by J P Sayle
“Tut, tut, dear boy. You know I’m still awaiting an invite to your new beau’s pad. And before you start on about ‘it looks more like a war zone than a house,’ can I remind you that yours was pretty much the same when you bought it?”
Greg shuddered at the memories of what the previous tenants had done to the place before he’d bought it. He pulled his thoughts away from bashed-in walls and stinking carpets, covered in God knows what.
“That may be the case, but I needed you to help me peel all those disgusting carpets out of here…” Her raucous laughter stopped him.
“Yes, I remember. However, I’d really like not to be reminded, thank you. I still have nightmares at what was possibly crawling in them.” Her squeamish squeal had him laughing this time.
“What did you want, Mum? I have to get ready for Gemma coming. I don’t mean to rush you. Oh, by the way, before I forget.” Greg paused and braced himself. “Brad, the guy I was talking to you about, has invited me and Aaden for Christmas dinner. Err, and I kinda said yes. It won’t upset your plans, will it? It’s just that this will be his first real Christmas, and I want to help him celebrate.” He rushed on, knowing his mum would understand, but still, it was Christmas, and he’d never not gone home before.
He’d shared some of Brad’s story when it had hit the local and national papers after Brad had gone to court.
“Yes, I understand, but you won’t be able to get out of New Year.”
He heard the slight edge of disappointment in her voice as she carried on speaking.
“And I expect you to bring Aaden. It’s about time I met the man who’s made my son light up brighter than any Christmas tree we’ve ever owned.”
Greg was glad his mother couldn’t see his full-body flush at her words. Her observation had hit the nail right on the head. And it was true. The light inside him could rival his mother’s obsession with Christmas lights. Lights that competed with any department store display.
He let her chat on about his dad and the surprise trip to Las Vegas she bought as his Christmas gift. His dad was meaner than Scrooge when it came to buying gifts, and his mother had learnt the hard way. If she wanted a nice gift, then she had to buy it and use her husband as an excuse.
He ended the call, chuckling at what would be another battle of wills when his father saw the bill for Vegas because his mother didn’t do cheap.
As he went back into the bathroom, Greg halted.
His hand rose and hovered near the mirror. The whites of his eyes stood out starkly against the sky blue of his irises. His eyes widened until they looked to be eating up the whole top of his face. A face that, to his disbelief, was the colour of burnt orange. A burnt orange that was competing with the bold bright ginger of his hair glowing under the bathroom lights.
He stepped closer to the mirror, hoping it wasn’t quite as bad as his eyes were telling him. His lips flapped open, then shut. No words formed. Shocked into silence, Greg blinked slowly.
His hand touched the mirror as if it was a mirage in front of him. He felt the cool surface under his fingertip, which drew his attention to what had recently been a pale finger and now resembled a dark burnt-orange segment.
He tried to get a word out. The loud mewl had his eyes dart around the bathroom before they landed back on him. He took a breath, trying to calm his pulse. A pulse that had decided it wanted to run away and hide. Racing as far away from the thought of what the rest of his body looked like.
The fear had his tongue glue itself to the roof of his mouth, making it impossible to swallow. With trembling legs, he stepped back, allowing the mirror to catch sight of the upper part of his torso when he was too scared to look down at himself.
A bubble of hysteria cut of his air supply. Greg coughed and spluttered, glancing away from the disaster that stood staring back at him from the mirror. His silent cry turned into a wail as he dashed to the shower. His trembling fingers worked on turning it on full, and he stepped in before it heated. He squealed but didn’t move as he let the water wash over his body.
His mind conjured the scene from the movie Bride Wars, where Anne Hathaway’s character ended up with the spray tan from hell. Tears gathered in his eyes and spilt down his cheeks at the reality that he resembled the awful colour she’d been.
His teary eyes watched in distress the orange water pooling at his feet. He fumbled for the shower gel and luffa. Forgetting he’d used it to put on his tan, he started scrubbing. Only when the water started to run a darker orange did it twig what he was doing.
He wailed, convinced he might have woken the dead when his ears rang.
“Why me, I ask you? How do I end up in these fucking ridiculous situations, I ask you? Aren’t I good person? Don’t I like to help others? Yes, I do. I’m always the first to help. So why the fuck is the universe messing with me? First Vic, now this. Where will it all end?” Greg ranted, shouting and wailing at the steamy shower walls as he scrubbed and rubbed until his skin was raw.
He was not sure how long he’d been in the shower. His wrinkled skin said it had been a while when he tilted his head at the loud bang of his front door shutting.
Greg cursed, remembering too late that Gemma knew where he kept his hidey-key. He frantically turned off the shower and jumped out, dripping orange water over the red-tiled floor. He grabbed a dark brown bath sheet of the radiator and tried to cover as much of his body as he could.
He wailed at his reflection before he could stop it. He only looked a fraction less burnt orange and a little more bright orange.
His head flew up as Gemma screeched, bursting through the door wielding her umbrella, as if ready for battle.
Gemma thought her heart was gonna stop when a loud wail of distress seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. Grabbing hold of her brolly, she charged upstairs. Her five-foot frame vibrated with unleashed aggression. Her shitty week had her ready to kick someone’s arse, and that meant whoever was tormenting Greg right this minute was going to find she was an expert at opening a can of whoop arse.
When the bedrooms showed no sign of life, Gemma burst through the door of the closed bathroom.. “Where is he? Let me at the fucker,” Gemma yelled. She searched the tiny bathroom for whoever had caused Greg to wail. Her eyes skimmed over Greg not focusing on him but rather on the tiny empty bathroom. Finding no one, she turned her attention back to her dripping wet… burnt-orange friend.
Her eyes glued themselves to the vision in front of her. She couldn’t quite believe that anyone in real life could have skin that colour. She clamped her lips together, but to no avail. The tears rolled down her face as she dropped her brolly with a clatter. Gripping her sides, she bent forward and howled with laughter.
She choked past the laughter. “Oh… my… God… good… lord… save me… now. You look like you’ve escaped from the jungle. All you need now is to find the rest of your orangutan family.” The words stopped on a breathy inhale before the laughter started again.
Gemma couldn’t quite grasp how Greg had managed to find that one spray tan that had him look more like an orange-u-tan, than orangutan. She wiped at her eyes, uncaring she’d just wiped all her makeup across her face.
After the week she’d had at work, Greg was absolutely the best medicine she could have wished for. All her worries seemed to have disappeared under a cloud of orange steam. She tried to look contrite when Greg’s orange face glared at her. It only set off another round of laughter when the whites of his eyes glowered.
Lifting her finger, she tried to rein in the giggles. “Gimme a sec.”
Unable to contain it, Gemma let out all the laughter building inside her. She hoped it would stop when she felt her eyes start to swell with all the tears she was crying. Then she realised it didn’t matter if her eyes swelled. No one was going to see her. Because there was no possible way she would persuade Greg to go out looking like the extreme version of the “you’ve been tangoed” adverts that were popular in the nineties.
“I’m so
rry. Really, I am, but I have to get it out. I think I’ve finished now. I hope you have plenty of alcohol in because I have a feeling we’re gonna need it. If not to help get that off your skin, then to dull the pain of trying to scrub that shit off. I really want to say right now ‘I told you so’ but I’m not goi—”
“You just did,” Greg interrupted, his finger stabbing the orange air between them as he continued. “You cow bag, don’t think I didn’t hear what you just said. I may be bright fucking orange, but I haven’t lost my hearing.”
Gemma felt the laughter start to bubble as she fired back. “You better hope Aaden has lost his sight or his marbles by Christmas Eve if we can’t dampen down the brightness that is your new skin colour. I have to ask. What the fuck were you thinking?” She pointed to his orange chest while she sucked her lips between her teeth at the despair on her friend’s face.
“Don’t bother answering. I’ll be your new scrubber. Come on. I’ll get the alcohol. You run the bath. Acetone can remove nail polish. Then alcohol should surely help soak that shit off your skin.”
Gemma spun on her heels and headed back downstairs. She needed a moment to stop the laughter from escaping when Greg had turned round to reveal his back. Somehow, he’d missed a big chunk of skin, making his back look more like a jigsaw puzzle. Only he was missing a nice burnt-orange piece of fake tan to fill the gap.
Chuckling all the way downstairs, she pushed up the black sleeves of her blouse, thinking she might need one of Greg’s old tops. Even with it being black, her boyfriend would kill her if she ruined it. He’d paid a small fortune for her Tommy Hilfiger blouse.
Rolling her eyes at thoughts of her boyfriend, Gemma pushed the thought away and focused on Greg’s dilemma instead. She went to the cupboard and dragged out several bottles. She sighed at the change to her plans. The she remembered Greg’s orange face. She grinned at the empty room, finding she wasn’t all that bothered at all, especially when she considered how much mileage she could get out of this situation.
An evil glint filled her eyed as she grabbed her phone out of her handbag, shoving it into the back pocket of her black skinny jeans. She clinked her way back upstairs, eager to see if her mind had been exaggerating how bad Greg had looked or if he was really ready to become an extra for the old tango ad’s.
She hummed what she thought was the theme tune from the tango adverts. She walked to the bathroom with a spring in her step, wondering if the other guys were going to be coming tonight because she would hate for them to miss this.
On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me:
The kink and the copper’s boyfriend
Nick
23rd December
“Nick, the postie has just delivered a parcel for you. I’ll leave it at the bottom of the stairs.”
Aaden’s loud shout echoed off the bare stairs as Nick poked his head out of his bedroom door to hear.
“Okay, just give me a sec,” Nick hollered back.
Reversing slowly on his one good leg, he turned and hopped back to his unmade bed and sat. He gave a cursory glance at the mess on the hardwood floor. Having only the use of one leg and crutches, he’d struggled to figure out how to balance and pick up shit. He held on to the huffing and puffing he wanted to do, just about.
He pulled on the black slouch pants Aaden had bought. It was too chilly for shorts and his jeans were way too tight to go over his air boot. He’d been forced to ask Aaden to go and buy him some loose pants.
As he tugged on his Kings of Leon T-shirt, he looked around for his trainer. He spotted it stuck under a pile of dirty washing, and he dragged it out from under the clothes. After he put it on, he reached for his crutches lying on the floor, where he’d dropped them after his morning shower.
He gave his left leg a disgusted grunt when it ached at the movement.
He’d been disappointed when Aaden had taken him to the orthopedic clinic appointment on Thursday. The doc had explained it would be several weeks before it would be fully healed. Then he would require physio to assist with the wasted muscles from lack of use. He supposed he should count himself fortunate he didn’t need surgery.
Nick kept the sigh in, barely, as he pushed his arms into the crutches. The rubber tips thumped against the wood as he slowly manoeuvred around the messy room.
He thanked his lucky stars there was only the bed in the room, so he didn’t have to act like he was about to do an assault course. Half the time he felt like he was in “It’s a Knockout” clattering and banging into everything Aaden left lying at his arse. Nick couldn’t stop the sigh this time as he shoved open the door, leaning on one crutch.
He hobbled out into the hall. His eyes kept diligently looking away from Brody’s closed door. Since the weirdness in the car park at the hospital, Brody was now avoiding being alone in the same room with him.
He sniffed, grimacing as he made his way slowly down the stairs. He ignored the stab of pain in his chest at the distance it had created between them. He couldn’t understand how Brody had gone from hot to cold in such a short space of time.
Fucking hell, Brody had been all up in his face after the kiss, almost as if trying to provoke him. And now he was acting like he had the plague. He wished to fuck he’d just stick with one theme. Then at least he would stand a chance of it not messing with his head.
Dream on!
Nick forced himself to stop thinking about it.
He hesitated halfway down the stairs, distracted by the sound of raised voices. He flicked out his tongue and clamped it between his teeth. Leaning over the banister, he strained to hear what Aaden and Brody were fighting about.
This also seemed to be their new thing, and Nick, for the life of him, couldn’t understand what they were fighting about. He’d always felt excluded from their little clique. They had been as thick as thieves when they were teenagers. He should know. He’d spent most of his time following them around like a little lost puppy, wanting to join in the fun.
Yet now there seemed to be an unleashed tension between them, and it worried him.
Was Brody jealous of Greg and Aaden’s relationship? Was he still hankering for Aaden after all these years? More to the point, was he using me to get at Aaden?
Nick shook his head when all he was left with was unanswered questions. He pushed away the worry that gnawed at his insides and tried to quietly move down the stairs when he couldn’t quite catch what they were arguing about.
He swore silently when he kicked the parcel at the bottom of the stairs. He paid it no mind as it landed with a splatter. He held his breath, waiting to see if they heard the parcel falling. When no one came out to investigate, he hobbled down the last stair. His attention was completely riveted to the closed kitchen door. The voices got louder.
He dithered at the bottom of the stairs, not sure what he should do when he heard his name.
“Nick is my brother, and I want to know what is going on between you two?”
“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you. Nothing is going on. I have a boyfriend back at home. How many times do I have to tell you this? Nick is your baby brother and, as always, a pain in my backside. You know I just like to wind up the little squirt.” Brody’s deep voice filled the empty hall.
Nick felt his legs buckle. His heart plummeting to the ground. He released the crutch handles and clung on to the banister. A sob trapped in his chest. He heaved, trying to stop it from escaping and betraying him. He willed himself to take a breath. Anything to calm down. His hands trembled against the dusty wood spindles as the word “boyfriend” reverberated around his head. As if the word was a bowling ball, it knocked away any possibilities of more, just as it would skittles in the bowling alley. His hopes fell fast and furious, taking away his dreams of a relationship. Dreams he’d been hard pressed to put back into their box after Brody had kissed him.
He has a boyfriend.
His gaze shimmered as it fell to the ground.
His watery eyes, bli
nked rapidly, landed on the torn parcel. He gulped.
Unfuckingbelievable!
His hands grappled to get back into the arms of the crutches. His slick palms slid over the plastic clumsily. He forced his quaking legs to move. Struggling, he cursed. He had to move to get to the parcel before Brody or Aaden saw what was now scattered across the wooden floor.
Forgetting his problem with bending and leaning, Nick miscalculated. His body tipped too far forward as his leg went one way and the crutch the other. It hit the floor, clattering as he lost his balance and ended up arse over tip, in a heap on the floor.
Nick cussed up a storm when pain exploded in his backside and leg at the same time. “Fucking, shitting… hell… you wanking… arsehole… bastard!”
The parcel lay forgotten when the sound of a door slamming into a wall was the only warning he got before Aaden barrelled towards him from the kitchen with Brody stomping behind him. The two sounded louder than a hundred cows rampaging across a field.
“What the bloody hell have you done now, Christ almighty, when did you become so accident…”
“Squirt, you need to stop this attention seeking. It’s…”
Aaden’s angry rant and Brody’s sarcastic quip stopped so suddenly it took Nick a second to register what must have caught their attention. He wanted to scream when he saw their joint stunned gazes fixed to the floor in front of him.
The urge to bury his head had him not looking at anything other than the floor in front of him. He prayed it would open and swallow him whole.
Could this day get any worse?
The choked cough from Brody had the temperature rise around him, and sweat coated his upper lip. His tongue glued itself to the roof of his mouth when he tried to swallow. He tilted his head forward, grateful when his hair hid his cheeks and his mortification.