Lovers Leap

by JL Merrow

  Michael must have looked a right sight, walking up the high street in wet jeans and an old-man shirt, carrying a dripping-wet jacket. Shit, he’d left his sweater behind. Not to mention his underwear.

  He’d had to get away, though. Wouldn’t have been a good idea to hang around, get too cosy. That sort of thing led to feelings and stuff, and Michael didn’t get feelings for pretty little boys—okay, maybe not so little, but fuck, he was pretty—who could never, not in a million years, be explained away as just a mate. Michael’s mates were all like him: lads’ lads. Blokes who liked a pint or six and a game of footie, preferably at the same time. Blokes who knew their way around an engine, who didn’t bother with all this metrosexual male grooming shit, and who you could count on in a fight.

  Straight blokes.

  Because Michael wasn’t gay, yeah? He was bi, which meant he did what he wanted, fooled around with guys as well as girls, but that was all it was. He didn’t have relationships. Not with guys. Not much with girls—and that business with Trix had only gone to show how sensible that was—but definitely not with guys. One day, when he was ready, he’d find a girl he liked well enough, and make his mum happy by getting married. But Christ, not yet.

  Shit, wet jeans were a bitch.

  He needed to get back to the hotel him and Trix were staying in. Maybe he could patch things up with her? They still had the rest of the week booked. Nah, what was he thinking? Even if she weren’t still mad at him, she’d only want to talk about it. Course, might be worth it for the make-up sex . . . ’cept every time he tried to picture getting Trix naked, she turned into Rufus the minute he got her kit off. What the hell?

  Jesus, it was just as well he hadn’t hung around there any longer. The last thing he needed was some pretty boy with a hot body messing with his head.

  Finally, he reached the hotel. The blonde receptionist who’d been so friendly when they checked in on Friday night—Michael reckoned she fancied him, and bollocks to what Trix had said about it just being cos they were the only guests—was busy with something, so Michael didn’t bother with a greeting. Probably best she didn’t notice him walking by in such a state.

  “Mr. O’Grady? Mr. O’Grady,” she called out after him just as he was about to go up the stairs.

  Sod it.

  “Oh, uh, hi, Judy,” he said, turning reluctantly. “What can I do you for?”

  Her mouth was set in a thin pastel-pink line. “I’ve got your bag behind the counter, and you owe us for three nights. Miss Horton has already checked out, but she said you’d be in to settle the bill.”

  “Hang on a minute—Trix has gone?”

  “Yes.” Judy folded her arms across the front of her fluffy sweater. “She warned us you might be looking a little . . . disreputable when you came back.”

  Shit. “What else did she tell you?”

  She ignored him. “Will you be paying by cash or credit card?”

  “Look, hang on, the room’s booked for a week, right? So let me go up and change, maybe stay another night or two”—he could always pay Rufus another visit—“and I’ll check out when I’m ready.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Grady. I’m afraid the hotel has a strict policy of not accepting bookings from your sort.”

  Michael’s hackles rose. “What the hell do you mean, ‘my sort’?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Arseholes.”

  Shit. Of course Trix had told her everything. “Look, I’m soaking wet, here. At least let me go up and get changed.”

  “I’m sorry, but rooms are only for the use of our guests. Your bag.” She picked it up with an expression of disgust and dropped it over the counter.

  Michael winced. Up until that moment he’d been glad he’d forgotten to take his phone with him. “I could strip off right here,” he threatened.

  “Certainly, if you’d like to get arrested for indecent exposure.”

  She had him there. Especially seeing as he’d left his kecks with Rufus. “What the hell am I supposed to do, then?”

  “If you go back down the high street and turn right, you’ll find some public toilets on the slipway. I’m sure you’ll be able to manage there.” Judy tapped long Barbie-pink talons on the counter. “Now, cash or credit card, Mr. O’Grady?”

  Michael cursed—under his breath, cos she’d probably have him arrested for that—and pulled out his wallet. It hadn’t fared any better than the rest of him, and the stack of twenty-pound notes inside was now one sodden mass. “Credit card,” he ground out.

  “Thank you, sir. You’ll notice the total’s left blank for you to fill in your own gratuity.”

  Gritting his teeth, Michael just about managed not to tear the slip as he filled in a big, fat zero.

  He ought to be a candidate for bloody sainthood for that little bit of restraint.

  Trudging down the high street, his bag slung over his shoulder, Michael considered his options. They’d come in Trix’s Jeep, so he’d have to get a taxi to the ferry. And shit, what if he got on the same one as Trix? Swimming back to land from the end of the pier was one thing—for a start, the tide had been out, so he’d been able to walk most of the way. He didn’t much fancy being dumped in the middle of the Solent and having to swim a couple of miles back to dry land. On the other hand . . . if he turned left instead of right when he got to the slipway, he could go back to Rufus’s B&B.

  Yeah. Yeah, that’d be the thing to do. He could get changed, could even pick up his sweater and offload this fucking awful shirt he was wearing. His dick chubbed up a bit at the thought of it, which Michael was frankly amazed at since his bollocks were about to drop off from the combination of cold and chafing.

  He made his way along Queen Street to the Eldorado, went round the side, and banged on the door. It was answered by a woman around Michael’s sisters’ age, with short bleached-blonde hair in a messy bob and plenty of eye makeup. Rufus’s big sis, maybe? Michael flashed her a smile on autopilot.

  “Oh, hello,” she said, smiling back.

  Michael’s smile broadened. Yeah, even soaking wet, wearing an old-man shirt, and flying on automatic, he was still fucking irresistible. Behind her, Michael could see an old bloke, grey-haired and in a saggy cardigan with leather patches on the elbows.

  And Rufus, doing goldfish impersonations.

  Fuck. What if he wasn’t out to his family? Michael couldn’t just leave him in the shit. Inspiration struck. “This is a B&B, right? I’m looking for a room.”

  “Oh,” the woman said, not sounding too keen on the idea. “Um, well, sorry, but we’re not actually taking bookings until Easter.”

  Michael wasn’t having this. Especially as the chafing from his wet jeans was now so bad he’d probably end up with his thighs scarred for life. “Why not?”

  She looked baffled for a mo, then rallied. “It’s the Isle of Wight, see? Nobody comes here in February.” She glanced back into the kitchen, maybe hoping someone would back her up.

  Michael wasn’t having that either. He pasted on his best smile, the one that always got the girls in the local chippie to give him extra crunchy bits for free. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, innit? Cos here I am. You wouldn’t wanna leave me wandering the streets of Sandown with nowhere to lay my head, now would you? And I’m sure you could do with a few extra quid—who can’t? ’Specially a fashionista like yourself . . .” He let a gleam of admiration show in his eye as he raked his gaze over her ensemble of Topshop’s finest. “I’ll pay cash,” he added.

  No need to mention she’d have to dry the notes out with a hairdryer before she could bank ’em.

  She giggled. “Well . . . What do you think, love?” She turned to the old bloke.

  Bloody hell, he’d thought that was her dad.

  The old guy looked uncertain. And not all that happy with the idea, which wasn’t surprising. If Michael had known he was flirting with the much younger wife, he’d have dialled it right back. “I’m not sure . . .” He turned to Rufus.

  What was t
his, a family game of pass the buck?

  “No problem,” Rufus said firmly. “Really not. I’ll make up a room, and there’s plenty of food for tonight. Why don’t you come on in, Mi—I mean, whatever your name is, and I’ll show you to your room?”

  Thank God. “Cheers, mate,” he said, stepping into the kitchen. “Appreciate it.” He offered his hand to the old bloke—probably be a good idea to try to get him on side now. “Michael O’Grady. I’m from Southampton, just over here for a few days.”

  Yeah, he looked happier now. “Gerald Kewell. Lovely to have you to stay with us.” He even managed to make it sound halfway sincere. “And this is my wife, Shelley”—emphasis on my and wife—“and my son, Rufus.” Then he peered at Michael like he’d forgotten his specs. “You know, I’ve got a shirt just like that.”

  Rufus grabbed Michael by the elbow and steered him towards the stairs. “Right, come on, Michael, this way.”

  Once there was a safe distance between them and the folks, Michael turned to Rufus with a grin. “Now I’m a paying guest, shouldn’t you be calling me ‘Mr. O’Grady’?”

  “We’re very informal. Why are you here?” Rufus looked down at his feet. “I mean, not that I didn’t want to see you again, and I know what they say about gift horses—”

  “They got ribbons tied round their dicks? Wanna check mine out and see?”

  “—but half an hour ago you were all, like, ‘Laters, babe,’ and now you’re, well, back.”

  “Yeah . . . Fancied a change of hotel, that’s all.” Michael hoped Rufus wasn’t gonna ask why he hadn’t taken the time to get changed into dry clothes if that was the case.

  “Oh. Ex-girlfriend? Yeah, I s’pose that must’ve been a bit awkward. Why’d you split up, anyway?” Rufus frowned. “Come to that, why were you in the sea? Was she really that bad you had to jump off the pier to get away from her?”

  Michael thought fast. “Some things just ain’t meant to be,” he said mysteriously. Or gnomically, even, which had recently been on the word-of-the-day calendar his eldest sister, Faith, had given him for Christmas, so he knew it didn’t mean “like a naff garden ornament.”

  Faith reckoned he had a vocabulary of around four hundred words, not including the rude ones, which was total bollocks. Michael knew what big words meant, right? Just cos he didn’t go throwing them around all the time didn’t mean shit. He’d even read a book, once.

  “Right,” Rufus said, opening a door into a bedroom that was large and light, with a big bay window that looked out the front. Nice. “This can be your room. I’ll get sheets and stuff, but you probably want to get out of those wet clothes. Um, again.” He blushed.

  Michael gave him a slow smile. “Wanna help me? Again.”

  “Uh, my parents are right downstairs . . .”

  “And they don’t know you’re gay? Hey, no worries. I know what it’s like. I’m not gonna grass you up.” Michael started to undo his jeans.

  Rufus paused before speaking. “Um, they know I’m gay. But . . . you just introduced yourself to them as a total stranger. Not as my boyfriend. Not that we’re boyfriends,” he added quickly, probably seeing Michael’s whoa face. “Just, you know, the whole pretending we’d never met thing? Which I’m sort of wondering why you did?”

  “Jesus, try to do a bloke a favour . . . So they’re all right with you being a poof, then? The old man and the bit of fluff?” Michael pulled off his jeans and started inspecting his knackers to make sure they were still there and hadn’t been worn down like worry beads.

  “Well, yeah. I mean, they’d have to be, wouldn’t they? It’s not like anyone can do anything about it. Um. Do you want me to get you out some clean underwear?”

  “Yeah, go for it,” Michael said without looking up. “Should be a pair of jogging bottoms in there too.”

  There was the sound of his bag being upzipped. “Oh.”

  That didn’t sound good. Michael glanced at Rufus, his tackle still in his hand. “What?”

  Rufus was staring into Michael’s bag with a weird expression on his face. “There’s been a bit of, um, leakage. Shampoo, I think. And conditioner. And shower gel. Oh, and some toothpaste too.” Now he mentioned it, Michael had wondered why the room suddenly smelled all herbal and spicy. With a hint of spearmint.

  “Fucking hell.” Michael shook his head, a grudging smile on his lips. You had to hand it to Trix: when she did vengeance, she didn’t do it by halves. He was just glad she hadn’t had access to a pair of scissors at the time. Or his bollocks, for that matter. “Shit. I’m gonna take a shower—bathroom down the hall, right? Just bung my kit in the machine for me, yeah?” The old-man shirt, now it was done up, would just about save him from indecent exposure if anyone came upstairs. Then he frowned at Rufus. “What’s with the Karate Kid getup, anyway? And how come you’re the one doing the room? What are you, Cinderfella or something?”

  Still crouching down by Michael’s bag, Rufus huffed. “Not all stepmothers are evil, you know. Looking after guests just isn’t really Shelley’s thing. And I’m wearing a bandana because somebody wrote on my head in permanent marker.” He pushed up the scarf to show that, yeah, Michael’s phone number was still there.

  Michael cracked up. “See you later, Cinders.”

  Rufus’s hands shook, just a little, as he got the clean sheets from the linen closet. He’d come back. Michael had come back. Why? What did it mean? Did it mean anything? He’d said he needed a room, which was fair enough, but it wasn’t like the Eldorado was the only B&B in Sandown. It wasn’t even the only B&B in Queen Street, and the Sunny Shores Lodge was closer to the high street and had its Vacancies sign out, because Mrs. Feltham-Brown thought a day spent not earning money was a day wasted.

  So maybe, just maybe, Michael had wanted to see him again? Or was that just wishful thinking? After all, given the way he’d looked when Rufus had said the b-word . . .

  No. No, that was defeatist. Rufus shook out the sheet with a snap, smoothed it down, and tucked it over the mattress. Then he started work on the duvet cover. Clearly it was just Poseidon looking after him. He’d caught Rufus’s birthday present doing the walk of shame and had packed him straight back to the B&B.

  Given that his firstborn wasn’t on offer, Rufus wondered what sort of sacrifice Poseidon might accept instead to keep him feeling generous. He puffed up the pillows. Some kind of fish? All they had in the house right now were tins of tuna, which might not go down too well. And if anyone saw him chucking one in the sea, he’d probably get done for littering. But there had to be something Rufus could do to keep hold of Michael.

  Just as Rufus gave the final tweak to the duvet, Michael swaggered back into the room, his damp chest hair plastered to him in intriguing swirls and his bits barely hidden by the hand towel clutched around his waist. “Forgot to give me a towel, dintcha? Gonna cost you stars on TripAdvisor, that is. Course, we could come to some arrangement about that.” He let the towel fall.

  Oh god. Rufus couldn’t deal with this. Not with all the . . . feelings coursing queasily through him, and certainly not with Dad and Shelley in imminent danger of coming upstairs. Rufus picked up Michael’s bag quickly. “I’ll just get all this in the wash.”

  He grabbed Michael’s wet jeans and Dad’s shirt and hurried downstairs with them and Michael’s bag. Shelley and Dad were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea.

  Shelley stared at him. “Oh, love, he’s not got you doing his laundry as well, has he? I hope you’ve told him we charge for that.” She took another sip of tea.

  Dad got up. “Let me do that. It’s your birthday. You shouldn’t be running around being a dogsbody for some stranger who just turned up at the door.”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I’ve got it,” Rufus insisted, keeping tight hold of Michael’s bag. God knew what else might be lurking in its depths. Dad’s innocence needed to be protected at all costs. “It’ll be nice to have a bit of company anyway,” he babbled on as he crouched down by the washing machine and threw
in the jeans and shirt. “You know, liven up the long winter evenings . . .” He trailed off, flushing.

  “Quite a looker, in’t he?” Shelley put in idly. “Wonder what he’s doing here, all on his lonesome?”

  Dad frowned.

  “I’ll ask him,” Rufus said quickly, pulling the rest of Michael’s clothes from the bag and jamming them into the machine in one big bundle. He poured in detergent and switched it on.

  “You don’t have to cook for him tonight,” Dad said, still frowning. “I’ll explain we don’t do dinners out of season. He can go out.”

  Rufus would have to find Michael something to wear first. “No, I don’t mind. In fact, it’ll be good to have someone new to cook for.” It would, actually. Rufus never really felt their usual guests—or his family, for that matter—fully appreciated his cooking.

  “I don’t know,” Shelley said doubtfully. “He doesn’t look like a gourmet-dining sort of bloke to me. More a ‘hunt it down, wrestle it into submission, and cook it on an open fire’ sort of bloke. A real man’s man.” Her expression brightened.

  Dad’s frown deepened.

  Rufus stifled the urge to shout, Yes, he is a man’s man, and I’m the man. “I already told him he could stay for dinner. He’s really looking forward to it,” he lied.

  “Oh, well, if you’ve told him already.” Dad gave him a fond look. “I don’t know what we’d do without you. Certainly wouldn’t have been able to keep up the B&B after your mum got sick.”

  “Yeah,” Shelley chipped in. “Best stepson a woman could have, you are.”

  Rufus never knew what to say when they went all sincere on him. “I’ll go and see if Mic—I mean, Mr. O’Grady needs anything. Um. Is it all right if I lend him some stuff of yours, Dad? His bag had an accident.”

  “Oh—yes, of course. I don’t suppose he’d fit into anything of yours, would he?”

  “Not with them shoulders,” Shelley said dreamily.

  Dad was going to get permanent furrows from all this frowning. “Still, fortunately he and I seem to have similar taste in clothes. Yes, take anything you want.”