Love and Tea Bags

by C F White

  “No.” Mark shook his head, his own hair billowing wildly to rival Macy’s.

  “No?” Bradley folded his arms across his iron chest that mere moments ago had been holding Mark up as if he were a falling building.

  Mark could still feel the weight that had been pressed against him and he called out to be crushed again. To ground him. To complete him. But that would only exacerbate the current situation and provide ammunition for Macy not to believe a damn word he dared utter next.

  “Well, no,” Mark stammered, confidence waning.

  “You weren’t sucking face with my baby cousin?”

  Mark raked his gaze over the Aussie. He did still find it rather hard to believe that he had had his tongue down Bradley’s throat, which did make it a tad easier to contest the accusation. He turned his attention to the friend he’d known a fair bit longer. Minus tongues. Thank goodness.

  “Well, you see, there you go.” Mark waved a hand in the air and almost hit Bradley standing over him like a menacing threat of pure sex. “That statement most definitely can be answered with a no. I was not sucking face with a baby.”

  “Thank goodness,” Macy replied. “But you were sucking my cousin?”

  “Wh—what? No!” Mark shook his head furiously again.

  He was nauseated, his brain spinning as though he was riding one of those godawful summer fairground contraptions. What was the name of the damn ride? He’d spent his youth trying to avoid it, no matter if the bigger kids and scrumptiously fit boys all used to hang out there every night of the school holidays. The teacups?

  No. He probably would have remembered that.

  “No?” Bradley repeated again, voice elevating, snapping Mark from his reminiscing.

  Mark narrowed his eyes and, although Bradley stood there with that one blasted eyebrow crawling so far up his face it was in danger of joining his head of hair, he was sure Bradley was fucking with him. Or at least Mark hoped that he might still want to. Unable to sustain any more vowels, Mark pffft’d, snorted then grunted. And after that display, he was now fairly certain Bradley would be coming on board with all the nos.

  “No,” Mark finally agreed. Or didn’t agree. He wasn’t sure at this point what meant no and what meant yes. So he’d stick to the nos, regardless.

  “Shame.” Bradley breathed out, unfurling his arms and glancing away.

  Mark opened his mouth, accepting that all the flies would set up camp in there for a nice overnight holiday, breed and he’d been spitting out maggots for the rest of his life like some late-night 1970s horror movie.

  “I asked you to show him around town.” Macy slammed her hands on her hips. “I didn’t think you’d stop just at your house, Mark Johnson.”

  Mark furiously shook his head and attempted to shuffle forward from the kitchen counter. But Bradley blocked his way, refusing to budge an inch. Could Mark slip under his spread legs, perhaps? Probably best not to.

  “I did not stop at my house, Macy,” Mark declared, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll have you know, I did indeed show Bradley around town. We have also ventured as far as London.”

  “Where Mark paid for us to stay in a hotel.” Bradley grinned and it was touch and go as to whether Mark would slap him to shut him up. Or kiss him. He was beginning to think those two things were interchangeable when it came to Bradley bloody Summers. “After he tried lap dancing for me.”

  Slap him, definitely slap him.

  “Mark Johnson!” Macy tutted, a smile forming.

  “Don’t worry, Mace.” Bradley shot Mark a wink. “He only got as far as taking his jacket off then gouged some poor woman’s eye out.”

  Mark closed his eyes and proceeded to count to a million in the hope this dramatization would come to an end.

  “Sounds like Mark.”

  He tried to find some vowels to go with the multitude of consonants spluttering out of his mouth, but it seemed they had vacated his memory bank along with his maths ability. How was he meant to explain all that had happened in Macy’s absence? Even he wasn’t quite sure what had happened, or what was going to happen. He’d spent his life avoiding moments like this. And here he was, slap-bang in the middle of some daytime soap opera. A man nearly hitting his forties, having been single and happy—pfft—for the most part of ten years and resigned himself to a life of carefree liaisons that were, frankly, limited to say the least—as in non-existent—cavorting in his kitchen with a stripper nearly half his age who was related, by blood, to his best friend!

  Bradley grinned, and Mark was unsure whether Macy’s clucking of her tongue was out of true disappointment for Mark, or if she also found this whole scenario amusing. Mark could quite use a nice cup of tea. Is it rude to ask everyone to bugger off?

  “Brad?” Macy said, eyes wide.

  “G’day, cuz,” Bradley replied. “How was the trip?”

  “Awful.” Macy sighed. “I begged to get off at the nearest port and managed to get an early flight home. Mum found an even older geriatric to keep her company and after I was locked out of the cabin on the second night with a sock hanging on the handle, I decided it was time to come home.”

  “Good-o.” Bradley still hadn’t made any further steps back and it was taking all Mark’s strength not to push him away, which would never work as Mark wouldn’t be able to move the tank of the man, so he’d settle for a stern lecture on personal space. Or his other option was to ignore Macy and continue where they’d left off when she broke into his house. Which reminded him…

  “Er, Macy, you realise this is my house? That you let yourself into my place of domicile?”

  “Yes, Mark.” Macy nodded. “Good thing, really, eh? Lord knows what would have happened, had I not. You can pretend your tongue wasn’t in my baby cousin’s mouth, but it would be harder to explain where you were hiding your dick.”

  “Macy!” Mark exploded and he wouldn’t have been surprised if his ears blew steam like the kettle.

  Bradley cracked out a laugh.

  “You’re not helping!” Mark prodded an aggravated finger in Bradley’s chest and covered the ricocheting pain it caused.

  “Sorry.” Bradley smiled, all sweetness and light. “But this isn’t a big deal.”

  “Isn’t it?” Mark rubbed his brow. He needed an aspirin. Quick.

  Bradley shrugged. “Why would it be?”

  Mark couldn’t answer. Not without reaffirming all the complications that had had Mark keeping Bradley at arm’s length for the last few days. Gosh, has it only been days? Bradley was young. Too young. And too good-looking. And too flighty.

  Mark was old. Too old to be flouncing around with Bradley. He might have let his inhibitions fly away a moment ago, but now Macy was here, reminding Mark of who he really was. And how everyone and everything had a use-by date.

  “Brad?” Macy’s calming, soothing tone floated along the silent kitchen.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why don’t you go back to the shop? I brought some stuff from my trip and stashed them there to make some cakes for tomorrow. I need a word with Mark.”

  Bradley narrowed his eyes. “What about?”

  “That’s private.”

  Bradley whipped his gaze from Macy to Mark, playfulness dissipating with each passing look.

  “Don’t make him feel bad. None of this is his fault. It’s no one’s fault.” Bradley smiled. “If you want to blame anyone, blame Gran. Or the stars. This is fate.”

  “Gran?” Macy rolled her eyes. “Bat-shit crazy Gran? What did she predict this time? That you and Mark are a match made in heaven?”

  “In tea leaves, more like.” Bradley’s whole body radiated pride.

  Mark shrank, in stature and in confidence.

  “Bradley,” Macy sighed. “I know you believe in that stuff, but she got it wrong last time, didn’t she?”

  “No.” Bradley shook his head. “No. I got it wrong. This is right.” He waved a hand between himself and Mark.

  What? Mark should probably atte
mpt to ask that out loud if he was hoping for an answer to his question.

  “Okay, okay, look.” Macy held up her hands in defence. “Just let me talk to Mark, please?”

  Bradley paused in front of Mark and, dare Mark think it, there was a distinct demise in confidence from his stance. Mark wasn’t sure what to make of that. Bradley exuded confidence. Was Macy making him realise his mistake?

  Then, he was caught completely off guard when Bradley leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. A sweet, delicate peck that tingled along Mark’s spine and his lips left a lingering, teasing patch of moisture that Mark never wanted to wash off.

  “Listen to your heart, not her,” Bradley whispered into Mark’s ear before gliding over to his cousin, offering a less romantic kiss to her cheek and leaving the house.

  Mark was a little weak at the knees. Was it from Macy’s death glare or left over from that chaste kiss of Bradley’s? As his gaze met Macy’s, Mark swallowed and believed it was the former.

  “You owe me an explanation, Mark.”

  “I need tea, Macy.” Mark fell back onto the counter to steady himself. “Quite badly.”

  “First, you talk to me.” Macy grabbed Mark’s arm and yanked him into the living room. She collapsed with a huff onto the sofa and Mark lowered into the seat next to her, far more delicately and a tad more cautiously. “You like Brad?”

  Mark shrugged. Macy slapped him.

  “Ouch!” Mark rubbed his arm with a pout.

  “If I find out you have used his faith in astrology, tasseography and whatever the hell his hippyish Byron Bay upbringing and our gran’s influence has him believing in next, as a chance for a little slap and tickle, I will…I will…urg! I will refuse you service at my Tea Shoppe!”

  Mark gasped. “That’s totally unjust!”

  “Yes. So be careful what you say here.” Macy folded her arms.

  “Hang on, you told me he could look after himself.”

  “He can. He does. But he’s got that look in his eye.”

  “What look?”

  Macy lowered her chin, peering up at Mark with sultry eyes. “Love.”

  “Absurd,” Mark mumbled.

  “Why?” Macy folded her arms, curled her legs under her bottom and draped her long skirt over the edge of the sofa. “Are you saying a good-looking man like my cousin can’t fall in love? Because he’s a stripper he doesn’t have feelings? Is that it?”

  “What? No.” Mark firmed his lips. “He just doesn’t have them for me. He’s here in town for a short time—turns out the man who’s been sent to make him feel welcome is also a homosexual and he’s using the opportunity to pass the time. I could be anyone. And, sorry, but maybe there was a brief momentary lapse in judgement, there, because, well”—Mark waved a hand in the air—“he’s the dictionary definition of ‘sex’. They may as well forget the words on the entry and insert a photograph of him. But I can’t let myself go there.”

  “Why not?” Macy drew in concerned eyebrows. “We’ve been friends for a fair few years now and I haven’t seen you with anyone.”

  “I like my life like that.”

  “Give over.” Macy slapped him on the leg. “I think you’re about ready to get back on the horse, as they say.”

  “Bradley is most certainly not a horse.” Mark folded his arms. “He is, for all intents and purposes, a stallion.”

  “Got that close while I was away, did we?”

  “No.” Mark shook his head. “No, no, no.”

  “Did you want to?”

  Mark met with her gaze and sighed. “It isn’t worth the inevitable heartbreak.”

  “Oh, you are an absolute waste of a gay man, Mark Johnson!”

  Macy’s lips hadn’t moved to say that, and the voice had dropped a few decibels too. On realising it hadn’t been Macy uttering it at all, Mark flipped around on the sofa. Damian stood at the entrance doorway, hands on his hips.

  “Have you ditched the almighty Australian fuck-god, already?”

  Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. This morning had just got a whole lot worse.

  “Firstly, the fuck-god is my baby cousin.” Macy glared at Damian

  Damian held his hands up in apology, with minimal wincing.

  “Secondly, Mark is most definitely not having rampant sex with an Australian.” Macy turned back to Mark. “Or any other man of any nationality.”

  “What’s new?” Damian perched on the edge of the arm rest next to Macy and kissed her cheek.

  “Just a little enquiry, if I may?” Mark asked.

  Both Macy and Damian stopped their sniggering to address Mark with their similar sets of raised eyebrows.

  “If you’re both so eager for me to be finally getting my end away, why have you both let yourself into my house? I’ll be having those spare keys back, thank you very much.”

  “Ah!” Damian hacked out with an accusatory point of his finger. “So you do plan on getting all Will Smith behind closed doors, then?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, come on.” Damian huffed. “Getting jiggy with it?” He wiggled on the edge of the sofa, rotating his arms in a dance move to rival Bradley’s Adonis Cabaret. “Na, na, na, nana, nanana.”

  “No,” Mark replied a little exasperated. “No, no, no.”

  “She doth protest too much,” Damian said with another eyebrow waggle.

  “Actually, I’ve decided to have a real-life friend cull, rather than just on Facebook. So I am sorry, lady and gent, you didn’t make the cut.”

  “You need us, Mark Johnson,” Macy shoved his arm and Mark was beginning to feel like a ragdoll with all the manhandling. “We’re the ones who are here to support your foray into uncharted territory.”

  “It’s not quite uncharted.”

  “They’ve changed all the rules since you last did it.” Damian tutted. “Did they even have lube back then?”

  “I’m getting confused.” Mark scrubbed a hand over his face. “I thought you, Macy, didn’t want me…cavorting with your baby cousin. Now it’s all, go on, Mark, get jiggly with it.”

  “I just want to know it’s consensual on both sides. And that you both know what you’re letting yourself in for.” Macy shrugged.

  “And I came here for a nice cup of tea and to find out all the details of last night.” Damian rubbed his hands together with glee.

  “I don’t have any bags,” Mark admitted with a sullen sulk.

  Their gasps said it all. And while Mark listened to the cackling from the other two on his sofa, his mind flickered to what Bradley had said he should listen to—his heart. What was his heart telling him? What was the ultimate pull? Where were the stars guiding him?

  Satisfied that the stars were aligning in some sort of order, Mark hefted up from the sofa. “I’ll go get the tea.”

  * * * *

  The bell tinkled its welcome and Mark pushed through the door. His hands trembled as he closed it and twisted the lock. Was this a very bad idea? Glancing around Macy’s Tea Shoppe, he paused at its stillness. He thought about calling out, but should he allow his mouth to speak, it might not shut up. So instead he cleared his throat, threw his jacket over one of the tables and forced his jelly legs to get him around the counter and into the back kitchen.

  Bradley had his back to him, shoving various items from a crate into the large industrial fridge. He had headphones in, which could have been the reason he hadn’t heard the entrance bell or Mark’s shoes slapping on the floor as he edged closer. Mark lost his nerve. The contours of Bradley’s muscles through his thin vest top was enough to give Mark second, third—hell even a bazillion thoughts. None of which were rational. So he abandoned them to enjoy the view of Bradley reaching for each item and shoving it onto a shelf.

  Bradley was perfect. If Mark had been told to draw the ideal man, he would forever be sketching Bradley from memory. The fact he couldn’t actually draw was neither here nor there. Mark would know who it was.

  But Bradley was young. Far too yo
ung for this not to feel just a mite icky.

  Bradley twisted and stared.

  “G’day, Mark.” His face erupted into a grin and he flicked out his headphones.

  Mark didn’t have the first clue who Bradley was listening to, or even what type of music category it would come under. There had only been four genres when Mark had been an avid listener of popular music—rock, pop, classic and heavy metal. Now it seemed there were a multitude of subgenres—and subgenres within subgenres—to explain what type of music any one band played. All bands were now unique and not bunched together under the simple category of popular music.

  Mark sighed. And told his brain to shut the fuck up.

  “You want a tea?” Bradley asked, turning off the phone and shunting the kitchen into anticipatory silence.

  Mark shook his head. “No.”

  “Right-o.” Bradley waved a hand to the delights cluttering the kitchen surface. “Cake? Macy brought some cool choccie muffins back. Sure she won’t mind if you fancied a nibble?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Okay.” Bradley elongated the word and glanced around the kitchen. “You want a coffee?”

  Mark snorted. “No.”

  Bradley chuckled, but was soon rendered to a halt when Mark found his confidence and edged closer.

  Bradley straightened. “Do you want”—he cocked his head—“me?”

  “Oh, fucking God, yes.” Mark surprised himself with how loud that came out. The words ricocheted off the stainless-steel counters and echoed in resigned confirmation.

  Bradley smiled. Beamed. Radiated an illuminating glow that sizzled Mark’s skin. He leaned forward, brushing his lips against Mark’s with enticing fortitude. Mark didn’t move. He allowed the warm breath against his lips and waited for Bradley to take over. Bradley would want it that way. Mark was happy to give it to him. Allow him to lead all this nonsense. That way, Mark could plead ignorance to any seduction techniques that he clearly didn’t have in his arsenal.

  “Come on, then, Mark,” Bradley whispered against Mark’s lips. He licked his own and wiped his tongue across Mark’s teasingly. “Take me.”