Chapter 8 #2
Newt rewound it and played it again. River said it in his head but the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth. But when he tried again, River said, “But only when I want you to. Remember that.” He gasped and pressed his hand to his mouth.
Newt was staring wide-eyed at him. “Shit. And with an American accent as well.”
River swallowed hard.
“Shall we keep going?”
He nodded.
More often than not, River spoke his lines and even if it didn’t mean his speech had suddenly returned, being able to do this was as if a weight was finally lifting from his shoulders.
The words were all there in his head, he just had to find them and put them in the right order.
And say them. When the film ended, he wanted to cry with happiness, with relief, with gratitude…
“You were brilliant,” Newt said. “Why do I feel sorry for a psychopath? Well, I know why. You made me see the man beneath. He couldn’t help himself. What a bastard, though.”
River was afraid to try and speak. What if he couldn’t? And when Newt looked at him, he knew Newt understood.
“Be happy, not sad. That’s what you need to keep in your head.
You did something great today and now you’re worried about trying to speak.
I get it. Don’t expect your speech to have miraculously returned.
The chances of that happening are really small.
I’m sorry, but that’s the reality. Though maybe you can remember sentences from the script. Try.”
River thought the words first. If you don’t work it out, it’s because you don’t deserve to. “If you…don’t…work out…” He couldn’t manage more than that. But it was something.
“That’s really good,” Newt said. “Now, try and sing the words. Er…maybe to…Abba’s Waterloo. A familiar tune will distract your brain.”
River groaned but sang. “If you…don’t work it out…it’s because you don’t deserve to.” Fucking hell. I did it!
He flung his arms around Newt and kissed him.
Maybe he’d only been thinking of a quick kiss.
Maybe. But the moment their lips touched, he wanted more, especially when he heard Newt gasp, especially when he felt Newt’s arms creep around him.
River could hardly breathe. Their tongues tangled, Newt had his hand in River’s hair, holding his head in place, pushing his tongue into his mouth, his cock was filling and River’s head sang with joy.
He didn’t need words. This was enough. Newt signed an NDA. He’s not going to say anything.
Except… Is he?
River was almost on Newt’s lap when he felt a hand slide under his T-shirt onto his back. As if he’d been bitten by a snake, River jerked upright and pulled away. What the fuck am I doing? Then he fled.
Well, fled wasn’t quite the right description.
Moved off at a moderate but for him dangerous speed—and I’m fucking limping again—was more accurate.
His cock deflated long before he reached his room.
He threw himself face down on his bed, clenching the duvet in his fists.
Oh God. What was he thinking? Newt was going to come upstairs and River couldn’t bear to hear whatever he was going to say, regardless of whether it was I shouldn’t have done that or Why did you run when we were just getting started?
Or… anything really, especially if the word sorry was in there.
He didn’t have to listen to what he didn’t want to hear. He could at least delay it by leaving the house. Even better, he could sneak out without Newt knowing and get his head straight before he came back. A plan. A good plan. Though getting his head straight might be tricky.
River was shocked when he managed to get out of the house without being seen.
He slipped out via the boot room, having struggled into his coat and shoes.
He walked past the bins and exited through the side gate, which locked behind him.
He could get back in by using a code for the front gates.
Oh fuck. He couldn’t read numbers let alone words.
But he knew the layout of the keypad. Three numbers in a line, starting with 1, and 0 was at the bottom in the middle.
He should be able to figure it out. He could do the help codes on his phone.
He made for the woods. He didn’t have to go far; he just needed to be on his own.
Until he was, he didn’t even want to think.
River concentrated on where he put his feet.
Tree roots were fucking hazardous. He’d walked in these woods before…
when he’d been in one piece. They didn’t belong to him but no one ever came here.
When he reached a tree big enough to hide behind, he crouched down at the base and leaned back against it.
What the fuck had he been thinking?
No, he couldn’t go there yet. River banged his head against the trunk and yelped when he registered how stupid that was.
His skull was still healing. He breathed in the chilly air, filled his lungs and exhaled.
It was so easy to take breathing for granted.
When he thought about what might have happened when he’d fallen, how he could have been left permanently paralyzed in addition to being unable to talk or make himself understood, or understand anyone else, his mouth lost all moisture.
He wouldn’t have wanted to live like that and he couldn’t have done a damn thing about it.
He looked around to check Newt hadn’t followed him, then tried to say the word sorry. “Pry.” Shit, that wasn’t right. “Sry.” Nearly. “So…rry.” His heart sparked. “Sorry. Sorry.” Then he said it louder. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”
Tears filled his eyes.
Sorry he’d ever been convinced to climb when it wasn’t something he felt comfortable doing.
He still didn’t fucking remember anything about that day but Max had told him he’d been talked into climbing after he’d said no.
Compensation discussions were ongoing along with the investigation.
River wasn’t sure how he felt about compensation.
He didn’t want to wreck the film company.
He’d agreed to climb. Apparently. But if he didn’t fully recover from the fall, then maybe he’d need the money.
As for an investigation… How long did it fucking take? They had the footage. Not that he’d been allowed to see it. Nor had Max. But if there was some issue with the chalk marks, what if it wasn’t an accident? Had someone tried to kill him?
Though there was no point fretting over that. It was all out of his hands. His recovery wasn’t. He was sorry he’d been unkind to those trying to help him. Some of them had been pricks, but so had he.
Sorry he’d not managed to say thank you to Max’s parents along with sorry for being difficult. He should send flowers. Oh, but they were on holiday to recover from the stress of having to look after him. Later then.
Sorry to Max for fucking things up and making all this extra work for him.
Sorry for kissing Newt.
Except he wasn’t.
But he should be.
He pressed his lips together and clenched his fists. How long had he been waiting to kiss a guy? It felt like his entire life. And until he’d freaked out, it had been…everything.
Oh fuck. His breathing shortened into rapid, shaky gasps and he struggled to slow it down. The last thing he needed was to have a panic attack. He concentrated on his breathing, counted in his head and reversed out of his anxiety, thought about something else.
The day he’d met Max.
That day, River had been performing the lead role in a play he’d written for his A Level Drama, a version of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane.
Henry Fleming had been eighteen years old when he joined the Union army with romantic ideas of war, only to flee from his first battle in panic.
By the end, he’d overcome his fear and fought courageously.
River had thought there would be young men like him in every country.
River was seventeen. He gave the performance of his life.
It was as if he became Henry. He’d left the stage as the applause continued.
His family was in the audience. He hoped they thought he’d done well.
His father hadn’t been likely to think that.
The last thing he wanted was for River to go into acting…
He hadn’t helped set up for the next play as he’d been supposed to do, but had gone outside and curled up in a dark corner of the quad, his emotions so raw, he thought he might break to pieces at any moment.
His father wouldn’t support him in anything other than studying for a degree that led to a good job that paid well.
They were still arguing about it whenever River came home from school.
Money wasn’t everything. That’s what River had thought. The pain of that thought made him gasp.
The quad was where Max had found him. He must have followed him. Max sat at his side and said nothing, just waited until River had looked at him. His name hadn’t been River Lawson then, but the one he was born with, Tomas Shaw.
“Well, young man, I don’t know what I should be impressed by the most, the play you wrote and directed, or you. You were outstanding. Well done.”
River couldn’t speak.
“I’m a theatrical agent and I’d like you on my books. I don’t know what your plans are after you finish school but give me a call.” Max gave him his card. Tucked it into River’s pocket when his fingers wouldn’t move.
Then he’d walked away.
River had always wondered how his future would have panned out if the events of the following week hadn’t happened. But they had and Max had come for him. Signing for him hadn’t been mentioned for a long while. Max looked after him and River had slowly unwound.