After Felix (Close Proximity Book 3)

by Lily Morton

  I hesitate, not wanting to intrude, but he looks up as if sensing me. His eyes are far away and hazy with some emotion, but then they clear and he grins at me. He slides his phone into his back pocket and stands up to greet me with a hug.

  I go willingly into his arms. I’ve never been much of a one for hugging before. Seems like something couples do when they don’t shag anymore. However, I like Max’s hugs. His arms have just the right amount of pressure, and I get a secret thrill when he buries his nose in my hair and pulls me closer.

  “Alright?” I say, stepping back. “Has something happened?”

  “Such as?” He settles into his chair again and grins at me.

  “Fuck knows. Brad and Angelina got back together. The royal family started liking each other.” I take the seat across from him and shake my head. “Nope. I can’t think of anything else strange today.”

  His dark eyes flick over my face. “You’re very refreshing,” he says suddenly, and I don’t think he meant to say it, because a look of embarrassment crosses his face.

  I bite my lip in enjoyment and lean closer. “Refreshing? That’s almost poetic, Max. Whatever is next? Will you compare me to a summer’s day?”

  “More like a bucket of fucking water in the face.”

  His phone chimes with a text notification. It’s loud even though it’s buried in his back pocket. He makes an irritated noise and ignores it, but the next second it starts to ring.

  “Your bum is buzzing,” I observe and shoot him a salacious wink. “Not that there’s anything remotely wrong with a buzzing backside.”

  He grimaces. “It’s just an old mate.”

  “Are they wanting to meet up? We can do this another day. It’s only a pint and a shag, after all.” I hold my breath because, despite my careless words, I’ve been looking forward to meeting him.

  He immediately shakes his head, and I exhale slowly. I haven’t seen him in days. I don't know if he was in London or out of the country. He doesn’t ring when we’re apart, and I’m okay with that, but the fact is that he’s a bloody excellent shag. Nobody has ever taken me apart the way he does until I’m a boneless sprawl on the sheets. And I’ve missed that. I love being out of my head like that where all my worries fly away, and I’m just a cock needing to come.

  “Fuck no,” he says. “Nothing’s more important than this.”

  I endeavour to brush away the flutter of happiness his words inspire. “Well, of course,” I say lightly. “I’m an excellent shag. There isn’t much that comes before that.”

  “I think it’s because I had to work so hard to get you,” he muses, a grin twitching the corner of his mouth. “You were so shy and retiring. Like a little mouse.”

  I assume a modest expression, which obviously fails because he starts to laugh. The sight makes me smile a little because he’s so charming. Funny and smart and naughty.

  His phone buzzes again, and I wrinkle my nose at him. “Someone definitely wants your attention.”

  “And you sound so astonished about the fact.”

  “Well, I’m just wondering if they’ve actually met you.”

  His laughter attracts glances from the other people in the garden. It fades away though, as he takes his phone out and looks down at the screen. “It’s an old mate wanting me to do a job with him. I don’t know what to do, to be honest.”

  I stare at him. His tone is off, and this isn’t the way we do things. We meet up. We banter. We shag. We leave. That’s it. Although the last couple of times, I haven’t exactly rushed out of the bed, and he’s seemed content to lie and chat. However, we’ve never done completely serious before. I bite my lip. Or pained. The idea of him being sad makes my belly clench. It sits wrong on him, like he’s trying on someone else’s clothes.

  “What sort of favour? Are you tiling a bathroom in exchange for them buying you a few pints?” I ask, watching his downcast face intently.

  When he glances up at me, the wrinkles around his eyes seem to have deepened, making him appear closer to his actual age. “Not exactly. More like a trip to Syria.”

  I feel sick at the thought of him going to that warzone, but it’s none of my business, is it? I expel a low whistle. “That’s definitely worth a takeaway at the very least.” He smiles, and I take a sip of the pint that he had waiting for me. “So, what’s the problem? You’ve retired, haven’t you? Tell him no.”

  His nod seems begrudging.

  “Oh,” I say softly. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t want to say no?”

  He shifts in his seat—a pose that strikes me as defensive.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that, Max,” I say softly.

  His eyes are dark, almost bruised, as he stares up at me.

  “Can you go back?” I ask. He hesitates, and I put my hand up. “Sorry, that was a bit rude. Ignore me.”

  “No, it’s okay.” He sighs. “I can’t go back,” he says slowly, staring down at his finger as it rubs across the wood of the pub table. “I tried, and it didn’t work out.”

  “How?” I suddenly remember he’d mentioned this before—when he’d talked about not going back to reporting.

  He shrugs. “My reflexes were for shit. Me and my photographer ended up taking a bullet.”

  I jerk in reaction and hope he doesn’t notice.

  He rubs his shoulder. “It was a skin wound for him, but the whole thing was my fault. I didn’t pay attention to my instincts.” He huffs. “I’m not even sure those instincts were there anymore, to be honest.”

  “Were you hurt badly?” I hate the thought of him being hurt.

  He shrugs in that casual way he has of dismissing any illnesses or injuries. “It was clean through the shoulder, but it hurts now when a cold spell is on the way.”

  I know the scar he’s talking about—it’s a mottled starburst that I’ve traced with my fingertips and lips. “You’re like a weathervane,” I say lightly. “You’d make a fortune as a sexy version of Michael Fish.”

  “Aren’t you a bit young for that reference?” he asks, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t even think I’m old enough for it.”

  “Are you sure? I’m pretty sure he was post-Jurassic period.”

  He smiles.

  I’m not sure I should continue the conversation, but decide to just go with the flow. “It’s a bit like when I packed up smoking,” I say. It’s a stupid and trite analogy, especially when talking to a wordsmith, and my cheeks begin to heat.

  However, he looks at me as if fascinated. “Go on.”

  “Well, I knew smoking was bad for me. Everyone told me so. My friends, the government, and those particularly gross adverts they keep plastering all over the Tube. So, I gave in and packed it up.” I lean forward. “But it’s like the more they told me no, the more I wanted to do it, and the less I wanted to listen to them anymore. I only remembered the good things about smoking. The feel of the cigarette in my mouth, that first sharp inhale.” He’s silent, but his eyes are intent on me. I sit back. “So, I started smoking again.”

  “Felix, is this your own version of an anti-smoking campaign? Because I think the government adverts are probably more effective.”

  I snort. “No. What I’m saying is that no one could tell me to stop doing it. They were absolutely right in what they said, but I wouldn’t listen. So I went back to smoking, and that first cigarette disabused me of the notion that it was great.”

  “Why?”

  “I threw up in my mouth. It was fucking rank.” I grimace. “And then I packed up, but it worked that time, because it was me calling the shots.” I smile at him. “It’s the same with your job. Anyone can tell you that it’s dangerous and you could die, but you have to decide for yourself, Max, and then maybe you’ll stick with it.”

  He watches me for a too-long second and then suddenly smiles. “You’re actually very wise, Felix, aren’t you?”

  “Should not be said in such a tone of surprise.” I smile at him as he laughs, relieved to hear the familiar sou
nd of his laughter. “So, what do you think you’ll do?”

  He sits back and drains his pint, giving me a heated glance. “I’m going to take you in the toilet and suck you off. Then I’m going to wank until I come all over you. And then I’m going to treat us to a pub lunch and so many pints that we’ll have to be rolled home.”

  “You silver-tongued charmer, you,” I say faintly. But my smile stays in place as he laughs again. We’re obviously both happy to put away intimacy and get back to what we do best. Shagging.

  A Few Weeks Later

  It’s quiet on the boat, the only sound the lapping of the water outside and Max’s gentle snores.

  I roll over and look down at him. He’s tangled in my duvet with his feet sticking out over the end of my bed. He’s patently too tall for my mattress, but I never realised it before because we’ve never actually spent the night in the same bed.

  Usually, we’ll lie together for a bit after sex, and then he starts to get fidgety—my cue to get up and leave. It’s one reason I occasionally suggest we hook up on my boat. At least this way he can be the one who has to get dressed and fuck off, and I can ignore the slight dip I get in my stomach lately when I know that he’s waiting for me to go.

  But last night he didn’t choose to leave. He passed out after sex as quickly as if I’d coshed him. There are dark circles under his eyes and lines of weariness in his face. My stomach takes another worrisome dip.

  I sigh, trying to keep it quiet, so he doesn’t wake up. I’m getting attached to Max, and it’s a fucking disaster in the making. My safeguards aren’t working. Like the idea of meeting here on the boat—it’s backfired spectacularly. He’s absolutely fascinated by boat life, and, as seems to be Max’s raison d’etre, he’s nosed his way into my neighbours’ lives and now knows everyone on a first-name basis.

  It’s starting to become the norm for people to see me and automatically look around for Max. What makes it even worse is that I actually want him here all the time and not just for a shag. All of it makes me very uneasy.

  I drink in the lines of his body, something I can’t normally do, as he typically deflects any interest on my part. His body is beautiful—long and taut with the hair-roughened chest and muscled arms roped with veins. His genes must be excellent, because he does very little to keep himself this way. Although he is a restless spirit, always on the move and looking for entertainment—so maybe that explains it.

  The moonlight turns the scars on his body into dark splodges. I trace them with my eyes, particularly the one on his shoulder which is a knotty, mangled mess. He’s dismissive of his scars, saying they’re a product of roaming the globe in areas where people don’t serve tea and want a cosy chat. However, I know from things he’s let slip that there are at least another two bullet wounds. He was either spectacularly brave or the unluckiest person alive.

  His face is peaceful in sleep. Almost innocent-looking. All his energy is gone for now, although he’s probably recharging his tank even as we lie here.

  Max moves suddenly, flinging one long arm over his head and turning his head restlessly. He mutters something in another language with a few English words thrown in, and I lean closer to listen. I pull back immediately when his hands clench into fists. “Ivo,” he rasps. “Ivo.”

  I wonder what that means. His voice is so intense. Is “Ivo” a place? Some small part of the world he’s dreaming about so fiercely?

  My thoughts scatter as I hear the scrape of footsteps on gravel and the sound of my name being called in a very drunken slur.

  “Shit,” I mutter, rolling to the edge of the bed.

  “Felix!” comes the shout again. “Where the fuck are you, you little shithead?”

  My stomach cramps. He’s going to wake the whole row of boats—stupid fucker.

  When the shout comes again, Max wakes with a start. There’s no bleariness from sleep or confusion in his eyes. He snaps into comprehension with an eerie swiftness. I suppose it’s a hangover from his journalism days.

  “Who’s that?” he asks, his voice hoarse and deep.

  I wriggle into my clothes and kick my feet into my trainers. “No one. Don’t worry about it and go back to sleep.”

  “Shit, I never meant to fall asleep.” His voice is tinged with crossness.

  My familiar stomach dip happens again. Of course he didn’t want to stay the night with me. He’d meant to do the usual shag and go. I force the feelings away. It’s the way we both want it.

  I swear under my breath as the voice from outside comes again.

  “Felix, you little wanker. Where are you, boy? You’d better answer me now, or you won’t like the fucking consequences, you little faggot.”

  “Who the fuck is that?” Max’s voice is tight, his face angry.

  “It's just my dad. Leave him to me.” I wave my hand in a calming gesture.

  Shock crosses his face as my dad launches into more abuse. Max throws himself off the bed. “No fucking way,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m not leaving you to deal with that on your own.”

  I stare at him. “Why on earth not?”

  He gives me a confused glance, but when my father’s voice gets closer, Max’s expression clears and he pulls on his clothes with angry motions. He pushes past me and walks in quick strides toward the door.

  “Oh no,” I hiss. “Max, don’t do anything silly. Ouch!” I trip over the eiderdown puddled on the floor and scramble up in a rush.

  Max opens the door and says in a very loud, cold voice, “What the fuck is going on out here?”

  “Oh no,” I groan again. I follow Max outside, where he and my father immediately become locked in a stare-off.

  Max stands with his arms folded over his chest, his stance combative, while my dad is listing and teetering. My father is trying for indignation, but the best he can manage is bleary confusion.

  When he sees me, the usual anger crosses his expression. “What the fuck is this, Felix? You’ve got a bodyguard now?”

  “Hardly,” I scoff, shivering in the cold early morning air. “You’re not exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger. I think I’ll be safe to take my chances on my own.”

  He shakes his head. “Where’s my fucking money, you little shit?” He comes closer, and I step neatly around Max, ignoring his move to stop me. I can smell the alcohol on my dad’s breath. “I want it,” he slurs.

  “I haven’t got any money of yours,” I say for the fifty-billionth time. “And you know it.”

  “You cheated me,” he says, waving a fist at my face.

  Max bats it away quickly. “Don't touch him,” he snarls.

  Mortification floods me—I don’t want Max to witness this—but his presence beside me is warm and solid and I’m grateful for it.

  My dad steps back and staggers. It’s only my hand on his arm that stops him taking a header off the towpath and into the water. However, as per usual with my father, there’s no gratitude. Instead, he flings my hand off. “Get the fuck off me,” he hisses. “Got it… you have, Felix. Cheated me, you did.”

  I shake my head. “You sound like fucking Yoda. Stop it.”

  “Is Yoda your sol-solicitor?”

  I bite my lip, and Max and I exchange humorous looks before I turn back to my father. “Yes, and he says back off, you must.”

  Max tries to stifle his chuckle, but it escapes and angers my father even more.

  “Ungrateful little tosser,” he sneers at me, continuing on his tour of the golden oldies. “Never happy with anything. You turned her against me. You did that.”

  “No,” I say quietly, aware that people will be awake and listening to this public airing of my dirty laundry. My cheeks burn that Max is listening. “You did that when you fucked off to live with Yvonne and started a whole brand-new, fucked-up offshoot of our family.”

  “Your mother would have had me back,” he boasts, widening his stance in a wearyingly manspreading way.

  Max immediately moves to stand in front of me. I shoot him a look and
step around him to face my dad.

  “Yes, she probably would have.”

  “You stopped us being happy, Felix.”

  I sigh, feeling suddenly sad. “If that’s what you two called happiness, I suppose I did.”

  I think of the hours I devoted to convincing my mum that we’d be okay on our own, persuading her that she couldn’t have him back after what he’d done. I’m still not sure what use it was. She died with his name on her lips, and I have to live with that.

  I don’t have to live with this shit, however. “You need to go,” I say coldly. “You’ve got no business with me. You told me often enough that I’m no son of yours.”

  Max's body tightens, but my dad waves a dismissive hand. “And I still don’t,” he says and then returns with drunken stubbornness to his favourite subject. “That life insurance policy should have been mine, Felix, and you know it. I was her husband until the day she died.”

  I nod. “You were,” I say tiredly. “But I was her son, and she left it to me, and it’s all gone on the boat. There is nothing left. Not a penny. So, I’m unsure where you think I’m going to get it. Maybe click my fingers, and it’ll appear out of thin air.”

  “Look at you,” he sneers. “Talking posh like the gays do. I knew that scholarship was a bad idea. Gave you silly ideas.”

  “I don’t think speaking posh is a membership requirement for the gays,” I say wryly.

  Max chuckles, his hand falling to the base of my back. It’s an unseen gesture of support, and his hand is warm against me in the cold air. Unbidden, I relax into it, and I’m suddenly absolutely knackered.

  My dad shrugs. “It’s that posh job too. You think you’re better than me.”

  “I don’t think. I know it. Because I’ve never actually woken people up to threaten them.”

  “You’re talking crap again, Felix.” He points a finger at Max. “I’m watching you,” he warns.