by JL Merrow
He spent the evening in the family living room with them, watching one of Rufus’s favourite comedy DVDs. It was all right, actually, especially after Lizzy the Lezzy left early on to get the sprog into bed.
He’d rather have had Rufus to himself. But there was still tonight . . .
Half an hour after they’d all turned in—he’d been planning to wait the full hour, but his dick got so hard just thinking about Rufus, he was worried his kecks were gonna rip—Michael climbed out of bed, padded to the door, and listened. Nothing.
Result. Now, should he chuck a shirt on? Trousers?
Nah, he was still in his skivvies. That’d do.
He pushed down the handle—slowly, slowly—and opened the door a crack.
Still no sounds of life. Thank fuck. He stepped onto the landing, wishing it was as bright there as in his room, where the street lamp shone through the curtains. Here it was so bloody dark, he was seriously afraid he’d get turned around and end up jumping into bed with Rufus’s mum and dad.
He felt his way towards Rufus’s door—and then the worst pain he’d ever felt stabbed him in the foot. He stumbled, and it got the other foot. Jesus. What the fuck was that? Michael slammed against the wall, failed to keep his balance, and toppled onto the floor with a curse and a thud that probably set off earthquake monitors in California. Fuck, that hurt.
A light went on, and Shelley’s face appeared around the edge of her bedroom door. “You all right, love?”
Gerald’s face joined hers.
Great, now both of them were staring at him sprawled on his arse in his undies. Michael supposed it was some consolation that at least his stiffy had died way down.
“Oh dear,” Gerald said. “I’m afraid I dropped a box of Lego when I came up to bed. I was clearing out the games room, you see. Did I miss some?”
In the light spilling from their door, Michael could see, now, that the landing carpet—and in particular, the area around Rufus’s door—was strewn with enough little primary-coloured plastic bricks to keep his nieces and nephews fighting over them for a week.
Michael narrowed his eyes. “You dropped ’em, yeah? Funny that. I didn’t hear a thing.” He knew his Lego. Even just tipping the stuff out gently made enough noise to wake the dead.
Gerald smiled. “Yes, you do seem to sleep very soundly. I’d have warned you about it, otherwise.”
Michael’s arse he would’ve. Which, by the way, wasn’t too impressed with the Lego bricks he was still sitting on.
Michael got gingerly to his feet. He half thought of just flipping them the finger and carrying on down the hall to Rufus’s room, but somehow he wasn’t feeling in the mood anymore. Rufus would probably just tell him to piss off anyhow.
He limped painfully back to his room, to the sound of Gerald and Shelley wishing him a good night.
Yeah, right.
Michael didn’t seem to be in a very good mood when he came down to breakfast the next morning. Maybe he hadn’t slept well? Rufus had slept brilliantly, once he’d taken care of a little problem that came up every time he thought about Michael, in bed, less than twenty feet away. Oops. Better stop thinking about him right now, in fact.
“Good morning,” he sang out, cracking eggs into the frying pan. “Sunny-side up?”
Michael glowered at him from beneath the tousled mane of his hair and the sleek, hairy caterpillars of his eyebrows. “Fuck off and die.”
Aw, bless. “There’s coffee in the pot, or I’ll make some fresh tea if you’d rather have that.”
“Jesus, who are you? Mary fucking Poppins?”
Rufus stopped flicking oil over the yolks and put his hands on his hips. “No, but I’ll send you to tidy your room if you don’t clean up your language a bit, Mr. Clearly Not a Morning Person. My dad and Shelley are only in the other room.”
“Yeah, well, they deserve all they get. You know your dad booby-trapped the hallway last night, don’t you? I’ve got bruises on my fucking feet.”
Rufus stared. “What did he do?”
“Are you seriously telling me you slept through all that? Put out Lego like fucking—what do they call ’em? Those things ninjas chuck on the floor to cut your feet up.”
“Uh, caltrops?”
“That’s the ones. Hurt like fuck. Seriously, what’s your dad’s deal? You’re twenty years old. An adult. What’s he wanna do, keep you locked in a tower like a short-haired Rapunzel?” Michael caught Rufus’s expression and dropped his gaze. “What? My nieces like Disney films, all right?”
“That’s sweet,” Rufus said reassuringly, because it was. “Wait, you tried to get to my room last night?” If there had been one little lump in the béchamel sauce of his happiness, it had been the nagging fear that Michael might have lost interest in him. He beamed.
“Yeah,” Michael grumbled. “Didn’t get far, though.”
Rufus slid the eggs onto the toast that had been keeping warm at the bottom of the grill, garnished each plate with crispy bacon, sausage, tomatoes, mushrooms, and a slice of black pudding, because even though no one ever ate it, it was traditional, and sat down at the kitchen table next to Michael. “Tuck in.”
He watched with approval as Michael went first for the perfectly done egg yolk, which broke and spilled bright-yellow sunshine over the white. Then he snatched the bottle of brown sauce away before Michael could pollute his culinary excellence. “Taste the food, not industrial-strength vinegar.”
Michael griped, but shoved a bit of egg-yolky toast in his mouth unsullied. “Happy?” he mumbled through his mouthful. Then his expression changed, and he chewed more thoughtfully.
“See?” Rufus said smugly. “That’s the difference between supermarket tat and really fresh eggs from happy hens. I get them from a little farm near Arreton. Anyway, Dad’s just worried about me. Well, about you, really. Not being local, and being older and all that. How old are you?”
Michael swallowed. “Twenty-six, and last I heard I’ve got a good few years to go before I get to dirty old man, ta very much. And like he’s got a leg to stand on, for Christ’s sake.” He grabbed for the coffee.
“No, um. It’s not the age difference, exactly. It’s more, um . . .” Rufus bit his lip, laughter bubbling up, and lowered his voice. “I got the whole talk last night after you went to bed. He’s worried you might want, um, more than I’m ready to give.” He gave Michael a significant look.
Michael stared at him for a moment. Then they both burst out laughing.
“Christ,” Michael said after he’d calmed down a bit. “What does he think you’re ready for? Holding hands? Or is that a bit racy for him?”
“Well, sexting is going to be out, obviously, but I think he might let us exchange letters. As long as he gets to censor any unsuitable content.”
“Christ. How do you live like this?” Michael was rapidly getting through the bacon on his plate. Rufus felt a dangerous urge to give him some of his own, which had to be resisted at all costs. His heart, yes. Prime rashers of organically reared bacon from the island’s best pig farm, no.
“Well, it helps living in a place with a really small dating pool. Have you got a place of your own?” He couldn’t keep the wistful tone out of his voice.
Michael paused, a bit of black pudding on his fork. “Nah. Live with my mum.” He popped the forkful into his mouth and ate it with every appearance of enjoyment. Rufus was impressed.
“What’s she like when you bring boys home?” Rufus thought about it. “Or girls, obviously.”
Michael hesitated again before he answered. “Mum’s okay with it. Sort of.” He laughed. “Sorts out the women from the girls, having ’em run the gauntlet of my mum in the morning.”
“Oh god, what does she do?”
“Not a lot. Cooks ’em breakfast, usually. It’s more the way she does it. That, and the comments about how her daughters never spent a night away from home before they were respectably married. Which is bollocks, as it happens, but don’t let my mum know or my sister
s’ll skin me. There’s an extension round the back of the house with a flat roof, and they used to climb out the window onto that and get out that way.”
“What, and your mum never caught any of them?”
Michael put his fork down on his empty plate and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I always wondered if she knew and just pretended she didn’t, but Charity swears she’d have hit the roof if she’d known.”
“Pun not intended?”
“What?”
“Forget it. So have you ever brought anyone back you had to chuck out that way? Like, you rolled over in the morning and thought, ‘Oh bloody hell, I can’t introduce this one to my mum’?”
Michael laughed. “Gimme some credit. If they’re not fit to meet Mum, they don’t get past the front door.”
“Must be a bit of a pain, though. I mean, sometimes you want to get together with someone the parents wouldn’t approve of.” Like Michael himself, say. Picking an example entirely out of the air. “Don’t you ever think about moving out?”
“Nah, living at home’s cheaper. And Mum does all the cooking and housework and stuff.” Michael went a bit red, possibly at Rufus’s disapproving look. “Hey, I give her money every month.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Rufus said insincerely.
“Fuck off. She likes it, all right? Me being at home. It’s company, innit? She doesn’t wanna rattle around in that house all by herself. And she’s told me that, before you say anything.” Michael leaned back, his mug of coffee in his hands.
Was there a polite way to ask if someone was dead? Maybe Dad or Shelley would know, but Rufus was a bit stumped, and he couldn’t exactly call them in and ask in front of Michael. Oh, sod it. “What about your dad?”
Michael shrugged. “Died before I was born.”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Rufus couldn’t imagine that. It’d been bad enough losing Mum in his teens—but at least he’d known her. Had memories of her. Michael had never even met his dad.
Who’d done all the dad stuff with Michael, like playing cricket on the beach and pathetically failing to get kites to launch on the cliffs? Who’d given him lifts to school discos, and lectured him when he was ten minutes late back from the firework display cos he’d been snogging Andrew Harding under the pier?
And, all right, technically mums could do that sort of stuff too—Liz would gut him if he ever suggested she couldn’t do that for Kieran, and he supposed even straight mums could probably make a fair stab at it—but it seemed a bit harsh Michael’s mum had had to do the dad stuff as well as all the cuddling, temperature-taking, label-sewing, and sticking on of plasters. Poor Michael, getting only fifty percent of the love.
Was it easier, Rufus wondered, or harder, having only one parent to worry about not loving you anymore when you came out as gay? Both Mum and Dad had been brilliant about it, but that didn’t mean Rufus hadn’t worried. But at least, with two, you could hope one would still love you and get to work on talking the other one round.
“Did she never get married again?” he asked, trying to get his head round it.
“Nah. Don’t think she ever thought about it, even. She goes on about him all the time, even twenty-six years later. Charity reckons she’s never got over him dying, but she seems all right to me.”
“Was it sudden?”
“Just a bit. He was a brickie, yeah? He was working on the roof of a block of flats when his foot slipped. Ended up taking the quick way down.” Michael huffed a laugh. “Must’ve scared the crap out of the rest of the crew when he came sailing past.”
Rufus winced. “That’s, like, so tragic.”
“Course, Faith reckoned he’d been out on the piss the night before. Anyway,” Michael went on, standing up. “You’re taking me out somewhere today, right? Showing me the sights of the Isle of Wight. And for Christ’s sake take that fucking scarf off your head before we go out.”
“I can’t, can I?” Rufus glared at him. “Marker on the forehead, remember? I had another scrub at it last night, but it’s still not come off.”
“Jesus. You want nail-polish remover for that. You never heard of that? Are all your mates boring or something?”
“We don’t make a habit of drawing on each other’s faces when passed-out drunk, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yeah. Boring.”
“You know, I’m really not looking forward to meeting your mates.”
Michael seemed startled by something for a mo. Then he shook it off. “Yeah. Whatever. So get yourself sorted and we’re out of here, yeah?”
Twenty minutes and half a bottle of Shelley’s nail polish remover later, they were sitting in Dad’s car, driving through Sandown and out Shanklin way.
“I can’t believe your dad let you borrow his car. Ain’t he worried I’m gonna shag you on the back seat?” Michael looked round hopefully. Then his expression turned suspicious. “Or has he booby-trapped that and all?”
“Don’t think so, but I’m not gonna risk it. There’s not enough air freshener in the world.” Rufus shuddered at the thought of the mildly disappointed looks Dad would give him. That was if he was in a good mood. If he was in a bad mood, it’d be fake-puzzled frowns and insistent requests that Rufus tell him what on earth that funny smell might be.
Michael huffed a laugh. “Yeah, and if we left any stains on the upholstery, he’d probably skin me to replace it.”
“You know, you’ve got totally the wrong idea about my dad. He’s all right, really.”
“Yeah? Tell that to my feet. And my tackle. My balls think my dick’s been cut off.” Michael yawned and scratched himself. “Where are we going, anyway? Aren’t we gonna run out of island if we go much further?”
“It’s not that small. Twenty-five miles across at the widest bit. And we haven’t even got to Ventnor yet.” They were driving through Shanklin Old Village now, with its thatched cottages and Ye Olde Shoppes selling tourist tat. Well, in the summer they would be. Most of them were closed right now. Michael was staring out of the window, but Rufus couldn’t tell if he liked what he saw or hated it.
“Ventnor’s the place at the bottom, right?”
“Yeah.” The Isle of Wight was shaped roughly like a diamond, with Ventnor more or less at its southern point, and Sandown up along the coast towards the eastern corner. “You been there?”
“Nope. Is it worth it?”
“It’s got some good restaurants. And a beach. And a pub.”
“Show me one place on this whole bloody island that hasn’t got a beach and a pub.”
“Well, Newport, for a start. That’s right in the middle of the island, so there’s no beach there. Although there’s plenty of pubs. And it has got a harbour cos of the river. Anyway, we’re not going to Ventnor. Or Newport. Although Newport’s not bad, these days, for a night out. It’s got a big cinema and a couple of decent places to eat. I keep hoping they’ll get a gay bar. Dad remembers when they didn’t even have any high street chain shops.”
They were out of Shanklin now, and the view opened out over the bay as the road climbed. Rufus loved this view, which stretched back along the coast to white-faced Culver cliffs at the far end. It wasn’t as good as driving over Brading Down, where you could see the bay on one side and the mainland on the other and you really felt like you were on an island, but it was close.
“So where are we going?” Michael asked again. He must have been a right pain on car trips when he was a kid, Rufus thought fondly.
Perfect timing, though. “Here.” Rufus pulled into the car park of the Cliff Top Café and parked at one end.
Michael didn’t look impressed. “Hate to break it to you, but this place is closed. Or closed down.”
“They’re just shut until the start of the season. Come on.” Rufus got out of the car and stood there tapping his foot until Michael followed suit.
“This better be worth it,” he grumbled.
Rufus grinned, his anticipation not the only thing that was rising. �
�It will be. This way.”
Michael followed Rufus around the back of the café, with its sun-trap conservatory facing the sea, and down the sloping lawn. It’d be a great place to lie out in the sun come August, but right now you’d freeze your nadgers off.
There was a small, knackered-looking wooden construction at the bottom. It wasn’t exactly a shed—more like a sort of posh bus shelter, Michael thought as they rounded the back of it. There was a long, wide bench inside, with walls on three sides and a view out to the front that showed why someone had bothered to put it here, closer to the shipping lanes than the bus routes.
Michael stepped up to the fence just beyond it. Reddish cliffs dropped away beneath him, sloping down to the sea, which cliffs weren’t supposed to do in Michael’s opinion—proper cliffs were white and went straight down, like the ones you could see from Sandown Pier, so if you fell off the top, the next stop was splat on the rocks at the bottom. The worst jumping off these ones might give you was a nasty graze, or maybe a scratch from the gorse bushes that dotted them. The sea, though—it looked about three miles deep and three thousand miles wide, with a rich blue-green colour and not a single sodding ship to be seen. It was like standing at the end of the world.
Rufus slung his arms around Michael’s waist from behind and laughed in his ear. “I can’t believe you’re looking at the view.”
“What am I s’posed to be doing, then?” Michael asked, narked.
“Me.”
Michael went from uh? to fuck, yeah in nought point three seconds. He twisted around in Rufus’s arms and gave him a hard kiss that left them both panting. Caution made him ask, before all the blood drained south and he didn’t give a shit anymore, “You sure we’re not gonna get caught?”
Rufus’s grin was so fucking cheeky it should have been illegal. Christ, Michael loved that smile. “I never have before. Dad knows the people who own this place, and they always spend the winter in their house in Spain. Welcome to the Love Shack.”