19. Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Nineteen
Caiden
J amie’s sad smile is there every time I close my eyes. I can’t stop thinking about him or about what he said about us being a family. There was a small window of time before Coop died that I felt like I was starting to belong in the new blended family which my twin adored. But after he died, I didn’t believe there was space for me, and even if there was, I didn’t deserve it.
That thought made leaving easier. Dad and I didn’t have the best relationship before the accident and I was certain there was no chance for us after it. Leaving my mother was harder - I’d worshiped her for so long, believed every word she said when she blamed the breakup of our family on my dad. Too little, too late. If I’d realised how toxic my relationship with her was before maybe things would have turned out differently.
And Jamie? Leaving him was probably the hardest.
Hot water hits my hands and I realise I’ve been staring out of the window, long enough for the water to turn scalding. I finish washing my hands, dry them, and lean my hip against the marble counter. Ford lazes sleepily on the floor near my feet, the white of his belly on full display as he tips his head and watches me through narrowed eyes.
Being Friday, today should have been spent outside working on a new garden design for a boutique hotel. But, having slept until almost noon, I messaged my boss, Hank, and told him I was too ill to come in.
Hank is an understanding boss. Quiet and contemplative. I met him at a time when I wasn't sure how I was going to manage - with rent to pay on a place I could barely afford and my meagre savings dwindling.
He listened, with kind eyes and a gentle smile, rubbing his ring finger absentmindedly as though he was used to twirling a ring there, as I told him about my landscaping experience. Then, without any questions, offered me a job.
It felt like the first time that anything had ever gone my way.
I owed him more than a lousy text message.
My head ached as I climbed out of bed, foregoing a shower in favour of cleaning my place and then falling back into bed for a few hours, woken only when my GP returned the call I’d made earlier to set up an appointment to discuss medication.
Now, it's past eight and my house smells comfortingly like lavender and bleach. Slouching on the sofa, I turn on the television despite the fact I’m not meant to be looking at a screen, and it doesn’t take long before thoughts of what Jamie’s doing and who he’s with distract me from the bright images in front of me.
Absentmindedly, I run my hand over my bracelet, feeling the cool metal as it rubs along my skin. Blue like my eyes, black like my hair. Chosen by Jamie. For me.
He needs to leave and go back to his life.
I so badly want him to stay.
The photo of him and some girl keeps popping into my mind, making my stomach ache. He looked so fucking happy in the small glimpse I got before he hid his phone from me. I wonder how long it took him to move on. Did he meet her soon after Cooper died? Did he even grieve for my brother before jumping into bed with someone else? I grind my teeth then rub at my jaw, trying to put a name to the feelings Jamie Durand’s visit has stirred up.
Picking up the remote, I scroll aimlessly. Just as I finally settle on rewatching an episode of The Walking Dead , my phone rings.
The foreign feeling of a smile settles on my face when my best friend's name pops up. I hadn’t lied to the doctor when he asked if I had someone I could call - someone to support me. For once in my life, I have the kind of friend I can depend on. The same friend who is probably annoyed with me because I’ve missed multiple calls and haven’t returned any of his texts since Wednesday night.
Darius knows all my secrets, he’s met my demons, he’s witnessed my pain, but sometimes I wish I could lie to him. The day we met, when he’d hit on me in a nightclub and it became very clear, very quickly that there was no sexual chemistry between us, I promised myself that I wouldn’t be the person I used to be. Not with Darius. No lies, no pushing him away, no walls.
Not that he’d let me get away with the shit I used to pull anyway. The five foot seven blond twink with a sharp tongue has a built in bullshit detector.
He's fearless.
I'm not.
The fear that he could hurt me, lingers between us like a bad odor. People will only disappoint you. It’s a terrible thought to have about your best friend, your only friend, but my mother’s words are imprinted on my brain like a tattoo.
My stomach sinks as I watch my phone screen go black. Another missed call sitting in my notifications.
When it rings again, I answer, not even trying to fight the way my smile grows when I hear his voice. I should have called him sooner.
“You better have a really good reason for ignoring me since FUCKING Wednesday! And the only reason better be over six feet tall and hung like a horse.”
“Hello Darius,” I snort-laugh before sobering. “I um…”
Darius senses my hesitation and his voice changes, the playful tone replaced with concern.
“Caiden? What’s wrong?” I can hear music in the background and I try to picture where he is. It’s Friday, which means he’s most likely in Birmingham with his parents.
“I um, I was in hospital.” He gasps and I can picture his pretty blue eyes widening. “But I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.”
“You were in hospital and I mustn't worry about you?” he asks, incredulously. “You fool, how little do you know me?” A door closes and the music in his background fades. “Tell me what happened.”
I do. I tell him every last detail. From the party, to the hospital, to Jamie walking back into my life. I cry and he soothes me over the phone as best he can. When he tells me he’s getting the earliest train back to Kingston, I put my foot down.
“You don’t need to do that. I really am okay. I'm not… I won't do it again.” He sounds weary when he replies, but he accepts my request for him not to rush over, and promises he’ll be at my door bright and early on Sunday morning.
“You call me, you understand?” Darius adds. “Anytime. Okay? You need someone, you call me. I love you, man.”
“Love you, too,” I say with a sigh before ending the call.
I sit alone on the sofa for what feels like hours. Ford comes and goes and Basil takes a spin in his wheel. Suddenly the sounds of the television annoy me and I shut it off but then the silence is so loud and soon enough, Jamie is back in my mind. My head has a distant ache, and my legs bounce, and I’m not sure if I want to lie down or stand up and move around. There's a restlessness inside that I can't stand.
I should drink something.
Standing abruptly, I opt for movement, stretching my arms above my head in an attempt to ease the tightness in my body then make my way into my spotless kitchen.
Everything in here is in order, like it always is. Nothing is ever out of place in my home - not a glass on the sideboard, not a piece of mail sitting unread. Nothing. Mess makes me claustrophobic and out of control and I hate feeling out of control. Taking a glass from the kitchen cabinet, I run the tap water and fill it. Then chug it all down before rinsing the glass, drying it and putting it away immediately.
The window over my sink looks onto the street below. It’s dark out now, the street lights brightening the path between my place and the next block of flats. I watch a couple walk hand in hand until they round the corner and disappear from my sight. The couple remind me of the photo of Jamie and his girlfriend again. I wonder for a second if I haunt his thoughts as often as he does mine.
“It doesn’t matter, he’s not a part of your life anymore,” I say out loud to my empty flat. Yesterday was nothing but a blip in the fabric of our lives. We’re not the people we used to be, we’re nothing to each other anymore. In truth, we never really were. It was Cooper that held us together, and without Cooper here….well, Jamie and Caiden do not exist.
Dragging myself back to the sofa, a loud exhale passes my lips as I sink into the cushions. Flicking the TV back on, I vaguely take in two characters in a heated debate before my eyes drift to the bandage wrapped around my left wrist, the white fabric now a little grubby from wear. I fight back the urge to dig my nail into the healing wound. I know better than to mess with it, but the impulse is there, the need for a release from the tightening that’s starting in my chest bordering on overwhelming.
Instead, I snake my hand into my jeans and run a finger along a raised scar on the inside of my thigh. It’s an old scar, probably one I gave myself not long after I moved here, but it didn’t heal correctly, leaving behind a numb ridge on the otherwise soft skin. I rake a nail over it, back and forth, back and forth, the rhythmic motion doing a piss poor job of calming my now racing pulse.
I should go to bed, get some sleep, read a book - do something that isn’t sitting around thinking about dead twins and step brothers who mean nothing to me. Maybe I should have asked Darius to come back.
My phone beeps again and I laugh, wondering how Darius knew I was thinking about him.
But it’s not him.
Of all the things I did differently after Coop died, there is one thing I should have done but didn’t; I should have cut Oliver out of my life. Cooper hated him, and he’s not good for me, but it’s already been established that I make shit choices and Oliver is one of them. It was purely coincidence that we ran into each other two years ago in a club in London. Even more of a coincidence that he’d moved only two train stops over from me, making late night drop ins easy and convenient.
I rub a hand through my hair - it’s greasy and in need of a wash. While my house is spotless, I didn’t have the energy to take care of myself. My stomach grumbles and cramps as a reminder that I haven’t eaten since breakfast either. Ignoring the ache, I open Oliver’s message. It’s a booty call - that’s all we ever offer each other. Drunken nights and somewhat enjoyable sex.
Oliver: You free tonight?
For you? No. Definitely not.
Me: Yeah, want to come over?
I know it’s the wrong choice as soon as I send the message. I’ve known he is the wrong choice since he nearly got me expelled from school. But I’m anxious and unsettled and I need something. Calling Jamie is an option - probably a really fucking good option - and that’s why Oliver needs to get his ass here. I don’t deserve the good options.
Oliver: See you in an hour.
Two things happen whenever Oliver comes over. Besides the drinking and fucking that is. Firstly, he’s messy as fuck which means as soon as he leaves, I’m left cleaning up for hours, unable to breathe properly until all traces of him are gone. And secondly, I spend at least a week telling myself it was the last time.
My hamster, Basil, nibbles at my finger when I put my hand in his cage with fresh vegetables, all while Ford wraps himself around my legs, clawing at my socked feet. Shutting Basil's cage, I bend down and stroke the furry creature who, in return purrs softly, showing me his soft, loving side.
“You've already eaten,” I say, tickling his belly as he flops onto his back. Ford tucks up his legs and swipes at my hand, showing me his not so loving side. “You little shit!” I curse, pulling my hand away. He looks at me as if to say ‘what are you going to do about it?’ I put out more food because he’s too damn cute to say no to.
Then I go about getting myself ready - brushing my teeth, changing into clean sweats and lining up a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses.
An hour and a half after his text, a knock sounds on the door and I pull it open to find Oliver holding a plastic bag and wearing a grin full of wicked promises.
“Alright, handsome?” Oliver pushes past me, pausing to kiss my cheek, then saunters through to the kitchen. He kicks his shoes off as he goes and they land haphazardly in the middle of the walkway. His coat follows, landing on the kitchen counter before he sets down the bag. Glasses clink as he unpacks, lining up the beers he always brings with him.
I follow him, then stand, glued to the spot, watching as he walks around my kitchen as though he owns it. He’s too comfortable here, and it’s my fault for letting that happen. Dressed in black jeans and a white cotton tee, I take a minute to appreciate his muscular build that once upon a time did something for me. With his deep brown eyes, sandy blond hair and cheeky grin, he’s kind of a wet dream. Only these days, he’s not my wet dream. I mean, he is hot, and he knows what my body likes, but mostly, I call on him because things with him are easy. He’s safe.
We don’t talk. He doesn’t ask questions. We have this game we play and he leaves once it’s over. No one expects anything more. And still, every time, I regret it as soon as the sun rises.
Rinse and repeat.
Oliver opens a beer, the cap clattering to the floor, then turns to look at me. I’m still standing watching him and he raises an eyebrow as he sips his drink. His eyes narrow when they see the bandage on my wrist, and I curse myself for not putting on a long sleeved top.
He dips his head in my direction. “Want to talk about it?” He pours vodka into a shot glass and holds it out for me. Slowly, I walk towards the counter and take it from him, throwing it back with a grimace, then hold out the glass for him to refill.
“Not particularly.”
He nods, both of us knowing the offer was empty anyway.
“Cool, cool. Let’s move this party into the lounge,” he suggests. “Why don’t you take off your top, let me see your pretty body?”
Straight to it, I guess. My heart thuds against my ribcage and heat burns in my cheeks as I pull my t-shirt over my head. Oliver makes a grunt of approval, then scoops up his beers and carries them into the lounge. Ford is asleep on the sofa but he makes a quick exit as soon as he notices the other man.
Cooper once told me that animals can sense when a person is bad. Not for the first time do I think I should heed the warning my cat is so clearly giving me. But the restlessness I felt earlier is back. My muscles are tense, and my chest aches. I know a sure fire way to find release - he’s sitting in my lounge with his feet on my glass coffee table.
There’s a distant pain in my head still - it hasn’t quite left since the hospital and the nurse told me it's not advisable to drink too soon after suffering a concussion, but I grab the bottle of vodka anyway. Forgoing the shot glasses and taking a large gulp. The liquid burns and a shudder climbs up my spine as I swallow. I do it again for good measure. Without any food to soak it up, it quickly works through my system and I can already feel a fuzziness dulling my thoughts.
Oliver pats his thigh. A wordless command that I obey. Straddling his thighs, the bottle still in my hand, he sips from his beer and runs a hand up and down my back. We don’t kiss, I don’t allow that, so instead, he leans forward and runs his lips along my neck, moving down my body.
Bringing the glass bottle to my lips, I swallow a gasp as his lips find my nipple. He grazes his teeth along the sensitive flesh, his cock swelling beneath my ass. My own sits at half mast in my pants. Oliver moves up and bites at the soft spot in the dip of my collarbone, no doubt leaving a mark. His hands roam up my sides, then down again until he’s holding fistfuls of my glutes in his hands. My eyes close as he thrusts up, groaning as he does.
Arousal simmers at a slow burn in my blood. Not quite reaching the surface and at no risk of setting me on fire. Behind my eyelids, emerald green eyes fill my vision, and suddenly my mind betrays me and it’s not Oliver sucking a bruise into my neck, but Jamie. With my eyes still closed, I bring the vodka to my lips, pouring the cool liquid down my throat as I feel my cock swell. My head swims in alcohol and thoughts of my stepbrother.
Another large sip of vodka and I feel like I’m floating. My eyelids and limbs are heavy but it doesn’t matter because Jamie is carrying me now. I picture him laying me down on the bed, climbing over my body and gripping me tightly around the throat. He smiles and it’s seductive and sinful and my body surrenders to him, melting into the mattress. My legs part and Jamie shifts to settle between me. He kisses his way down my naked chest, to the waistband of my jeans.
“Jamie,” I say, his name, a whisper of air. He starts to undo my jeans. My heart trips and panic gnaws at my lungs as he flicks open the button and works down the zip.
“You finally letting me get a taste of your cock?” A voice that is most definitely not Jamie’s asks and I tumble back to reality, my eyes shooting open to find I’m on my bed, the lights in my room turned to dim. Brown glossy eyes staring at me in question.
Oliver. Not Jamie.
My stomach protests, the vodka swirling around like a tidal wave, and I roll over, batting Oliver’s hand from my waistband. He knows the rules. No one touches my dick. Sex doggy style, preferably in the dark. That’s it. That’s how it’s always been.
He chuckles, though there’s a tinge of annoyance in it. I work my jeans and boxers off, then bury my face in the pillows, lying on my front. My stomach lurches and I swallow down the bile sitting at the back of my throat. Oliver mutters something to himself before thick, lubed fingers enter me. Squeezing my eyes closed, I try to picture Jamie, but it's no use. All I can see are dark waves crashing, pulling and pushing, grabbing me and holding me under. I choke on the water as I drown.