by Grace Lowrie
There was no way to ask without sounding horny and obvious, and it’s not as if I wanted him to sleep with anyone else. So it just hovered between us – the sexual tension – as ripe and unspoken as the ache between my thighs.
At least I wasn’t the only one struggling with the parameters of our friendship. The other night Bay had literally followed me, while I spent an evening out with friends. It should have bothered me – if it was anyone else it would have been stalkerish and creepy – but I was so used to him watching me. And more than that – I liked it – it felt good having him there, keeping an eye on me from afar, it was oddly reassuring.
My so called ‘girly’ night out with Marguerite, where-by my best friend tried to set me up with a guy from her office, had ended in a long and boring wait in A&E. I couldn’t help thinking it was some kind of karmic justice. Luckily for Marguerite the x-rays of her ankle proved that she had nothing worse than a sprain, and though she wouldn’t be able to attend dance classes for a while, she was already on the mend. I think secretly she’d enjoyed all the sympathy and attention her injury brought with it. Either way, she had stopped pestering me with unnecessary concern since then, leaving me free to spend my time as I chose. And I generally chose to spend it with Bay.
The majority of the paintings he had dragged out of storage were part of what I thought of as Bay’s ‘Trees’ series, though they were more involved and compelling than that simple label implied. That ghostly girl in white still haunted that particular grove of trees with an insistence that was disturbing. I often felt as though I was viewing the scattered fragments of a story I didn’t understand.
‘They’re all wonderful,’ I said. ‘Are you going to focus on just one theme or show a range of all three?’
‘I was thinking all three,’ he said carefully. ‘Three of you, three trapped butterflies, and nine of the rest.’
‘Sounds great.’ He looked at me and I was surprised by the uncertainty in his eyes. Bay did not do uncertain. Conflicted, sceptical and suspicious, yes, but never uncertain. It pulled at something inside me; made me ache with an emotion I didn’t want to define, and I quickly looked away. ‘Maybe you should start with a process of elimination – take out those you like least and see how far you get?’
Over the course of several hot, sweaty hours, I helped Bay lift, move, and rearrange his paintings one by one as he completed the torturous task of distilling his genius down to a cohesive collection of fifteen pieces of perfection. The temperature had risen to 28°c during the day, making sleep virtually impossible, and although we had all the windows open and the hot July sun was finally sinking below the horizon, the air was stiflingly humid and still. I made pitchers of home-made lemonade filled with copious amounts of ice to keep us going, privately delighting in Bay’s casual acceptance of a soft drink over something stronger. Maybe he wasn’t as much of an alcoholic as I feared; perhaps there was hope for him yet.
The bedrooms in Bay’s flat were much larger than Sidney’s, and there were three of them. Of course Bay didn’t use them as bedrooms, preferring instead to sleep in the wide open living space, so I was intrigued to see inside them. The smallest and most homely of the three held a wardrobe, an airing cupboard full of linen, an antique-looking chest of drawers, and his home gym – a rowing machine, punch bag, pull-up bar and a selection of weights. The modest exercise equipment helped account for the muscular, toned, underwear-model physique of someone who rarely left his home.
Thoughts of Bay’s body made my already-warm skin prickle with heat, and I focused instead on the jumble of shoes heaped under the window and the odd T-shirt strewn haphazardly here and there. The space had the feel of a dressing room, but there were no ornaments or adornments, no pictures on the walls, and oddly no mirrors at all.
Much of Bay’s artistic equipment – tools, mediums and materials – were stored in the second bedroom along with an enormous roll of canvas, a pile of timber and a workbench with a vice for constructing frames. The real surprise was that one whole half of the room was filled with books of all shapes, sizes and genres; crammed haphazardly into bookshelves and overflowing from heavy crates, stacked precariously one on top of the other. I had never seen so many books in one place outside of a library.
‘Good grief, have you read all these?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What even…’ I reached into the nearest pile and extracted a book at random, ‘…’The Brinkworth Guide to Ancient Myths and Legends’?’
He shrugged. ‘Yeah, that’s pretty good, actually. Anything you wanna borrow, help yourself…’ I laughed and thanked him, wondering where on earth I would start.
The would-be master bedroom was kitted out with industrial-sized, wall-mounted racks filled with hundreds of paintings, and a large map-chest full of drawings and sketches. One glance at this room made Bay’s quiet but serious dedication to his work obvious, and my fingers itched to rifle through his back catalogue; to discover examples of his earlier work and unravel more about him. But I didn’t dare. Bay never left me in there alone and was careful to keep the room locked.
While Bay was in the bathroom I took the opportunity to change the music in the main room. Scrolling through his list of artists I came across a band I’d never heard of; Bleeding Trees. The name seemed appropriate so I put it on and was pleasantly surprised as a gentle guitar riff drifted from the speakers. Pressing my chilled drink to my temple I wandered back to the final fifteen pictures Bay had settled on. The more time I spent looking at his tree paintings, the more a sense of nagging familiarity grew in my mind. At first I thought it was just my general sentimental attachment to trees – they reminded me of Wildham, of home, of the woods behind my grandmother’s house and my grandmother herself, whom I still missed every day. But as the female vocals kicked in with the first verse of the song that was playing, it hit me – I knew these particular trees; I’d seen them before; down in the garden below.
Bay emerged from the bathroom bare-chested, hair wet, and all but ran at his iPhone, abruptly switching off the music mid-song. His urgency startled me.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t want to hear that,’ he snapped. ‘OK… sorry… wh—’
Bay silenced me with a look so grim he momentarily appeared capable of murder. I was dying to know what had prompted such a reaction from him, but knew better than to ask. As Bay put another album on, reached for his cigarettes and lit up, I hovered awkwardly, like a guest who’d finally outstayed their welcome. I could swear the reaper on his back was smiling at me. Who was I kidding? I still didn’t know this man at all.
Chapter Forty
Setting down my brush I took a few paces backwards to survey the piece as a whole. It wasn’t finished yet – the background still needed adjustment – but I’d captured her perfectly; she inspired my best work.
Cally sighed in her sleep and I glanced over at her. How long ago had the music stopped? I hadn’t even noticed. She was wearing her Grecian Goddess dress at my request and she’d been posing for me all night, while I aggressively re-created her image on a massive three-by-three-metre stretched canvas on the wall. I’d used cans of emulsion, a range of decorating brushes, and a ladder to reach the top; working my sexual frustration into the canvas with every stroke.
I knew I shouldn’t cross that line with her again. I could paint her, look out for her, even be a friend to her if that’s what she needed, but nothing more. We couldn’t be lovers – I couldn’t do that to her; she deserved better. But Jesus I didn’t know it was possible to want to fuck another person as badly as I wanted to fuck her. My memories of being inside her were more powerful, more potent than heroin – and I should know. No matter how much I studied her, painted her and jerked-off to thoughts of her, it wasn’t enough. I could masturbate a hundred times a day and still want her – it was driving me crazy. Right now she was a vision – a real-life sleeping beauty – and I was tempted to crawl into bed with her rather than wake her up.
The
buzzer went and I cursed under my breath, jogging barefoot to the intercom to silence it before she woke. After a few minutes Tom appeared at the door with fresh art supplies and I pressed a finger to my lips in warning.
He smiled when he caught sight of her. ‘A sleeping princess,’ he whispered.
‘Exactly,’ I said, surprised by his choice of words. As I signed for the delivery an idea began to form in my mind. I’d known Tom a while now and his dad, John, even longer – he owned an art supply warehouse and could be relied upon to get me whatever I needed. Tom was a budding musician in his spare time; bass guitarist in a rock band. He played for Bleeding Trees before tragedy ripped them apart. The guy was an affable, reliable sort, and I got the distinct impression he swung both ways.
Clearly young Tom was attracted to Cally, who wouldn’t be? The question was did Tom appeal to her in return? On a Peckham rooftop she’d confessed to a sexual fantasy. Had she really meant it? Maybe it was time to call her bluff. Perhaps that way I could physically have her without any risk of us getting closer emotionally…?
‘When does your shift finish, Tom?’
‘Six o’clock, why?’
‘Come back and join us for a drink – sleeping beauty should be awake by then, and you never know, she might be pleased to see you.’
Tom’s eyebrows disappeared up under a swathe of blonde hair as he registered my meaning. ‘Are you serious?’ he hissed.
I shrugged. ‘I’m not promising anything, but I think she likes you…’
‘Jeez… Bay, are you sure? I mean, you don’t seem the type to share. I thought…’
Crossing my arms I leaned into the door-frame and cocked a silent eyebrow, impatiently waiting for an answer.
‘Fuck yeah! I’ll definitely come back then.’ His whole face shone with excitement and he returned to the lift with a definite swagger. ‘See you later,’ he said, turning back to me, grinning from ear to ear as the doors slid shut.
What had I done?
Chapter Forty-one
I woke to find I’d slept the day away in Bay’s bed. I was still fully clothed and so was he, but he was spooning me, one arm draped around my waist and his face nestled in my hair. It was something I’d missed since leaving Liam; the warm comfort of waking up in someone else’s arms. But right now, wrapped in Bay’s delicious musky scent and intense body heat, I was tingling with sexual desire in a way I never had with Liam. We didn’t do this, Bay and I, sleep in the same bed together; not since the night we fucked and briefly napped before being woken by a visit from his brother. And this felt different; intimate; cosy. This could not be good.
The buzzer went and I pretended to still be asleep. On the third determined buzz, Bay finally stirred. I sensed the moment he registered that he was holding me; a split second of surprise. But he hesitated before letting go; paused long enough to inhale deeply at my neck and brush his fingers through my hair before getting up to answer the door. It was an unexpectedly tender gesture from him, one that I was not meant to be aware of. It filled me with longing and fear in equal measure.
As Bay showed someone into the flat, I stretched and yawned. It took me a while to recognise him as one of the regular delivery guys because, instead of his usual uniform, he was dressed in washed-out jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt.
‘Hey, Cally, sleep well?’ He smiled cheekily at me from the kitchen area while Bay filled the kettle from the tap. Blinking and confused I sat up, heat rising to my face.
‘Cally, you remember Tom?’ Bay’s voice was gravelly with sleep and his hair was sticking up wildly; like some furry animal recently roused from hibernation.
‘Hey,’ I said, raising my hand in greeting. What was Tom doing here?
‘Coffee? Or something stronger?’ Bay said.
‘Coffee would be great, thank you,’ I said, stumbling towards the bathroom.
‘I’m happy to start with coffee,’ Tom agreed.
Splashing my face in the bathroom sink helped revive me, but there was no mirror to check my appearance. What I really needed was a shower, but all my toiletries were next door. Returning to the kitchen I retrieved my coffee from between the two men, feeling distinctly self-conscious.
‘I love your dress, Cally, you look beautiful.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ I said, taking a sip of much-needed caffeine and trying not to blush.
‘How’s the band doing?’ Bay asked Tom.
‘Great thanks. Actually we’ve got a gig lined up for Friday after next, you guys should come along.’
‘Tom’s a bassist,’ Bay explained for my benefit, before re-addressing him. ‘Where are you playing?’
I found myself inadvertently tuning out as Tom talked about Bad Bears’ Picnic and the various songs they played. He was slighter in height and build than Bay and looked too pretty to be in a rock band; trendy hairstyle, long girly eyelashes, pale blue eyes and a mischievous smile – a distinct contrast to Bay; all dark, grizzled and moody. Tom’s clean white T-shirt hinted at a nice set of muscles and I found myself idly wondering if he had any tattoos – there were none visible.
‘Like what you see?’
At Tom’s sudden question I realised I’d been staring at his chest and returned my eyes to his face, my face flaming with embarrassment. ‘God, sorry,’ I mumbled. Catching the smirk on Bay’s face, I covered my eyes with my hand.
‘Don’t apologise, it’s a serious question,’ Tom said, gently taking my hand from my face and encouraging me to make eye contact. ‘It takes a lot of work to look this good,’ he added with a smile.
I set down my coffee and laughed. ‘You look great,’ I said, braving it out and avoiding Bay’s eye.
‘Why thank you, that’s a real compliment coming from someone as pretty as you.’
‘Are you flirting with me?’
‘Yes, is it working?’
He was still holding my hand and I wondered what Bay was making of all Tom’s attention. Was he jealous? ‘You’re very forward,’ I said.
‘I like you, Cally,’ Tom said, raising my hand to his lips. ‘I was hoping you might like me too? Bay thought you might…?’
‘What?’ I looked at Bay and his gaze locked onto mine, his eyes glowing with a mix of curiosity and something else.
‘On the rooftop the other day…’ Bay began. Shock and mortification swept through me and my mouth dropped open at the realisation that he had invited Tom over for a threesome without even consulting me. And then I was absolutely livid. Bay must have read the growing fury in face because he raised his hands defensively. ‘It’s just an idea, we don’t have to… it doesn’t make a difference to me either way…’
I turned back to Tom, still speechless.
He smiled reassuringly. ‘I won’t be offended if you don’t fancy it – I’ll be disappointed for sure – you are seriously hot and I’ve been trying to get my hands on this dude for ages,’ he added, jerking his chin in Bay’s direction with a grin.
‘Watch it,’ Bay growled.
I couldn’t help laughing. ‘I… it’s just a shock that’s all…’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ Tom said. ‘He really should have talked to you about it first, I didn’t realise he hadn’t.’ My hand was still in his and he gently squeezed my fingers.
There was no denying how cute Tom was, and the mere notion of seeing these two guys naked at the same time was enough to turn me on. If I was completely honest the idea definitely appealed, and I would never get another opportunity like this one, but… was I really brave enough to go through with it…?
‘I’m going next door to have a shower and freshen up,’ I said, reclaiming my hand. ‘Will you still be here when I get back?’
‘Do you want me to be?’ Tom said.
I looked up at Bay’s impassive face. ‘Yes.’ The word provoked a glint in his eyes and my belly fluttered with excitement.
Chapter Forty-two
Fucking hell, she was really going through with this. She strode back into my apartment, head held high; wra
pped in red satin and smelling of honey and roses. I stood paralysed by the window, my hair still dripping from my shower and a tumbler of whisky and coke in my hand. I should have kept the bottle.
‘Wow, Cally, you look stunning,’ Tom said as she walked over and sat down on the bed. ‘Can I get you a drink? A glass of wine?’
‘A glass of red would be lovely, thank you,’ she said, her voice quivering with nerves.
Tom looked far more relaxed than I felt, but then he’d done this sort of thing before. I’d warned him that tonight was all about Cally; about making her happy and satisfying her fantasies, not his, or mine for that matter. He’d assured me that he understood, vowed to treat her like a princess and promised to wear a condom throughout, but parts of our conversation kept looping through my head:
‘Are you really going to let Cally take the lead on this?’
‘I think she can handle it.’
‘No, I’m sure she can, but can you? You’re very alpha male, Bay, are you really going to be able to completely hand over control?’
‘I guess we’ll find out won’t we. But hurt her and I’ll break your legs.’
‘Yeah, I figured,’ he’d said with a grin.
By the time Cally had finished her large red wine, she and Tom were lying together on my bed, listening to Muse, chatting away and giggling like old friends while I observed them from the shadows. Time to get this party started. Walking up to the bed, I took the empty glass from her hand and set it aside.
‘Tell him what you want, Cally.’
She gazed up at me; wide, indigo eyes dilated and a teasing smile pulling at her crimson lips. It took all my self-control not to lean down and steal her smile with a kiss. What was she thinking? What was she searching for in my eyes? Did she really want to do this? Did I…? The seconds ticked by and still she didn’t speak. Finally Tom reached out and took her hand, interrupting the loaded eye contact between us.