Tainted Touch

by Lucy V. Morgan

  “No, no. She stands outside so we can sing together. Which, granted, is almost as weird.”

  I grin up at him. “But kind of cute, too.”

  “You go in, and I’ll start singing. Go on.”

  “I don’t want to go in.” I pull him down gently by the collar, touch my lips to his.

  “What if your flatmate opens the door?” he says into my mouth. “We’ll fall in.”

  “She won’t. She’s at the theatre.”

  “You’ve got a bloody answer for everything.”

  “Like you said.” I smirk. “You can tell I’m in management.”

  ***

  The gym is dead. Art’s on an out-call, Hazel’s bossing around an ill-fated personal trainer in the office. I don’t even have lost property to sort or new member files to input. But I do have my obligatory bucket of coffee, and it’s only twenty minutes until we stop letting people in.

  Time to dick around on my phone.

  I’m going to do what I promised Vicky I wouldn’t. I’m going to be hypocritical and probably a bit stalky, but I’m also not going to care. A quick glance around reveals an empty lobby with pot plants barely shivering in fluorescent lights beside the automatic doors. The coast, my friends, is clear.

  I load up Art’s Facebook profile and begin to scroll. I’ve just hit the pictures section when–photo message from Drew. Great.

  Rich and Drew stare back from my phone screen. They’re pulling straight, no-nonsense faces, although Drew’s wearing two caps stacked at diagonal angles. A cricket bat is nestled comfortably in Rich’s knotted hands, and the whole thing is drenched in some acid colour filter that makes them look like they’re in Pulp Fiction. How original. We’re ready 4 him, the caption reads.

  You’ll be waiting a while, I reply.

  And then I get back to the important business of going through Art’s profile. Priorities.

  There’s not a great deal on there, which kind of fits. His profile picture is the same one he keeps on his phone, the one with Bea, and there are various images of the two messing around in parks or strewn over sofas, half asleep. Aidan is noticeably absent. Art is tagged in lots of group shots in pubs and outside pretty London buildings; the poster is a willowy girl who’s an alumnus of Art’s sports massage school. He rarely posts status updates, it seems, but occasionally adds links to his therapist profile. No mention of a relationship status. The busiest day on there is his birthday.

  Then I spot some albums he’s posted; India, which looks orange and melty and awesome. Several uni albums, one called Contests…

  “Working hard, McCoe?” Hazel looms from the other side of the counter.

  I drop my phone with a start. “I ran out of jobs.”

  She piles her arms on the counter, one red eyebrow sliding skyward.

  “It’s nearly nine,” I say weakly.

  A thick, evil laugh gurgles from Hazel’s throat. “Caught in the act. Your face is a picture.”

  “A picture of what?”

  “I heard,” she drawls, “that a certain sulky himbo sucked your face off outside those very doors.”

  “And who…um…told you that?”

  “No matter, McCoe. No matter. Fortunately for the pair of you, there’s no restriction on workplace relationships here. And even if there was, I’d totally overrule it because life’s no fun without drama.” She purses her lips. “But just make sure you’re not distracting each other, eh?”

  “Of course not,” I croak.

  Hazel’s gaze falls on my face-down phone. “Facebook included.”

  I give a strained nod.

  “I’ll be willing to let you off various misdemeanours in exchange for dirty details.” A smirk flashes across her face before she backs off, her heels smacking across the floor. “Not planning on a swim tonight, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good. Place is empty. I’ll do a quick sweep of the ladies’ change room, and I’ll get Ethan to do the gents when he leaves the pool. Lock up in five.”

  “In five. Right.”

  Well, that wasn’t mortifying at all. Thank you, Hazel, for absolutely zilch.

  On the plus side, Art’s picking me up, and will hopefully be waiting in the car park so we can go back to mine for more against-the-door foreplay that will leave me in no state to sleep. Number of fucks I give about that: zero.

  Ten minutes later, Hazel’s happy that the place is empty and she, Ethan and I watch the shutters fall over the doors. I loiter outside the lobby while Ethan saunters up the drive and Hazel heads for the car park; I don’t want to turn my meeting Art in to some sort of public event. Only when I see her white Citroen zip past do I start walking around the back of the building.

  At first, I can’t see Art’s car. But it’s dark–barely lit now the gym is closed–and an oak tree casts black shadows over the near-empty lot. One car in particular looks familiar, and I’m about ten paces from it when I realise that it’s not black.

  It’s blue.

  And it belongs to Dominic, who uncoils himself from the drivers’ side as if he’s made of oil.

  The world tips sideways. I stagger on the gravel, have to catch my balance before I fall. The muscles in my back complain with thick stinging bursts.

  Dominic’s walking towards me with that sheepish, vague look of acceptance he coined a long time ago. He’s like the host of a crap restaurant, telling you how awesome everything is without realising his face and posture exude a slobbering cringe of apology.

  “Hey,” he says, still walking despite the fact that I’ve stopped.

  I wrap my arms around myself and stare at the tarmac. “Can I help you?”

  “What, I’m one of your customers, now?” He gives an incredulous bleat. “It’s me, Cait. Come on.”

  “Didn’t expect to see you here.” And I didn’t. Sure, the Facebook message was weird, and the idea that he’d driven forty minutes just to deliver that photo was downright out of character–but then so was dumping me, so I’d learned to expect the unexpected where he was concerned. It’s been eight months since we were even in each other’s company, but my body lashes out at him the same way it did the day he ended it all: I crumble to a heap of rubble, unable to move.

  Everyone told me I’d stop being attracted to him eventually, that I’d find him less handsome when I’d ‘moved on.’ This manifests like a blow to the gut. No, I don’t want to reach for him; it’s like he’s wrapped in barbed wire. And though I can see, objectively, that his short, neat auburn hair and his broad chest are nice features, I no longer ache to touch them. I prickle at the thought.

  “Well. Say something,” he mutters.

  “Why are you here?” And where the hell is Art?

  What if he sees this? What will he think?

  “I came to see you, dumbass.” Dominic tries to say this fondly, but the sound curdles in my ears. “Thought we could catch up. It’s been a while.”

  “Yeah,” I say through my teeth. “It has.”

  “Did you get the photo?”

  “I did.” I’m still staring at my feet. “I’m not sure what you hoped to achieve with that.”

  “Look, I get why you’re like this. Why you’ve blocked me every which way from Sunday, like you’re playing all hard to get. I know you had…issues, with me. I respect that, I do. But it’s no reason to act like a child.”

  God, how many times did I imagine having it out with him? Too many to count, especially after a couple of drinks. But I’d accepted I’d never have the opportunity, put the notion to bed. Now here he is, standing a foot away from me like the nonchalant bastard he is…and he’s calling me a child.

  “I’m sorry, Dom.” I raise my chin, and try to disguise the hitch in my breath as I catch his eye. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone who cares.”

  He huffs at this. “Oh, give it a rest. Just come and have a drink, okay? I’ll bring you home in the morning, like I always–”

  “I meant it. I’m not interested. I’ve got
no fucking idea why you’re here.”

  The car park falls silent. Feels like I wait a decade for the slow cluck of his tongue.

  “You look good,” he says.

  “Oh, so now you want me?”

  His face drops. “I always wanted you.”

  “Really. Huh.” I take slow steps back. “I’m going home now. Good night.”

  “Cait. Cait!”

  Somewhere in the depths of my bag, my phone sings the arrival of a message. Please let it be Art. Please let it be him saying he’s close by, and not la–

  “Cait.” Dominic’s fist closes around my arm. “I made a lot of effort to come here tonight. Really put myself out.”

  I stare at the hand that grips me; the sickly white of his knuckles, the uncomfortable squeeze.

  “Let me go, please,” I whisper.

  “I just want a drink. That’s all.”

  Something rustles up ahead. Dominic’s eyes narrow, and his hand begins to ease. At the first opportunity, I yank myself away, almost skidding again as I hurry towards the front of the gym. I don’t look back, but I know from the lack of footsteps that Dominic hasn’t moved. Strange.

  Blood swills in my ears as I round the building. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard that I feel it in my throat. When I spot Art, parked right near the entrance and leaning up against his car, I dissolve into dizzy shivers of relief.

  “You’re here,” I almost pant at him.

  “Of course I’m here. Did you get my message?”

  “My phone went off, but…” I drop my bag, gesturing to it.

  “Sorry I’m late. Got stuck by some of those temporary traffic lights by the gates. They take a bloody age.” He pulls me into his arms and this time, I’m the ravenous one. Art lets out a gruff hmm of surprise. “Are you alright?” he asks, drawing away.

  “Good. Fine.” Must get him away before Dominic appears. Gah. “You? How was work?”

  “Marathon down near the New Forest. Had a couple of people to look after.” He squares his shoulders. “Did…did Hazel say anything to you?”

  “About what?”

  “About us.” He flinches. “She may have given me a little speech about workplace relations.”

  “Oh. That. Yeah…I got that one.” I suspect she didn’t offer to trade Art for any dirty details, mind.

  Art rests his palms at the tops of my buttocks and leans in for another kiss. “Word is, I don’t waste any time.”

  I chuckle at that, though it only makes me feel more nauseous. “Classy.”

  “Huh. Hmm.” His mouth melts into a wanton smile.

  “Do you mind if we get going? It’s…it’s cold.”

  “‘Course not.” He gives my bottom a little pat–which I like way too much–and then swaggers around to open my door. “After you, madam.”

  The drive home is peaceful in comparison. I watch streetlamps lick the inside of the car, as if stars have tongues; I study dark shapes of trees in the distance. Art hums softly to the radio, his hand never far from my thigh. I don’t remember them being exceptional parts of my body–maybe I have more to thank Hans for than I think.

  The only good thing about Dominic’s little cameo is that it dampens my front door nerves–I don’t worry that Art will reject me again because I’m too busy worrying that he saw something dodgy. After what he said earlier about not being with other people, I’m panicking. Nothing happened between Dominic and I, but to anyone watching, it would have looked intense. And despite our recent intimacy, I barely know Art. I have no idea if he’s the paranoid type.

  His kiss is my off-switch. I fall back against the door, my breasts thrust up to crush on his chest while I stretch to meet his mouth. He paws up the wood behind me, balanced on one arm; the other is wrapped firmly around my waist. I’m sure as hell not going anywhere, and it’s the most blissful feeling in all the world. A sense of belonging beckons in the hollows of his throat–I drag my tongue to taste it. I love the way it reduces him to a mess of muffled groans. Muscle, hard muscle trembling against me…oh, please.

  “You,” he murmurs into my ear, all hot breath and nectar, “are living up to your dirty innocent moniker.”

  “Should’ve told Aidan. He could’ve used it for my nickname.”

  “Because that wouldn’t have been awkward at all.”

  “I can start behaving myself if you’d like. But you’d have to keep your hands to yourself,” I whisper.

  Art responds by peeling the hem of my work shirt up just an inch, and walking his fingers beneath it. I jump as he meanders along my hip bone and stops to draw circles at the base of my spine. All the while, he keeps his gaze trained on me. Amber eyes burn into mine.

  My voice is a sigh of pleasure. “You’re a horrible tease.”

  “I am, huh.”

  “I could do the same, you know. But I’m not that mean.” And I don’t trust myself not to drag him to my room and push things too far. He’s a walking, talking Cupboard of Shame, and given half the chance, I’ll binge.

  Except nothing about Art is shameful. That thought lights a fire in my belly, sending ribbons of heat lower down. Maybe I want to sin with him anyway, dirty him up a bit. God, there’s a thought.

  “So. Tomorrow.” He pulls back a little, his forehead resting against mine. Two firm fingers still caress the small of my back. “You still free after work?”

  “I had to cancel my dog groomer and personal chocolatier, but yeah. I’m free.”

  “You have a dog…?”

  “No, just a groomer. Because YOLO.”

  A beat; he laughs. “I need to get me a dog groomer. But before that…tomorrow. I thought we could do the cathedral, finally.”

  I frown. “Won’t it be locked?”

  “I have my ways.” He cocks one suggestive eyebrow. “And now…as much as I hate to admit it, I’m knackered. So I need to kiss you goodbye.”

  “And that requires permission because…”

  “I don’t want to leave you, Cait,” he says quietly.

  I stare up at him. Straighten his collar. Then don’t, I want to say. But the words won’t come.

  Instead, he bends to give me the kiss, a soft brush of lips that deepens to a slow exploration. My nipples are so tight against his chest that my muscles grow taut elsewhere. The promise of skin on skin is a lullaby, a torment. A dewy spiderweb, ripe and ready to snap.

  Art kisses the tip of my nose before letting me go. “Sweet dreams, lovely.”

  “You too. I mean, whatever that means for guys. Dreams of beer and football and KFC. And porn.”

  “Is this the awkward part where I pretend I’ve never watched porn…?”

  I grin at him. “Do I have to pretend as well?”

  He squeezes his eyes shut, groaning again. “Cait. Seriously. I have to leave, and I have to be able to walk for that.”

  “Sorry, sorry.” I hold my hands up. “Think of your mum, or something.”

  “Bleugh.”

  I cringe. “And sorry for that one.”

  Art goes to step away, but turns on his heel. The floorboards creak beneath him. “Before I go–would you show me your right hook?”

  I hold my right hand up, eyes darting about in confusion. “What? What for?”

  “You don’t have to do it hard or anything, because of your back. But I just want to see.”

  “Well, if you want…” Is this some sort of Boxer’s Honour test? Why does he just spring these things on me?

  He comes closer again, gesturing to his upper torso. “Get me in the chin, or anywhere around here. Just make it sharp.”

  I step out, my feet apart, and make a tight fist. Then I bring it swiftly around, twisting at the waist–it lands with a hard thump near his left nipple.

  “Eesh.” I pat the area, biting my lip. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Just…Cait.” His voice drops. His fist comes up to cover mine, still pushed tight against his thumping heart. “I don’t know who that arsehole was. You tell me in your own time.
But the next time he accosts you in a car park and I’m not there, you wait until he’s not expecting it and land one of those as hard as you can. You got that?”

  I blink at him, almost forgetting to breathe.

  Art’s jaw tightens. “Failing that, you tell him that your boyfriend’s a boxer, and next time, he won’t be so fucking restrained.”

  We’re up against the door so fast, it groans at our impact. We mash together, fitting exactly, the hard lines of him an anchor for the supple curves of me. This is the way he’ll take me–I know because he’s already doing it, clothes or none.

  No more words pass between us. He kisses his fingers, presses them to my lips, and watches with a pained look on his face as I flick each tip with my tongue. Then I stand welded to the door until the lift swallows him.

  Mostly, I’m jealous of the lift.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Vicky cooks, she goes all out.

  Or technically, I should say, she goes out. To Marks and Spencer. But this is not my complaining face, because our little counter is groaning with sausage and bacon and eggs and gorgeous bread.

  “Bonne matin,” she says brightly, still moving meat around her pan as I pad into the kitchen on Sunday morning. “Ou est l’homme?”

  “You know I don’t speak crap French, Vicky. But I forgive you because you made our whole flat smell like a greasy truck stop.”

  “Awesome, isn’t it?”

  I close my bleary eyes, and breathe in the salty stench of seasoned pork. “It’s like a little piece of heaven.”

  She chortles. “Heaven is a truck stop.”

  I wander over and bump my fist lazily to hers. “Smith like you mean it. How are rehearsals going?”

  “Crap. I suck. I’m never going to pass. I’ve banned myself from going out until our shows are over–no alcohol, no smoking, no boning. No fun.” She gestures to the pan. “Apparently, this is what happens when I’m sober in the morning.”

  “I like it when you’re sober.”

  “So you didn’t answer my question,” she says, almost slyly. “Where’s the boy?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Art. The boxer. He of the healing hands and cock that cures cancer.”