not into the one-on-one. I told him that's all I ever do. Then I thought..." Kevin's voice dropped, low, sexy, as his gaze locked with James's. "I thought of you. If it's down to three in a bed, it has to be you. After..." Kevin pointed at James's mouth. "After you get fixed up, of course."
"Of course." James pressed his lips together.
"Come on," Kevin urged. "You know it'll be good."
"Can't wait. Can't fucking wait," James said, grinning again. "Ring you up soon as the implants are in. Casey won't mind about the herpes, right?"
"What?"
"Genital herpes. I have it. I know you won't care, Kev, but you might mention it to Casey. Good karma to be courteous."
Kevin stared at James. It was the first time James had ever seen the other man speechless.
"Don't fret, love," James said, finishing his drink and standing up. "It'll be the making of me. Gonna sell my story to BBC1. Call it James Campbell, The Only Man in Britain with Genital Herpes ."
"How's that?" a man at the bar called.
"I said I'm the only bloke in Britain with genital herpes!" James shouted. Kevin was looking at the wall, but a group of girls in the back burst into applause and whistles.
"Don't you believe it!" one of them called as James went out waving and blowing kisses. Maybe his face was bollixed up at present, but the rest of him was nothing to sneeze at.
Back at the flat he pulled out his journal, got a pencil and wrote a variation of something he'd seen on walls, toilet stalls and the tube.
PISS OFF KEV
Two entries in one day. He was becoming—what was Michael's word? Prolific. Pleased with himself, James slipped the journal back into its hiding place and flopped in front of the telly to search for porn.
***
Michael spent the rest of that Saturday waiting for police cars to pull up alongside the family car, for uniformed officers to knock at the front door, spare Edward and Viv a pitying look and take their father into custody. But the morning passed quietly. So did the afternoon. Frannie demanded an explanation for his behavior the previous night and he promised her she'd have it.
"It's just..." Michael stopped, gathering himself while Frannie peered at him suspiciously. "I hate Sharon. I have my reasons. They will not be put aside. And I will not have my children around that woman."
Frannie, who'd never heard Michael speak about anything with such an obvious underpinning of emotion, agreed to defer the discussion. Dinner passed more or less normally, still without knuckles rapping at the door. Then, ignoring three curious stares, Michael poured himself a glass of Frannie's Chardonnay and went up to his office.
The blank digital page taunted him for a while, but the wine helped. The fact he'd admitted aloud that he hated Sharon helped, too. And the memory of striking her helped most of all. It took Michael, author extraordinaire of all things simple, unadorned and purely factual, four hours to type up his narrative. In the end it was coldly clinical and less than two pages long. But it would explain to Frannie exactly why he felt the way he did, should he ever gather the courage to let her read it.
The next day he woke and skipped the shower. He wasn't pleasuring himself that way anymore; he was saving all his sexual energy for James. It crossed his mind that James might be up to absolutely anything that weekend. Working, if he dared try it despite the missing teeth. Partying with friends. Fucking some other man. All three ideas hurt to imagine. But Michael was firm in his resolution that he was no longer buying James. Even if James left him tomorrow, Michael had no intention of giving up his peaceful little flat in Shepherd's Bush. He could afford it, he didn't need a roommate, didn't feel cheated by paying the water and gas bills while James took classes. As long as James wanted to stay, Michael would welcome him, gladly.
Most of his clothes needed a wash. Pulling on one of Edward's T-shirts—a size too small, but not unbearable—and an
"Of course." James pressed his lips together.
"Come on," Kevin urged. "You know it'll be good."
"Can't wait. Can't fucking wait," James said, grinning again. "Ring you up soon as the implants are in. Casey won't mind about the herpes, right?"
"What?"
"Genital herpes. I have it. I know you won't care, Kev, but you might mention it to Casey. Good karma to be courteous."
Kevin stared at James. It was the first time James had ever seen the other man speechless.
"Don't fret, love," James said, finishing his drink and standing up. "It'll be the making of me. Gonna sell my story to BBC1. Call it James Campbell, The Only Man in Britain with Genital Herpes ."
"How's that?" a man at the bar called.
"I said I'm the only bloke in Britain with genital herpes!" James shouted. Kevin was looking at the wall, but a group of girls in the back burst into applause and whistles.
"Don't you believe it!" one of them called as James went out waving and blowing kisses. Maybe his face was bollixed up at present, but the rest of him was nothing to sneeze at.
Back at the flat he pulled out his journal, got a pencil and wrote a variation of something he'd seen on walls, toilet stalls and the tube.
PISS OFF KEV
Two entries in one day. He was becoming—what was Michael's word? Prolific. Pleased with himself, James slipped the journal back into its hiding place and flopped in front of the telly to search for porn.
***
Michael spent the rest of that Saturday waiting for police cars to pull up alongside the family car, for uniformed officers to knock at the front door, spare Edward and Viv a pitying look and take their father into custody. But the morning passed quietly. So did the afternoon. Frannie demanded an explanation for his behavior the previous night and he promised her she'd have it.
"It's just..." Michael stopped, gathering himself while Frannie peered at him suspiciously. "I hate Sharon. I have my reasons. They will not be put aside. And I will not have my children around that woman."
Frannie, who'd never heard Michael speak about anything with such an obvious underpinning of emotion, agreed to defer the discussion. Dinner passed more or less normally, still without knuckles rapping at the door. Then, ignoring three curious stares, Michael poured himself a glass of Frannie's Chardonnay and went up to his office.
The blank digital page taunted him for a while, but the wine helped. The fact he'd admitted aloud that he hated Sharon helped, too. And the memory of striking her helped most of all. It took Michael, author extraordinaire of all things simple, unadorned and purely factual, four hours to type up his narrative. In the end it was coldly clinical and less than two pages long. But it would explain to Frannie exactly why he felt the way he did, should he ever gather the courage to let her read it.
The next day he woke and skipped the shower. He wasn't pleasuring himself that way anymore; he was saving all his sexual energy for James. It crossed his mind that James might be up to absolutely anything that weekend. Working, if he dared try it despite the missing teeth. Partying with friends. Fucking some other man. All three ideas hurt to imagine. But Michael was firm in his resolution that he was no longer buying James. Even if James left him tomorrow, Michael had no intention of giving up his peaceful little flat in Shepherd's Bush. He could afford it, he didn't need a roommate, didn't feel cheated by paying the water and gas bills while James took classes. As long as James wanted to stay, Michael would welcome him, gladly.
Most of his clothes needed a wash. Pulling on one of Edward's T-shirts—a size too small, but not unbearable—and an
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