Short Stack

by Lily Morton

  I take pity on him. “We’re not just talking about your cock, are we?” I ask in a serious tone and squawk as he pinches my arse.

  “Sassy. Get out there and get pummelled

  “Pummelled? What do you mean?”

  “Well, the massages are rather… strenuous in here.”

  “Gabe, strenuous to me is picking up speed to get to the bar. Be more specific.”

  “They hit you with branches.”

  “What the fuck? Gabe, have you got undisclosed feelings of rage towards me?”

  He laughs. “There is nothing undisclosed about my feelings of rage. The massage is actually pretty brilliant. They brush you with the branches, and it improves your circulation.” He hums happily. “Anyway, they asked me whether you’d prefer birch or oak.”

  “Did you say neither? Because Dylan would actually like some nice almond massage oil and plinky plonky music. And wine.”

  “Nope. I said birch. Gave me rather a public-school thrill.”

  I roll my eyes and open the door to find Alex waiting.

  “Ah, you’re ready,” he says in a delighted voice. “But you’re missing something.”

  He produces two items which on closer inspection appear to be hats. They look like the old-fashioned cloche hats that women wore in the twenties. I accept mine with a smile and look over at Gabe, who is examining his with an expression of bewilderment.

  “What is this?” he asks.

  Alex smiles. “It’s for your hair to protect it from being damaged by the heat.”

  He turns and walks into another room. I pull my hat on and look at Gabe, who is staring at me with a huge grin on his face. That fades when I gesture at his own headgear. “Put it on, then.”

  “Absolutely not,” he says. “There is no way on this earth that I am going to look like one of the fucking Flowerpot Men. Ugh! Get off! What are you doing, Dylan?”

  The last bit is muttered as I seize the hat and push it onto his head. I step back and try to suppress my smile, but I can’t help it, and he glares as I burst into peals of laughter. “Oh my God,” I finally manage. “This is the best Valentine’s Day present ever.”

  He shakes his head which sends me into fresh paroxysms of mirth as his little hat bobs. “I’m unsure why I’ve got to wear this when all I’m doing is drinking vodka.”

  “It’s a shared experience,” I inform him and, grabbing his hand, I tow him after me.

  The small room Alex disappeared into is so hot that it’s staggering. I draw in a breath, and it burns inside my chest. “Bloody hell,” I mutter.

  Gabe grins, heading over to the wooden benches where he proceeds to arrange himself like a king lounging in his court. He looks infuriatingly good even in the hat, as he crosses the long lengths of his hairy legs insouciantly at the ankles.

  He eyes me happily. “Onto the table, then, Dylan. Chop chop.”

  I shake my head before stripping off my robe and lying face down on the bench. Alex moves about, putting some branches under my face. They’re ice-cold.

  “Eucalyptus,” he informs me with a smile.

  “It smells lovely,” I say and then stop talking.

  Alex brushes branches over me, and it hurts, but it’s so good at the same time, making my skin tingle. After that, the massage is incredibly vigorous as he pummels me, bending me this way and that. I have to say the whole experience is wonderful and utterly unrelated to the occasional massages I’ve had over the years.

  “Good job I’m limber,” I gasp as he bends my leg backwards in a way that I’ve only seen action dolls manage.

  “I always say that,” Gabe remarks happily. “But I’m afraid it’s normally your jaw that’s the limber bit.”

  I glare at him. “Shut up, Bill and Ben,” I say and hear his snort of laughter.

  Afterwards, I drift out of the room, following Alex again. He gestures toward a pool, and I plunge into ice-cold water. I rise to the surface, spluttering and wiping my hair away from my eyes. He helps me out and swathes me in towels and instructs me to lie down on a cushioned branch. I lie there for a bit, drifting and seemingly unable to grasp a thought. In the background, glasses clink and I know Gabe has got his vodka.

  “After this, we can shower, and then I’m taking you to a mystery destination for a meal,” he tells me.

  I try to open my eyes, but they won’t work. “I can feel all my blood moving around in my body,” I say dreamily, and I hear Gabe’s throaty laughter.

  “I usually only get that after a couple of bottles of wine.”

  “Christ, I actually feel stoned.” My voice slurs, and I can’t open my eyes.

  Gabe’s laugh sounds again. “And just think—we didn’t even need Henry and a rendition of ‘Is This The Way To Amarillo’,” he says tartly.

  Half an hour later, I follow him out of the building and into the waiting car. “I feel amazing,” I say, throwing my hands out wide.

  He grins at me almost shyly. “You enjoyed it, then?”

  “I bloody well did,” I say stoutly. “I want to do that again.” I nudge him. “Especially if you wear that very charming hat again, Gabe. You looked like a suffragette just off to get her placard,” I finish dreamily.

  He shakes his head. “Hope you’re hungry, smartarse.”

  “Starving. What about you?”

  He nods and then refuses to answer any of my questions which accounts for my eagerness in sticking my head out of the window when the car slows. “We’re by the river,” I say. “Is the restaurant near the Thames?”

  “Not exactly,” he says, climbing out of the car and offering me his hand which I take happily. “More on it.”

  “Oh my God,” I say, staring at the elegant boat moored up. There’s a man in a smart uniform waiting beside it.

  “We’re doing a river cruise, and the chef will prepare a meal,” he says. “You can see London at night.”

  “I’ve seen them go by before,” I inform him. “But they’re usually playing eighties tunes really loudly, and loads of people are sick over the side.”

  He makes a moue of distaste. “Well, far be it from me to deprive you of Bon Jovi and Madonna and vomiting overboard, but maybe you’ll like this better.”

  “I’ll give it a try,” I say bravely, and he shakes his head and laughs.

  He isn’t laughing an hour later.

  “Dylan, are you okay?” he asks through the boat’s bathroom door.

  I groan. “Ugh! I feel like shit.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you get seasick?”

  I try to judge the situation and decide it’s safe enough to lean back against the wall. “I didn’t know. The only time I’ve been on a boat was when I was ten, and it was a pedalo with Jude in the South of France. We got into trouble for pedalling it around the headland so we could spy on the nudist beach.”

  There’s a soft snort through the door. “Let me in,” he says his voice low and warm.

  “I don’t think so,” I say immediately.

  “Why on earth not?” He sounds affronted.

  “Gabe, if you see me vomiting, all the mystique will have gone. You’ll no longer want me, because all you’ll see going forwards will be my green complexion.”

  “Yes, but I always had a bit of a thing for the Incredible Hulk,” he says earnestly.

  I snort a laugh and then groan as my stomach roils. “Ugh.”

  “Let me in,” he says insistently.

  I comply and flick the lock. He eases in through the gap, looking tall and handsome in the navy checked Hugo Boss suit I know he put on just for me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say miserably.

  “What on earth are you sorry for?” he says briskly. He reaches over and flushes the toilet and then grabs a towel and wets it in the sink. Then he sinks down to sit cross-legged next to me and puts the towel across my clammy forehead.

  “Oh, that’s lovely,” I sigh.

  He smiles at me, and it’s the smile that only I ever see. Intimate and warm and so fu
ll of love that I always feel humbled to have it directed at me.

  “Bend forward,” he instructs me.

  “Gabe, it’s a lovely thought, but sex and vomit should never go together.”

  “So I can put the cloth on the back of your neck, you twat.”

  I lean forward and feel the cold towel moving in tender strokes. “Sorry for ruining the night,” I say again.

  “You didn’t,” he says, and there’s a chiding fondness in his voice. “We’re together, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, but a bathroom—even one as posh as this—isn’t conducive to romance.”

  “I think there are all types of romance,” he murmurs, the towel still moving over my neck. “This is just the real kind.”

  “How the fuck did you get so wise?”

  “I had a good teacher.”

  “That’s me, isn’t it?” I say, lifting my head and finding him smiling at me. “Admit it,” I say nudging him.

  He chuckles, and it’s such a warm, comforting sound. “It’s always you,” he says solemnly.

  I smile at him. “And it’s always you for me. But don’t kiss me,” I say quickly. “That’ll really put a downer on this moment.”

  He wrinkles his nose. “Not fucking likely.”

  I start to laugh and he grins at me. Then I fall sideways and rest my head on his shoulder. His arm automatically comes around me pulling me closer. Then he reaches into his pocket and produces a green bottle and a glass.

  “Ginger ale,” he says. “The steward says it’s great for sea sickness. We’ll be docking in ten minutes.”

  “It really was a nice meal,” I say mournfully and it had been. All candlelight and delicious food. “Shame it ended up in the loo.”

  He shrugs. “C’est la vie.”

  “That sounds appealingly dirty.” He snorts and I nudge him. “However, my golden moment of the night must have been when the waiter tried to give you that throw to put around your shoulders.”

  “Why on earth do I want something on me that’s been shared by loads of people?”

  “Never stopped me with you,” I say peaceably, sipping my drink and laughing when he glares at me.

  “I’m actually marvelling at the fact that you can be sarcastic even when resting between bouts of vomiting. It’s a rare talent, Dylan.”

  “I’d like to thank everyone who helped me along this amazing journey,” I say. “My manager. My agent.”

  I laugh as he pinches me gently.

  “I’m not sure why everyone found it so astounding,” he says. “I wouldn’t parade around with someone else’s dirty bed linen wrapped around me, so I cannot fathom why anyone would want a used blanket.”

  “I know,” I say. “And the waiter really appreciated your insight on the subject.” Silence falls for a second, and then I stir. “So, for Valentine’s Day you gave me headless roses.”

  “They weren’t headless when I bought them.”

  “And,” I say loudly. “You had me beaten with branches while you drank vodka and then gave me seasickness.”

  “Powerful as I am, I do think the sickness might have been from the river. And you loved the branches.”

  “It’s been a brilliant night though,” I say.

  He kisses my head and smiles down at me. “Really?”

  I nod. “Much better than an extra penis like the first year.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m coming to the conclusion that Valentine’s Day and us don’t really mix. From now on, as soon as the clock ticks to the fourteenth of February, we’re going to close the blinds, lock the door and stay in bed.”

  “Will we be together?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then that sounds absolutely perfect to me.”

  Babysitting Billy

  Gabe

  The law student in front of me fidgets on his chair. I raise my head to stare at him, and the fidgeting abruptly stops. Satisfied, I look down at the document in front of me again. A few minutes later, the jiggling of his foot and the tap of his fingers against his chair interrupts me.

  I look up. “Peter, do you have some sort of rare disease?”

  He looks startled. “No, sir.” He pauses. “Not that I’m aware of, anyway.”

  I shake my head. “If it’s not that, then maybe you should check your chair to find the live wire that you have apparently parked your backside on.”

  “Sorry, sir?”

  I sigh. I miss Dylan deeply at times like this. “I’m being sarcastic. I do apologise because it’s obviously wasted on you. I should instead have taken the direct route and told you that if you carry on jiggling and tapping like some sort of incontinent woodpecker, then I am going to throw you out of my room. I cannot stand interruptions when I’m working.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  He laces his fingers together and for a while, beautiful peace reigns. I stare back down at the document in front of me and ring some mistakes with a slash of my red pen. I can almost feel, rather than hear, his sigh, and my lip quirks. He’ll make a good lawyer if I keep riding him. That’s as long as he stops listening to that pompous professor of his. I think of Simon Finchley and shake my head.

  “Is there something wrong, sir?”

  “Just some mistakes that you keep making.”

  “But Professor Finchley tells us to do it like that.”

  “Professor Finchley is a complete tool. When we were at university together, I was amazed to find that he could use a pen to write with rather than his fingers and his own bodily waste.”

  Peter appears to choke on his spit and, satisfied that I’ve shut him up for a bit, I bend over the document again. I’m so absorbed that the buzz of the intercom makes me jump.

  Peter contorts his face into a grimace as I reach over and press the button.

  “Alistair, I did say I didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “Then it’s beyond my comprehension why are you doing it.”

  “Dylan is outside.”

  “Why didn’t you say that?” I jump to my feet, feeling that warm sensation in my stomach at seeing him. It never goes away. Usually, it starts when I climb into my car at the end of the day and the driver navigates the roads back to home and Dylan. I smile. Two things I never thought I’d have. Dylan and home. They go together like toast and butter.

  I throw the door open, and the smile falls away. “What have you done to your fucking face?”

  The love of my life shakes his head crossly. This is not an unknown occurrence. “Gabe, watch your language in front of Billy.”

  I grimace as I see the figure of Asa’s little boy holding Dylan’s hand tightly.

  “Shit.”

  Dylan opens his mouth to remonstrate, but Billy stirs, giving me his wide, gappy grin that always makes me feel a tiny bit happy.

  “It’s alright, Uncle Gabe. Jude said that word the other night too.”

  “Did he?” I’m vastly entertained. I thought Jude was the next best thing to child-rearing since Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.

  Billy nods earnestly. “Yes, I went into the bedroom, and he was lying on top of Daddy, and he said shit really, really loudly.”

  “Oh my God,” Dylan mutters.

  I grin widely. “This is so interesting. Carry on, Billy.”

  Billy looks slightly concerned. “I don’t know why he said a naughty word. He was only lying on Daddy to keep him warm. I sit on Daddy’s feet in the lounge when he’s cold like I’m a chicken and I don’t say bad words.”

  “I’m sure he was just surprised,” Dylan says hurriedly as Billy sounds like he’s getting slightly cross.

  I look at Dylan. His voice sounds like he has cotton wool in his mouth, and I frown. “Why does your face look like you’ve got a watermelon in there?”

  He rubs the side of his face that’s making him look rather like a chipmunk. I won’t tell him that, of course. For all his charm, Dylan is the snarkiest person that I’ve ever met in my life.

/>   “I’ve broken my tooth,” he mumbles.

  I cross instantly over to him and stroke golden-brown hair back from the high-cheek-boned face of the person I love most in this world.

  “You don’t look so good,” I murmur, loving the way he nestles his face into my palm. The gesture is trusting and makes him look very young all of a sudden. “Alistair, ring my dentist, will you? Get Dylan an emergency appointment.”

  “Please,” Dylan adds.

  I nod obediently. “Please, Alistair.”

  I can hear the smile in my assistant’s voice as he speaks into the phone.

  I pull Dylan to the side. “How did you do it?”

  He grimaces. “On the kernel inside a piece of popcorn.”

  “Do you want anything?” I push him down onto the chair. “Can I get you something or do something?” I can hear the slightly nervy edge to my voice. I fucking hate it when Dylan is unwell. He has a personality and nature meant for sunshine and happiness and peace. Or rather sunshine and heavily weighted sarcasm.

  He shakes his head, and a smile tilts the non-swollen side of his mouth. “I’m fine, Gabe. Don’t worry.”

  Alistair puts the phone down and interrupts us. “He can see you in an hour, Dylan. Do you know where it is?”

  He nods. “I picked Gabe up from there when he had his wisdom teeth out.”

  I shudder. “Please don’t mention that again. I’m trying to forget.”

  Dylan laughs. “How can I not mention the fact that when I arrived, you were sitting on the grass outside in your three-piece suit, singing a charming little song about a sailor from Bunt.”

  Alistair laughs, and Dylan grins at him. The two of them have bonded rather unfortunately over me, and more precisely over the many piss-taking stories they have stored up. We’ve taken Alistair out a few times and each time, I’ve been forced to sit at the table while they laugh until they cry over rude stories about me. Then I have to put them into a car and ferry them home.

  I drop into the chair in front of Alistair’s desk, and Billy sidles up next to me. “Will you sing that song to me, Uncle Gabe?”

  I open my mouth, and Alistair and Dylan instantly stop laughing. I glare at them. “You can’t possibly think I was going to sing it?” Their silence speaks volumes, and I shake my head. “I can’t even remember the words. Which leads me to the conclusion that Dylan is lying through his backside.”