Stay the Night

by Scarlett Parrish

  “What, that’s it? He’s just gone?”

  “Aren’t you happy?” Gary cocked his head and for the first time in all the years we’d been friends, he sneered at me. “You’ve been pushing him away for weeks now anyway. What does it matter?”

  I would have punched him if I hadn’t walked out, but part of me wanted to cry and there was no way I’d let him see that. No fucking way. I couldn’t go out—I’d left my bag in the living room and while I had my keys in my jacket pocket, I was too tied to my mobile phone to leave home without it.

  Fine, then. Upstairs.

  I reached the top of the stairwell out of breath, not through physical exhaustion but desperation. Steven’s absence pulled the breath out of my lungs, nearly crushed them. It sure felt like something in my chest was breaking.

  I’d always been a bottom, always liked to be fucked, always liked to be hurt, which was why I couldn’t pass Steven’s room without pushing the door open.

  The first breath I hauled was like inhaling shards of glass. I hadn’t realised it was possible to hurt that much without being… Christ, it was like ten of the worst migraines happening all at once dead centre behind my ribcage. Empty bookcase, nothing on the walls, a stripped bed, no clutter that spelled S-T-E-V-E-N and that made him all the more conspicuous. Not a thing left.

  I woke myself up with the next breath—the gasp juddered in the back of my throat, almost choking me and all I could think about was returning to my own room and collapsing onto my bed.

  Something crinkled underneath my head when I shifted my weight—a piece of paper that made the painful breaths flare into hope. Twisting round, I groped for it, a man who’d forgotten how to swim grasping at a lifebelt.

  At least you let me be the one to run away this time.

  Oh, he just had to say it. He had to remind me of that. He couldn’t have insulted me more if he’d called me every name under the sun.

  It was no lifebelt after all, so I let myself drown.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I have no fucking idea why I’m doing this.”

  “Because you’re sick of being a miserable git,” Gary pointed out. Incorrectly.

  Gemma, meanwhile, gave a heavy sigh. At the sound, I looked over to where she stood, leaning against the living room wall with her arms crossed, expecting to see a scowl or a glare in her eyes, disapproval furrowing her brow.

  Not so. There was something else in her expression, which I didn’t care to examine, or that funny unsettled feeling in my stomach would get even more unsettled. And far less

  ‘funny’.

  “I almost wish Bill would phone with some work emergency.”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Gary said.

  “Yes. He does,” Gemma put in, not moving. “That’s the kind of person he is.”

  “Avoiding the truth, burying himself in work, making himself even more of a hermit?”

  “No, I meant…” Gemma’s gentle tone surprised me. I’d expected her to have a go, try to talk me out of it, but the frown of concern wrinkling her brow wasn’t a scowl. The twist to her lips was a watery smile, not a sneer. “Blocking out the world by immersing himself in something productive until he feels better.”

  Well that was unexpected. But even so… “Look, can you two stop talking about me as if I wasn’t here?”

  “Half the time you’re not,” Gary muttered. “It’s like you’re on a different planet.”

  “I am not. And anyway, what did you mean by avoiding the truth?”

  “You’ve been a twat, that’s what—”

  “Gary.” The censorious tone, usually reserved for my name, now formed Gemma’s boyfriend’s name, not mine. Truly, a night for surprises.

  The most surprising thing was I’d agreed to go out with those two at all. A house party across town and I’d only managed to stop them—strictly speaking Gemma—bugging me by promising to stay for one drink only. Besides, if it was one of their friends throwing the party, I’d most likely not know them and it wouldn’t be right to gatecrash for longer than it took to grab a beer, make a full circuit of the house, and call for a cab home on my mobile.

  I didn’t know their friends and I hardly saw any of my own these days. Maybe I should make more of an effort for them, I thought, surprised by my own willingness to branch out. This isn’t like me at all. Considering developing a social life instead of staying home, licking my wounds.

  Gemma had been the one to look me in the eye and say I just couldn’t do that much longer. I needed to go out, get some fresh air, have fun.

  “But I can’t…” I’d begun, ending weakly, shifting my weight from one foot to the other and avoiding her eyes again.

  “Can’t leave this damn house?” she’d demanded, arms crossed and insinuating herself into my line of vision once again.

  “No. Have fun.” I’d sounded pathetic— had been—and the one good thing about my poor-me demeanour had been the way Gemma’s face softened, sympathy crowding the bossiness from her eyes.

  “Oh, Kit.” She’d uncrossed her arms and reached for me, and I’d shuddered at the thought of a girly hug, but she must have sensed the tension already building in my muscles, settling instead for a pat on my arm and a retreat to her own personal space again, leaving mine empty.

  That quiet, sympathetic, excruciating, “Oh, Kit,” had been the straw that broke the camel’s back. I’d given in, agreed to come out with her and Gary that weekend but only for an hour. I couldn’t bear her pity, would have preferred Bossy Gemma to show herself again.

  “Come on, let’s go get our coats on.” Gemma pushed her weight off the wall and led the way to the coat rack in the hallway.

  “I am not a twat,” I whispered to Gary, obviously a little too loudly than I’d intended.

  Gemma stopped, spun round on her heels and glared at us. Ah, now this I could handle.

  I was used to this.

  “Yes you are.”

  “I bloody am—”

  “You.” One single word from a five feet, six inches, slender blonde woman and two guys a good few inches taller, a couple of stones heavier, froze in their tracks. “Behave.”

  “We are behaving,” Gary said, prodding me in the back.

  “Would you get the fuck off me?” I elbowed him in the ribs, making him groan. “And he started it,” I added, but Gemma said nothing.

  Her lips thinned out to a bleached line and she crossed her arms again. She meant business. The heavy sigh underscored this fact.

  “I’m not angry,” she almost singsonged. “I’m—”

  “—just disappointed,” Gary and I chorused. We’d heard it a thousand times before.

  Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.

  “Get your coats,” she threw at us, spinning round again, grabbing her coat and making for the front door in one fluid movement that I thought made her appear to have demonic-level powers. Gemma Crawford knows all, Gemma Crawford sees all.

  “Yes, Mum,” I muttered.

  “I heard that.”

  Gemma Crawford had supersonic fucking bat-hearing as well.

  Some things definitely never changed.

  * * * *

  We grabbed a taxi from the rank near our local shops, not bothering to book one to pick us up at the door. “You do realise this little jaunt will give me time to back out?” I asked.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Gary told me.

  “Oh?”

  “Because I would kill you,” Gemma said, and I believed her. Couldn’t resist answering back, though.

  “Wouldn’t that rather defeat the purpose of this Operation Cheer-Kit-Up thing you’ve got going on?”

  She surprised me then by hooking her arm through mine, despite my—though it pained me to admit it— standoffish posture. Hands in jacket pockets, head slightly bowed, shoulders hunched.

  “Bit hard to be happy, happy, joy, joy when you’re dead,” I pointed out.

  “You’re almost funny when you’re grumpy.”

&n
bsp; “Him? “ Gary’s voice was almost a squeal. “You’ve always said he was a bad-tempered bastard.”

  “He is.” Gemma shrugged. “But when he’s like this, he’s almost entertaining. You know.” She smiled up at me as we walked. “Not really in the mood for doing something, but resigned to the fact I’m right and putting up a cursory protest.”

  “You’re so bloody smug sometimes.”

  “I may be smug,” she admitted, leaning her head against my arm in a gesture that from anyone else would have been adoring and submissive, “but I’m still right.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’m not your type.”

  “And you’re supposed to be with me, remember?” Gary asked. “Instead of flirting with my gay housemate?”

  “I wouldn’t have her anyway,” I muttered.

  “Why the bloody hell not?” Gemma lifted her head off my arm and scowled.

  “Are you kidding? You’d eat me for breakfast.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Gary sniggered. “That’s one of the good things she—”

  “Ugh. I do not want to know.”

  “You can’t tell me you’ve never had a wake-up call like that.”

  “Not with a woman, thank you.” I shuddered, playing it up for the cameras, or rather, Gemma’s benefit. There’d been a couple of times in my misspent youth when I’d tried to like women, but it just wasn’t happening.

  A train of thought which led me inevitably to the last man I’d touched like that and I swore, if I concentrated hard enough and ran the tip of my tongue around my mouth just so, I could remember what he tasted like.

  I loved to torture myself. I loved to think about things I shouldn’t think about, just to confirm that, yes, it did give me that funny feeling just below my ribcage that was somewhere between nauseated and breathless. Every morning kicked me in the solar plexus as I woke up but it took less and less time to get my breath back each day. Being the masochist I was, I liked to do it to myself sometimes, just to check.

  Yep. It really did make me feel sick to consider I’d never touch Steven again. Taste him.

  “Stop it,” Gemma growled.

  “What? What?” One thing I wasn’t good at was feigning innocence in the face of her scrutiny.

  “You know what.”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  “What the hell are you two whispering about?” Gary asked, walking backwards along the pavement in front of us. I saw at the end of the street, a few cabs waiting in the usual place for a taxi rank so we wouldn’t have to wait after all.

  “Nothing important,” I said.

  “Kit’s in grave danger of becoming human.” Gemma snorted, as if the chances of that seemed ridiculous to her.

  “Ugh. I don’t know why I bothered coming out tonight,” I muttered, already planning my escape. One drink. One circuit of the house. Taxi home.

  I definitely wasn’t going to stay the night.

  * * * *

  “What’s this party for, anyway?” I peered out of the rear passenger side window as Gary, in front, paid the driver. I hadn’t thought to ask before now, after Gemma had said a couple of friends were having some people round and had left the invitations open to their house party.

  “Just because.” Gemma shrugged. “Go on, get out the car, then.”

  I did as she said. It was easier that way.

  “Besides,” she went on. “Some people have house parties just for the sake of it. No reason. You know…” Again, she hooked her arm through mine and it felt as if she were trying to keep me there, to be my anchor. As if at this late stage I’d try to make a break for it and she was determined to make me stay. “Some mad, crazy fools just have mates round for fun. You know what fun is, don’t you? ‘Course you do.”

  “Ha bloody ha, Crawford.” I tried not to shudder. Only part of my discomfort was caused by the architecture of the building outside which we now stood. A Victorian mansion converted into flats, it stood some way back from the road with a huge garden—lawn only, with borders of flowers I wasn’t horticultural enough to identify—and driveway. Not exactly what one would call a folly, it still wasn’t the most attractive of buildings I’d seen, but the turret-style windows at each corner of the building lent it something of the gothic. It didn’t look too Castle Dracula, though—no wolves howled outside the main double doors of the building. Just partygoers coming outside for a bit of fresh air, yelping at the cool breeze that even yet managed to penetrate their beer jackets. It was only eight o’clock, after all. Still too early to be proper drunk, as was no doubt their game plan for later in the evening.

  The gravel crunched under our feet, which made me wonder how easily and quietly I’d be able to sneak off later. If it was any sort of party the police would be called and I’d try to make a break for it in the ensuing confusion. Even if I got arrested and bundled into a meatwagon for committing the crime of even being present, at least that would get me away from having to socialise with anyone other than my cellmate.

  I hoped he was pretty.

  “Top floor, I’m afraid,” Gary threw at me as he jogged ahead, holding open the main doors as a couple of young ‘ladies’ in microscopic clothing teetered past on stilettos that had to be seen to be believed. One of them looked me up and down and Gemma muttered,

  “Don’t bother, love, he’s with me,” as we entered.

  “What?” I frowned. “Hey, Gary, don’t you have to buzz up to the flat?”

  “Nah, why bother? People are in and out all night when there’s a party on so we can get into the building easy enough.”

  “Shouldn’t you let them know we’re here?”

  “And be formally announced?” He laughed, leading the way up the grand, curved staircase. Most blocks of flats had a hall. A vestibule. A lobby. This former mansion, naturally, had a foyer. “Nah. We planned it this way, to arrive late so chances would be the doors would already be open once we got here. So you couldn’t back out.”

  “Why would I—”

  “Anyway. That girl was totally checking you out,” Gemma said. “Bit off, if you ask me.”

  “Was she really? And why—”

  “Yeah. “ Gemma’s eyes widened as if she was surprised I couldn’t translate her super secret girl-code, or recognise whatever female-against-female transgression had been committed tonight. “Didn’t you see the way she looked at you? And me with my arm through yours?” She sucked her teeth in the perfect gesture of disapproval and borderline disgust.

  “I just thought…”

  “You are a good-looking bloke—”

  “Steady, you two,” Gary warned. “I might start to get jealous.” The echo of his words only partially drowned out some sort of wailing or singing coming from further up the stairwell.

  “What the hell?”

  “Someone singing.” Gemma shrugged. “Come on.”

  “Why do I want to mutter dead man walking?” I seriously wondered how angry Gemma would get if I turned tail and fled, but we reached the top floor, or at least nearly. The only thing separating us from the open front door at the top of the stairs was an extraordinarily pretty brunette wearing a blue and white striped sailor dress, with a ring through one eyebrow and a singing voice like a cat being put through a blender.

  “Oh, hiya, guys. You must be Kit,” she said, and my surprise at her knowing my name when I had absolutely no idea who the hell she was, was tempered only by my relief that she was no longer murdering what I thought was supposed to be a rendition of Come on Eileen.

  “Um…yes?”

  “Didn’t think much of my singing? I could tell by the look on your face.”

  “Well.” Gary inclined his head. “It was enthusiastic, I’ll give you that.”

  The girl, young woman, whoever she was, shrugged and smiled. Grinned, in fact, clearly not offended. “I was trying to sing louder than the crappy dance music they’re playing in there.” She nodded in the general direction of the flat’s front door, from which spilled light, noise,
music and chatter.

  “Wouldn’t it have been better to sing in tune?” I blurted, receiving a dig in the ribs from Gemma for my trouble. “Do you mind? That fucking hu—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” the ‘singer’ told her. “Water off a drunk’s back. Where the hell has Jason got to with my drink? I sent him inside ages ago. Jesus. Anyway. You guys go inside if you want. I’m just gonna loiter out here.”

  As we clambered past her on the stairs, I caught her muttering, “To stop anyone trying to escape if they attempt to bolt.”

  I stopped, a couple of steps up from her, and Gemma’s arm through mine twitched.

  Tightened its grip. “Uh…” I shook Gemma off with some difficulty, and turned to look down at the bad singer with a penchant for facial piercings and nineteen-eighties pop songs. “Why would anyone try to escape?”

  “Oh. No reason.” She grinned over her shoulder, showing a dimple that under ordinary circumstances would have been adorably cute. Now, however, she just looked devious. “I just know what you’re like. Kit. Ah. There you are,” she added, looking past me to someone who’d just stepped out of the open door. “I thought I told Jason to get me another—?”

  “Oh, he got caught up arguing with someone about what music to put on next.” The latest arrival on the scene was a young man, in his mid-twenties maybe, tall and wearing all black. He handed the singer a glass of red wine and sat down beside her on the stairs. “So I brought you that instead. Couldn’t remember what you asked for, though, so you’ll have to drink it whatever it is.”

  She took a sip and saluted him with the glass. “You had me at merlot.”

  Her server groaned. “Your puns get worse and worse the drunker you get, Tiff.”

  My breath caught in the back of my throat and from the corner of my eye, I saw Gemma and Gary, at the top of this flight of stairs, stiffen. “Tiff?”

  “Yeah. And you’re Kit.”

  “How did you…?”

  “Gary and Gemma. We’ve spoken on the phone. While inviting them to the party.”