by J. L. Merrow
“Marianne! Wake up! The pub’s on fire.” I shook her roughly, but only got a sleepy mumble in reply. Her eyes half opened, but didn’t seem to focus on me. Whatever she’d taken to help her sleep was working far too bloody well. I dragged her out of bed. Thank God she didn’t weigh much.
Phil came to help, and we managed to get her upright between us.
“Where’s Harry?” I yelled at her, my voice breaking on the end as smoke caught in my throat.
She blinked at me woozily. “Out. Flossie.”
Harry had taken Flossie out for walkies at gone midnight? Seriously? Right now, though, I didn’t give a monkey’s if she’d gone to dance naked round a ring of toadstools. She wasn’t here—that was all that counted.
There was a muted crash from downstairs. Firemen breaking in? Or the building breaking down?
Christ, that could have been Phil with the floor collapsing under him.
“I’ll carry her. You first.” Phil coughed.
There wasn’t time to argue, and I didn’t have a lot of breath to spare anyway. I led the way.
God knows how we got down that staircase so fast without ending up in a big heap at the bottom. We piled out into the fireplace—thankfully still not lit—and half carried Marianne to the door. We didn’t bother faffing around trying to unlock it—I climbed out the window first, then Phil posted a still-woozy Marianne out to me. The cooler air outside seemed to wake her up a bit, and she sat on the grass and started Oh-my-God-ing like a stuck record, staring at her home going up in smoke.
Flames were clearly visible now, tearing through the roof of the pub, and a thick plume of smoke showed grey-white against the night sky. There was an extended crash—upstairs floor falling in, maybe?
Christ. That could have been Phil in the middle of all that, if I’d let him go looking for Harry. I sat down heavily on the grass next to Marianne.
Dunno how long it was before the fire brigade got there. Minutes, I reckon, if that—we’d already heard the sirens when we first got outside. Phil went around to the road to flag them down and tell them what was what, and came back with a couple of big firemen. One scoped out this side of the building while the other came over to where I was sitting with Marianne. I had my arm around her—she was shivering in the skimpy little shorts-and-vest combo she’d worn to bed. He draped a blanket around her skinny shoulders, and she clutched it in white-knuckled hands.
“Cheers, mate,” I said on her behalf, and started coughing again.
An ambulance arrived three minutes later, and paramedics took off the fireman’s grey blanket and wrapped her in a flame-coloured shock blanket, which seemed a bit unnecessary, but there you go. We all got shepherded over to the ambulance to be poked and prodded while we got a grandstand view of the firemen doing their stuff. God, between the fire itself and all the water they were pumping in, was there going to be anything left of the Dyke?
Various scrapes and grazes I hadn’t even noticed myself getting were starting to make themselves felt, and my hip was telling me straight it wasn’t a fan of all this action-man stuff.
“You all right?” Eerie shadows danced over Phil’s face as he peered at me. He’d just finished being treated for a glass cut and had been looking at the dressing with a frown, like he hadn’t noticed when he’d got it any more than I had.
“Yeah, ’m okay.” I tried to say more, but all I got out were wheezes and coughs and then the ambulance bloke shoved a mask over my face. I shoved it away again.
Phil grabbed it and yanked it back into position. Seeing as I was already coughing from the effort, I thought, Sod it, and let him win.
“Stop being a bloody hero,” he said and promptly had a coughing fit of his own.
I gave him as smug a look as I could manage over the oxygen mask, which probably wasn’t very.
We’d done it. We’d saved Marianne.
And we’d done it together.
By the time we got let out of hospital for good behaviour and were allowed to go home, it was well past dawn. We’d had to give lengthy statements to our boys in blue too, which hadn’t helped my throat any.
Kev had done a runner sometime after Phil and me had gone inside the pub to get Marianne—taking my phone with him, to add insult to injury—but at least they were looking for him now. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t even waited to see if she was okay, the bastard.
On the plus side, the police told us they’d managed to track down Harry—where, they didn’t bother to say—and it was a relief to have it confirmed she and Flossie were okay. I mean, I’d been certain they hadn’t been in the Dyke when it was burning, but the more time had passed, the more the nagging doubts had crept in until I’d half convinced myself I’d left them to die.
“Coming back to mine?” I asked Phil tiredly. There was an unexpected flutter of nerves in my stomach.
Phil hesitated. He had a weird look on his face—if I’d had to put a name to it, I’d have said he looked vulnerable. “Sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Funny how every inch of me felt like it weighed a ton, but smiling at him took no effort at all.
Some of the tense lines eased out of his face. “How about we go to mine instead? The cats can cope with a late breakfast.”
“You say that, but don’t blame me if they go for the throat next time we walk in my door.” I yawned, too bloody knackered to ask how come he was bothered where we crashed. “Yeah, whatever.” Then I roused myself. There was something I’d been meaning to say. “Look, we should book that holiday, yeah? Go climb a mountain somewhere. Visit Pompeii. Dig up the lost city of Atlantis, whatever.”
Phil looked at me a moment, then he nodded.
I thought he was going to say something, but then our ride turned up to take us home. The taxi driver wasn’t chatty, which suited me fine, and I was almost asleep on Phil’s shoulder by the time we pulled up in front of his flat.
“Shower?” I was desperate to lie down and not get up for a week, but we both stank of smoke and so would Phil’s bed, probably forevermore, if we didn’t do something about it. We stumbled into the bathroom and shared a pathetically chaste shower. Then we made a half-hearted effort at drying off, mutually gave it up as a bad job, and tumbled into bed, damp as we were.
Just before everything went black, I heard Phil say something. “Whassat?” I muttered.
Phil’s voice was fond. “I said happy birthday.”
Oh right.
I’d forgotten all about that. Happy thirtieth, me. “Where’s m’presn’?” I mumbled.
“Tomorrow,” he said, and that was it. I was off to the Land of Nod.
It was almost noon before I woke. My throat felt dry and sore, and not for any of the good reasons.
Then I remembered we’d quite possibly saved Marianne’s life, me and Phil, and decided it was for a good reason after all.
Sunlight was streaming in through the skylight, but somehow I wasn’t getting the greenhouse effect like last time I was here. The air coming in through the open window felt fresh and cool, the bed was just the right side of soft, and I was pretty convinced I could happily lie here all day.
Well, apart from attending to one or two basic needs, obviously. The other basic needs, I was confident my bedmate could handle. Phil was dozing beside me, his blond hair sticking up in places where he’d gone to bed with it damp and his chin rough with stubble like a farmer’s field after the combine harvesters had been.
God, I loved him.
He made a sort of snuffly sound, and then his eyes opened, blinked a bit, then stayed open. He smiled. “Morning.”
“Just about.” I was grinning so widely my cheeks ached. I reached over and grabbed him, decided that wasn’t enough, and climbed on top. Various bits rubbed against other bits, causing a couple of said bits to perk up noticeably.
Phil huffed a laugh. “What’s got into you this morning?”
“Nothing yet, and I’m seriously considering complaining to the management.”
“
Expect better service round here, do you? I’ll see what I can do.” He rolled us over suddenly, leaving me underneath him, which was already going a fair way to addressing my complaints.
I arched up, grinding our hard cocks together. “God, that feels good.”
Which, obviously, was Phil’s cue to pull away from me. I really should learn to keep my big gob shut.
Then again, there are worse things than having Phil Morrison slither down your body and get his lips around your cock. Lots of worse things. His tongue got into play, teasing around the head and sending sparks fizzing right up my spine. I groaned.
Phil lifted his head, the bastard. “Sorry. Didn’t catch that.”
“Fucker. I am definitely putting in a complai— Oh, Jesus. Don’t stop.” He was back on my cock and fingering my arse as well. “Oh yeah. Yeah, that’s good.”
He went on for a few more moments of blinding ecstasy. Then he stopped again, and pulled off to look up at me. “Want me to bring you off like this?”
I took a breath. Wasn’t sure if I should ask or not, but I did anyway. “Do you want to get inside me? ’S okay if not,” I added quickly. “We can do anything. Anything you want.”
I meant it. This time . . . This time was for him.
Phil’s gaze didn’t waver, but something seemed to soften in his eyes. He half smiled, then reached into the bedside drawer for a couple of necessary items. “Better warn you, I’m not in the mood for taking it quick.”
“Good,” I said, and I meant that too. “C’mere.” I reached for him, drawing him in for a kiss.
I could taste myself in his mouth, salty with a hint of musk. I kept kissing him, wanting to get past that, to taste Phil, not me. He moaned softly into my mouth and pressed our bodies together.
It wasn’t urgent, desire-driven rutting. It was way better than that. We kissed for what seemed like hours, but it still wasn’t long enough, and when he moved away I tried to pull him back.
Phil smirked. “All things come to him who waits.” He opened up the lube and slicked himself up.
“Only thing I want right now is you.” I was surprised how husky my voice sounded. Last night’s smoke, it had to be.
That was definitely why I had to blink back moisture too.
He took it slow this time, and I didn’t try to make him hurry it up. This was him and me, reconnecting—no pun intended. I wanted him to know how much he meant to me. When he finally pushed inside me, I let out a long, heartfelt groan.
“All right?” he asked, his voice a bit strained.
“God, yeah. ’S good. Don’t stop.”
God, having him inside me . . . It was nothing like the last time we’d done this. He filled me up, chased away the shadows, and when he moved . . . Christ. It was like every nerve ending in my body had somehow migrated down to where he was touching me inside, and every single one of them was connected to my balls and my dick. He pulled sensation out of me like a flint sparking on stone.
Then he changed the angle, got even closer, and my legs tightened around his back as my prick rubbed between our bellies. It was too fucking much and perfect at the same time. I wanted him so much, needed him so much. Loved him so much. Christ, he was everything to me. I was babbling, I knew I was, and I didn’t even know what I was saying, but I couldn’t seem to stop.
Phil’s face above me was so fucking open, the tense lines around his eyes all gone. Then he closed his eyes and gasped my name, and that was it. I was flying, way up high, and it felt like I was never coming down. I groaned so loud my throat hurt, and I didn’t give a monkey’s because my whole body was burning in ecstasy. I swear I felt Phil come inside me, his strokes stuttering as he lost control.
We held each other for a long time after that.
Eventually, though, reality always has to kick in. In my particular case, it decided to kick me in the bladder. I kissed Phil and rolled out of bed. “Gotta see a man about a dog.”
I whistled half-heartedly as I peed, and winced when I caught a glimpse of the time. No wonder my stomach was starting to complain it hadn’t had enough attention this morning. Probably time to see about some breakfast before it got too late to even have lunch. Casting a wistful glance in the direction of the bedroom, I padded into the kitchen and filled the kettle. Coffee was definitely called for.
“Christ, what a night,” I muttered to the jar of instant. Mugs, needed mugs.
“You said it.” Phil slung a warm arm around my waist from behind. “You know, not that I’m complaining, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got a clean pair of jeans here. Not to mention underwear.”
I leaned back into his—sadly—now clothed chest. Apparently he had ninja dressing skills to add to his sneaking-up-on-me skills. “I’m rebelling.”
“What, against the tyranny of trousers?”
“Yep. And the fascist dictatorship of shirts.”
“After last night, I’d have thought you’d be all for protective clothing.” Phil’s arm tightened around me.
“Protective, yes. Cock-blocking, no.” I twisted in his grip. “Come on, let me go, I can’t get to the milk here.”
Phil stepped back, then reached around me to get some mugs out of the cupboard while I raided the fridge. By the time I’d spooned out the coffee, the kettle had boiled.
We leaned on the counters with our mugs of coffee slowly clearing away the cobwebs, and it was just like any other morning we’d spent together. Relaxed. Cosy, even. It’d have been pretty easy to pretend all the crap had never happened and carry on from here.
But I didn’t want to do that. Didn’t think it’d be fair. There was stuff that needed to be said. That I needed to say.
“So, um . . .” I rubbed the back of my neck, realised it was a gesture I’d caught from Phil, and put my hand down rapidly. “I did some thinking, after . . . you know. The other night. And, well, Kev Drinkwater, last night. I couldn’t help noticing you didn’t go ballistic on him.” A bit of dancing around the car park, maybe, but that wasn’t exactly grievous bodily harm.
Phil looked at me. “No. I didn’t.” He was silent a mo. “Reckon he killed Carey?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do. Not entirely clear on the why, mind.”
Phil nodded. “Not got the longest fuse around, has he? And from what you told me, he’s pretty homophobic. Maybe he blamed Carey for turning her off men?”
“Yeah, maybe.” We were getting away from the important stuff here, though. I put my mug down and briefly wished I’d bothered to put some clothes on. Then again, would I feel any less naked with my kit on? Somehow I didn’t think so. I took a deep breath. “So . . . Anyway. What I wanted to say is, I reckon I overreacted big-time about all that stuff Dave told me.” My face was all screwed up by the time I got it out.
Phil wasn’t looking at me. Apparently his feet were much more interesting right now. “I should’ve told you about it.”
“No, you shouldn’t. It’s all in the past, innit? Done and dusted. Nothing to do with me.”
“Course it’s to do with you,” he said, then stopped. “I don’t mean . . . Shit.” He scrubbed at his face with both hands, then looked up. His gaze was scarily sincere. “I know I’ve done things I shouldn’t have. And, Christ, no matter what I do, I can’t promise I never will again. But I will never hurt you.” He didn’t add, not unless you ask me to. I knew that part already. “You’ve got to believe that. And the other stuff . . . I’m trying to be better, okay? I’m trying.”
My heart felt like a wet rag someone was wringing out to dry. “Phil . . .” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and gave him a wonky smile. “You don’t have to be better for me, all right? Don’t want new and improved. I’m fine with original and best. More than fine.” I stepped forward and cupped his face in my hands. “I love you, you prick.”
Phil blinked at me. In his shorts and T-shirt, with his hair all fluffed up, he looked like an overgrown kid who was worried his mum was about to wallop him. “Still?” His voice was hoarse.
Cou
ld have been last night’s smoke, mind. But I didn’t think so.
“Always, you plonker.” I sank against his chest, feeling all warm and fuzzy, and was more than mildly miffed when, after a sec, he pushed me away. “Oi, I thought we were having a moment?”
Halfway across the room, Phil turned, looking jittery. “It’s your birthday, right? And I promised you a present. So just . . . just wait there, all right?”
I folded my arms and leaned back against the counter.
Turned out my birthday present was in the bloody kitchen cupboard. Phil rummaged for a mo, then came out holding something in one hand.
It was pretty small—fitted easily in the palm of his hand. We already had each other’s keys, so it wasn’t that—cuff links, maybe? For that formal shirt he’d made me buy for Gary and Darren’s wedding? Or—
I stopped with the guesses as the whole world tilted sideways. Well, metaphorically speaking, Hertfordshire not being known as the earthquake capital of the world.
Then again, this measured about ten on any scale you could mention.
Here, in the middle of the kitchen, Phil had gone down on one knee.
He held out a little box, opened to show a medium chunky band of gold. “Tom Paretski, would you do me the very great honour of becoming my husband?”
In the circs, it was probably unfortunate that the first thing that came to mind was a heartfelt “Fuck me!”
Phil huffed a laugh. “That’s generally part of the deal, but you probably ought to give me an answer first.” Then his expression changed, got all vulnerable. “You don’t have to say right away.”
Something twisted inside me. I sank down on both knees in front of him. Mostly because my legs had gone wobbly. “Yeah, I do.” I smiled at him, probably a bit soppily. Well, probably a lot soppily. “And, well, yeah. I do. Want to marry you, that is.”
Phil closed his eyes for a moment. Just long enough for me to take his face in my hands and kiss him. He kissed back feverishly, one arm going around my neck and almost pulling me off-balance. Then he drew back. “God, I love you.”
