Chapter Two #2
He’s not going to look away, I realise. He’s waiting for me to do it. I let my gaze drop to his arm, releasing the pressure on him, and add the last stroke of the triskele. He holds perfectly still. “How’s that? I think it turned out pretty well.”
“Great. Now do ten more going down my arm. And can you connect them the way your tattoos all weave together?”
“Alright, bossy.”
Jules tenses and pulls his arm from my grip, getting off the table with a slight wobble. “Sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean to be—sorry.”
“I didn’t mean—”
He’s already marching across the room to Charles and Yasop. “Ready?”
Jules puts his management skills on full display and ushers everyone towards the nightclub, not even glancing in my direction.
I’m left behind, paintbrush in hand, tip wet. I close the paint jars, rinse everyone’s brushes in a small sink tucked in the corner, and leave the tables set for the next group.
The nightclub is packed with holiday-goers and locals, the air ripe with sweat and drink.
I don’t mind the mass of bodies weaving together on the dance floor, or the friends bunched together doing shots.
But my eye catches on the two friends on top of each other, declaring meaningless lifelong devotion.
They’re talking over each other, neither listening to the other.
When Seán started drinking and blurting out drunken declarations of brotherly affection, I used to get upset. I’d wait for morning, nonsensically expecting all trace of care to be gone. Care that existed before the drink.
I grab another Coke from the bar and find Seán at a table tagged with a ‘reserved’ sign. I take a seat.
I’m talked at throughout the night, everyone asking about my tattoos, on what side of the family I’m related to Seán, what I do for a living.
They spill their guts about how they bombed their final exams and assignments.
They’re all so glad it’s over, but now they’re afraid of what comes next.
Jules politely ignores me, getting steadily drunker with each hour.
He’s currently knocking back a shot of Jack Daniel’s alone at the bar.
Seán leans towards me. “Maybe he is upset about Darren. He doesn’t usually drink this much.”
Jules stumbles away from the bar and weaves through the crowd towards the bathrooms. It can’t be my fault, right? One little “bossy” remark? I didn’t mean it in a negative way. There’s nothing I appreciate more than someone with initiative. All of my girlfriends have been bossy.
“I’ll check on him.” I get up.
“Why don’t I do it? Maybe he wants to talk.”
Seán makes to stand just as Mary descends on the table with a smile. “We won!” Willow follows with a tray of drinks. Mary slides into the seat next to Seán, trapping him in the booth. I indicate the direction Jules disappeared in.
I skirt around the edges of the dance floor and enter the long hallway leading to the bathroom. As I turn the corner, I come up short, almost knocking Jules and Mathieu over. Before I can say a word, Mathieu kisses Jules.
Neither seems prepared for Mathieu’s weight to be suddenly thrown at Jules, least of all Jules. He stumbles, and I catch him. Mathieu pushes forward, as if pressing Jules against a wall and not my chest. They’re two shorties, the top of Jules’s head brushing my chin.
“What?” Jules mumbles.
“You and Darren are broken up, yes?” Mathieu checks. When he pulls back, I glimpse his black eyes, glazed over. His bouncy curls are messy, and his tan shirt clings to his body. He’s hardly left the dance floor for five minutes.
“Je ne parle pas francais,” Jules says.
I frown.
“I know, but I will not hold it against you.” Mathieu cups Jules’s face in his palms and kisses him again.
Jules doesn’t seem to notice the second pair of hands on his waist, holding him up.
He’s leaning into me, yielding to Mathieu’s every touch.
He gasps. Mathieu responds with a hungry groan, pushing harder into him. Jules presses against my crotch.
“Guys,” I finally object. I’ve been watching them make out for an indecent amount of time. “I don’t want to drop you, but I will if you don’t get off me.”
Jules makes a noise, but Mathieu doesn’t let him go. Jules lifts both hands to Mathieu’s wrists, and I watch in morbid fascination at his non-effort to get Mathieu’s tongue out of his mouth.
“Excuse me.” I try again. “But you will end up on the ground.”
With a groan, Jules tips his head back. UV handprints frame his cheeks.
Mathieu trails messy kisses down the column of Jules’s neck, and then he slips his hand down the back of Jules’s trousers. Mathieu has to wiggle his hand between our bodies to get it there, and it involves a lot of cock contact.
“Oh,” Jules moans, pupils blown as his lids flutter between half-mast and shut. His head rests on my chest, and my gaze catches on his parted lips, slick and swollen and red. My cock twitches. “Cillian? What are you doing?”
Good question.
“I wanted to apologise for—”
“Ah.” Jules reaches up and cups the back of my neck, fingers curling through the hair at my nape. Shivers race across my skin. Blood rushes south.
“Sorry? You, oh God.”
Mathieu’s not just copping a feel.
“—calling you bossy,” I somehow manage.
Mathieu grasps Jules firmly by the hips and spins him around. Jules’s hands flatten on my chest, and I catch his waist, steadying him. Jules makes no effort to support himself.
Mathieu takes a condom out of his pocket.
“We’re going to get thrown out of the resort if you don’t stop,” I hiss. “We’re in a public hallway.” My cock is now completely hard. I have no idea what’s wrong with it.
Mathieu startles, regarding me as if I’ve appeared from thin air.
I think he genuinely didn’t notice me until now.
His gaze darts down to Jules, who has his back to Mathieu and is being held up by me.
Mathieu folds his hand around the back of Jules’s neck.
Jules twists and locks eyes with Mathieu.
He goes still, as if waiting for an instruction.
My stomach tightens at the obedient reaction.
Mathieu studies me, perhaps catching on to the way my body is keyed up and interested.
“Spit-roast?” Mathieu suggests.
My gaze slips to Jules’s mouth. It’s still invitingly red. Jules meets my gaze, drunken lust swimming in his eyes. Clearly, he’s up for Mathieu fucking him against a wall. And maybe he’d part those lips for me. I can picture him swallowing me down already.
“No,” I say. “Public hallway, remember?” And because I can’t help myself, and have learned nothing from friends and girlfriends getting pissed off at me in the past, I continue, “Mathieu, he’s drunk.”
I brace for anger at trying to ruin Mathieu’s hook-up. Instead, Mathieu turns that grip on Jules’s neck into a rub. “Are you too drunk for sex?” Mathieu asks.
“Definitely not.”
Mathieu grasps Jules by the chin and peers into his eyes. Jules holds still. “Hmm. Hmmmmmm. I think Cillian is right.”
“But you’re drunk too,” Jules objects as Mathieu releases him, slipping his condom back into his pocket. “It cancels out.”
Mathieu pauses. “Does it?”
“Yes!” Jules says.
“No,” I say.
Jules does his argument poor service by pulling out of my arms and stumbling into the wall. Mathieu and I dart in to catch him, managing it just as Darren comes around the corner.
He scans the scene, mouth tightening when he spots Jules. When he focuses on Mathieu, it relaxes. “We’ve got the drinks we won at the table. Everyone’s waiting for you guys to do the shots… But Jules, hold off. You look like sh—” He catches himself. “You look a little green.”
Jules curls towards the wall with a groan, this one sounding far less aroused than any of the noises he made earlier. “I’m going to lie down,” he mutters.
“Smart choice. Cillian, can you bring him to the room? Mathieu, we can let the others know he’s calling it a night.” Darren puts his arm around Mathieu, steering him away. Mathieu resists the arm pulling him away. He glances from Jules to me.
“I’ll bring him up,” I promise.
Mathieu’s feet drag as he’s led down the hall. Darren doesn’t look back.
Behind me, Jules groans. He’s got UV paint on his sides, his cheeks, his chin. A handprint on the back of his neck.