a stop first, so I find the strength I need to slow it myself until our lips are resting together. Not moving but just touching.
I open my eyes. His are still closed . . . until they’re not.
His lashes flutter, his grey eyes opening and sending my world into a further spin, the sparkle making me as dizzy as his kiss. Moving back out of his body takes everything in me and more. But the warmth is bone deep. I can’t feel the cold now.
Dec tilts his head in question as I collect my flowers, then I turn and walk away, a small, rare smile tugging the corner of my mouth. My steps are light, and the cold can’t touch me. I reach up and feel at my lips, spellbound, hoping he heard every word I spoke in that kiss.
Someone has shovelled the snow from the pathway up to my building—an admiral and good service to all residents.
Except now in its place is a sheet of ice, which is something I only discover when I take my first step off the street. “Fuck!” My body goes rigid, my spine bending back, and my feet must be blurry they’re spinning so fast, trying to keep me upright. “Fucking weather.”
“Stay where you are!”
I grab the railing, juggling my flowers, trying to save us both. Mr. Percival is in the doorway with his walking frame in one hand, a bucket in the other. “What are you doing?” I call, clinging on with one hand, the frozen metal burning my palm.
“Salt, dear,” he says, starting to grab handfuls and throw it toward me.
“Did you shovel all that snow?”
“Who else?”
“Someone who’s not ancient or incapacitated, preferably.”
“Oh, I see someone woke up with some sass today. Nice flowers. Anyway, what else am I going to do with my time?”
“Play with your gnomes?” I mutter under my breath, regaining some balance and tentatively releasing the railing to reposition the flowers.
“Mr. Percival,” I say with a voice full of authority, wrapping a palm around the next railing, moving up the path in slow, cautious steps.
“A man of your age shouldn’t be shovelling snow. ”
“So who bought you the flowers?”
“Someone.”
“Maybe a tall, dapper, handsome someone with greying, longish hair and rather sparkly silvery grey eyes?”
I stop, narrowing one eye. That’s quite specific. “Maybe,” I confirm, dragging the word out, sounding as cagey as I am. “Are you spying on me?”
He snorts, chucking more salt around my feet. “I was being a good neighbour. What’s his name?”
Grit sprinkles my boots as I make my way up the path. “Mr. Percival, your aim is terrible. Dec. His name’s Dec.”
“Dec? And how old is Dec?”
I frown. “I don’t know.”
He laughs. “You don’t know? He’s bought you those beautiful flowers and you don’t even know how old he is?”
“I don’t know how old you are,” I point out.
“I didn’t buy you flowers.”
“No, but you made me a cake.”
His grin is epic, and impossible not to return. “I did, didn’t I? Was it good?”
“Delicious,” I admit.
He drops the bucket by his walking frame. “There. It should be safe now.”
“Thank you.”
“Wel—” Mr. Percival stands up straight, his old eyes suddenly as alert as his posture.
“What is it?” I ask, looking over my shoulder. “Oh no.” Two kids, the same little shits that pelted me with a snowball to the face, are at the end of the path, each with a perfectly formed, fucking massive snowballs in their gloved hands. “Don’t you dare,” I warn.
They smirk, draw back.
“No!”
And fire.
One gets me square in the face, the other in my chest. The power behind their missiles would be impressive if I wasn’t the target.
“God damn!” My curse comes out on a garbled snort, diluted by a mouthful of snow.
I can’t see, can’t talk, and dare not move, but I can hear a mixture of old chuckles and young, boisterous laughs.
I spit out the snow and wipe my face with my spare hand, my flowers safe in the crook of my arm. “This is victimisation.”
“Come on, dear. It’s safe in here.”
I risk releasing the railing and dusting myself off, seeing the two little shits running off down the road.
“Little fuckers.” I move slowly and carefully toward the door as Mr. Percival titters, moving aside to let me through.
“Now, I’m no detective, Camryn, as you well know, so I’m working on intuition and nothing else. ”
“And what’s your intuition say?”
“It says this Dec bloke is fond of you. What do you think?”
“I think you might be onto something.”
“Me too.”
We walk down the corridor side by side. “He’s a very lovely man,” I say quietly, my mind returning to our second kiss, my smile discreet, my lips still warm from his mouth on mine.
We make it to Mr. Percival’s flat first, and I hold back to make sure he makes it inside safely. “Christmas,” he says, wistful, hovering on the threshold. “What a wonderful time to fall in love.”
“Who said anything about love?”
“You did.”
“I did no such thing.”
He hums, his chin lifting. “Maybe not with words. Goodnight, dear.” The door closes in my face abruptly but then swings back open just as fast. “And get yourself a hat and some gloves, for the love of God.”
Slam.
I recoil, just as the door opens once again. “That smile suits you.”
“Are you done?”
“For now.”
Slam.
“Strange old man,” I muse, carrying on up the hallway.
“I heard that!”
“Then stop spying on me,” I say over a laugh, worrying my key into the lock and letting myself in. The usual cold space greets me, the smell nothingy, no washing, no room scents, or cooking. It’s just . . . nothingy.
The flowers might change that. And luckily, they’re in a bag of water so I set them straight on the table in the lounge—no vase required—bringing a little colour into my domain.
Into my life. I stand back, nodding my own approval.
Then shiver, feeling a bit of ice slip past my neck onto my back.
“Jesus.” I bow my back, trying to avoid the chill, and make my way to my bedroom.
After I change out of my wet clothes, I get another slice of Mr. P’s cake and sit on the couch in front of the coffee table, admiring the flowers, and when a message comes through, my heart skips a few too many beats.
I loved what you told me.
I inhale, falling back against the couch.
And next time, get in the fucking car instead of walking home in the cold.
I smile, reading his message over and over again, keeping the warmth inside alive.
And the colour.
And the hope.