by J P Sayle
The sliver of disappointment at waking up on his own, swamped the still fresh nightmare, or should that be reality? Because that was exactly what that fucker was.
A reality that happened to some poor schmuck in the twelfth century.
He pushed the stark images his mind kept replaying out of his head. Greg puffed out his lips, flipped on to his back, and dragged the phone up to his face, squinting at the text.
Crap. Pulling it closer, he read it twice.
His eyes twinkled as he squinted again at the smiling emoji Aaden had used at the end of his text. Greg lay there feeling sensations swirl in his chest at the request for a second date. They had left things hanging last night after their intense conversations.
Yep, Aaden and his talking cat. That would make anyone forget to sort another date. You couldn’t write this shit, really.
How the hell am I going to explain this?
Stop it. You’re overthinking it.
He texted back as he wiggled his arse on the brushed cotton. He forced his mind away from talking, telepathic cats. Now was not the time to have a mini-meltdown after his earlier nightmare. He gave himself a mental shake. Greg jumped up and ran back to the wardrobe, plucking his lip. Greg contemplated his choices. Going for smart with a hint of sexy, he picked the light grey Debenhams suit and crisp, white-fitted Henley shirt. He knew the trousers fitted his arse like a wet dream and the shirt would show off his flat stomach.
The bubbles of excitement carried him through the house as he ran around naked, making sure everything was tidy. His usual Saturday clean-up had gone awry after his trip to London.
He scrutinised his small home, going through each room wondering what Aaden would think of it.
The lounge was small, but he’d utilised the space by using a plush black leather corner suite that took up the far corner by the large windows overlooking the front garden. This left the floor free to put his small oblong black coffee table in the centre on the plush grey carpet that matched his pale grey walls. A large fifty-two-inch flat-screen TV sat in the opposite corner on a black onyx stand.
His brow scrunched, and he ran to the kitchen to grab the polishing cloths, huffing. His black furniture was the bane of his life. It seemed to gather more dust than a hay field could create at harvest time.
Cleaning quickly, he cast a quick glance at the plush grey carpets covering the floors. He beamed when he realised they didn’t need hoovering. Scuttling through to the kitchen, he rinsed the dishes left from yesterday’s breakfast and tidied the black marble counters, swiping at the dust, all the while grumbling about his need to have all things black.
Who the heck thought black marble counters were a good thing?
Greg checked the white kitchen cupboards that held no prisoners. They loved to show every fleck of dirt. He groaned in despair. Working his way around the kitchen, Greg eyed the white-and-black-tiled floor.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
Grabbing the mop bucket, he gave the floor a quick lick before heading to the bathroom. Finishing up, he cleaned the bath. Greg pushed back his sticky hair, taking one final look about. He smiled at the now sparkling bathroom. His eyes widened at catching sight of his reflection in the large sparkling mirror.
“Well, shit on a stick.”
Why, just why, would you shower, then clean your house?
He rubbed at his dirt-streaked face and headed back to the shower for his second one of the morning.
Grumbling, he ran up the stairs to the office, panting. He felt his skin slick with a coat of sweat as he entered the office at full speed. He only managed to stop barrelling into Stuart at the last minute when he put his arms up to defend himself.
Greg felt the heat from his mad dash spread up his neck in embarrassment. Realising he had no genuine explanation as to why he was late by twenty minutes, Greg sucked on his lip, wondering if he could get away with a small lie.
“Hey, hold your horses there, Greg. Where’s the fire?” Stuart smirked down at Greg’s heated cheeks, knowing full well what had him running through the doors. Greg was the most punctual person he had ever met. Stuart’s own lips turned up in humour as he considered if this lateness had anything to do with a certain neighbour.
Greg gave him a hesitant lip tilt.
“I’m running a little late. I ended up cleaning my house this morning and got a little carried away. I’m having a visitor tonight straight after work, and I wanted it to be clean and tidy. And with being away on Saturday, I didn’t get a chance to clean up. Well, emm, there was a thing yesterday, and well, anyway, before I knew it, I needed a second shower and…” Greg stopped in mid flow when Stuart burst into peals of laughter.
“Okay, hahahaha, very funny. I’m sorry I’m late. I’ll make the time up.” Greg huffed and flounced to his desk, ignoring his co-workers who weren’t making any bones about listening to his verbal diarrhoea. Greg gave himself a mental smack for being such a moron.
Stuart shouted after Greg’s retreating back. “You don’t need to do that, Greg. Your morning verbal diarrhoea entertainment was more than enough payment.” Stuart chuckled, heading for Martin’s office to discuss the new contracts for the offshore business they had generated last week.
He gave Greg’s retreating back one final look before opening Martin’s office door. Chewing his thumbnail, he contemplated how this new situation with Aaden was going to affect Greg.
Shutting the door at his back, he glanced down at Martin’s dark head buried in whatever paperwork he was working on. “I think we need to keep an eye on Greg and Aaden.”
Martin glanced up, giving Stuart’s pinched face his focus.
“Why? What they get up to is purely their business, Stuart. I know you’re worried for Greg, but you yourself have pointed out numerous times that Greg has come into his own over the last few months with the promotion. He is no longer jittery or nervous, and from what Paul said when the shit hit the fan with you, he kept everyone, including Louise, in line. So, I would suggest we leave Greg and Aaden to their own devices. And if Greg asks for help or an ear, then we offer it.” Martin raised his eyebrows in question when Stuart’s brow furrowed.
Martin pointed his finger at Stuart, seeing him give a nonchalant shrug. “I mean it, Stuart. Back off and keep your nose out of it. Come on, sit. We have more contracts than we can poke a stick at. That is what we need to focus our attention on and not Greg’s love life.” Martin hid his grin behind his hand as Stuart flopped unceremoniously into the chair opposite his, clamping his lips together.
Greg, unaware he was the topic of conversation, plonked his arse down, disregarding the ominous creaking. He sat back, looking at his work desk. He gave it a thorough once-over, searching for something amiss when an odd sense something was off wouldn’t leave him. He scratched the back of his neck as his stomach fluttered. Greg shook his head, unsure why he felt a little off.
Greg put his strange feeling down to his morning, the nightmare, being late, and his planned date with Aaden after work. He tried hard to concentrate when the odd feeling something was off continued to plague him. Greg slid the files he’d prepared before leaving on Wednesday towards him. He went through each file, checking the markers he’d placed on each file page. He briefly scanned the data he’d already checked.
He had been diligently working through all the companies that were registered on the Isle of Man, but who had to pay tax in another jurisdiction. The common reporting standards (CRS) were a pain in his and he supposed every offshore business’s butt. The legislation applied worldwide, well, with the exception of America. As always, they had to be different and had FATCA.
With his new promotion came the dreaded Excel spreadsheet completion, with all the registered companies’ personal data and any financial benefits they had received. The only problem was you had to be spot on. One mistake and that fucker was there for all eternity. If it wasn’t spotted before it was sent to Price Waterhouse Cooper to be converted into the XML format the Isle of Man Gov
ernment required for their tax purposes and the CRS reciprocal agreement with the island, then there was nothing you could do to change it.
The dots, dashes, and silly squiggles used were more complicated than Japanese and really hard to try and understand. It had given him a migraine the first time he’d tried to read the previous year’s report. Hell, it would have been quicker to learn Japanese, Greg was convinced.
He buried himself in work, diligently checking data for the next several hours. He actively snubbed Louise as she shuffled past his desk several times, giving him daggers. Ever since she had found out he was going to the London office, her dislike of him had gone up several notches. To the point, she now didn’t even pretend to be civil to him.
It was her loss.
He really couldn’t give two shits whether she liked him or not. He was always professional, and to him, that was all that mattered.
Tidying up his desk, Greg stood, stretching and rolling his hunched shoulders. He picked up his suit jacket off the back of his office chair and shrugged it on. He picked up several cups off desks as he passed by, heading for the kitchen. He tidied up, checking the clock. He went back to his desk to grab his yoga clothes stashed in his desk drawer.
A slow grin spread across his face as he headed towards the door, slinging his rucksack over his shoulder. Greg felt his smile stretch, remembering the grinning emoji Aaden had sent after he’d texted the instructions to meet this evening, after yoga.
Feeling a bounce in his step, Greg ran out the office door, shouting goodbye. He bustled down the stairs, not waiting for the lift. He jogged down Athol Street attempting to skip through the throngs of people all heading home. He paid no mind to the biting wind or the darkening skies that threatened snow. Greg’s mind was already on whether Gemma would get there early enough to get the mats at the back of the class.
Their planned weekly Monday yoga class had been a standing date for several months now. Gemma hated any form of exercise, but he had somehow talked her into coming with him to yoga, and now she couldn’t seem to get enough. Hell, she even went when he couldn’t go because of his job. Nights let her do so much more during the day, whereas he was stuck with lunch breaks, evenings, and weekends. Huffing out an icy breath, he reminded himself he’d hate to work nights.
He scurried up the five flights of stairs, bursting through the door, chest heaving, his breath wheezing past his freezing lips. The warmth inside the studio was a welcome reprieve after the iciness of outside.
He spotted Gemma through the open door into the yoga studio. Giving her a quick wave, he went to the hard wooden bench next to the wall on the far side of the large changing room.
He gave a surreptitious glance at the other seven people changing when he saw the two cubicles he normally used were full. Pushing his shoulders back, he stripped off his grey suit trousers and quickly slipped into his multicoloured board shorts, not making eye contact with anyone. Pulling off his socks, he turned his back to the room, unbuttoned his jacket and shirt, and swiftly discarded them. He pulled on his red vest, still keeping his eyes averted.
Several people had stared at his freckles in the past, and it always made him uncomfortable with showing them off. His shoulders sagged when he considered he should have been a little braver today after yesterday. He rubbed his forehead. You can’t climb Mount Everest in a day, can you?
Err, nope.
Ignoring the little negative voice telling him to get over himself, he grabbed his water bottle and headed into the large yoga studio. The blue mats all faced towards the darkened windows. Small tea lights lit the surrounding edges of the room, offering a lovely warm glow. Greg stood next to the mirrored wall and saw the reflection of the blue-painted mountains on the other wall reflected back at him. Distracted by Gemma’s howl of laughter when she pulled him down for a hug, he gave her a searching look.
What’s up with her?
No sooner had the thought entered his head when she whispered in his ear.
“You do know you only managed to put fake tan on half your body, right?”
Greg’s eyes flew back to the mirror as he turned sideways looking at his naked arms and shoulders. The left arm was a deep shade of brown whereas his right shoulder and the front part of his chest were pale with bold freckles.
“Shitting hell. Oh my God. How the hell did I miss that?” He shot Gemma an alarmed look. “How am I going to meet Aaden looking like this?” Burying his head in his hands, he sunk down on the mat, glad he was stuck in the corner of the room with a wall behind him so no one could see his big booboo.
He whined, “Gemma, how can I meet Aaden tonight like this?” His hands waved over his right side, his mind eventually catching up. “Oh God save me. He’s coming here.” Greg jumped up, panicked at Aaden seeing him looking like a complete fool.
Gemma grabbed at Greg’s flailing arms, stopping him mid-dive for the door. Her dreamy green gaze sparkled with mirth as she held on to him. Her small rosebud mouth clamped tight as she worked to stop the gales of laughter from erupting.
“Listen. If he runs off at the sight of your half-naked, tanned body, then he isn’t worth the bother. You are gorgeous, my sweet, sweet friend, and you need to get over your freckle obsession and embrace your beautiful skin. And for God’s sake, stop using that bloody fake tan. It looks like you’ve been tangoed.” Gemma dragged Greg back to the mat as people mingled, heading for the empty mats.
Greg gave her a pointed stare at her uncensored comment. As he was used to it, he didn’t take offence as she carried on, pretending not to see it.
“Sit, let’s enjoy the class, and I will distract Aaden while you get changed. It just means there will be no sexy time till you can scrub that shit off.”
“There will be no sexy time till I can sort out how that cat fits in.” Greg slammed his hand over his mouth as Gemma’s eyes grew alarmingly large. She gave a choked cough as she swallowed twice before giving him an “are you insane” stare.
“What did you just say? How on earth does a cat fit into sexy time? Shit, what the hell have you gotten mixed up in, Greg?”
Her loud screech had Greg cringing back as several heads turned their way.
“Keep it down. I don’t think they quite heard you down on the street. Jesus.” Greg rubbed at his temples, feeling a headache starting to brew.
Could this day get any worse?
Heaving a heavy sigh, Greg spoke in a harsh whisper, “Please, just let it go. I can’t explain it, but I can tell you this; it ain’t got nothing to do with sexy time.”
Gemma gave him her hard stare. Not backing down, he gripped his shorts, forcing himself to maintain eye contact.
“Okay, I’ll back off, but you will tell me what the fuck is going on.” Gemma snarled, eyeing Greg as he lay down. She now had more of a reason to check this Aaden out. Nobody is messing with my bestie. No fucking way. What the hell have cats got to do with anything?
Greg ignored Gemma’s snarling and questioning, arched brows. Shutting her out, he closed his eyes, praying that Aaden would be late. He had a feeling Gemma might just throw him under the fake tan disaster bus.
Following the instructions Greg had texted him earlier, Aaden parked up as directed on Victoria Street. Checking the dashboard, he was pleased to see he was early enough to maybe watch Greg flexing his tight, little body. The excitement he had felt all day fizzed through his bloodstream. No matter how many times he had tried to rationalise away the jittery feeling in his stomach and the warmth in his chest, he failed miserably.
He’d had to force himself to complete his bedroom this afternoon. And yes, his bedroom looked bloody good. The new Nolte cream cabinets, wardrobes, and bed frame that had been fitted that afternoon gave the room a light and airy feel, even in the dead of winter. The floors were now beautifully polished to a lovely rich oak shine. He’d hung the dark terracotta curtains up on the old railway sleepers he’d found on the internet. A business in Cornwall had salvaged them, turning them into curtain
poles. He’d been so enamoured by the designs he’d bought one for every room.
And even if he did say so, they looked fantastic against the sand and terracotta walls. He couldn’t wait for Greg to see the difference from yesterday.
Yeah, that’s right. All this excitement is over bedroom furniture and stained floorboards you rushed your arse off to get finished to see what it looked like, not because I wanted to see my sexy red-headed beauty. No, it had nothing to do with that at all.
Dream on.
Scoffing at himself, Aaden exited the van into the dark, freezing evening. Overlooking his shaky, clammy hands, he locked the van, waited for a break in the busy evening traffic, and ran across the road. The freezing air chilled his exposed cheeks and hands. Aaden shoved his hands deep into his black leather bomber jacket, hugging it closer. He hurried up his pace.
Walking down the back alley, Aaden tripped over some uneven stone and lurched forward. He barely missed hitting the wall in front of him with his hands trapped inside his pockets. He cursed long and loud at the lack of outside lighting.
Seriously, the government needed to pull their fingers out of their arse.
Feeling all aerated, he squinted at the signs on the door, searching for the right entrance. Strolling in, he was grateful the staircase was at least lit. He took several breaths, attempting to calm his thundering pulse. Aaden wiped his hands down his powerful thighs over navy jeans. Jeans he’d spent far too long picking out, to go with the pale blue shirt Brad had insisted he wear instead of his normal T-shirt he’d planned on.
He huffed out a moan of complaint, trying to remember Brad was only helping him because he’d foolishly asked. The fact Brad had then spent an hour criticising his entire wardrobe and grooming habits, which in Brad’s eyes were nil, he’d been convinced his ears were bleeding with the telling-off he’d gotten from the tiny spitfire.