Chapter 25
LUKE
“This forced inactivity has been good for me,” Neil says as I prepare our fifth breakfast together. I half-wondered if he’d go back to his place yesterday, but he said he was happy loafing around at mine if that was okay with me.
More than. Coming through the door from a day at work to find him sprawled out on my sofa is actually rather wonderful.
“Not that inactive,” I point out. Now I’ve discovered the taste of his dick, I can’t get enough.
Going to bed with Neil, waking up with Neil, sharing the sofa, the shower, the kitchen, and my little back yard with Neil, is a conversation I never want to finish.
Sex with him is comfort and heat, tangled together with a desire that’s deep, steady, and impossible to exhaust. My heart still feels stunned every time I think about him.
That I don’t know what I’m doing half the time doesn’t matter.
I’m a fast learner and trust him implicitly.
“I’ve been using the time you’ve not been here pestering me for sex to do a lot of thinking,” he continues.
No shit. He sits at my small table, watching me potter around. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He gives his injured arm a little wave. “I’ve been mulling things over with my new plaster cast friend.”
Okay, so I didn’t expect that. “That oral morphine must be packing a punch.”
I stare at his white, plaster-coated arm, still pristine. “Does this…um… new friend have a name?”
“She does.” Neil gives the hard shell a friendly stroke. “Polly. She’s a great listener.”
I pass him a cup of tea and his good arm slips around my back, pulling me closer. “And what have you and…er…Polly been discussing?”
He turns his head to kiss my shoulder. I’m building up the courage to show him my hair.
To someone looking in from the outside, still hiding it from him after all this time must sound as crazy as talking to a plaster cast, but then they’re not inside my head, are they?
And I’m not inside Neil’s. We all have our coping mechanisms; a plaster cast is no sillier than a wooden bead bracelet or naming three sensory inputs.
“She’s been telling me that the sweet guy looking after me speaks a lot of sense. And that I should start taking his advice.”
“Yeah?”
He nods. “Yep. She keeps banging on about it like a stuck record.”
Naturally, all the time he’s spent snoozing or gazing blank-eyed at the telly, he’s been chewing over some deep thoughts.
If imaginary conversations with his plaster cast help him process them, I’m happy to play along.
Examining our inner psyches don’t come easily to everyone, especially to people like Neil, who’ve always been so sure of themselves.
“Polly sounds like a very sensible woman. Which bits of my advice does…um…Polly think you should take?”
Neil holds his arm out, as if admiring the cast. It’s not pristine after all; on the underside is a tiny ‘N ? RW’ written in shaky red pen. Sensory inputs flood my brain; Warm. Peaceful. Home.
“Pretty much all of it.” He lets out a deep exhale before glancing up at me, jaw tight.
“I’m over being a fucking twat about this eye thing.
No, don’t interrupt,” he adds as I make to do precisely that.
“I had to…” He blows out a breath. “Maybe I had to break—reach a crisis point—before I could get honest. I’ve been acting like if I just fight hard enough and deny this random genetic mishap loudly enough, then I can stop it.
But all I’m doing is hurting myself, trying to hang onto a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore.
I’ve been wallowing and grieving, and I don’t want to live like that.
The other night horrifies me, Luke. How out of control I felt.
I don’t want to ever feel like that again.
I’m lashing out at people like you and Ezra and Derek and the eye doctors because I don’t know where to put my fear. I need to change how I face it.”
Wow. For someone unpractised in the art of self-analysis, Neil’s a natural.
“Are you sure I advised all of that?”
“Yeah.” He gives my middle a squeeze. “You did. You’ve encouraged me, supported me, and led by example.
It just took me smashing a load of glassware and watching a red tide of my own blood sweep across the floor of the bar to see it.
” With a little laugh, he adds, “I’m a visual learner, you know?
Which is going to be a bummer, but, hey…
I’m up for a challenge. And so later, I’m going back to my place to sort my life out.
You have an important job to attend to, and I may, or may not, have a business to run and a gig calendar to fulfil.
But I need to find out. I can’t hide here forever, despite Ez telling me to take as much time as I need before we talk. ”
“He’ll be really understanding—I know he will.”
Neil nods. “I hope so. I’m shitting myself about facing him. He might be understanding about the eye thing, but he’ll still be pissed as hell I trashed the bar.”
Unwrapping himself from around me, he picks up his mug. “Anyhow, I’ve texted him. He’s coming over in half an hour, so I guess we’ll find out.”
“Oh, okay.” I wasn’t expecting that. But the sooner they sort things out, the sooner Neil can move forwards. “Good.”
Pleased, I start chopping up fruit for our breakfast. Only one functioning arm, poor vision, and a sharp knife are not a great combo, leaving Neil at the mercy of my breakfast choices. Natural yoghurt and fruit, to promote healing and look after his retinae, is how I’m rolling today.
“Ez has offered to give me a lift home,” Neil ventures. “After our talk.” He sounds apprehensive.
“Are you up for it?” I swipe a strawberry from the bowl. Neil nods, thoughtfully.
“Yeah, I think so. I owe him a massive apology. And an explanation. There’s no point putting it off.” His gaze turns mischievous. “That strawberry looks amazing between your lips, by the way.”
He likes to deflect by flirting when he’s stressed; it’s one of his tells. “Ezra’s texted me a million times, you know,” I reply. “Alaric too. I’m thinking of setting up a Polly Plaster Cast WhatsApp group.”
Pinching another fat strawberry, I make a show of nibbling the bottom of this one before popping it into my mouth. Neil grins.
“You’re going to be the death of me if you do that again.” He hesitates. “You’ll be here, won’t you?”
“Of course, if you want me to.”
“It’s a bit more than want, rash whisperer. You’re giving me the courage to do it.”
Warm. Steady. Safe. That’s how I make him feel; I can see it in his eyes, and it’s…staggering. I hand him his healthy breakfast and a spoon, which he promptly pushes down his cast, giving the trapped skin a satisfying scratch.
“That’s not what it’s for!”
“Oh yes, it is,” he moans. “Pure unfiltered bliss. Better than bad sex.” He scratches again. “Though, I haven’t had that in a long while.”
He flicks his gaze down to his lap where he’s pitching a tent. “Seems I have a spoon kink. Come over here and sit on this. We’ll share yours.”