by J P Sayle
The house, to the estate agent’s knowledge, had never been listed. She was unsure of its owner. Though it was possible to approach individuals, she discouraged him. Understanding the commission aspect of her job, he had let it go, but the nagging feeling that it was his never quit. Even now he felt it.
Looking back at his home, he’d been encouraged when he’d walked through it. Only in need of minor alterations, the kitchen had been a significant draw. The house was recently refurbished, including the kitchen, which was beautiful. Oakwood cabinets glowed when the sun shone through the large patio doors, creating warmth that invited you in. Homeliness seemed to radiate from every surface.
It had reminded him of the times spent with his grandmother. The kitchen had been the hub central to everything that was good about his childhood. The smell of baking bread had permeated the air. Mouth-watering in anticipation, he had known the butter would melt into its spongy goodness. The crust had been so crunchy in contrast, making it perfect. His happiness tinged with sadness, engulfing his heart. He would have loved to share his home, knowing his grandmother would have enjoyed the kitchen. His most cherished memories were of her teaching sessions, given with great love. Filled with laughter when things went wrong, she had often told him, “You are one of my greatest achievements in the kitchen.”
Martin knew his lack of knowledge in the beginning had been great. The often disastrous results had caused great hilarity. He still could hear the cadence of her voice, transporting him back. “The kitchen is an essential requirement to all good cooking, and when you have a great kitchen, you can create great things.”
Moving in, he’d placed little reminders off her around his kitchen. The old pots and pans were hanging from racks. The herb garden she had helped him cultivate sat on the window ledge. The scents of the herbs mixing reminded him of homemade broth made on cold, wet, windy days. Meats had been marinated, and then roasted to perfection for the family Sunday dinners. The smells of his past made his stomach growl.
Realising he couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, he became aware he was starving. He could do with one of his grandmother’s roast dinners right about now. He sighed. Cold meat and a couple of slices of bread would have to do.
Distracted by thoughts of food, he was unaware that his eyes had travelled back to the house opposite. Movement caught his attention. Was that a flicker of the curtain? Had it moved, or was it only wishful thinking? His earlier uneasy feelings of scrutiny came back with a vengeance. Could someone be watching him from inside that house?
Mentally chastising himself, he knew his obsession with that house was starting to wear a little thin. The need to know who lived in that house jumped into his thoughts at odd moments. Martin was preoccupied far more than he was comfortable admitting to anyone, including himself. Making a concerted effort, Martin put away the lawn mower, getting ready to head inside to get some lunch. He heaved a sigh as his mind refused to switch off. Dwelling on his thoughts, he pretended he was not thinking about the opposite house.
Brad
Brad stretched, trying to relieve the ache in his back. Moving his legs, he realised he’d been sitting too long again. Sighing, he got up and wandered to the window, blaming the lack of music for the distraction of the lawnmower sounds floating through the window.
Brad lost track of time staring at McHottie across the road. He feasted his eyes on muscles as they rippled and bulged under the tight T-shirt. Thighs flexed with each stride, tightening the jeans and causing them to hug and squeeze that magnificent arse. Brad’s fingers twitched. What would it feel like to touch? Would it feel as hard as it looked?
Swallowing several times, Brad had the urge to check his chin to make sure he wasn’t drooling. His gaze was riveted on McHottie’s moves. Stealthy like a predator, he stalked around the garden. Confidence seemed to ooze from every pore. His sheer size made Brad’s insides quiver with needs he couldn’t quite grasp. He’d never had such a visceral reaction to another person.
Bloody hell, his body reacted as if he had been in a fight. The punch was unexpected, stunning him. He felt compelled to keep watching. Realising what he was doing, Brad pulled back, feeling flustered when his body started to heat. He was unaware the curtain had fluttered, giving him away.
Piercing blue eyes shocked him senseless as they glanced towards his home. The instant raging boner had him blushing. “What the hell?” Unsteady hands pressed his cock down as awareness swept over his body. It felt as if those eyes had physically caressed him. Shuddering at the intensity of that one look, he peered down at his now tight-fitting jeans.
“Christ.”
He could still feel the electricity shooting straight to his cock. It pulsed to the point of pain, raging a battle against his zip, trying to break free. Seeking what it wanted. McHottie across the road. Feeling exposed for a second when those eyes had flicked towards his home, he now felt like a peeping Tom, peering out and ogling his new neighbour.
Readjusting himself, he found himself creeping back to the window. His natural tendency to shy away was overruled by his curiosity.
His pulse pounded and his breath escaped in small pants as he looked back out the window. He clutched his belly as it rolled with anxiety, feeling shaky. Maybe he was getting ill, though he wasn’t sure how. He’d felt fine earlier. He touched his brow. It did feel a little hotter than average. Maybe it was McHottie?
His body’s reaction to McHottie did make him feel a little ill. Shit, when was the last time he’d had an erection to speak of? In fact, when had he ever reacted to someone like this? He couldn’t even remember the last time anyone had touched him in any way, well, besides his own hand. His face dropped in disgust as he calculated. “Shit!” He felt depressed by that thought.
His problem had never been attracting men while he had his clothes on. Oh no. He was small at only five foot four. With blond curly hair, sea green eyes that reminded you of tropical seas, beautifully deep, plush lips resembling a ripe peach, and a cute upturned nose he looked like a typical twink.
Going to college had given him opportunities to experiment away from his family, but he’d been crippled by shyness. His concerns about what others would think of his naked body had created barriers so high many didn’t try to breach them.
Feeling ashamed, he had tried to work through his embarrassment. But then he seemed to pick men who were either too busy or not interested enough to get past his concerns. The few attempts at sex had shown how clueless he was, making him feel humiliated on top of everything else. If memory served him right, his body had never reacted this way to the attempts he’d made at a proper relationship.
Sam’s constant complaining about his lack of sex drive had made him feel even more inadequate than the one-night stands. His hope died with every slur, his confidence hitting rock bottom. His scars inhibited him. He struggled to let go in the moment. The effort it took to get him going was seemingly too much. His self-loathing grew, dooming the relationship to fail before it even started. He gave up after only a few weeks, knowing his hand would not complain. He’d stuck with that.
Okay, maybe loneliness might creep in now and then, the urge for human contact a constant ache, but he’d survived. He knew it was better this way. His eyes never left McHottie, but his thoughts lost their conviction as he yearned for something he knew he couldn’t have.
McHottie wouldn’t be interested in someone like him. He laughed at the absurdity of his thinking. Why would anyone, never mind McHottie?
Shaking off his gloomy thoughts, he reminded himself he was stronger now. The island was his refuge. He’d worked hard to make his mind stronger—along with his body—so no one would hurt him again. Flexing his arms, he was proud of the little lean muscles firmness. Training his body had given him confidence, a sense of achievement that he was no longer weak or vulnerable. He understood where his needs stemmed from, but his confidence was undermined over the years with verbal and physical abuse. Slurs about his sexuality made him feel ab
normal. Shamed into feeling wrong about himself. Beliefs ingrained, beaten into him, were hard to shift. His scars were a constant reminder of his failings. Any movement reiterated it, reminding him he was different.
His earlier arousal dampened under his negative thoughts. Sighing, he clenched his hands, digging his nails into his palms. Sweat drenched his underarms as he willed them away. He was worthy of attention. He was. He just had to believe it.
His mind drifted while he watched out the window, memories of his past crowding his mind. His will was not as strong as he wanted it to be. A slideshow of images danced, and awareness slipped away further as his past became his reality.
Words slashed with cruelty, “Homo, fag.” Spittle hit his face as anger spewed over him. Some of the words incoherent as rage distorted them. The slap of the belt as it sliced deep into his skin, wet and sticky in the aftermath of the beating. Brad’s skin no defence against the belt that was wielded by hatred and loathing. The air filled with the coppery scent of blood, and made his stomach lurch. Trying not to retch as the pain engulfed him. All coherent thoughts were gone. Pain so indescribable, made his body wither. Agony evident with every spasm his body fel as his mind screamed. No escape, no escape.
He willed the blackness to take him under. Begged for it, then at least there would be nothing but darkness.
Sweat beaded his forehead as he sank deeper into the horrors of his past. His heart thundered. So loud it pounded in his ears, leaving him gasping for breath. Mewling in distress, unaware the noise was coming from him. Heat against his leg engulfed him in instant comfort. Blindly, he picked Princess up, clutching her as if in protection, gulping air like a dying man.
The images receded with effort. He focused on the techniques he’d learned in therapy. Regulating his breathing, he counted out loud as he struggled to stop the tears from flowing down his face. Wetness continued to drip heedlessly onto Princess’s fur. The feel of her tongue rasping against his cheek comforted him as it always had. Brad nuzzled his face into Princess’s neck, her fur tickling his nose as the vibrations seemed to match his heartbeat. An innate knowledge passed between them. All negative thoughts slowly melted, seemingly plucked away, bit by bit, replaced with intense feelings of love.
The stark reality of his past had always given him living nightmares, but Princess helped combat them. Initially they’d been nightly. He awoke screaming. The fear felt very real as it stuck in his throat. It was almost suffocating. The hours following, he’d spent weeping inconsolably, the pattern never breaking. He’d lost weight, stress consuming him day and night. Sunken eyes and hollow cheeks greeted him daily and left him looking like illness had ravaged him. Unable to bear it, he was driven deeper into depression by self-loathing and hate. It had taken months before he’d managed to motivate himself to try therapy. Knowing what was wrong and doing something about it was hard. Leaving the house had been a struggle.
He counted himself very lucky. His inheritance had given him the house along with Princess, his little black Manx cat. She had saved his life. Without her, he was convinced he would have wallowed, drowning in self-pity. His soul was dying piece by piece, destroyed by hate and cruelty. She offered the love and acceptance his family hadn’t. His childhood place of safety was now his sanctuary as an adult, making it harder to leave it. The first few times panic had taken over, cancelling was his only option. The therapist had been sympathetic and understanding, visiting him initially at home, helping create trust. Eventually he’d been able to leave, finally feeling safe, not just inside but out as well.
His positive thoughts had him wanting to create something unique with the house gifted by his grandmother. He’d worked hard to infuse his home with warmth through texture and colour, giving each room a luxurious elegance that offered comfort. Combining the old furniture with new, he’d hoped to create something timeless. He opened and expanded spaces by knocking walls down and putting massive windows in the back of the house, allowing light to flow through the rooms, touching every corner of his home. Crystals hung from windows, creating dreamy reflections everywhere you looked. Colour glowed, illuminating furniture and walls, making them appear bejewelled. However much he loved the house, it was the bathroom he adored.
The whole bathroom back wall had been removed and replaced with glass bifolding doors. Brad had created a unique space using the doors to encompass the garden into Brad’s living space, which extended out showing off the cliffs and the sea. As he lazed in the massive Jacuzzi, the view of the cliffs and sea made him feel like he was floating over them. Sometimes he lay there for hours with candles flickering reflecting light. The setting sun splashed bold colours across the sky, creating a private oasis. A small balcony had been added for the summers. Getting fed up looking like a prune, he wanted to enjoy the pleasures of his view without becoming wizened.
With his confidence growing, he’d gone a step further by purchasing a car. He had been forced to learn to drive by his father. He’d rebelled. Thoughts of his pink car had chuckles ripple across Princess’s fur. The instant reminder of the cartoon pink panther car had him hooked. Its boldness hurt your eyes if you stared too long at the neon pink. His neighbour’s curiosity was piqued, making them approach to ask what had possessed him to purchase such a vehicle. Unable to say it had been a big ‘fuck you’ towards his father, he’d merely smiled, mentioning the colour.
The sandpapery texture of Princess’s wet tongue chafing his cheek made laughter bubble up, bringing him back to the present.
Princess licked the tears away, offering her silent support. Her heart broke at the suffering she felt through their link, but she was pleased she had elicited laughter. Her hate for a man she had never met surged through her little body as it had many times before. Whispered words at the back of her mind reminded her.
“Hate is not the answer; love is.”
Princess accepted, knew it was right, but she didn’t have to like it. Not one bit where Brad’s father was concerned.
“You want to watch, Princess? He is rather appealing and very, very distracting.” Loud rumbles were her only response. Brad focused back on McHottie as he packed the lawn mower away, disappearing into his home.
“Show’s over.”
Brad pried himself away from the window, and dropping Princess down, he scrubbed at his face trying to clear away the cotton wool feeling the tears had left behind. He just needed to remember what he’d achieved.
“Live in the moment, ‘ey girl? Harder said than done, but you and I can achieve anything together, hmm.”
Princess’s rumbles were increasing. How the hell someone so tiny could make so much noise was beyond him. He cast her a disbelieving look, but the returning eye roll was the only response to his arched look.
Sitting down at his desk, he felt emotionally drained, but deadlines loomed. This was the second distraction he’d had from his work. Ms Stevens, yesterday with her gossiping about McHottie had been far less pleasurable.
Sighing, he opened up the program. He let his fingers fly over the keyboard, bringing life to the pictures on the screen. Now he just needed to continue and not get distracted again. He groaned. His clients wouldn’t want excuses and he didn’t want them deciding they could do better elsewhere.
He shook his head and chastised himself for the negative thoughts. He had built up his IT business from nothing. He had developed software packages for companies to sell their products online. The demand for his work showed his success, but he sometimes forgot. He didn’t need to work. His financial independence was secured by his inheritance, but the need to prove he could be self-sufficient had driven him to succeed.
His smile beamed out as he looked at the work he’d produced. No, he sure as hell wasn’t a failure. His work spoke for itself along with the waiting list of clients. He pushed all other thoughts out of his mind. Work pulled him away from reality and McHottie.
Princess
Princess curled up next to Brad on her bed, contemplating.
; She’d known as soon as she had seen Martin that he belonged to Brad. It now made sense. Martin’s home, she had understood, would be where they would eventually meet. She was never given the whole picture to prevent interference from the guardian. Okay, she’d been chastised by her mother in the past.
She knew this time she was not aware of a few things. Her eyes twinkled with mischief. That was fine. She was nothing if not resourceful. She had already formulated plans while waiting. It had included the building of a little cat tree house at Martin’s home. Princess had established a habit of going over to Martin’s home, so as not to raise suspicion for when the time came, and now it had, she couldn’t wait. Her fur bristled, excitement skittering down her spine with anticipation. Watching Brad through slitted eyes, careful not to attract attention, Princess settled, curling into a ball.
It was time.
Martin
It had been several days since the interlude in the garden. His hyperawareness seemed to be his ever-present friend. As he put out the rubbish the previous night, Martin’s eyes had been drawn to the upper window across the road against his will, beckoning him.
He was lost in thought, and the green hue filtering around the edges of the curtains hadn’t penetrated initially, so used he was to seeing nothing. It confirmed he hadn’t been seeing things on Sunday. The movement had not been a figment of his imagination. Engrossed, he had waited, thinking someone would materialise. Feeling foolish, he’d eventually rushed back inside, hoping no one had seen him staring. But he’d been unable to settle, pacing by the window peeking out now and then just to check that the light was still there. He’d driven himself to distraction. Sleep, hell that was now a distant memory—having tossed and turned all night.