“So why are you here?” I make myself ask. My throat’s so dry all of a sudden, though it would feel rude to drink the coke he’s bought, for some reason. The edge of Old Cait is picking away at me. “Because I don’t get it.”
“I suppose I just miss things, the way they were. I want things back. Cait, I…” He sighs. Looks me in the eye, ushers an ache like a bad sprain. “But you have the new guy.”
I nod, saying nothing.
“Don’t see him anywhere. Which is interesting.”
“Isn’t it?” Let him feel safe, for now. Let him spill his guts so I can get at them.
“He’s not your type, you know.” Dominic says this almost fondly, as if it’s meant to be a compliment. “Knew that as soon as I clocked him.”
“What is my type, exactly?”
“Me.”
“You.” I pull up a bar mat of my own and scrunch it tight in my fist. “What makes you say that?”
He lowers his voice. Embarrassment claims the round bones of his cheeks. “Because I love you. And I’m the only one, right? Aren’t I?”
Because I love you. It smacks me in the chest with a hammer. I want to throw the whole fucking table at him for rolling that off his tongue like he’s ordering a Happy Meal.
“I am the only one,” he repeats, unsure. “Aren’t. I.” It’s not even a question.
My breath falters. “Do you mean the only one who loves me? Or are you asking if I’ve slept with anyone else? Because I don’t remember signing a waiver.”
“Very funny.”
“Neither is any of your damn business though, is it?”
“Here I am, making it my business.” His knee finds mine again under the table and doesn’t give me any chance for escape. The bony press of it sends thick fingers of nausea up through my belly. “I’m not the way I used to be.”
“I’m glad you’re making progress,” I say through my teeth. “Maybe you’ll treat the next girl a little better.”
“You are the next girl. Cait. We could start over.”
I scoot sideways, balancing on the edge of the seat on one bum cheek just to get away from the hungry press of his knee. Hungry, yet empty. Just like the rest of him.
And then, it occurs to me–swings into me, a tree crashing down in a storm–why he’s really here. “You really do just want to talk,” I find myself saying.
He scrunches his freckled face, confused. “Well…yeah.”
“Not just now. I mean, that’s all you really wanted–no real touching, not with feeling. No affection, no proper togetherness.” I bring my hands up to my temples and clasp at loose wisps of hair just to stop from slapping myself. “You don’t love me, Dominic. You never did. You’re just lonely.”
His face falls. There he is, the sad, isolated fade of a shadow, the one who lingers more in two-dimensional photos than he does in real life.
“I thought I loved you.” Here it comes, spewing out of me. “I didn’t really know anything else. But you were so freaking cold sometimes, you froze me up.”
“I’m not cold,” he mumbles, visibly hurt. “I just–I’m just–”
“You’re just coming back for the one person who always hung around,” I say. “You want company, and you think that’s what I am. Like a business arrangement, only you pay me with this weird idea of a relationship without any of the actual fulfilment. But you don’t gather quite how cruel you are in doing that.”
“Cait. You’re making no sense,” he scoffs, though I can tell by the quiver of his fingers around his glass that I’ve unsettled him.
“I’m making more sense than I have in a long time. See, I think I know what love is, finally. And it’s not this.” I wave a hand between us, and we both flinch. It’s the most in-sync thing we’ve done for an age. “This is just stale. It makes me feel stupid and worthless…but the only person who ever treated me like that was you.”
“I loved you,” he shoots back, then recoils at his own slip-up.
“Funny how your tenses change, depending on what you want out of me,” I snap. “And all you actually want is for me to do what you say.” I never realised quite how controlling his sheer lack of affection was; controlling men are strong and domineering, surely. Physically, they don’t leave you alone. But his facade was different. It also just blew as transparent as a wet t-shirt contest.
“So let me get this straight,” he says. “You called me all the way out here so you could make your little speech, is that right?”
“I wanted answers. I deserve them.”
“Says who?” he sneers. “That idiot who put that mark on your neck? Is that what this is about? He’s goaded you into all this just because he couldn’t get a punch in?”
“He hasn’t goaded me into anything,” I snap back, “because that’s not fucking normal behaviour! And you’re not normal. Or logical. So I don’t know why I expected either from you. On the plus side–” I haul myself up, shaking violently, “–I don’t have to do it anymore!”
People are staring. I yank my bag up on to my shoulder, nearly trip over the leg of a chair–but screw it. A year ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed I could be so brave.
Dominic doesn’t say another word, and I don’t look back at him. Instead, Drew rises from his perch at the bar, and I keep my eyes firmly on his as we exit.
“I’m shaking,” I mutter to myself. Then I turn to Drew mid-step, pressing my hand to his bare forearm. “See? Feel that. Shaking like a leaf.”
His thick brows dip. “Cait–”
“Feel that!” I draw my hand back and blink at it, delirious. More and more, I’m relearning the natural way of touch. “Oh my God.”
“Are you alright?” he asks, dubious.
I hurry out into the drizzle that has descended in our absence. It fizzes on the pavement, turns our walkway to white noise. “I’m a complete state.”
“Yeah. I noticed.” He yanks his collar up over his ponytail, and squints at me. “Want to get some hard liquor?”
“I have to see Art,” I blather, ignoring him. My steps are vigorous, almost aerobic–nervous energy coils off me in ribbons of invisible steam. “I could go to the gym now. Though he’ll be working. Crap. What do I do?”
Even with his long legs, Drew has to leap after me. “I don’t fucking know, Skippy, but you could slow down before you fall in the waterhole!”
I carry on talking, almost to myself–like Alice in Wonderland, who was a complete nutcase. I’m a nutcase. I’m also apparently not bothered. “I need to tell him how I feel. Is it a bit much after, like, three weeks?”
“Depends what you’re feeling.”
We turn the corner of the cobbled street, and a wall of fish stench wraps around us from the market.
“Currently, I’m feeling queasy.” I gurn at him. “But trout stench aside. Will I freak him out?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a raving pussy who’d write you a letter about whatever the hell it is he did, or thinks he did. But I will tell you one thing,” he says curtly.
“Hmm?”
“If you’re shacking up with Mr Date, and Vicky and Rich are doing the nasty on a regular basis, one of you needs to find me a woman.” He pauses, his face grim. “Do I look like a third wheel to you?”
“You look like many things, Drew, but a wheel is not one of them.” I sidle over and take his arm. Pride infuses every synapse; I can touch without withering. “Okay. Here’s the plan. I’m going to the gym with Vicky later, and we’re going to let Hans beast us. Then I’ll go to Art’s house. Surprise him. I might even wear something a bit nau–”
“Noooooo,” he howls. “Stop right there. TMI, fucktoad. TMI.”
“Also, while we’re on the subject…he is anything but a raving pussy.” I shoot him my psychotic Joker grin. “In fact, in bed, he’s pretty damn awes–”
“I will push you into a fish stand! Don’t test me!”
I ignore him, sighing against his arm.
It doesn’t really matter what Art isn’
t, because I want him for all of the things that he is.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sweat.
I’ve missed the ripe heat of it, the way it clamours in damp corners to turn my gym clothes gluey with effort. Nothing casts me anew like the push, push, push of a combat class, and after the carousel of adrenaline that was kicking Dominic’s ass, I need it more than ever.
Art simmers in my veins. A slow burn. I feel like I’ve been granted some sort of permission to want him, need him. I ache for the smoke, for the electric blue sparks.
Capoeira track. Dubstep chaos on the stereo. Grinning, bastard Hans in his purple Climacool vest and black Viper shorts, performing roundhouse leg after roundhouse leg without a hint of effort.
“Esquiva!” he yells. “It means escape, so get down low!”
I lunge sideways, bending right into my left leg, my back held straight over it. There’s a small twinge in my injured muscles, but nothing too bad. Nothing that beats the rush of keeping up with the track.
Vicky, just a foot away, glances at me through her blunt new fringe. She went to the hairdresser earlier–no doubt accompanied by Rich–and got a restyle. She told me she wanted a new beginning for a new boy, but truth be told, I think it has more to do with seeing Mills in a hospital bed. I shoot her a weary smile.
“Work those legs,” Hans bellows over the mic. “We’re going from an esquiva into a sidekick. Take your time.”
And I do, falling into the easy rhythm of swinging one leg after another. I think of how Art sat in the driver seat of his car and could barely keep his hands off my thighs; what better a result for all of my hard work?
Three weeks, I told Drew earlier, since Art and I went on our first date. Four weeks since he showed up at the front desk in his beautifully cut green work shirt, and five since I first laid eyes on him on this same Tuesday night, punching the living hell out of the bag in the boxing gym. Desire is fascinatingly symmetrical because tonight, I’m going to have him again, and I’m not ever letting him go. He just doesn’t know it yet.
Track seven fades in: the big one. We go crazy for the fat bass, one high knee after the other.
“Okay.” Hans tosses his Baywatch blond hair and pulls a perfect A-frame at the front. “Count those knees in with me! Ten! Nine! Eight…!”
“…Seven, six, five, four,” I pant with him, “three, two, one, one, one, one, one, one, one….ONE!”
The bass explodes. And off we go.
Knee raises work your core muscles, first and foremost; the knot of fine sinew that coats your belly, pulls in through your pelvis and anchors in your lower back. God, I work that core, knee after knee after knee. We move into elbows as the chorus melts, ascending and descending, cutting short, precise blows.
Every time my elbow flies past my face, I think of Art’s fists. How they’re probably grinding into the punch bag right now, just as they do the same time every week. More symmetry. We were on the same wavelength before we even met.
Hans leads us into another chorus of high knees, blending into a running man before jumping wide. Back to elbows. My descend drops harder each time and I relish the taut twang of muscle that throbs along my arms.
This time, I see Art working from behind. I remember how I stood there and just drank him in shamelessly, watched his shoulder blades working like pistons, imagined the sweat that bled from tiny pores across his skin with the effort. I could taste that sweat now, if I wanted to. If I had the balls to just stop and walk down the hall.
Huh.
I don’t want to be like Priya, so obsessed with Art’s boxing that she forgot about the boy behind the bonfire. Yet I wither to think what she must’ve felt. She could never really have Art–just wasn’t allowed–and so she asked for it harder and harder in order to feel.
I’m different. Yes, I like the rough shapes his fists make, and the sound of them hitting the leather. I even admit to liking the misted plum mark he bit into my neck, mainly because he loved doing it. The fear that clamoured to escape him afterward was tangible. Maybe I can make that better, if he lets me. Lick along the rose gold burnish of his blush.
The routine changes as we hit the final build-up, and I falter a little on the second set of high knees. Must concentrate. Another injury would be a pain in the–well, everywhere.
Yet I can’t shake the burgeoning urge to run to the door.
“Final round!” Hans yells. “This one’s the wrecking ball. You want this to end? Earn it!”
And some things, they’ve got to be worth ending, Art once whispered, his lips against my belly. The end has to be pretty damn intense.
You know what else is worth earning? Beginnings.
I finish on an epic thrust of a high knee, throw my arm into the air on the last punch, and dart between panting figures to pull open the door.
“Cait…?” Vicky shouts, behind me.
I twist about to find her in the melee of drop-kicking girls. “Art,” I mouth.
She blows her fringe off her forehead with this little smile of acceptance, and that’s all I need. I’m off.
Blood pounds in my ears. I’m sweating, flushed red with it, and I left my towel and water in the studio. No matter…he’s seen me in far worse a state. Please let him be there, by his punch bag. Please let him be waiting for me. I wanted to wait until after, when I was groomed and dressed and perfect, but maybe we don’t need any of that.
We’re a chemical thing, after all.
I jog down toward the boxing gym, where the door is propped open with the usual plastic chair. Tonight, the room is crowded; there’s a class going on, and lean boys in shiny shorts stand in clusters to watch the instructor guide punches in the ring. The thwack of gloves comes in bursts.
I follow shadows that pour toward the back corner of the room, where the punchbag swings. Where Art, in his black shorts and vest, swings into it over and over again. Soft grunts spew behind him, floating like musical notes. He was topless the first time I saw him–perhaps showing off a little–but now he’s covered, as if someone else owns the flesh beneath his clothes. I’m yours, he told me. He meant every word.
Step by shaky step, I approach him. Some of the boxer boys crane their heads toward me, curious at the only girl in the room, and my heart beats harder–we’re about to give them a little show. Good job Art likes to be heard, hmm? Heh.
There’s no sign that he knows I’m here. The closer I get, in fact, the harder he punches– damp puddles of sweat stain the fabric along his spine, and muscles bulge along seams of cotton and skin. When I reach his side, he’s still lost to the rhythm, so I ease out beside the bag, three inches of safety away. I watch his face draw tight and then loosen with shock and pleasure as he notices me–he lands a last punch and then his arms fall heavily to his sides.
Silence. He waits for me to talk, but my throat’s gone dry and I’m not even sure what to say. All I know, around him, is what my body wants to do.
“Hey.” He gives me the once-over he used to sneak when we’d first met, following the lines of my thighs and hips into the dip of my waist, the rise of my breasts. Just knowing he notices me in that way–that he wants me–is like pulling a lace scarf from between my closed thighs.
I take a step forward, right into his space, and gather his bandaged hands in mine. One by one, I bring them to my mouth for kisses. Before he had me, when all I could do was fantasise, it was about his hands–the ones that give and take and heal, but never hurt. Clever hands. I run my lips across his knuckles, wetting the dry bandages. Kiss the tips of the thumbs he feeds to me–hesitantly, at first, but when I find the courage to look up, his square jaw is trembling.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, my voice soft. “I understand.”
Art closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Dark lashes fan over his tanned cheeks as he rests his gaze on me, solemn and splitting as he is. I want to bundle him up in my arms so badly, but he’s tensed and braced, a wounded animal waiting to flee.
Only then he brings a
thumb up to scrape down my cheek. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he says.
“I just had to figure out how. After what you told me.” I guide his thumb to my mouth, nip at it–which makes him smile. “But I realised if we spend too long waiting for perfect moments, we won’t regret lack of perfection. We’ll just regret wasted time.”
All at once, he wraps an arm around my waist and clutches me against him. He’s warm, so warm in the cool air of the boxing gym, and smells of familiar spice.
“I told you,” he murmurs. “You’ll never be anything but perfect to me.”
I think his mouth finds mine first. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Who cares? I throw my arms around his neck and let him kiss me with the fervour of a starving man. A wanderer come home. The tendons in his throat tense and fall beneath my fingers, breath raising his collarbone to brush the flats of my wrists.
“Cait,” he whimpers into my ear, “don’t make me get another fucking tattoo.”
I grin up at him. “One condition.”
“Anything.”
“Take me home.” I drop my hands along the length of his spine, massaging, slowing to circle the fleshy cups of his buttocks. “Now.”
“God. Um.” He chews his bottom lip, the whites of his amber eyes glazed. “That can be arranged.”
I nod toward the door. “After you.”
“My chariot awaits.”
“And such,” I add.
“And such,” he murmurs, gazing down at me. His hand finds mine. “Come on then, Belle.”
A round of applause breaks out among the boxers; they cheer and whoop, leering at us. Rose gold films Art’s cheekbones.
“Bunch of pervs!” he calls to them, good-naturedly.
“Mr Lyons!” one of the boys yells back. “Score!”
“You know them?” I whisper.
“I might’ve helped out with a demo or two, one evening.”
We emerge into the hall, and the whooping dies down. It’s just me, Art, and a long walkway paved with blue carpet tiles. Feels oddly symbolic.
Tainted Touch Page 35
