Chapter 9
Oliver
Angel.
Fuck. Me.
In my defence, it was really early, and I’d barely slept. And yes, maybe in the few minutes I let myself drift off, I dreamt of Darius. So when his voice came through the speaker, and I was half in, half out of sleep, I had no control over the words that spilled past my lips.
I ended the call shortly after, with the excuse of needing to shower and charge my phone.
Darius followed up the call with a text, inviting me over to his place later in the day.
Now, I’m approaching his fancy as fuck apartment, a protein shake in one hand and a pizza box in the other.
As I reach the glass door at the front of the building, a man looks up from behind a marble desk.
He comes around and opens the door for me.
“Good afternoon. Can I help you?”
“Ah, I’m here to see Darius.”
He nods. “Yes, Mr Thorne-Sutton said he was expecting a guest. Come and sign in.” The man, who I presume is the concierge, leads me to his desk.
I give him my name and he hands me a slimline tablet.
I sign in the correct spot using the attached stylus and hand it back to him, then he leads me to a bank of lifts, calling one with a keycard.
There’s no numbers on the panel inside. Only a button lit up green, with the letter P in the centre and an emergency alarm.
“Jesus,” I mumble once the doors slide closed. “How rich is he?”
I grew up middle class. Nice holidays, midrange brand trainers, a reasonable allowance when I did my chores. Never in my life have I experienced wealth like this – private elevators, penthouse apartments, doormen in white gloves and top hats.
My shock only intensifies when the doors part and I step directly into a foyer bigger than my entire bachelor flat. Darius is waiting for me, leaning against a column that separates the entryway from the rest of the place.
He looks fucking adorable in pink shorts and a yellow t-shirt with a penguin motif on the front.
The sea bird is holding a bouquet and is wearing sunglasses.
It’s ridiculous but also so perfectly him.
He’s finished his outfit with a backwards cap and that, along with his dimpled smile, sends a wave of warmth through me that travels south at an alarming rate.
Get yourself under control, Ollie.
“Angel, huh?” Darius’s eyes glint with mischief.
Blood reroutes itself to my cheeks.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” I hold the pizza out for him.
“If you say so, puppy. But I know what I heard.” He takes the box from me.
“Come on, let me give you the grand tour.” I follow Darius from the foyer and into a large open plan lounge-cum-dining room.
The space hosts a black L-shaped leather sofa, a screen that takes up an entire wall and a glass topped coffee table on one side.
Throw pillows in a rainbow of colours cover the sofa, and the art on his walls is bright and vibrant.
There are a lot of penguins, too. Photos, drawings, sewn onto cushions and covering an enormous dark wood bookshelf.
The furthest part of the room hosts a dining table to seat eight, complete with black, leather-backed chairs. A fresh vase of sunflowers stands proudly in the centre.
“What’s with all the penguins?” I ask, walking slowly along his bookshelf. He has a lot of books. Fiction. Nonfiction. Sci-Fi. Romance. Historical and, of course, more than two shelves dedicated to true crime.
Darius puts the pizza on the coffee table, then moves to stand at my side. “It’s my thing.” He picks up a black and white penguin made of wire and beads. It has pink splotches above its eyes.
“Your thing? What does that mean?”
“Everyone has a thing. Something they’re passionate about. A favourite animal or television show or artist. A hobby. A collection. A thing.” He empathises the word like it’s obvious.
“I don’t think that’s true.” I move over to the far side of the room, put my drink down and take in the view. It’s clear out, but there’s a breeze, causing a ripple on the Thames. “I don’t have a thing.”
Darius follows, standing close enough that his arm touches mine. We both keep our eyes on the world outside his penthouse.
“That can’t be true. What makes you happy?”
You.
Not that I’m going to admit that.
“Um…” I bite my lip and think about the things that have got me through the last three years.
Apart from sex, work, drinking, and Caiden.
“I like crosswords. In newspapers specifically. And um…” I have never admitted any of this before.
“Magazines. Home renovation ones but also lifestyle and fashion magazines.”
Darius makes a sound from the back of his throat and I shoot him a glare.
“What? You think because I’m a tradesman, I can’t be interested in things like that?”
I don’t know why I’m so defensive. Maybe because I’ve been underestimated my entire life.
Darius lays a hand on my arm. “Calm down, puppy. I was just thinking that explains how you knew I was wearing nine hundred pound Tom Ford jeans the other night.”
He draws a line down my arm then slides his palm into mine.
I like how open he is with his affection.
It’s not something I’m used to and I’m not sure I’d like it from anyone else.
I’m all hard edges and rough corners, where he is soft and gentle in a way that grounds me.
For the first time since we met, I’m glad we’re not having sex.
I’m not sure I could be the gentle lover he deserves. I don’t know how to do that.
“I’m sorry I snapped.”
Darius squeezes my hand. “You’re all good. But I wanna know more.”
“I think you’ll be sorely disappointed to find I’m not a very interesting guy.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Hand in hand, Darius leads me from the lounge, collecting the pizza box on the way, and into the kitchen. He doesn’t show me any further into the apartment, but points down the hallway where there are four closed doors.
“Two bedrooms, bathroom and study.”
“It’s a big place for one person,” I muse. “You don’t have a partner or a housemate or even a pet?”
He releases my hand, moving around the room to gather plates and glasses.
“I have Norman.”
I frown. I didn’t see any obvious signs of someone else living here.
“Who is Norman?”
Knowing he went on a date last night, I brace myself for a truth I don’t want to hear.
“He’s my fish. He’s a betta fish, and he lives in the study. You can meet him later.” I let out a relieved sigh, much louder than I intended, and Darius eyes me curiously.
“I don’t have a boyfriend or housemate,” he adds before his stomach grumbles and he returns to opening the pizza box, a huge dimply smile taking over his face.
“You remembered.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I wouldn’t forget.”
Darius eats a slice leaning against the counter. I consider eating for a moment, but decide against it, my stomach an uneasy mess ever since I told my mother I would be at the funeral.
I don’t know if going is the right thing to do, but I figured I would be more likely to regret missing it than making the effort to go.
Darius groans, his hand reaching for another slice, and when he looks at me, there’s a smudge of barbeque sauce on his cheek and that glittering mischief in his eyes again.
“Do you want to get day drunk?”
A laugh bursts out from my lips, a sound I’ve heard more in the last week than in the three years before I met him. “That is the oddest question I’ve ever been asked on a Sunday afternoon.”
“We could go out, if you prefer. Or there’s a pool in the basement.”
“I’m easy. I’ll do whatever you want to do.” The honest truth is that I’m happy being with Darius in any capacity. If he wants to stay in, or go out, I’m game.
I spent all of Saturday moping around my apartment before pushing myself at the gym until I threw up.
Moping over the fact Darius was on a date and he’ll never want me the way I want him, over the warring indecision about the funeral, and about what it will be like to look my mother and Alister in the face after all these years.
The thought of seeing him again makes me sick to the stomach, but I am not that scared child anymore. Not the teen who held a secret close to his heart until it ate a hole in him. Not the adult who wanted so badly for his parents to choose him.
I am a grown man. With a life and a job.
And a friend.
“Okay, okay, I have an idea.” Darius sips from his drink, holding up a hand.
We’ve been drinking in the kitchen, then out on his enclosed balcony for the past hour. He’s a little tipsy, a pink flush on his fair cheeks. I managed to eat a slice of pizza to line my stomach, and I’ve been drinking slower than him, but there is a definite rush of alcohol in my blood.
“I’m listening.”
“Let’s play a game.”
“A game? Like pool or…”
“Holy shit! That’s what I need to buy for this place. Yes!” Drunk Darius is even more lively and confident than Non-drunk Darius. He continues babbling on before I have a chance to say anything more. “No, like a drinking game.”
“O-kay,” I reply hesitantly.
“It’ll be fun, trust me. We can get to know each other better.”
That scares me, but I am so incredibly weak for this man, I can’t say no.
Darius walks inside, flops down on the sofa and refills two short tumblers with vodka and cranberry juice. It wouldn’t be my first choice of drink, but he seems to like it.
“I’ll start. Never have I ever been in love.” Darius lifts his glass to his mouth and takes a hefty sip.
“I don’t think you’re playing it correctly.”
“I don’t care. My house. My rules. Now drink. Or don’t.”
He watches me for a second, then another. When I don’t take a sip, he frowns.
“Never?”
“Nope. Never. You have?”
Darius readjusts himself on the sofa, pulling his legs from beneath him and stretching out so that his feet are on my lap. I place a hand over a bare foot, digging my thumb into his sole. He hums appreciatively before answering.
“Once. He was my high school sweetheart.”
“What happened?”