Chapter 21
ALARIC
Midnight comes and goes. Despite wrapping myself up on the sitting room floor, like a bug in a rug, in Gerald’s lovely, snuggly spare duvet, the circus inside my head is still having open mic night.
Stefan took up twenty minutes or so of the earlier show.
He’s fallen out with Marcus—again. Half an hour ago, he signed off for the night, so now it’s just wired little old me for company.
Over and over, I retrace the tour of the nice ladies’ flat.
It’s chic and cool and right next to the bloody hospital.
Twenty minutes’ Tube from Luke, ten from Stefan.
Five from my favourite pizza place. And the ladies bloody loved me.
So why the hell didn’t it feel right? Is it because I’d be there on my own most weekends? If so, what cracked decision-making. Having the flat to myself means my weekends will instantly revert to how they used to be: work, dancing, shagging, crashing. I won’t have time to feel lonely.
Even stickler, pedantic Gerald approved. Speaking of Gerald…
Lolling in the doorway, not hiding his yawn, Gerald’s all fluffy chaotic bedhead and heavy-lidded eyes.
His rumpled pyjamas look soft as clouds.
I’ve never been a pyjama person, but Gerald rocks them nearly as well as he rocks the blue satin shirt.
“What the hell are you doing still up? It’s nearly two. ”
“Technically speaking, I’m not up. I’m on the floor.”
“Alaric.” He sighs in that long suffering, nose-pinching way he has. “Tell me why you can’t sleep.”
Where do I start? With the ladies in the nice flat? Stefan’s woes? Or do I admit a hefty chunk of my anxiety circles around Gerald’s big day tomorrow at the regional finals? He’d think me an idiot if I confess my mind refuses to switch off on his behalf.
“TikTok won’t scroll itself,” I say instead.
“That’s displacement activity to pass the time. Not a proper answer.”
My eyes are on a level with his wide, solid feet. “Don’t dismiss it. I’m culturally enriching myself. I’ve just learned five ways to fold a fitted sheet and how to politely request a blowjob in Japanese.”
“No Japanese man—or woman—will be giving you a blowjob as long as you’re living under my roof.”
That sounds more like a declaration of war than an opinion. I squint up at him. “What’s your beef with the Japanese, Big G? Had some dodgy sushi?”
Gerald’s big foot gives my duvet roll a little kick. “I don’t have beef with the Japanese. And you still haven’t given me a proper answer. Am I going to have to stand here all night?”
If his voice wasn’t so teacherish and his slugbrows so stern, I’d suggest he lie down all night instead. With me. And put that teacherish voice to better use by ordering me to sleep or fuck or give him a blowjob.
“Declining the ladies’ flat is bugging me,” I admit at last. “I can’t understand why I didn’t grab it with both hands. But also, I’m nervous and stressed about your performance tomorrow, even though you aren’t, and even though we both know you’re going to smash the competition to smithereens.”
“We don’t know that,” he says with a hint of a smile. He puts up with such a lot of shit from me, and at all hours, with the patience of a saint.
“I can’t work out why I turned down the flat. I hate living out in the ‘burbs. I’m usually great at making snap decisions.”
“I don’t know either.”
I bet he wishes I hadn’t. If I crawl over to his whopping, solid feet, will he let me circle my arms around his ankles and rest my head on them?
This is exactly the type of fucking weird thought that ambushes my brain in the wee small hours when it’s running on nothing but fumes, vape juice, and the dregs of yesterday’s chaotic energy.
His feet do look solid and comfy, though.
Gerald blinks a few times, scratches his head, then exhales through his big nose with the force of someone trying their level best not to swear. No wonder, as we sat together on the train, he praised the ladies and their nice flat. I bet he can’t wait until he’s got this place back to himself.
“Come here,” he says after another huge yawn. My balls tighten in response to the instructive, low tone.
“Where?” Perhaps he’s going to offer me his snuggly sweater again. I could sleep in that.
“Here. Now.” He thumbs over his shoulder, then shuffles away. “My room. My bed. My snoring. The regional finals can’t handle Dr Alaric Alvin running on low battery. And nor can I.”
Not long after I moved in, I peeked inside Gerald’s room.
I possibly opened a drawer or three, and maybe even rummaged gently through his wardrobe, trying to fathom what made him tick.
The answer? Multipacks of long-sleeved plain tees, a meticulously filed collection of bank statements and payslips (dating from a time when online documents weren’t a thing), twenty neat pairs of towelling sports socks, and an old, faded pair of women’s ballet pumps wrapped in delicate pale blue tissue paper.
The latter now make perfect sense, and I’m an absolute shit for trespassing on business that’s none of my own.
Instead of being an utter wanker and nosing through his things, I should have skipped them all and simply climbed into his bed.
I’d have discovered that what really settles Gerald’s emotional soup, ensuring he’s forever calm and patient and very Gerald, is his mattress.
It delivers a horizontal hug directly from the heavens and a duvet so marshmallow-y it violates the laws of physics.
And then there’s the smell—don’t get me started on the smell.
Clean, unyielding, a steady Gerald-y smell, like the sweater but magnified a gazillion times.
Already, the volume inside my head is turning down.
“Are you sure this doesn’t feel too weird?” I’m obliged to ask. “You’re my landlord.”
“Not really.” Amused, Gerald peers down at me. “You’ve already sucked my cock.” He switches off the bedside lamp. “That’s a weird as fuck thing to do to your landlord, when you think about it. Unless you’re after a rent reduction.”
I snigger. “Now my unconscious rationale for not taking up with the lesbians makes perfect sense.”
I take the right-hand side of the bed, curled towards him with a pillow scrunched between my knees.
(One knee touching the other makes my teeth ache; don’t ask me why.) Gerald lies on the left side, on his back.
Already, just from the warm sturdiness of him a few inches away, I felt sleepier than at any point during the previous three hours.
When I start to explain to him, his fingers loosely intertwine with mine.
“Shush,” he says, all low and raspy and whispery. He’s like a scary sergeant major but sexy and clotted creamy at the same time. “Just go the fuck to sleep, Al.”
Waking up cocooned with Gerald in this awesome bed would be amazing.
Who knows? Unless this is a once-only offer, I might find out before I move back into town.
But not today, because my bed-mate/flatmate/dog-dancer/sleep whisperer is up, dressed, breakfasted, and tapping his foot by the front door.
Oh fuck, it’s eleven o’clock. I slept and slept and slept.
“You snored, too,” he informs me, smugly. “I woke dreaming I was trapped in a nature documentary.”
Hah! When he puts his mind to it, Gerald’s quite funny. “Says the man whose own sinuses resurrected half the mortuary at St Helier Hospital the night after you had your appendix out. Why did you let me sleep so late?”
“Because you were tired. And looked pretty.”
Wow, that shuts me up. He grabs the dog lead. “I’ll retrieve Elsa from next door and give her a quick tour of the park while you make yourself even prettier.”
We’re halfway to Colchester before my mind finally stops mentally replaying his comment like it’s a favourite song. He thinks I’m pretty. That’s nice to know. Who doesn’t love a compliment?
Filling the driver’s seat, Gerald’s looking mighty fine himself.
In profile, his beaky nose and strong jawline do overtime.
One enormous hand rests on the wheel, the other casually dwarfing the gearstick.
He glances across at me, probably checking I’ve got my seatbelt appropriately fastened.
It’s only for a second or two, but plenty long enough for his eyelashes to sweep over his steady brown eyes in an unhurried blink.
“All good?” he asks.
“Yeah. You?”
“Can’t complain,” he answers with a nod.
Bloody hell, he’s cool. I’d be shitting myself right now, about the prospect of getting my groove on in front of a massive audience and a row of judges, but Gerald oozes confidence.
I almost expect the radio to automatically switch to a slow, sultry samba and his hips to start swaying.
And he’s only driving a bloody Ford Focus.
If the car was sportier and sleeker, sophisticated light jazz would be dribbling through the speakers and I’d have my head in his lap.
As it is, Troy Sivan’s seducing me from the shitty sound system, and I’ve got a semi.
Clearly, I haven’t indulged in enough sexing recently.
“You’re wriggling,” Gerald comments, focussing back on the traffic. “And you’re far too quiet. Something must be wrong.”
Anyone but Gerald would let me vape in the car.
Asking permission or sneaking it to my mouth behind my hand is futile.
“Why aren’t you nervous? What if Elsa gets stage fright from being in a strange place in front of all those strange people and refuses to do her thing?
What if the music doesn’t play properly?
What if Elsa panics and wees in the middle of the dancefloor?
What if you panic and wee in the middle of the dancefloor? What if—“