Chapter 26 #2
It’s sometimes a little dry and raw, and I occasionally have to spit into my palm again, but precum joins the mix, and I kinda like the crude, desperate edge this moment has. It feels appropriate.
I’m trying to jerk Pi, but my movements are all out of sync, and part way through Pi takes over himself, stroking his cock with one hand, the other arm bracing him against the abrasive wall surface.
For once, I’m quiet. At least compared with my standard operatics.
But we’re so in tune with each other by now that I already know he’s getting close, just as he knows the same about me.
He’ll wait for me, though. Doesn’t matter how long he’s dangling off that edge, he will always make sure we hit that peak together. Or near enough together.
When I come, it goes all over his thighs, his knees, down his shins. I bury my face in the back of his T-shirt and cry out. Pi stills his hand and whines his orgasm out through gritted teeth. My eyes have adjusted quite a lot to the night, though it’s still too dark to see where his cum has landed.
I find a nearby plant with wide, soft leaves and wipe as much of my mess from his legs as I can. There’s some on his shorts, but I can’t do much about that here.
He rights his clothing, checks his watch, then leans against the wall and sighs.
We have this habit, a tradition maybe, that after we fuck, we never talk about it. We’ll just sort of pat each other on the back, congratulate each other on such wonderful orgasms, and part ways until the next meet-up.
I always feel like it’s for the best. That if we hung around in that sated post-nut haze, I’d end up saying something daft or dangerous.
“I wish we could stay here forever,” I say, and internally face palm. My voice is overloud in the still of the night, even with the bass and terrible singing thrumming from the pub across the road.
Pi says nothing for the longest time, but he also doesn’t leave either. “Me too.” He’s quiet again for what feels like an eternity. “We could just live here in Gadget’s garden like hobbits.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a hobbit,” I say.
“Same. Well, when I was a kid I wanted to be Legolas, but now that I’m older, I’m pretty certain life is, in fact, all about the hobbity things. Cosy houses, friends and family, lots of nature, good music, good food, potatoes.”
I turn to look at him. His face is half illuminated by the nearly full moon, and it’s perfect. He’s so perfect. I’m on the verge of ruining everything and saying something really stupid like, “Let’s run away together.”
Shit, imagine that.
Instead, I say, “Has Georgia said anything else to you since April?”
“No. I don’t know if she’s forgotten or given up. I feel . . .” He sighs. The weight of the world is relieved in his exhale. “Like I should feel guiltier for what we’re doing, but I just . . .” Pi closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall.
A moment later, two shiny orange orbs blink at me from the other side of Owen’s garden.
“Fox,” I whisper, tapping Pi’s leg.
We watch the creature until it vanishes into the night, and then we decide it’s high time we rejoined the party.
The girls are inside the pub when we get back. My stomach drops, but they’re standing beside the bar with full drinks, including pints of beer for Pi and me, so they couldn’t have been missing us for too long.
“Where have you been?” Megan greets us with a smile and hands me a pint of lager.
“Went for a piss and then we saw a fox.” The story isn’t completely false, and it tracks since the bathrooms are in an external building to the pub and you have to go outside for two seconds to get there.
“I love foxes,” she says. She knows. I see it in the way she smiles at me. It’s almost a congratulatory smile.
Georgia, however, is not smiling. She pulls a piece of fluff or lint from Pi’s hair. “Cobwebs? Owen needs to find a new cleaner if this is what the men’s loos are like.”
I don’t look at him. I can’t. I don’t look at Georgia either, and Megan is maintaining very firm eye contact with me.
She’s attempting to communicate something with her eyes alone, but I have no idea what.
Is she trying to tell me that Georgia knows?
Or perhaps that Georgia doesn’t know? Or maybe it’s not even about that.
Knowing Megs, it could be a completely random thought like how to layer the perfect puff pastry.
Or maybe she wants me to cause some kind of distraction.
“Would it surprise you to learn that cows are the most deadly animals in the UK?” I say, shrugging at Megan.
She laughs. Shrugs back. “Interesting.” Then she pinches the flesh on my hip with enough force to shock an inch of beer out of the top of my glass.
We find a table near the far wall, but there are only three chairs, so Megs sits on my lap, while Abs finishes yet another set.
It appears he’s had an absolute skinful and this time he’s crooning out “Someone You Loved,” by Lewis Capaldi.
It would be awkward as fuck if it weren’t for the following facts: one, he can actually sing, and two, absolutely nobody else in the room is paying him the slightest bit of attention.
Suddenly, the inside of my nose feels tickly, like I’m about to sneeze or cry. Damn it. I’d kinda forgotten this tiny ginger ball of irk is also a human being.
But he spoils it all at the end of his song with a, “Fuck you, Orlando Oakham-Fucking-Goodwin, you overinflated chess piece.”
“At least he’s over his Gadget grudge,” I say.
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Pi adds.
“Why is your arm so scratched up?” Georgia says abruptly.
“Huh?” Pretty sure that came from all three of us.
Georgia extends Pi’s arm and twists it, revealing a crisscross of scratches along the softer part of his forearm, no doubt from a moment ago when I fucked his thighs against the ancient wall of our teammate’s cottage. “You’re bleeding.”
He doesn’t look at me, but I can almost feel the physical effort he puts into not looking at me. “Oh, I tripped and knocked it into the wall . . . when we were outside . . . watching the fox . . . earlier.”
Megan pinches me again. It’s the exact spot she pinched before, and I’m sure she’s trying to curate an everlasting bruise.
“Eggs, you’re up!” Owen calls out.
“You owe me the full tea later,” Megan whispers into my ear as we stand and shuffle about so that I can do my set and she can sit down in my seat.
Abs bumbles over to our table, pulls a chair out of thin air, and plops it next to Pi. Not out of thin air . . .
Damn, I’ve only just got to the stage and people are already leaving the pub. Am I really that bad at singing?
“Where you going?” I ask Snatch, who’s ducking out with his wife, Laura.
“Need a piss. Sorry, mate,” he says.
“Together?”
Laura smirks and gives me an apologetic look. Behind her, I see Georgia glaring at Pi. Oh, wait . . . now they’re snogging.
How can Georgia go from almost figuring out this whole shebang to sucking face in the space of ten seconds? And why is it making me feel like this, like . . .
Like I’m the one he’s cheating on?
“Right, pay attention, you bunch of hairy arseholes.” I say into the mic. “New rule: everyone has to stay and listen to my song. Otherwise, I’ll be very sad.”
Some people laugh, others boo.
“Also . . .” I pause for dramatic effect. “As punishment for collectively fucking off to the bogs, I’m going to sing two songs in a row. Yes, that’s right, two.”
Pi smiles, mouths “Thank you” to me. He knows that means I’ll cover his song too.
I wink at him and bring the mic back to my mouth. “So buckle up, you sad fucks. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”
“Jar Of Hearts” has to be one of the funnest tunes to do karaoke to.
I’m having such a blast. I don’t need to look at the screen because I know most of the lyrics, and the ones I don’t know I can just fill in with cool sounds or random words.
It’s all good. Gadget brings me a pint of lager, and I down it in under six seconds between the last verse and chorus.
People cheer for my phenomenal drinking skills, and cheer again when the music ends. Or more likely because it ended.
The next song lines itself up. Pi’s choice.
“Dancing on My Own” by Robyn. The 2010 tune is a total bop, and patrons who’d ditched for my first performance filter back into the pub.
Everybody sings along. Some folks dance.
Abs is twirling Megan, and they’re both shouting the words to each other and clicking their fingers like they’re auditioning for Greece or Westside Story.
The only people not getting involved are Pi and Georgia.
Pi is intensely watching me. His lips move in time to the lyrics and his eyes are smiling.
Georgia’s not singing, or smiling, though.
She’s fiddling with her pendant and chewing on the inside of her lip as her gaze flicks from me to her boyfriend and back to me again.