7. CHAPTER SEVEN
I can feel more emotion on my face than there has been in years, as I half-heartedly resist the way Jude is dragging me down the uneven cobblestone streets.
His hand is gripping my wrist far stronger than it needs to be, but maybe it’s another one of his tests.
Maybe he wants me to fight back. To cause a scene.
To give him a reason to put me back in my place.
It was never a question of whether or not I was going to leave with him. It was always about seeing how much he wanted it; how far he’s willing to go to make up for lost time—whatever that means.
Trailing one step behind, I’m forced against his back each time he stops—every muscle in my body tensing as the whirr of lunchtime London continues around me.
“Where are you taking me?”
Jude throws a glance back over his shoulder. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”
My god, I want to unravel him, layer by layer, until there’s nothing left to peel back. “I never took you for a tease.”
“Then I guess there’s a lot for you to catch up on. And in the meantime, why not live a little dangerously?”
If only you fucking knew. “Isn’t that what got us both in trouble in the first place?”
“It’s got a way of finding us. That’s for sure.”
Tensing my wrist, I wriggle it until he lets go. But the intensity of his gaze doesn't waver when he frees me. It becomes more powerful. Like an owner walking their dog off-leash.
“Come,” he says, and I fall back into step behind him. Because I was never worthy of being on his level.
“Wait here,” is his next command, and it slices straight through me, right down to my vile, perverted core.
His absence is immediate, but I stand rooted to the pavement.
I watch him blend in until the crowd swallows him, and I’m left stewing in a purgatory of my own unwarranted and confusing thoughts.
Leaning back against a shopfront, I look across the street to Hyde Park.
But instead of a distraction, it only feeds my imagination.
A secluded spot.
Somewhere we won’t be seen.
Would he let me apologize in the only way I know how?
As if summoned by my need for him, Jude reappears at my side. His hand is on my back, and he looks at me as though he can read my thoughts. A flush creeps up my neck, then burns with my refusal to part with them.
“What’s that?” I ask, nodding towards the white box tucked beneath his other arm.
He smiles and tilts his head as his hand slides lower on my back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Are you always this cryptic? Or is this just for my benefit?”
“I’m just building suspense.” He breaks all contact and starts to walk away. “Keep up,” he says, not looking back. “There’s a good boy.”
I clench my jaw as the words roll off his tongue, but his gravity draws me back within seconds. Then, like he’s doing it on purpose, he allows his arm to graze mine.
“Good boys get rewards,” he tells me while staring straight ahead as we wait to cross the street.
“Do bad boys get better ones?”
The speed of my reply has him smirking. “I guess you’ll have to wait to find out.”
“There will come a point when I’m not prepared to play your game anymore.
And when that time comes, I can’t be held responsible for what happens.
” As the people around us cross the street towards the park, I take a step directly in front of Jude and turn to face him.
“Consider this your warning.” I take the lead despite not knowing where we're going, and start shuffling backwards across the Pelican crossing.
I’m halfway to the other side before he moves. And for a brief second, the edges of his mouth twitch before he raises his brow. To everyone else, it might seem like a simple gesture, but I can see it for the declaration of war that it is.
He lets me walk where I chose for a while longer as he ambles behind me, suspiciously quiet. Never getting close enough that it looks like we’re together, but also never far enough away that I couldn’t hear him if he were to speak.
Undirected, I venture into Hyde Park. As expected, it’s busy with people doing the shit people do on days in London where the sun isn’t completely hidden by clouds.
With a whistle—a fucking whistle—I turn back to see Jude heading off down a path that breaks off the main one.
If it were any other person in the entire world, I’d be instantly designing their spectacular splatter punk demise for daring to think I’d answer to a goddamn whistle.
But from Jude Clarke, accompanied by a jerk of his chin, my traitorous feet are running along behind him.
And my full attention is locked on the confident rock of his shoulders as his long coat swings around his legs.
He leads me off the designated path and to the opposite side of a row of rose bushes, and trellises covered with vines. Beneath a large weeping tree is an unoccupied white bench, as though this was all planned out and part of a shitty movie.
“Sit,” Jude orders with his back still to me.
It’s abrupt, rude even. But I don’t question it.
I can’t.
I don’t want to.
And so I sit. A character out of place in my own story.
Jude remains standing, his back still to me, the fluttering edges of his coat catching bursts of wind. The small white box he’s been holding onto is nowhere in sight, and I’m filled with a strange, non typical anticipation.
I have no urge to look back over my shoulder and make sure no one is watching.
I haven’t thought about Marius or my godawful job for the past half hour.
It’s like I’m having an out-of-body experience.
A lucid dream. A complete and total dissociation from the constant distrust that shrouds me every second of every day.
Jude's boots crunch on the gravel as he turns to me. He's holding the box in front of him with a look on his face that tells me he's worried he made a huge mistake. “I’m sorry if this is inappropriate.".
“Well, you can start by telling me why the fuck we’re here. And I'll judge it from there."
“Right,” he exhales, taking a seat—his body stiff as his eyes squint in the sun.
“I was promised a surprise. And I was told to wait. But if that’s not for me,” I gesture towards the box, “Then why the hell did you make me wait on my own while you bought it?”
Jude relaxes back on the bench and hands me the box. “Take it. If you’re gonna be impatient about it.”
Opening the box, I stare at its contents for what seems like an eternity. It’s so obvious in hindsight, but my cluelessness only makes it sting more. “A cake?”
“Happy birthday. I—ah… I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I just went with traditional.”
The mocking irony of his words is a dagger to my chest, because there is nothing traditional about a man buying another man his first birthday cake at our age. And a gesture so modest shouldn’t feel like I’m holding the entire universe in my hands.
“Are you trying to be a bad boy now to see where that gets you?”
“Ha?” I whip my head in his direction.
“You haven’t said thank you.”
“Sorry.” Shame forces my chin to my chest. “It’s not something I’m used to saying.”
“Well, I’ve grown quite accustomed to hearing it.”
“Thank you,” I say, breathy and pitiful.
Jude leans in closer, his shoulder pushing against mine as he speaks to the side of my face. “Are you gonna try it?”
I turn my head towards him, and he doesn’t move. We’re so close he has to feel my breath against his skin. “Did you get any forks?”
“Forgot.” He shrugs his right shoulder, then lays his arm flat along the bench behind me. “Make a wish.”
I want to point out that there’s no candle, but instead, I wish for something impossible and lean forward to blow out the imaginary flame. And when I open my eyes, I see Jude plunging his fingers into the heart of the cake.
Pulling back, I watch him tear away a piece that falls apart at the edges, leaving crumbs on my suit.
The compulsion to brush them off—to clean every last fragment of dirt from the black fabric—is quickly slapped away as he lifts it, laden with cream and jam, to his parted lips that are ready and willing to welcome the mess.
“Life’s too short for cutlery,” he mumbles through mouthfuls; he's eyes locked on mine. Then he licks the cream from his lips, and wipes the jam from the corner of his mouth with his thumb before sucking it clean. “Try it,” he says. But I don’t know if I can.