Chapter Fifteen

Lucas

I was left alone with Alex’s dad. Just perfect. He nursed a glass of whiskey while eyeing me like Alex had brought home some sort of serial killer, cannibal and kitten eater all rolled into one. You’re fucking his son, I reminded myself for not the first time. How exactly does he accept that when he’s probably trying his hardest not to picture the two of you in bed together?

Martin was a handsome man. An older version of Alex. A preview of what my young lover would look like in thirty years.

“So, Lucas,” Martin said after he’d let the excruciating silence drag on long enough. “What do you do for a living?”

“I own an underwear company,” I said, and found myself cringing inwardly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Women’s underwear or…just men’s?”

He made me feel like some sort of pervert. I was gay therefore I must get a thrill from making a living from men’s underwear. “Just men’s,” I said, holding my chin up and keeping my gaze on his. Was he going to ask me now if I dealt mainly in kinky underwear for gay men?

“Hmm,” he said. “What’s your last name?”

“Rainford,” I said.

He nodded then, looking surprised. “I’ve seen your stuff in the shops. It’s nice.”

Was that a compliment? I nearly had to pinch myself. He’d realised I wasn’t a pornography peddler but made an honest living selling nice underwear to ordinary blokes. “Thanks,” I said.

“You must make a good living,” he said and gestured with his head in the direction of the front door. I presumed he meant the Lambo.

“It’s not mine,” I said, feeling embarrassed by the car as I always did. I wasn’t a flash bastard which not everyone understood. “It’s on loan.”

“Right,” he said, looking bemused.

I needed to change the subject. I hate talking about me and my dull life. At all costs I had to dodge any questions about mine and Alex’s history and any subsequent revelations about me being on my own at Christmas. “Alex says you teach English literature,” I said.

He seemed surprised again. Was it a bonus point to his son that he had talked about his parents to his older man? “That’s right,” he said. “Do you like to read?”

Damn it, he’d brought it back around to me again. “Very much,” I said which was almost an understatement. I got through two books a week. I constantly bought books to add to my library and I kept a reading journal. Confirmed bookworm. There was nothing I would rather do in the whole world. Apart from make love to Alex as I’d discovered last night. Just the thought stirred me inappropriately and I felt heat crawl up from my shirt collar.

“Who’s your favourite author?” he asked.

“Emile Bront?,” I said and wondered if he was going to judge me on this. Wuthering Heights perhaps wasn’t the most masculine of books and no doubt he would think I had a crush on Heathcliff from a young age, and he’d be right. How could I not? A savage, wild bastard who loved with violence and desperation from the bottom of his black heart.

“She only wrote one book,” he said.

“And what a book it was,” I countered. Could you not be a great author if you’d only written one book? Besides, we had her poetry too.

He inclined his head. “Who else?”

“Edgar Allan Poe.”

He looked impressed. “I’m teaching American authors this semester. Poe, Hawthorne, Twain.”

I nodded. “ The Scarlet Letter is a great book.” Was I trying to impress him now? Perhaps a little. I hope he didn’t ask me about Mark Twain, because I found him dull as ditch water.

“Yes,” he said. “Do you like Dickens?”

“Who doesn’t?” I said.

“What’s your favourite Dickens novel?”

I eyed him. This felt like it had turned into some kind of literature test that I had to pass. Would any partner of Alex’s get this third degree or was it just rich older men who were supposed to know things? Good job I did then. “ A Tale of Two Cities ,” I said. “It was the first one of his I read, and I still love it.”

Martin nodded as though satisfied. “What other classics do you like?”

I could talk about books all day until the cows came home but still, this felt like an interrogation, not a pleasant chat. I imagined a lie detector coming out next, me strapped to it while Martin stood over me in his vest, smoking, and asked me, Have you read War and Peace , yes or no? And no lying or I start chopping fingers off.

I visualised my expansive shelf of cloth bound classics and the way Alex had hung over them with delight last night. “ The Count of Monte Cristo ,” I said. “I’ve read it three times.”

“A great book,” Martin agreed with me. He waited, obviously expecting me to name more. Was he going to sit there watching me until I named every classic I’d ever read and he found me wanting because I hadn’t read enough? It was true that not all those lovely editions of the classics on my shelf had been opened.

“ Crime and Punishment ,” I said. “I want to read that one again.” It was the truth but I was starting to sweat a little under my arms and down my back. I didn’t even sweat when I had to stand up in front of all my employees and give a speech. I didn’t sweat when we had our monthly board meeting and tough questions were asked. When was this going to end? Alex’s dad looked at me. He was going to ask me about War and Peace, I knew he was. I was one of those people who’d had it on his shelf twenty years and picked it up a dozen times, then put it down, put off by the small type and the length. When I’d bought it, I didn’t need reading glasses. Now I couldn’t see a bloody thing and used a reading light in bed for paperbacks. I should just get it on Kindle and use the big font for blind old farts, and get it over with. A great work of literature shouldn’t be an obstacle you needed to conquer though. I’d seen War and Peace adaptations on the telly and liked them. I’d read Anna Karenina and loved it and that was nearly as long, so what was the problem? Maybe it was the ridiculous pages-long list of characters in the front of the book or how everyone had three names plus nicknames which confused me no end.

He was going to ask me and I was going to be shamed in his eyes because I hadn’t read War and Peace. He’d tell me to get out of his house and never come back because a man who hadn’t read Tolstoy’s greatest work was not fit to lick his son’s boots. Or any other part of him. Oh God, now was not the time to start thinking about licking parts of Alex and how much I’d enjoyed it.

Martin opened his mouth to speak as the kitchen door swung open and Alex and his mum came out holding two small plates each. “Starters are served,” Alex said, looking at me. He was flushed and his eyes were sparkling. He seemed happier than he’d been since we arrived. I felt a couple of the knots in my stomach ease. Perhaps his mum had given her blessing. But still, after dessert I was clearly going to end up being strapped to the lie detector and my War and Peace shame revealed to the entire family.

Alex ushered me to a chair. He took the one next to me and although I was relieved I didn’t have to sit next to his dad, I found myself opposite Martin instead. He shook out his serviette and laid it on his lap while still eyeing me. Perhaps he was going to mention other titanic works of literature that I should have read by rights but never had because I’d always heard they were giant borefests, like Moby Dick or Don Quixote .

Pam was smiling at me as she went around the table pouring white wine into glasses. She paused at my glass. “Wine?”

“Just half a glass, thanks,” I said because I wasn’t sure about the sleeping arrangements and very much had the urge to flee as soon as dessert was concluded. She ignored me and poured a full glass so I resolved to make it last for the full meal and eat plenty to soak it up. The way home would be a dark, treacherous nightmare that I didn’t want to contemplate at the moment.

Alex picked up his cutlery and started to tuck into his starter with gusto. I liked what I saw. Avocado on a bed of mixed leaves and spinach, with baby plum tomatoes and pearl barley.

“I put the dressing separate,” Pam gestured to the tiny jug by my plate. “In case you didn’t like it. It’s a mustard vinaigrette. No honey obviously.”

I smiled and used the teaspoon to drizzle it all over my salad before I started eating. The flavours burst over my tongue and I noticed the garlic in the dressing immediately. I glanced at Alex and he grinned at me as though he read my mind, a big piece of spinach stuck in his front teeth. Rather than offend me, it made him even more endearing to me. Damn, I had it bad.

“There’s a lot of garlic, Mum,” he said. “Lucas won’t want to come anywhere near me later.”

I swallowed and almost choked on some rocket, unable to help myself glancing at Martin. He didn’t say anything but looked like he was trying to hide a scowl.

Pam smiled and said with twinkling eyes, “Yes, he will, sweetie, you’re too adorable to stay away from, no matter if you stink.”

Hadn’t she got that right? I couldn’t care less about his garlic breath. If I woke up tomorrow morning with him wrapped around me breathing stale fumes all over my face, I’d be the happiest man alive.

Alex laughed. Under the table, he rested his hand on my thigh and squeezed reassuringly. I tensed immediately. Do not get an erection at the dinner table. Under any circumstances. That didn’t work. For a moment I was transported back to that dark room with his lean body under mine as I thrust into him. Fuck.

I coughed. “This is lovely.” I indicated the salad. “The dressing is perfect.”

“Thank you, darling,” Alex’s mum said and I was startled by the endearment. When was the last time someone called me that? “I suppose I should have asked you if there was anything you didn’t like, although when you’re vegan, I tend to assume you must like all fruit and vegetables, which can’t be true.”

I smiled. “You’re right. It’s not.” I didn’t want to tell her about the sprouts. They were a mainstay of any Christmas dinner.

“He hates sprouts,” Alex said with his mouth full, squeezing my thigh.

I looked at Pam apologetically as though she’d be offended. She just laughed. “Who does? I just do them because it’s tradition. I force them down Alex every year.”

“She does,” Alex confirmed. “And I still don’t have the balls to refuse them.”

“Language,” Pam said.

“Sorry, Mum.”

“No sprouts,” she said. “Anything else?”

I gestured to the small dish in the middle of the table. “Those.”

Alex mimed sticking his fingers down his throat and made puking noises. “Yeah. The devil’s veg.”

I laughed.

“Actually,” Martin said. “Seeing as they have a stone, they’re actually a fruit.”

Alex snorted. “All right, Professor, They’re still minging.”

Everyone laughed while I looked at Martin. Dear God, was Alex joking or was his dad actually a professor? If he was, then fuck War and Peace , he’d hunt me down like the Philistine I was when he found out I hadn’t read Homer’s Odyssey or The Canterbury Tales .

Martin made a big show of popping an olive in his mouth and chewing with satisfaction. “Mmm,” he said and pulled his tongue out at Alex.

I saw the love there then as they looked at each other. This was difficult for Alex’s dad, but he loved his son. Both Alex’s parents clearly adored him. He was a lucky man and I was lucky to be welcome here today. In the heart of a family I’d never had. People had come and gone throughout my life and I had learned never to get attached to the good ones. Maybe that’s why I was alone now. I didn’t form relationships. Safer that way. I felt my eyes start to sting and cursed myself for my softness. It must have been the booze. It had gotten me maudlin last night too when I’d sat there in that posh, noisy restaurant full of people out with their loved ones and asked myself why I deserved to be alone. I didn’t consider myself to be a bad person. I treated others as I would want to be treated myself and yet, they kept their distance. Or was it all me holding them at arms’ length?

I felt Alex’s gaze on me and glanced at him. He was watching me with concern, his look penetrating as though he could see right inside me to the frightened core of the child I still was. He stroked my thigh again, lifted an eyebrow enquiringly, and I nodded. I was okay. I had to be. A part of me wanted to be at home alone though. Sitting in my library with the fire lit and a book on my knee. A cup of hot chocolate on the table beside me and only the silence and my own thoughts for company. My thoughts did me no good though. Never had. And despite all the mindfulness and a shelf full of meditation books, I still hadn’t learned to master them. Instead, they mastered me.

I carried on eating. I would make my excuses and leave straight after dessert. Hopefully, Alex wouldn’t be too offended, because I wanted to see him again. Really wanted to see him again. But would he want to see me again? Hadn’t I given him a glimpse into my inner self, warts and all? He’d got an idea of the sort of man I was and that man wasn’t fun to be around. He was old before his time, a recluse who preferred his own company and relied on himself alone in times of trouble. It was too late for me to change any of that. I held a sigh inside. It had been a magical night with Alex and it had carried on into today. He had shown me a great time, but it was over. I had to let him go.