Hard

by Donna Alam

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Positive.’ I cock a brow, tilting my head the tiniest bit to the side. ‘Oh. Oh. Well, maybe we could, you know, try again. Just to be absolutely sure. And I do think I felt my head spin when you did that thing with your tongue.’

  ‘What thing was that exactly?’

  ‘Maybe if we get into bed, I can demonstrate on you.’ My cock jumps between us as she takes my phone from my passive hand. ‘But first, so this doesn’t get awkward at any point later, I’m going to put my number in your contacts list.’ Without looking at me, she types in her number with her thumbs, almost immediately handing it back to me. ‘That way, when you leave, you won’t feel bad. You know, if I’m sleeping or something.’

  ‘How do you know I’ll feel bad?’ I try for a little levity in my tone, but I’m not sure if it’s a success.

  ‘Because you’re a good man. I can tell.’

  I could respond in a dozen ways. I could tell her she’s wrong. Tell her there’s little chance of me calling her after tonight—that I don’t deserve her understanding. Maybe remind her of the last man she thought was good. The same one who frightened her downstairs. But I don’t do any of those things. Instead, I just stare down at my phone.

  ‘Call me,’ she says softly. ‘Or don’t.’ Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she stares up at me. ‘I might answer anyway.’

  Chapter 10

  KEIR

  ‘What are you all doing here?’

  ‘Fine way to greet visitors this lovely Sunday mornin’,’ Mac replies gruffly, tightening his hold on a wiggling Juno. He steps in through the open door with Louis, his curly dark-haired son, by his side.

  ‘Hang on. You can’t come in here. Sorcha’s still contagious.’

  ‘That’s exactly why we’re here, silly,’ Ella, his better half, says from behind his bulk.

  ‘We’ve come to catch Sorcha’s disease!’ Louis calls, darting under my arm.

  ‘Darling, maybe don’t say that to Sorcha,’ Ella calls after him.

  I stand passively as the whole family shuffles into the house, though Ella pauses, pushing up on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek.

  ‘You look a bit rough. Good wedding, was it?’ Her words are heavy with meaning.

  ‘I’m just a wee bit tired,’ I answer a touch defensively.

  ‘Hmm, I wonder why.’

  ‘Daddy,’ Sorcha says excitedly as I reach the living room. ‘Louis has brought me some sweeties and a bottle of Lucozade.’

  ‘That’s nice of him.’

  ‘Mummy brings me Lucozade when I’m ill,’ he explains. ‘It makes my tummy feel all fizzy and better. The sweeties were my idea because sweeties always make me feel happy.’

  ‘Bribery, eh, Sorcha? Seems Auntie Ella wants to swap you goodies for your chickenpox.’

  ‘That’s silly!’ Sorcha giggles, pulling her skinny legs out from under her Disney blanket to move the stainless-steel salad bowl balanced on her lap to the coffee table. There’s no need for her to be hugging the salad bowl except as a means of reminding those around her—namely, me—that she’s feeling very sorry for herself. Like I need reminding. ‘No one wants to feel poorly,’ she says brightly. ‘Or be all spotty.’

  Thankfully—on that front, at least—she seems to have improved overnight. She’s still a bit pale and wan looking, but she’s stopped itching. But not bitching. She’s sick of her own company, and mine. And I can’t do anything right after abandoning her to go to a wedding last night. Like I don’t feel guilty enough for the whole fucking evening.

  ‘It is a little silly,’ Ella agrees, ‘but also a little bit sensible. See, the younger you are when you contract chickenpox, the easier it is. We thought it might be a good idea for little Juno here to get the illness over with while she’s still a baby.’

  ‘She’s not a baby!’ Louis scorns. ‘She’s a toddler and getting bigger every day.’

  ‘She’s not growing quick enough for his tastes,’ Mac adds in an undertone. ‘She can’nae play Legos wi’ him yet.’

  That makes sense.

  ‘And we thought maybe your daddy could go and play rugby this morning while we have—’

  ‘A chicken spots party!’

  ‘Come for the communicable disease, stay for the party?’ I ask in a droll tone.

  ‘Well, not a party exactly,’ Ella says, her gaze rising to mine. ‘Something much more sedate.’

  ‘Movies and popcorn and fun!’ Louis adds, throwing his arms wide.

  ‘Din’nae fash,’ Mac tells me. ‘Seems he helped himself to the whole contents of his own sweetie bag in the car on the way over.’

  ‘Sugar rush?’

  ‘Aye, crash to follow. But we don’t have to worry about that,’ he says, slapping me on the back. ‘We’ll be on the field.’

  ‘I feel better already,’ Sorcha says. ‘Maybe we can all go to rugby, and I can get an ice cream from the park.’

  ‘You can’t go to the park with chickenpox,’ Agnes cuts in, sliding me a stern glance— a stern glance that says, grow a pair, man. She’s dressed for Sunday mass but must have popped in through the back door to see to my guests. She lives in a wee bungalow at the back of the house.

  ‘But I want to go outside,’ Sorcha says, ‘And you promised I could go to the wedding yesterday.’

  I cast my eyes to the ceiling, inhaling a deep breath before lowering my gaze again. Big baby blues stare up at me. Eyes just like her mother’s.

  Jesus, please don’t let her turn out like her.

  ‘I know I promised,’ I reply evenly. ‘But that was before we knew you were going to be ill.’

  ‘But I told you I feel better.’

  ‘You mean, apart from having chickenpox,’ I answer wryly.

  ‘Your daddy had to go to the wedding as part of his work,’ Agnes cuts in.

  Aye, work. Because that’s what I was up to last night while my child was ill. Working myself into sexual oblivion over the body of a beautiful and willing girl.

  ‘And,’ Agnes continues, ‘he needs to go to work to pay for all those trips to that build a wee bear shop you’re so fond of. Can I get anyone a coffee?’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Ella’s says, scrambling to her feet and leaving us to our domestic.

  ‘But I wanted to wear my new dress.’

  Here we go. Sorcha’s not a stroppy kid usually, though she does have a hell of a temper. Good job her tantrums are annual these days, though we did suffer through terrible twos, rotten threes, belligerent fours . . . all while I was trying to grow an empire.

  ‘You can wear your lovely frock anytime,’ Agnes responds, picking up the salad bowl, no doubt glad of the opportunity to get rid of it. ‘Why, isn’t your daddy always taking you nice places?’

  ‘Not today he’s not,’ she replies, whip-sharp. ‘And that’s just effed in the a.’

  Mac snorts, turning it into a cough. But me? My heart sinks, my brows along with it.

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘Effed in the a,’ she repeats, this time with a little less attitude and much less confidence.

  ‘And just where did you learn that wee gem, eh?’ I’ll bet not in the school I pay a fucking fortune for her to attend. And yes, so I’m a hypocrite. I might swear like a trooper, but I don’t fucking well do it around—

  ‘I heard Uncle Will say it,’ she says, holding her chin a fraction higher. ‘He said it to you. And you laughed.’

  I’m not laughing now. ‘Well, it’s not the kind of language you should be using,’ I bluster, sounding a bit too much like Agnes. ‘Little girls don’t say those kinds of things.’

  ‘Why? What does it mean?’

  ‘Never you mind,’ Agnes butts in, sliding me a look that says she’ll reserve her opinions on this topic for later. ‘All you need to know is that it’s no’ very nice to say and that I’ll be giving Uncle Will a piece of my mind when I see him next.’ Her narrowed gaze slides back to me. And then Mac.

  Tarrin
g us with the same brush is probably sensible even if Mac isn’t guilty this time. Just me, the fella who pays her wages, and Will, a peer of the realm. Lord Travers, you’re a very naughty boy. But then he knows that well enough.

  Once upon a time, I’d have instinctively known that in discussing effing someone in the a, he’d be recounting a night with a girl. But now that he’s settled down and in love, he no longer shares those kinds of tales. Which is just as well as I doubt I’d be able to look Sadie in the eye if he told me he’d been bumming her last night.

  There are some things you just don’t share.

  ‘Do you want me to stay, darlin’?’ I ask softly, causing Agnes’s frown to deepen.

  ‘Yes,’ Sorcha answers immediately. ‘And . . . no.’ Her expression and tone conflicting. ‘I’m not supposed to say I want you to stay. Even if I do.’

  ‘Why’s that, then?’

  ‘Because I’m just jealous. And I don’t want to be.’

  ‘That’s better now,’ Agnes chastises kindly, stroking her hair. ‘You’re a good girl, and you’ll quit your greetin’,’ she says, referring to the appearance of Sorcha’s sudden tears. You don’t want to make your daddy feel any worse than he already does.’

  ‘Why should he feel bad?’ she complains, pulling her slender legs back under the blanket. ‘I’m the one with the spots.’

  ‘Because he’s your dad, and your pain is his pain.’

  ‘Well, he can have my chickenpox then.’ Swiping the tears away, Sorcha scowls, folding her arms across her Disney nightdress. ‘Anyway, I’m too big for Build-A-Bear now.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Agnes says, straightening the throw over her legs. ‘But remember you’re not too big for a skelped arse.’

  I struggle to hide my smile. Agnes would no more smack her backside than she would mine. But the threat seems just as effective as it was all those years ago when she caught me trying to steal a packet of cigarettes from her corner shop.

  She’s been looking after me since then. Feeding me. Making sure I’m well.

  ‘But I’m bored,’ Sorcha complains.

  ‘Of course, you are, darling,’ Ella placates, perching herself on the edge of the sofa and pressing a pink cup into her hand. She brushes Sorcha’s golden, though lank, hair from her head. ‘As well as sweeties, I’ve brought a picnic, and Louis has some movies to stream. Do you think you might like to spend the afternoon with us?’

  Sorcha nods, all doleful eyes. ‘Yes please, Auntie Ella. Daddy can go to rugby, I suppose.’

  Jesus Christ, you could sit on that pouty lip.

  ‘Weddings are boring anyway,’ asserts Louis, pressing a spouted cup into his little sister’s grabby hands. ‘It’s all stand up, sit down. No talking in the church. Then they take hundreds and hundreds of photographs. Then they talk and talk and talk! So boring.’

  ‘How many weddings have you been to?’ Sorcha asks suspiciously.

  Louis considers for a moment before answering. ‘Three. And none of them were fun. Unless you like dancing.’

  ‘Oh, well. I’m glad I didn’t go then. Sorry, Daddy,’ she adds without an ounce of contrition. ‘You can play rugby. But please bring us all ice creams home.’

  ‘Giving out your orders now?’ Agnes says.

  ‘Sorry, Auntie Agnes.’ For Agnes, at least, she has the sense to look downcast.

  ‘Off you go, then.’ Ella masterfully suppresses a chuckle at my expression. ‘We’ll be here most of the afternoon. Harvesting germs,’ she adds in an undertone.

  ‘Aye, away you go,’ Agnes says, almost shooing me out of the room. Ella and Mac follow us into the hallway.

  ‘I haven’t said I’m going yet. I haven’t got my things.’

  ‘We all know you keep your kit in the car,’ Mac says, calling me out.

  ‘But I left Sorcha last night,’ I say, voicing my guilt. ‘And all last week while I worked!’

  ‘And she didn’t miss you an ounce.’ Agnes confirms something my head already knows. My heart? It doesn’t like to admit it. ‘That wee girl just delights in giving you a hard time some days.’

  ‘Can we keep Juno at this age?’ Mac says, turning to Ella. ‘Skip all the painful parts.’

  ‘Painful?’ Agnes scoffs. ‘Just wait until the teenage years. Boys or girls, they all give you grey hairs.’

  ‘I’d best start saving for hair dye now,’ Ella says, chuckling.

  ‘It’s to be hoped wee Juno is nothing like you.’ I hold my hands up as Agnes points a finger in my direction. She obviously hasn’t picked up on how territorial Mac can be. ‘The scrapes this one used to get in to.’

  ‘All right, I’m going,’ I say, taking the hint. ‘But I’m not going for a pint after. I’ll come straight home.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Mac grumbles, then, ‘Ah, sorry there, Agnes.’

  A terse, ‘Hmph,’ is Agnes’s only response. ‘Forgiven. But only if you can get him to give the lassie from last night a call. Maybe he can take her out for coffee or something.’

  ‘You met someone!’ Ella almost squeals, before repeating her exclamation in a more even tone. A hopeful tone. ‘You met someone. A nice someone?’

  ‘Nice enough to keep him out until the wee hours.’ Jesus, Agnes! Hang me out to dry, why don’t you?

  ‘Oh . . . ’

  ‘Stop smiling at me like that,’ I say, pointing a finger at Ella.

  ‘Come on,’ Mac says, his hand on the door handle. ‘Before they squeeze all your secrets out of you.’

  ‘I haven’t got any secrets,’ I protest. ‘I went to a wedding, not an orgy! Am I not allowed any privacy?’

  It’s a rhetorical question. We all know the answer is not if they can help it.

  Chapter 11

  KEIR

  ‘You played shite today.’ Taking a deep gulp of his pint, Will places it back on the surface of the sticky bar. ‘You weren’t your usual killer self.’

  ‘Cheers, fucker.’ I raise my own glass. ‘There’s nothin’ like kicking a pal when he’s had a tough week.’

  ‘Killer week,’ Mac adds, hiding the smile behind his own pint.

  ‘What am I missing?’ Will asks, his narrowed gaze flicking back and forth between us. ‘You’ve had sex,’ he asserts immediately.

  ‘Fuck off.’ I take another sip of my drink, my expression unchanged.

  ‘You have—you’ve had your balls out of the cellophane!’

  ‘Wanna yell baws a bit louder?’ Mac grates out. ‘I’m sure there’s a fucker in the toilets who didn’t hear. Jesus wept.’ He looks about to lean his folded arms on the bar but then thinks better of it at the last minute, taking in the sticky surface. The pub we’re in? Hardly salubrious but it has been our regular hangout for years. ‘Why does the conversation always turn to bollix when you’re around?’

  ‘It’s a talent,’ Will replies.

  ‘Must be something to do wi’ your blue blood, eh?’

  ‘We’re all a bunch of raving knackers,’ he agrees.

  ‘So we’ve had balls, baws, bollix, and knackers. Any other euphemisms for testicles you want to bandy around?’ asks an unhappy Mac.

  ‘Just Keir,’ Will responds immediately. ‘Come on, who’s the unlucky girl?’

  ‘Why would she be unlucky?’ Fuck. ‘There is no girl.’

  ‘She’d be unlucky,’ Will responds, ignoring my attempt at salvaging the direction of this conversation, ‘because you’ve been storing your testicles in a drawer somewhere—unused for decades.’

  ‘It hasn’t been that long.’

  ‘Long enough,’ Mac’s deep voice cuts in.

  ‘Et tu?’

  Mac shrugs. ‘I get it. And I don’t. How can you go without sex?’

  My finger taps furiously against my glass; my lips glued closed to contain all the things I could say. Like how when you put your all into a marriage—love, hope, and faith—only to find you’ve been taken for a fool, it’s enough to put you off any kind of love, including the physical. That in working yourself i
nto the fucking ground to provide for your family only to find you’ve become the ultimate cliché? It deadens more than just your heart.

  Jayne, my wife—my ex-wife—decided I wasn’t paying her enough attention, so she fucked her personal trainer. Painful? Yes. But nothing a man can’t recover from. The rest? That shit stays.

  ‘Have you heard from her lately?’ Mac asks, probably reading my expression.

  ‘Not since she wanted money last time.’

  The money she wants. Me or my child? Not so much. She hurt me and I thought I’d hurt her back by offering her money in exchange for her claim for custody. I didn’t think in a million years she’d agree, but there you go. That right there is hurt enough to make me never want to get involved with anyone. Ever again.

  ‘There are billions of women in the world,’ Will begins, but I cut him off.

  ‘You’re right, but not one of them will get the chance to screw me over again.’ I push off from the bar. ‘I need to piss.’

  As it happens, I don’t need to, but I do need to get away. And by the time I get back to my pint, I’ve chased the anger away. It’s not Will or Mac’s fault. They can’t understand, and I hope they never do.

  ‘My round?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Will says, suddenly looking very pleased with himself. ‘Tracey, sweetheart? Another round when you’ve got a minute.’

  ‘Comin’ right up, Willie, love,’ she calls back in her heavy norf, or north, London accent.

  ‘I’m a man with many names; Doctor, Lord Travers, Will—’

  ‘Arsehole,’ adds Mac.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Will agrees, ‘but Tracey is the only person in the world who gets away with calling me Willie.’

  ‘That must be your porn star name, eh?’ I turn my head at Mac’s almost non-sequitur. And his strange smile.

  ‘And speaking of porn . . . ’ Will begins smugly.

  I look down at my phone on the bar, which is currently face down. And not the way I left it before going to the bathroom. If it’s possible, the pit of my stomach hits my shoes.

  ‘You fuckers,’ I say slowly. I look back and forth between the pair who show not an ounce of contrition. In fact, they seem pretty fucking amused.