He flashes his palm in a brief wave. “See you later, then.”
“See you.”
And I do see him. This dizzy sensation–I feel it even when he isn’t around. His invisible fists creep up and feather along my spine. If Dominic is pins and needles, Art is the low sweep of skin that balms them. I like it too much to move.
“McCoe!” Hazel yells from the corridor. “Come on–I should’ve been back at the pool five minutes ago.”
“Shit,” I mutter. Then my cheeks heat with embarrassment, and I daren’t check to see if Art heard me. I hurry back out, tucking my phone into my pocket as I go. “Coming!”
Ten minutes later, I nearly drop the file I’m holding when I realise what Art just did: you have interesting friends. He didn’t know Drew wasn’t my boyfriend.
But now, he does.
Chapter Eight
Time that Art has been in the pool with me: twelve minutes.
Time that my stroke has been off because I keep catching sight of him: eleven point five minutes.
The moment he dived in, the water got a few degrees colder. My temperature rose with each thud of my pulse, each rush of blood in my ears, and I stopped tasting chlorine as much as I did my own sour heat. We’re alone here, half-dressed and dappled in multi-coloured shadows. We’re alone here with nothing but the swift rush of our man-made waves.
He swims with the jagged grace of a fighter, his mouth set and face stern. For every smooth word he’s uttered in my company, something prickly grows inside him, a thing that propels him through the water faster than my own stroke could ever carry me. I’ve never judged myself to be perceptive but I see him, and he spills fog when he thinks nobody’s watching. There’s no smoke without fire.
I don’t want to be the one to follow him into the steam room, so I haul myself out a couple of lengths early, just in case. I’ve been swimming hard and fast, partly to show off to him and partly to burn off my nerves; now, in the cool air, an ache seizes my body. I almost hunch to greet it.
I’m showering off the chlorine when he appears beside me.
“Great minds,” he mutters as he rubs water through his dark mop of hair.
I suck my stomach in and lower my eyes. “Heh.”
As I walk to the steam room, he pads behind me with wet, heavy footsteps, and heaves open the door.
“Ladies first.”
“Thanks.” I duck beneath his arm and plunge face-first into the steam.
Normally, I’m anonymous in here. Can barely see past my own limbs. No so tonight. I am a half of this chemical thing, and between us, an attraction swells in the vapour. He doesn’t sit at the other end of the bench like last time; he parks beside me, his thigh brushing mine before he murmurs a soft apology and slides just an inch to the left.
I don’t jerk away on the impact of his touch. In fact I do the opposite–a part of me melts toward him. Maybe it’s the heat of the steam in here, or the liquid warmth of my well-worked muscles. Maybe it’s something else.
Art leans back against the tiled wall and puts his hands behind his head. “This is the best bit, isn’t it?”
“Uhuh.” Side-by-side, we can’t make eye contact, and I’m not sure what to do with myself. It feels overly familiar and strangely foreign, all at once.
“You’re a good swimmer,” he says.
“I…I have a lot of energy to work off after being stuck behind that desk.” The hot bench singes the backs of my knees a little, and I shuffle to get comfy. “You’re not bad yourself.”
“I like the water. Always have.” His voice is even huskier amid the steam.
Shivers peel down the bare welt of my spine. “It’s good for recovery, right? I do classes here, and I always feel better if I swim them off after.”
“Yep. Stretches everything out, balances your weight and such.”
And such. So cute, so polite amid a sea of boys who are fucking this and fucking that. Not that I mind the odd curse tumbling from Fist Candy’s mouth, of course. In certain moments, it becomes him.
“We’ve talked a lot about what I do,” he says thoughtfully, “but you haven’t told me what you do.”
This appears to be a prompt. “Right. Well…I work here, on weekends and stuff. And I go to the uni in town.”
“What’re you studying?”
“Business Management.” I pause, then cringe at myself–I’m hardly expecting a round of applause. “I don’t actually know what I want to do with it yet. Seemed like a safe bet, and I always liked numbers, so…”
Art shifts beside me, shoving warm clouds of vapour across my collarbone. “Good choice. Are you still in halls?”
“Oh God, no. Well. I was–in my first year, anyway–but I moved in with my friend Vicky last term. I liked the atmosphere and everything, but I was desperate for my own bathroom.”
“I liked halls. Met some cool people there.” He coughs, brings a hand to his mouth. “I know what you mean though, about the bathrooms. Being the gentleman I am, I shall say no more.”
“Much appreciated.” He’s given me license to ask questions, and my mouth is stuffed full of them at once. Despite the hormones burrowing through my flesh, Art is easy to talk to. “What about you? Are you local?”
“Yeah. Not in halls, obviously. I’ve got one of the terraces on St James–up past The Vaults pub, if you know where that is?”
“I do.” St James is a small cobbled street, just beyond one of the old town gates. The houses are small and almost crushed together, but the windows arch with gorgeous character and the doors are thick, aged wood.
“It’s all right,” he says. “A bit dark, but I like old places. Can’t be doing with new builds where there’s no soul in the shape of them.”
I find myself smiling at that. “Oh, I hear you. I came here for the cathedral, pretty much.”
Art’s voice bends low in a tease I’m fast coming to anticipate. “Gargoyle fetish?”
“Epic gargoyle fetish. I’m not even ashamed.”
He breaks into that musical laugh. “It’s the eyes, isn’t it? Nothing sexier than a stone-cold stare that says I’d tear the flesh from your bones if I wasn’t welded to this fucking pillar.”
Smith hard, Fist Candy. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was actually trying to impress me. “Is it wrong that that’s working for me, just a little bit?”
He puts his hands up in surrender. “Okay. Let’s slow down here before one of us confesses to something even dodgier.”
“Have you seen the place at night, though? It’s gorgeous. They put floodlights on and the shadows are crazy. It’s not even on my walk home from here, but I take the long way sometimes and just go to look.” That sounded like a complete come-on. Christ. I need to reel myself in.
“I’ve seen it, yeah.” He takes a long, deep breath. “You going to look tonight?”
“Maybe. Depends how dark it is.”
“Only you told your friend you had a lift. On the phone,” he says, amber eyes darting left and right.
Oh.
That.
“You trying to avoid him?” Art asks pointedly. “Is he bothering you?”
“Drew? No, no. It’s not like that–”
“I know it’s none of my business, Cait. And I don’t mean to sound like some stupid He-Man who thinks women can’t take care of themselves, because I know it’s not like that, either. I just…don’t do anything silly, okay?”
I really don’t know what to say to that. “My roundhouse kick is pretty sharp,” I mutter.
Art nudges me very gently with his elbow. It’s kind of like being stroked.
“Thing is…I don’t want to spoil his night,” I say finally. “I know he’s not doing anything tonight, but normally, he’s out. Or my other friends are out–”
“And you’re not going to join them because…?”
Because Dominic didn’t like it, and I’m severely out of practise? Because going out means talking to boys and I’m not usually this good at it?
“Liar,” he says playfully.
“So why aren’t you out painting the town?” I shoot back.
“Now this, see, this is a good question. Honestly?”
“Mmm.”
“I haven’t lived here in ages. I’ve been in London for a while…most of my mates are there these days. I mean, some of the instructors have been trying to get me out, but there’s only so many times you can talk about how much you bench. I’d prefer this girl who’s been toiling over a very busy desk all day and needs to let her hair down.”
I snort. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it busy.”
Hang on a minute. Fist Candy appears to be Asking Me Out.
My mouth goes dry.
He nudges me again, slower and more deliberate. His skin is hot on mine. “How about if I buy her a few drinks and promise to walk her home?”
I did not imagine it. Thick, fragranced air sticks in my throat. “Can we talk about how much you bench?”
“Only if you return the favour.”
“Where…um, did you have in mind?” I pray for somewhere casual since I’ve only packed jeans and flats. My foresight stopped at the swimsuit–not that I ever thought he’d be this forward. Yet I like his confidence; there’s something honest and comforting about it. No brash arrogance here.
I still can’t bring myself to turn and look at him, which seems ridiculously repressed. Oh well. Take me as you find me, and all that. I hope he likes his women more conflicted than your average bag of snakes. Maybe I should warn him that I’m otherwise known as Frigid and Hyde?
“Well,” he starts, “obviously, we now have to stop by the cathedral to appease your disturbing fetish. I hope you’re feeling dangerous–we’ll have to break in ‘cause they close the gates at nine.”
“Pretty sure I can get my fix by peering over the fence. I’m not a huge fan of being arrested.”
He laughs again. “I like that we’re talking about hard limits already. You can tell you’re in management, Cait.”
“Oh, screw you.” I return his nudge almost reflexively, my elbow bouncing off the hard muscle of his abs. And then I sit up bolt straight, my skin tight and ill-fitting. I touched him because I wanted to, uninvited and unannounced. Crap. I don’t know whether to call this progress or to just be freaking afraid.
Art gets to his feet and holds a hand out to haul me up. I oblige him, my fingers trembling in his, and he gives me a slow, firm tug. He’s cut like a statue in the darkness, but his face looms closer as I’m pulled toward him and I get the best view of his profile yet–I’m acutely aware of how close he is. My gaze slides down his cheekbones, along the wide stretch of his shoulders, and plummets through a dark sprinkle of hair to the neat taper of his waist. There, I spot the tattoo I noticed in the gym that first time; four roughly inked black slashes curving around his left hip, each an inch or so in length. Like he’s been clawed by some imaginary beast.
It’s only when he lets my fingers go that I realise he’s talking.
“I’ll see you outside in ten, yeah?”
“Can we make it fifteen? Only…I have more hair than you. On my head,” I add, trying not to wince.
Art grins as he pulls the door open and stands aside to let me pass. “Fifteen it is.”
“See you in a bit,” I croak.
Then I hurtle off into the cool air of the pool house, so fast I nearly skid to the locker room.
My brain is a mess of lust-drunk drivel. Given the opportunity, I’d spend hours getting ready to go out with a guy, especially the first time. Now I have fifteen bloody minutes. I’ve never showered so quickly in my life; honey-scented lather spills down to the plug hole as fast as I can scrub myself clean. I whip my razor around the necessary places because the night is suddenly a lace web of possibilities, and I towel-dry my hair because blow drying takes an age. A long braid will have to do, as will my jeans and fitted black jumper.
The only make-up in my gym bag appears to be a lipstick in dark, velvety red. Bollocks. I stand in front of the locker room mirror, my cheeks still flushed from the steam room and the whites of my eyes glassy and fierce. Fuck it–I’ll wear the lipstick. The colour looks good on me.
For the umpteenth time, I check my phone: three minutes to spare. I’m about to leave before I decide to tell Vicky where I’m going–you know, on the off chance that Art’s a serial killer. Not to brag. Of course not.
Her phone rings three times before she picks up. “Yeah?” Thick bass pounds in the background amid the white noise of voices and clinking glass. In contrast, the silence here is stifling.
“It’s me.” I lean against the cool wall, shrinking into myself. “He’s asked me to go for a drink.”
“Who? Wha–oh my God, seriously? Hang on.” Footsteps, clicky heels. “Let me get outside so I can hear you.”
I wait for the racket to die down, my own breath uneven. Tension stirs beneath my breastbone.
“Still there?” Vicky asks.
“Just about.”
“Now let me get this straight: hot massage boxer has asked you out?”
“Yes. To…somewhere. I’m meant to meet him outside work in a minute.”
“And are we clear what this is, exactly? Are you going on a date, or are you going back to his place for a shag?”
Crap. Crap. “I don’t know!” I wail.
“To be fair,” she says matter-of-factly, “you work with him. It’d be a stupid move for him to hump and dump you, especially while he’s new.”
“But he’s a boy. They are stupid.”
“Not all of them, Cait.” Her voice lacks conviction, though. She’s only saying that because she has to.
“So what do I do?”
“Well. Uh, let’s see.” She tuts. “I suppose you decide whether you want to screw him tonight.”
“Of course I don’t,” I snap. “I mean, not that I wouldn’t, but tonight–”
“I know, I know. Calm down.”
I wilt back against the wall. “I suck at this, Vicky.”
“He doesn’t seem to think so. Look. You like him, right?”
I take a deep breath. “Yeah. A lot.”
“So see where tonight takes you.” Her tone lightens; I can tell she’s grinning from ear to ear. “Just go and enjoy him, okay? And whatever happens, come tell me about it in the morning.”
“Is that before or after your alarm goes off?” I deadpan.
“Shut it. And don’t keep him waiting. There’s a time to play hard to get, but being late is something quite separate.”
“You sound like a dating manual.”
She gives a short, sharp chuckle. “You’re treating me like one. Now sod off and have a fabulous time.” Then she hangs up on me.
Gah, Vicky.
In the darkened lobby, I shove my wallet, keys, phone and lipstick into various coat pockets, and ditch my rucksack behind the reception desk. Hazel glances up from her perch behind the computer. Her face is lit ghost-white by the flickering screen.
“Off somewhere nice?” she asks.
Ah, crap. Am I meant to invite her? “I…not sure yet.”
She peers out of the glass doors and nods toward Art, who leans against the bike shelter. He looks awfully tall. “Is he waiting for you?”
My blush is all the answer she needs. I’d like to die now, world. Please and thank you.
Hazel gives the side of her nose a tap. “Ah. I did wonder.”
“Have a good night,” I mumble. “See you tomorrow.”
She turns back to the computer, a suggestive half-grin crawling across one side of her face. “Night, McCoe. Have your cake and eat it.”
Then she configures the manual override for the locked automatic doors, and I slink through, cheeks still burning. The fierce wind hits me, all razored edge and sugar.
And Art.
He wears jeans and a hooded sweatshirt with some surfy logo. The breeze has tugged his damp blac
k-brown hair into strange shapes, and he toys with it, lips pursed in vague annoyance. Quite the contrast to smooth, professional Work Art. He too must have ditched his gym bag because his shoulders are free of straps. On spotting me, his posture loosens and he begins to swing his arms, clapping large palms together.
“All set?” he asks.
“Yeah.” There’s nothing to do but stand here; I don’t know where we’re going, nor if I should take his arm, hold his hand. We’re only a foot away from each other but the space is stuffed to bursting with unspoken words. “So…what’s the plan?”
He returns to hair-tugging. I half think he’ll pull out a handful. “I thought we could walk into town. Cloisters Bar, maybe? You know that one?”
“I know it.” I’ve only ever been in for coffee in the daytime; it’s not what you’d call a student hangout. In the evenings, it’s one of the nicest wine bars in town, all candles and rustic wood and you-can’t-afford-this atmosphere.
“Figured we could do the cathedral on the way home. If the shadows are crazy now, think what they’ll be like after we’ve had a few, huh?”
“Are you going to take advantage of a gargoyle, Mr Lyons?”
“You want to watch?” He throws me a cheeky grin, and gestures for us to start walking.
“I’m going to leave that image in the darkest corners of the internet, where it belongs.”
We start down the gym’s long driveway, through the tunnel of tall oaks that line the road. Twigs and leaves whisper past us on the pavement; road noise is soft static somewhere beyond the gate. The air is a heady cocktail of Art’s spiced cologne and the scent of wet bark and rain-whipped pavement. Nervous sweat prickles at the base of my spine.
We go almost a minute without saying a thing. I watch the hand that swings gently at his side, and I can’t help wondering what it would be like to hold it. It wasn’t long ago that we stood in the steam room, my fingers practically trembling in his; there was something achingly right about it. Maybe touch is a whole other kind of talking. Maybe unspoken words aren’t meant to form sounds, and must be read by hungry fingers on flushed skin.
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