Tainted Touch

by Lucy V. Morgan

  She swallows. “Of course it is.”

  “Just that you seem a little–”

  “I’m fine. I just–I really need this time off, okay? So stop talking about school already.”

  I bring the lipstick up with a slow hand. “I never mentioned school.”

  “Yeah. Well.” She sits up, shrugs with jerky stiffness. “Like I said, I’m fine. And hey, tonight’s looking awesome, right? What’s not to like?”

  “I’m glad you’re here.” I sound more sentimental than I mean to, and I know from the way her eyes narrow that she hears it. But it’s true, even if we don’t usually make big displays of emotion with each other. “So thank you.”

  “Art seems cool.”

  I pull my hair loose, shake it around to loosen the ponytail. It lands over my shoulders with a cool swish. “He is. I have no idea why he’s interested in me.”

  “Cait. Don’t be like that.”

  I look over at my little sister who’s hunched up on the bed, arms around her knees, gaze oddly misted. Mills is razor-sharp in both wit and tongue; she’s never seemed especially vulnerable. Now I know what they mean when they talk about heart strings being tugged–mine are bound to her, and though they’re elastic, they’re also pulled taut enough to pluck a lament.

  “Hey.” I dig the makeup bag out of her rucksack, and push white cushions aside to sit beside her. “Want me to do your face?”

  “Please.” She sniffs.

  With one gentle hand, I tip her chin up, and with the other, I begin to buff the base over her puffy eyelid. A bit of me feels less-than-feminist for being the big sister who makes things better with makeup, but hey, everyone knows that MAC stands for Magic Awesome Confidence. And we could all use a little more of that (except Drew).

  By the time we board at the tube station, it’s a little over half six. Rush hour gasps its last sorry breaths, the dregs of offices all over London mulching towards home for the weekend. I spend the journey glancing at Art from the corner of my eye, the flavour of apple cinnamon balls alive in my mouth and the smell of him–fresher tonight, lime and cardamom and black pepper–thick on the air. The train hums along, shudders softly, and he and I sit pressed into each other, just quietly shaken by the world. After a couple of stops, his fingers find mine–not to hold, but to tease in bursts. We’ve spent so long on the cusp of kissing that sometimes, I forget that we haven’t. Then I follow the full curve of his bottom lip all the way around to his cupid’s bow, and I remember: his mouth has not brushed mine. Yet. How long is he going to make me wait? And how long should I hang around for it in the first place?

  The theatre’s bustling atmosphere is enough to pull a genuine smile from Mills, as is the Bacardi and Coke I pass her at the bar. Drinks in hand, Art leads us down to our seats in the stalls. Aidan has left programs on our seats and scrawled HELLO! in black marker across the front. He’s also circled his photo in the program–where he’s listed as part of the ensemble–and written MEEEE beside it.

  “He’s awfully pleased with himself,” Art says with a note of amused sarcasm. “That’s probably the best way of summarising him.”

  Mills lean in to whisper in my ear. “I can think of a few other ways, after seeing those photos.”

  “He’s too old for you,” I shoot back.

  “I’m eighteen,” she huffs. “Beyoncé says I’m a grown woman.”

  “Since when did you care what the hell Beyoncé thinks?”

  “Since never–unless it’s convenient, and thus utilised. Like now. But don’t get me started on her quasi-feminist bullshit because I’ve had a whole half shot of rum, and you don’t want to go there.”

  I swallow a laugh. “Ah. Back to your usual self, I see.”

  “And all it took was liquor. Maybe I should stop arguing for stronger laws in my debates,” she muses.

  On my other side, Art gives my knee a nudge.

  “Mmm?” I turn to him. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  He doesn’t know what to say to me. He just wants to say…something. A boyish look claims his face, a cocky half-smile tainted at the edges. Wariness pulls at his brow. Some base instinct kicks in and I rest a hand on his thigh to comfort him, squeezing with the measured pressure he so gracefully inflicts on me. A beat; I wait for him to shy away, the way Dominic always did. I wait for his blunt punchbag expression to descend with blood thrusting randomly in my ears.

  Art leans in, nuzzles at my loose hair, and brushes his lips to my temple–a burst of raw intimacy in the most public of places, and it shreds my nerves raw. But his breath balms the spot he kissed, and his hand finds my thigh to return the squeeze before it snakes back to sit on the armrest. I withdraw my own hand and let it simmer in the heat of my lap.

  Darkness falls in the theatre. The orchestra strike up and I’m sure they’re playing something atmospheric and gorgeous, but…all I can think of is the way my body responds to Art, how we fall into sync with each other wordlessly. It was the same when we talked in the steam room that first time, and now it swoops in to swallow the pair of us whole. Chemistry, they call it. I used to think that was a metaphor, but there’s no other word for this silent, violent reaction that licks my skin gluey with craving.

  Throughout the show, Art clears his throat, shifting in his seat uncomfortably as he adjusts his groin. I’m not the only one who feels it.

  But I am a part of something. A half of a whole. And with every skim of his knee or bold stroke of his thumb, Art primes my flesh for his, desire burrowing down until it becomes subcutaneous. I don’t want to keep it inside anymore, don’t want to suffer in silence.

  Right now, the world could disintegrate and I wouldn’t give a single damn, so long as it left me with the lingering echo of his touch.

  Chapter Sixteen

  We’ve been waiting in the art deco theatre bar for about twenty minutes when Aidan appears. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t miss him.

  “Artemis!” he yells over the crowd–literally, since he’s a head taller than most of them, and as redheaded as any boy has business being. Streaky auburn curls, damp from what must’ve been a hell of a post-show shower, hang low enough to dust the tops of his ears, and a white v-neck t-shirt highlights the long, lean lines of his dancer’s frame.

  Mills shrinks into the velvet sofa. “I can’t unsee him naked,” she half-whispers. I say half; she’s had two more rum and cokes, and is well on her way to being squiffy.

  Art cringes at his nickname, but stands to greet Aidan regardless. They clap each other on the back with hollow thumps.

  “Nice to see you, man.” Art can’t hide his grin. There’s pride in it, a melty aura of belonging.

  “I can’t believe it’s taken you this long to bring me some women. Caitlyn and Millie, right?” Aidan steps over to me and Mills, bending to shake our hands before we can get to our feet. “Stay down–I’ll save your heels. Awesome to meet you, ladies. What did you think of the show?”

  “It was amazing,” Mills croaks.

  “Of course it was amazing. I’m fucking in it.” He has this sing-song tone to his voice, like a children’s TV presenter. A really filthy children’s TV presenter. Erm. “Shall I go to the bar, or are you lot ready to head back?”

  Art glances at the pair of us. “I’m ready to eat if you two are.”

  “Oh, I’m ready,” I say honestly. My stomach swishes in empty response.

  “Well then. To the Bitchmobile.” Aidan glances between our bemused expressions. “What? He’s totally my bitch. Cooks, cleans, everything.”

  “You’ll get used to him,” Art says dryly.

  His upper lip twitches with voracious intent. “For what it’s worth, I’m told that meeting me is like a twelve-inch dildo: definitely hurts the first time, probably hurts the second, and you’ll know about it the morning after.”

  Rum and coke spews quietly out of Mills’ nose. She grapples on the sticky bar table for a napkin, choking her way through guffaws.

  Art p
ales. “Just to clarify, I was not the one who said that.”

  “My poor brother has no experience of twelve inch dildos,” Aidan laments, woe misting his brown eyes. “Fortunately, I’ve planned cocktails that may just change that. Galliano: it’s like chicken of the cave, only roofie of the bar.” He throws me a wink that sends ribbons of heat flushing across my collarbone.

  Mills is still trying to breathe through badly stifled laughter, and I reach sideways to clap her between the shoulder blades. People have started to stare.

  “Easy!” she splutters. “That bloody hurt!”

  “Eesh. Sorry.”

  “Come on.” Aidan holds a hand out to Mills. “I’ve got far better things for you to choke on at home.”

  “Aid.” Art sighs. “She’s eighteen.”

  “Don’t encourage me, Artemis.”

  Fortunately for all of us, judging by Aidan’s playful grin, he’s joking. No wonder Art is so good at teasing–it must be genetic.

  We head down to the car with Mills hanging off Aidan’s arm, her face plastered in a drunk, reverent smile. Art stays behind and offers me his hand, which I take before even thinking.

  “So,” I say to him. “Artemis?”

  “He nicknames everyone. I think he’s actually incapable of using real names.”

  “We seem safe for now,” I muse.

  “Oh, give it time.” He rolls his eyes. “Give it time.” With that, he squeezes my arm between his bicep and the firm streak of his ribs, and I turn liquid at the pressure.

  God…how long until we can be alone?

  Night air is an elixir to me, calming nerves scrubbed with sandpaper and cooling the ache between my thighs. Outside the theatre, London smells like cigarette butts and wine, and the breeze carries exhaust fumes, smoky and stale. We’re lucky enough to get a tube carriage to ourselves.

  Aidan narrates the journey by going through the music on Art’s iPod.

  “Jesus Christ, Artemis. Coldplay? When did you grow a vagina?” swiftly followed by, “What the fuck is a Charon?”

  “It’s the Finnish god of the underworld,” Art mutters, unimpressed. “Also a very good rock band.”

  “Well excuse me for being so remiss with my mythology.” Aidan leers at us, sheepish eyebrows aloft. “I’m a bad, bad music philistine. Very bad.”

  “I like Finnish metal,” Mills declares, suddenly brave again.

  “See?” Art points to her. “Excellent taste, right there. And you can’t talk, Aid. Your jukebox is full of cheesy crap.”

  “Oi. A real man knows his Romanian dance from his K-pop.”

  “I like K-pop!” I pipe up.

  “Gangnam Style doesn’t count,” Aidan replies. “Still like it?”

  “I don’t know names,” I admit. “But my friend Rich puts it on YouTube sometimes and we dance to it when we’re drunk.”

  “That’ll do.” Aidan pokes Art in the ribs, smirking. “The Force is strong in this one.”

  Art grins back at him, a nonchalant shrug only broadening his silhouette. It’s not hard to see the similarities between the boys, despite their differing hair and eye colours; they share the same square jaw, strong nose, bold cheekbones. Both have a presence difficult to ignore.

  Back in the flat, Art gets busy in the kitchen–we’re having burritos, apparently–and Aidan breaks out the cocktails. His liquor shelf heaves with pretty glass bottles, and he gives us the pick of the lot of them. A very giggly Mills goes for Long Island Iced Tea; I decide to experiment with a pear liquor, lime and lemonade. I almost feel like a third wheel–Aidan and Mills trade banter with ease, both as sharp as the other. I end up following the smell of fresh garlic to the kitchen area.

  “Hey.” I come up behind Art, my hands suddenly stiff in their emptiness. “Need some help?”

  He doesn’t turn away from his hissing pan. “I take it those two are getting on.”

  “Like a house on fire.” I swallow. “I’ve only just realised, but that saying makes no sense.”

  “Heh. I always thought it just referred to how things happen quickly. Like, boom–there you go.”

  “You’re a lot cleverer than me,” I find myself saying.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. You’re the one with the big shot business degree.” He stands aside, beckons me over.

  I join him in front of the stove. “I haven’t passed yet.”

  “But you will. You work hard.” He leans in to give me one of his nudges. “I like that.”

  “I…thanks?”

  “Stir that, please.”

  I catch the wooden spoon as he twists the handle, and push it through the mix of meat, vegetables and tomato sauce in the pan. Art yanks a cupboard open and begins to sort through spices.

  “Your brother’s not going to take advantage of Mills or anything, is he?” I ask.

  “Probably not in the way you think.”

  The pan spits at me, and I wince. “Yeah. Not helping.”

  “Trust me, he’s good at this kind of stuff. I mentioned she was feeling a bit, you know…something was up with her, and you were worried…he’ll get it out. Always does.” He reappears beside me to sprinkle smoked paprika and celery salt into the mix. “Plus he’ll making those cocktails a hell of a lot weaker than they look. Last thing we want is someone chucking their guts up in a bathroom we all have to share, huh?”

  “This is true.”

  He takes the spoon from me, teasing my fingers off one by one. I could stare at his hands all night; I imagine them bruised from battle, tasting sweet as I kiss them better: fizzy like sherbet, as only Fist Candy would be. Once healed, they would move to tease me, the pads of his thumbs stroking shudders to my most sensitive parts. Parts stuffed with blood at the thought of him.

  “You’re blushing,” Art says, his breath pouring over my ear. Now I’ve ditched the heels, he feels so much taller than me.

  “It’s warm in here.”

  “Suits you.”

  “This is you loving my embarrassment again, isn’t it?”

  “Uhuh. Probably.” Amusement lifts his words. “I think you like it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh, and she admits it? Hmm.” That gorgeous, throaty sound.

  “You pull me out of myself,” I murmur.

  “You do that all on your own, lovely. I just do what I always do.”

  “Which is…?”

  He stands closer, his side pressing into mine. “Touch away the tension.”

  Out in the living area, Mills and Aidan laugh about something, but Art’s presence sucks background noise far away. We peer over the stove in our own little bubble, not looking at each other and barely touching, but I can smell his aftershave over the food and feel the heat of him blister beside me.

  The Mills’ laughter morphs into a low howl, and I snap back into the world of the living.

  “Crap,” I mutter. “I didn’t think it’d be this quick.”

  Art gives an apologetic sigh. “Me either. Best put your cape on.”

  I pretend to swish one over my shoulder as I march back to the sofas, where Mills clutches a navy silk cushion to her chest, her chin wobbling precariously. Aidan sits with his arm atop the sofa behind her, a cocktail shaker jiggling in his hand.

  “You didn’t by any chance mention university, did you?” I ask.

  “I was telling Milleficent here my life story,” he says blithely. “Got to the bit where I started dancing because–”

  “It’s just like that fucking book,” she rants. “We’re all just looking for lighthouses in the dark and then getting trapped in concrete cages.”

  “That had best not be a spoiler.” I sink down, wondering how best to comfort her. We only ever hug with the awkwardness of Hitler eating a sandwich. “Also, you’re drunk.”

  “Drunk enough,” Aidan adds, his brown eyes lightening with mischief. “Tell me more about this book, though. Is it dirty?”

  “I wish.”

  Mills sniffs. “This lighthouse on the edge of
a cliff hunts this depressed woman down and begs her to live inside it, to ease its loneliness. Only all it does is make her more miserable because she’s trapped with nothing but her own mistakes for company, and she just stares at the waves, watching them drift in and out. The whole thing’s like this single moment in time stretched out over four hundred pages.”

  Four hundred pages. Weep.

  “Pretty sure I’ve never had sex with a lighthouse,” Aidan says, completely straight-faced. “But I’m willing to try, for posterity and all.”

  “She does not have sex with the lighthouse.” I give Mills a poke. “Does she?”

  “I thought you didn’t want any spoilers?”

  “If it’s not dirty, you can count me out.” Aidan cracks the top off the cocktail shaker and pours something faintly green into Mills’ Martini glass. “Anyway, what’s the problem with university? Apart from it being hideously boring, that is, and full of lads who wouldn’t know a clitoris from a kitchen sink.”

  “Nothing,” Mills retorts, her voice wobbling.

  And here we go again.

  “You lie,” Aidan scolds.

  She swipes her cocktail up and takes a gulp, ignoring him.

  I lick my red lips. “Mills is going to Cambridge.”

  “Apparently,” she spits.

  Aidan perks up at this. “Really? What’re you going to study?”

  She turns meek again. “Law. I hope.”

  “Now this…ah. I can help you here.”

  The thick scent of spices precedes Art, who marches toward the coffee table with a tray of steaming burritos.

  Aidan scoops his glossy photo books away and tucks them beside a stack of magazines, making room for the food. “Artemis. You beauty.” Then he turns back to Mills and pats her knee. “My good friend’s other half studied the same thing at the same uni. Scarily successful guy. If you fancy a bit of old-fashioned nepotism, I can totally hook you up.”

  “I was hoping to rely on, you know, getting the grades,” she deadpans. Though even I can tell that she’s interested.

  Art sets the tray down, along with a stack of plates and thick paper napkins. “What’s that?”