Chapter 5

Chapter

Five

S tan

I sit back in my desk chair and try to focus. There's an estate sale I'm interested in and my screen-reading software is reeling off a list of album titles. I'll be bidding on the lot in a few days, so the details are important.

But I can't stop thinking about Raff. It had been torture last night to be close to him and yet not touch him. We've sat together on a sofa, talking and laughing hundreds of times over the years, but those innocent days are clouded by new memories of what it's like to touch him, what it feels like to slide into his body and hear his moans.

I knew what we were doing when we started sleeping together. I knew it was dangerous to my heart, but I couldn't stop, and the reason for that was simple. I've been in love with Raff for most of my life. I don't know when or how it started. It was as simple as breathing to me, and one day I looked at him, and I knew he had the whole of my heart, and that would never change.

There's nobody like him. He's funny, kind, and the best kind of wild, but equally, he's my safe place—the one person I turn to when I need comfort.

When he kissed me for the first time, it was game over. I couldn't have resisted him if my life depended on it, and the sex had been so good. The kind of sex that changes everything .

Sighing, I shut off the software and I take the path where my brain is determined to take me. One of those times when Raff and I were together…

Raff is laughing as we enter our flat. The February night is cold, the air tasting of snow, and I'm warmed by the cosy lounge and the tale Raff's telling.

"So, my bride asked the registry office if she could walk up the aisle to some music that had a bit of tension to reflect her ambivalent attitude towards matrimony. She expected something by Massive Attack, but do you know what they played? The Mission Impossible theme tune."

As we take off our coats, I savour the feeling of lightness between us. Since that night on the sofa a few days ago, there's been a funny distance. Nothing terrible—it's like we're cautiously settling into a new dynamic. Tonight was just what we needed. We'd gone to a local club and spent the evening dancing and laughing like fools. Now, my limbs feel like jelly, and I'm completely relaxed.

Hump comes out to investigate us, and I pet him, stroking his ears and telling him that he's a good boy. I hear the patter of claws as he moves away.

"He's gone back to bed," Raff says. "Reminds me of your dad when he used to wait up for us."

"You lie. His nose was never that wet."

He laughs, and I pull at my scarf irritably. I hate anything confining, so god knows why I put it on—probably a lifetime of my mum pressing it into my hand.

"Here, let me." Raff's voice is full of warm laughter, and I inhale the scent of his cologne as he comes nearer. Gentle hands unwind the scarf from my neck. There's a soft thwomp as it falls to the floor, and then I gulp as his hands run down my T-shirt and over my arms. The touch is gentle yet knowing, and I stifle a groan at the feel of his skin on mine. It's a painful relief, like I'm a neglected plant being given water again.

"Raff?" I say hoarsely.

His body jumps as if he wasn't aware he was touching me. There's a pause, and then he sighs.

"Should I say sorry?"

I swallow hard. "Do you want to?"

Silence descends as his hands move, smoothing up my chest before they twine around my neck, pulling me down to him. "No," he whispers and kisses me. His lips are full and soft, and before I know it, I've pushed my tongue past his lips, seeking his own tongue to suck on before the kiss deepens and becomes wetter, filled with sighs and groans.

His hands move again, pulling me tighter against his body, and his scent makes my head spin. Then he tugs me with him as he moves backwards, and I follow him the way I always have because he promises mischief, mayhem and so much fun. This is a huge step up from our usual brand of trouble though.

When he comes to a stop, I explore with my hands and discover he's leaning against the back of the sofa.

"Support," he mutters.

"Ah, the scene of our last cataclysmic decision."

He pulls my T-shirt over my head and discards it. "So gorgeous," he murmurs, running his fingers over my shoulders and chest.

I shudder as his sexy voice tugs at my balls.

Not to be outdone and dying to touch him, I push up his T-shirt, following the cotton with my fingers and mapping out his torso. His skin feels like silk under my rough fingertips. He's thinner and less hairy than me, with long muscles and a lithe energy I can feel even when he's still. The desire to see him is a deep ache, but I have loads of practice in ignoring it. I twist the pebbled nubs of his nipples and smile when he gasps.

"Yes, just like that," he says feverishly, and I tweak them again before rubbing my nail over the crumpled skin. He moans, and I inhale sharply, searching for control as he starts to writhe against my leg, the hard length of his cock digging into me.

I lower my hands and find the waistband of his jeans, quickly unbuttoning them and sliding my hand inside. Raff's dick is hard and hot, with a damp spot already forming on the soft cotton of his briefs. Fisting his length, I give him a couple of firm strokes, feeling more precome. He groans and arches into my grip, and suddenly, it isn't enough. I need more skin.

I shove his briefs down and fill my hands with his arse. It's full and round under my palms, a testament to his trainer. If I could, I'd send her a thank-you card.

The feel of him—touching him in this way I've always longed to yet never dared—creates a half second of panic. I've had my hand on my best friend's cock, and now his bare arse is in my palms. What the hell am I doing?

But panic disappears immediately when Raff groans and shoves into me, kissing under my chin and licking and sucking at the skin. I know exactly what I want and need to do.

I spin him around, not even trying to be gentle. "Bend over," I say hoarsely.

The way he shudders under my hands, and the speed with which he obeys, tells me something new about Raff. He likes being told what to do during sex.

The knowledge sends a thrill down my spine. I'm naturally bossy in bed, and I like to be in charge. The thought that Raff's desires complement mine sends a fresh wave of pleasure down to my dick. I have to give it a pinch to stop myself coming.

I slide my hand down the long, graceful line of his back as I carefully lower myself to my knees. Then I reach out, filling my palms with his cheeks and spreading them so I can nose inside. I lick a stripe down his channel, and Raff's whole body stiffens.

"Stan?" His voice sounds almost surprised.

"No?"

"It's just… Well, I haven't had this done much."

Relief floods me, and I bite my lip to hide a smile. "I suppose your usual speedy sex turnaround doesn't leave much time for intimacy. Your partners might lose the skin off their noses if they linger too long down here."

"Alright, Quaker Stan," he says crossly, and I laugh.

"Luckily for you, this is one of my favourite things."

"I thought that was collecting old Roxy Music albums and the rose and violet chocolate bar from Fortnum and Mason. Oh fuck ," he groans as I lick around his hole, sending my tongue dancing over the wrinkled opening. "God, don't stop," he says, his voice going high as I begin to suck.

Ignoring his garbled protests, I pull back and slide my finger through the moisture.

"Why is this so good?" he whispers.

I cock my head. "The better question is, why are you still talking?"

I suck on the opening again before sliding the top of my tongue in as it loosens. Raff chokes out a groan and begins to writhe under my hands, undulating like seaweed in a current while I lick and suck, getting his hole nice and open.

I lose myself in the scent and taste. It's tart and yet sweet, just like him, and I'm so far gone that it takes me a second to realise that he's pulling away. His hands urge me up to lean against him. "Raff?"

"I need you to fuck me," he says, and his voice is wrecked—husky and low.

I hesitate. "But if we do this, what happens after, Raff?"

He strokes my cheek. "Then we carry on being friends like we agreed. Didn't we already talk this over?"

"Yes," is all I can manage as my hands move independently of my brain, circling his waist and pulling him close.

"Fuck, I want you inside me."

That hoarse whisper is too much, and all my caution flies away. I spin him around, pushing him forward until I feel him settle against the sofa again. "Lube," I gasp. I'm going to come out of my skin if I don't have him soon.

"In my pocket," he gasps as I circle his hole with my finger. "Let me get it."

"You were thinking of picking someone up tonight while I was with you?" I growl.

"No," he blurts. He hesitates, and I have to strain my ears to hear his next words. "I hoped we'd end up here."

I'm dimly aware that I'm already breaking our rule of nothing serious, but I can't focus due to the throbbing of my cock. My need for him is like my need for air. The desperation of it should make me pull away. But I don't.

I hear rustling, and then a packet is placed in my hand. "You deal with the lube," he says. "I'll get the condom."

After pushing my jeans and briefs to my knees, I tear open the packet with my teeth and squeeze the contents into my palm.

As I warm the lube between my hands, I feel Raff step closer. I gasp sharply as he rolls the condom on me. He's slow and teasing, like he is with so much else in life. He grips my length, holding it loosely as if prompting me. I wait for a second, then give in and arch into his knowing grip. He immediately tightens it, and I shuttle in and out, fucking his hand until it's too much.

"This will be over before it's even started," I warn.

He grunts in agreement.

"Bend over the sofa," I instruct.

There's a rustle of movement, and I put my hand on his back to centre myself. His skin is damp with sweat and hot to the touch. I skim my hand down, admiring the wiry strength and litheness of the body under my fingertips, and then, with one hand holding his cheeks open, I find his hole and rub the lube into it, stretching him slowly and thoroughly and ignoring his whispered pleas. My heart is hammering in my chest, and my blood feels like it's burning in my veins.

Finally, he shoves my hand away. "Now," he orders.

I grab his cheeks, spread them, and notch my cock against his hole. I push gently inside, taking it slow as I work against the muscle. Finally, I bottom out, feeling his skin hot against mine.

We both go still and groan. My head is reeling, and I wonder if he feels the same astonishment and awe that we're finally doing this.

I wait a few seconds for him to say something, but he's quiet as he begins to undulate against me. Slow at first, as if testing the fullness, and then a little faster.

My cock rubs over his prostate, and he jerks in my arms. "Ah, god, yes. Shit, Stan, you feel so fucking good."

"You do too," I say hoarsely, both hands holding on to his hips as if supporting myself. I need the support. I'm dizzy and lightheaded, all my attention on the snug, hot clasp of him around my cock.

I try a thrust, and he cries out. I slow, checking if I've hurt him, but his groan of pleasure is a green light.

I push at his hips, widening his stance before I pull all the way out. It takes an effort to leave the tight clasp, and he makes a disgruntled sound as I pause. Then he shouts when I shove in again. Hard.

I can go deep in this position, and the sound of his desperate cry makes me flush hot all over. "Take it," I mutter, shuttling in and out, gripping his shoulders and feeling his buttocks bounce against me as I hit home. He moves suddenly and I realise that he's raising his legs so the sofa's back supports him. I grab for his thighs, holding him steady, lean back and thrust again, and he goes completely rigid, goosebumps breaking out on his skin under my fingers.

"Fuck me right there," he begs.

I push against that sweet spot inside him, rubbing over it with the edge of my cock while he shivers and whines.

The sound of our groans and grunts echoes around me, the scent of sex and sweat filling my head. I'm holding him too tight, and I'm probably bruising him, but I can't care, because I know he wants it. He's pushing back at me just as hard, begging me to go faster, deeper. So I do, gripping the back of his neck as I hammer into him.

My balls tingle, and I know I'm close. I need the length of his body—all of him—tighter and closer. I clasp his midsection, raising him from the sofa. My cock goes impossibly deeper, and he jerks as if he's been electrocuted.

I feel for his face and tug gently until he turns it to me. Then, cupping his chin with my fingers and tracing his lips, I lean in and kiss him.

Everything slows as though time is dipped in treacle. We kiss with tongues and choked groans, and I trail my fingers along his sharp jaw and down his neck. And then, with my hand over his chest, holding him firmly, I start thrusting again.

I can hear the meaty thwaps of flesh meeting flesh, and I revel in them. With Raff, I'm more free than I've ever been. I can be completely unrestrained with him, because he knows every sharp edge in me.

He raises his arms and I feel his hands twine around the back of my neck. His body arches, and I skim my hand down his chest, tweaking and pulling at his nipples until he cries out.

Then I lower my hand, spreading my fingers through his wiry bush. I grip his dick, and it feels like an iron bar in my hand, the tip sticky with seed. I speed up, my thrusts banging into him while I shuttle my hand over his cock, the trace of lube and precome making him slippery.

His whole body tightens against mine, and he gasps, "Coming. Fuck I'm coming."

He gives a long, stuttered groan, and his cock pulses in my hand, coating my fingers with wetness. Bringing my hand up, I suck on the digits and groan at the taste of him. It only takes a couple more thrusts, and then my balls tighten, and I come seemingly endlessly, emptying myself into the condom.

We collapse against the sofa in a flurry of damp limbs and sighs and?—

"I've done the window display, Stan."

My sales assistant Lennon's voice disturbs my trip down sexy memory lane, and I jump guiltily. "Sorry, what?"

"You alright? You're a bit flushed."

I'm fervently glad the desk covers my lap. I clear my throat. "I'm fine. Did you need something?"

"The window display is done."

I focus my attention on the lad who started here in a Saturday job but who displays all the same sticking tendencies as Kem and myself. He's passionate about music and has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the seventies which is ironic for someone whose parents probably weren't even born then. He's also preternaturally laid-back, which could be due to the copious amounts of dope he consumes. I always know where he is in the shop because he smells like a coffee shop in Amsterdam.

"Oh, good job, mate. Thank you. What is it this week?"

"I did a rockers window with album covers for bands like Black Sabbath and Mot?rhead. The background is red, and I included that sixties record player you got at the garage sale last week. My mate made bats from some old vinyl, and they're flying out of the record player. It's not bad."

"Well, it sounds absolutely amazing."

"It is," Kem's voice says. There's a rustle of clothing, and then I hear the desk creak as he sits down on it. It's his favourite spot. "You're brilliant, Lennon."

"Ta. I've also been thinking that maybe we should have our own music awards."

"Don't they call those the Brits?" I say idly.

"They're so bloody lame." Lennon's voice is rich with disgust. "I watched it last week, and I was bored off my tits."

"They didn't use to be," Kem says.

I chuckle. "Yeah, tell that to Michael Jackson and Jarvis Cocker's cardi."

"What?" Lennon asks.

"Long story. Look it up on YouTube. It used to be Pat's favourite video. He made me watch it when he babysat me and Lottie, and he laughed every time. Suffice to say the Brits used to be a lot more fun—sort of like me and Kem."

Kem huffs. "Speak for yourself. Kem is still plenty of fun."

"And still managing to talk about himself in the third person in a very creepy way."

"Maybe we could do our own awards voted by the customers," Lennon continues doggedly.

I try hard to look in his direction as he talks. It takes more effort than it used to. As my vision deteriorates more, my desire to behave as though I'm still sighted also diminishes. It used to be easy to fake sight and focus on whoever was talking to me, but those days are long gone. I sometimes can't help thinking—why should I try so hard? It's not my job to make a non-disabled person comfortable with my own fucking blindness.

I realise that Lennon's still talking, and I jerk to attention.

"We could leave cards around for the customers to fill in and then feature the winners on the display."

"That's a good idea," I tap my desk idly. "Kem's been looking at a college course on window displays. Would you like to go on that, Lennon?"

There's a startled silence. "But I'd still be working here?" he asks in a worried tone.

"Of course," I say immediately. "God, I don't want to lose you." I can almost feel him relax, so I continue. "It would give you more choices, though. Kem says you're brilliant and very creative. And maybe one day, you'll want to spread your wings."

"I doubt it," he says firmly. "I like being here. But yeah, I'd love to do that." There's a short pause. "I hope there's not too much homework though, Stan. I was never good at that in school."

"Minimal," Kem says immediately. "It's mostly practical, and you can practise what you learn in the shop. They come out and assess it."

I snort. "Maybe make that on a day when old Reggie isn't ranting about how Stock, Aitken, and Waterman were worse than Satan."

We all laugh, and then Lennon says, "I'd really like that. Maybe I could take on the displays in the cafe, too."

"Absolutely," I say immediately and with feeling. "Have at it."

"Don't you want to know what I'm thinking of doing?"

I smile in his direction. "I trust you, Lennon, but if you want confirmation, just run it by me or Kem."

"Epic," he says, sounding extraordinarily like my nephew. "I had the idea of melting down old damaged coloured vinyl and making some tea services. We could make a psychedelic artist display and have it like you've gone through the looking glass. My sister could make the cups and teapots. She's dead creative and makes a mint on Etsy."

"Get Kem to advance you the money, then, and keep receipts. And give him your receipts from the rocker display while we're discussing it."

"Will do. I'll get my folder of ideas out of the staff room."

His footsteps race away, and Kem chuckles.

"Hates homework but has a folder of ideas. That was a good suggestion, Stan."

"I'm full of them."

"Unfortunately for the world's sanity, they usually involve Rafferty."

I clear my throat because that reminds me too much of last night. Raff and I had sat so close together, and it had been hard to remember not to lean on him as he put his arms around me. I'm not physically affectionate with many people, because I like my distance. But that has never applied to Raff. From day one, he's been in my space, and I allowed it, marvelling but liking it too. But now I have to think consciously about what I'm doing around him, and it's tiring. Bennett's phone call had been welcome, and even though it hadn't been the best of evenings, it had still been better than sitting beside Raff and not touching him.

Pushing the memory away, I say, "I had a phone call from Finn Jameson this morning."

"You say that so casually. Only Finn Jameson, whose band won five awards at those boring old Brits."

I smirk. "Well, he's become just Finn to little old me."

"Get you, Star Shagger."

"Chance would be a fine thing."

"What did he want? Aren't they on tour?"

"They got back last week. They've got a new album, and he wondered if we'd like them to play at the store."

"Fuck off."

I smile. "I know it sounds incredible, but they love the shop and want to pay back. He says they've got fond memories of Pat, who gave them a lot of good advice at the beginning."

"Was it the phone number of his dope dealer and how to smuggle drugs into the country in your turn-ups?"

I snort. "Probably. Thank God Finn never picked up on Pat's fashion sense."

"Who can forget that tartan cap?"

"It was a tribute to Big Country and Scotland."

"What did they ever do to deserve that? The brim of the cap was bigger than my head." He laughs. "So, Finn Jameson is playing here."

"Yeah, they'll play an acoustic set if we want."

"If we want? Oh, because it's so likely we'll say no."

"I don't know about that. Can we fit their fans in? They're traditionally a bit…"

"Enthusiastic?"

"I was going to say deranged, but let's run with yours. It's more polite."

"How about a competition? That way, we can set the numbers and make it an intimate gig. I wouldn't mind getting intimate with Finn."

"That's not a bad idea." I pause. "The competition, not your creepy stalker voice. It would be much better all around if he didn't have to call the police on you. A competition might be like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with the gold tickets."

"Well, hopefully, we'd miss the creepy undertones and wouldn't lose any children that are present."

"Yeah. Totally."

"And you can go on local radio."

"How is it that I'm the one doing that?"

"Because you're more charming than me."

"That's not exactly difficult. Fred West was more of a people person." He laughs, and I tap my fingers on the desk to the Saint Motel track playing in the shop. "I've put it in the diary, so we'll need to schedule a meeting with Finn."

"Not his agent?"

"No. I suggested that, and he said when it's friends he doesn't need agents."

"That man could sell charm to George Clooney."

He wanders away, and I sit back in the chair, feeling the leather cradle my back. I reach down, offering a hand to Hump. He licks my fingers with a rough rasp of his tongue, and I tug gently at his velvety-soft ear. He's a Labrador Retriever, one of the breeds that makes brilliant guide dogs. He's sweet and very sensible, and my sister often says he should be in charge of our flat because he's the only adult in the building.

"Alright, mate? Not too boring for you?" I grimace. "Sorry about last night," I whisper.

Hump has to sleep in a basket in the kitchen when we stop at Bennett's flat, because Bennett doesn't like dogs on the bed. It's a far cry from home, where Hump sleeps happily at the bottom of my bed. We got up this morning to find Hump had chewed the legs on Bennett's kitchen table. I'm pretty sure it was Hump's way of voicing his objections. The fuss Bennett made would have been more appropriate if Hump had shit his bed. I wouldn't put it past my dog to do exactly that, if Bennett doesn't improve his attitude. All bets are off when Hump's harness is removed.

"I think I'd rather have shared your basket," I confide.

He licks my hand again and then I hear him settle down in his basket under the desk with a groan of happiness. The sound always makes me smile. I can't imagine my life without him.

When my sight began to deteriorate, I'd been reluctant to use a cane or get a guide dog, determined to ignore the problem. I would walk behind people, so I'd know when stairs were nearby and therefore avoid falling down them. I'd also follow big landmarks when out walking. But after taking more tumbles than a circus clown in training, I gave in and learnt to use a cane, relying on that and my residual sight to bridge the gap in my vision.

I hated the cane passionately at first. It made people talk to me differently, and they treated me as if I was blind, which was hardly surprising.

I'd eventually grown to love the freedom the cane gave me. Still, when my parents tentatively bridged the suggestion of a dog, I'd been reluctant, unsure that I needed an animal to show me where to go. But Hump is like having another best friend. I trust him absolutely, I can tell him things I can't tell another soul, and he doesn't answer back like Raff.

I'll need to rely more on such friends in the future. My vision is deteriorating. The doctors warned us it would happen, and it's become evident I'll lose my last bit of light and shadow perception. Not knowing when it will happen is fucking scary.

In my experience, blindness has been a progression of learning to deal with the current level of shit just as the next setback comes along. It's sad and often very tiring, but I'll deal with whatever comes in the future. It's a matter of pride to me.

There's a knock at the door, and I turn my head in that direction. "Yes?"

"It's Bennett," my boyfriend says.

The sound of his voice should inspire a surge of excitement. I wait a few seconds, hoping it will come…

Yeah, nada.

" Hey ," I say. The amount of excitement in my voice makes me sound like someone in youth theatre, so I modulate it. "What are you doing here?"

"What are you wearing?"

His voice seems to have an undercurrent of amusement and I cock my head to one side. "Clothes?" I raise my hand, touching my shirt with a feeling of dread. I hate the idea that people have been staring at me. "What's wrong with it?"

"You're wearing an old blue Fila tracksuit jacket, an acid yellow T-shirt, and jeans with more holes than a piece of honeycomb. I'd also be prepared to bet that you've got on your neon green Gazelle trainers as you rarely accessorise with anything else."

"Ouch. Well, don't tell anyone I created this fabulous outfit. They'll be queuing up for fashion advice." I laugh in relief that it's not too bad. I've definitely worn worse. "I packed an overnight bag quickly, so I didn't have time to check the outfit with Raff."

"And why do you have to check with him, of all people? He's hardly an arbiter of fashion. Last week, when I came round, he was wearing a onesie with naked Santas on it."

I repress a smile. "I used to have a colour detector. If you pressed it against clothing, it would tell you the colour."

"Why don't you use that then?"

"Well, it had quite a posh voice and Raff used to imitate it and tell stories of what it got up to when it wasn't in use. If I remember correctly, it had a particularly debauched relationship with the TV remote control. I couldn't take it seriously after a while."

"How charming," he says in a voice that makes it clear that it's anything but. "Maybe you should go back to it and rely less on other people, hmm?"

By other people he means Raff. His disgruntlement at Raff's position in my life has increased lately.

"Hmm. And maybe you should keep your opinions to yourself, Bennett."

My voice is light, but my meaning is unmistakable, and there are a few uncomfortable moments of silence before he finally mutters, "Sorry."

I repress a sigh. Bennett has become a problem. I've been searching for a way to break things off for a few weeks now, but my attempts have been foiled by his flashes of humour that can be quite endearing, and his ability to change the subject.

I first met him at a charity event to raise money for a guide dog centre where he'd been bidding generously. We were introduced by a friend of mine and Bennett had made his attraction to me very clear from the start. I was desperate at the time to escape my unreciprocated feelings for Raff, and Bennett's attentions were very flattering to my wounded heart.

He was good in another way too. Everyone sees me as Stan—the go-getter and the confident man who takes on all obstacles and wins. That's a big part of me and who I'm proud to be, but the truth is that underneath this fa?ade I'm not so confident and I feel vulnerable far more times than I'd ever admit to anyone other than Raff.

Bennett had somehow seen that in me though, and by being older and gently commanding, he'd given me a way to switch off my troubled thoughts and be a little vulnerable for once.

It was a pleasant experience to be with him…for a while.

The trouble came when his gently commanding air slowly switched to something more appropriate for a sergeant major on the parade ground. I can't put my finger on when it changed but that attitude is never going to work for me long term. I left home at eighteen and travelled the world for a year. I'm quite sure that I'm not cut out to be told what to do by anyone, least of all my boyfriend. Bennett likes to be in control, but my blindness is not something he can ever arrange to work properly.

I've been putting off ending it because I can't help but feel guilty. I'm the one who let this happen. It's my fault that I drifted for a while allowing him to make some of my decisions while I wallowed in my feelings for Raff. But now I've woken up again and it's too uncomfortable for me to let it go on much longer. I've got a feeling that my parting with him is going to be acrimonious. He's too stubborn for it to happen any other way, and he doesn't like to lose.

I push those worries away to deal with later. "I thought you were working today," I say.

"One of my clients cancelled." His tone sounds irritated. "So, I thought I'd pop in and take you to dinner."

I grimace. "Ah. Sorry, but I can't."

"What? Why?" He sounds affronted, as if he cannot imagine a scenario in life where I shouldn't be sitting around waiting for his company. He'd have more luck dating a Golden Retriever than a human being.

"I'm going to that concert with Raff," I say.

He gives an aggrieved sigh, and I bite my lip to hide my smirk. Raff is an easy-going bloke, but he has the ability to irritate Bennett like no one alive. He seems lodged under his skin like a chaotic strawberry-blond tick.

"Why?" Bennett asks.

"Because they're an excellent band, I like a concert, and I love spending time with Raff."

"I just can't understand it. He's so lightweight and happy."

His bewildered voice makes me want to smile. He isn't the first person who Raff has confounded with his temperament. "Is that a character failing now? You'd better tell Disney, if so."

"His levity forms ninety per cent of his personality. I'm disappointed that you can't see that, Stan."

I cock my head as anger stirs. "And I'm disappointed that you're talking to me like you're my mother. But then I suppose we can't always be happy in life."

There's a startled pause, and then he says in a sullen voice, "Rafferty is wild and far too charming for anyone's good. He's a bad influence on you."

"What?" I can't help my surprise. The level of spite in his voice is new and disconcerting. He's always been so careful to keep it low-key. Probably because he knows I'll stick up for Raff.

"With him, you do stuff that could be dangerous."

"Like what?" There's an edge in my tone that someone normal would pick up on, but Bennett is completely convinced of his own rightness in everything. He wears certainty like a superhero cape.

"Well, you did that skydive with him last month. That was so dangerous with your condition."

" Condition ? I'm not pregnant. And I don't know if you're aware of it, but Raff wasn't flying the plane. Nor was he teaching me—or the other person in my tandem jump—how to skydive."

"Yes, but it was his idea. He encourages you to forget."

"Forget what?"

"That you're blind."

"Oh, God forbid." I take a deep breath, rage squirming in my belly. "What you're failing to realise is that he encourages me to live," I say through gritted teeth. "He lets me be free, and he's always been my safety net in case I fall."

My voice is steely, and there's a long pause before I hear him move. His footsteps sound nearby, and I half stand, only to jerk in surprise as he takes my shoulders and pulls me up. I hate it when people do that. My family and friends know to take it slow if they're going to hug me.

"I'm sorry," he says, embracing me. "I shouldn't have said that."

I'm stiff in his arms. "But you meant it." I sigh. "Bennett, maybe we should?—"

"No, don't say it." His voice is urgent. "I'm sorry I said anything. I don't know why I did."

"Because you were cross and taking it out on me?"

"Well, maybe."

Unexpectedly, his rueful words make me laugh, and he senses my weakness and pulls me even closer. "I hate fighting," he says and kisses me. His hand is firm on my chin, and his tongue pushes into my mouth. He tastes of mint and smells expensive, but it's still all wrong, and I can't help my instinctive recoil.

He lets me go. "What the hell, Stan?" he snaps.

I can feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment. "Sorry. You took me by surprise."

"Really? What about all the other times, then? We haven't had sex in a month."

"I'm just very tense at the moment."

"So am I. You don't see me turning into a monk."

I try for a light note. We're in my office, and I don't want to air details on my sex life to customers. I think they'd prefer The Black Keys album that's currently playing. "Well, I definitely won't be either. I'd trip on the long robes, and Hump wouldn't like the food at a monastery."

To my surprise he laughs. "Maybe the monks should just serve table legs and then he'd be happy."

I relax a little. "Sorry about the table," I mutter. "I don't know what came over him."

"No need to apologise. I think he's still holding a grudge over that crate."

Bennett had bought a very expensive dog crate for Hump when we stayed at his place but on demonstrating it, he'd accidentally locked my dog in. That would have been fine if he hadn't then bent over the crate and dropped the keys inside.

"He was eyeing me in a way I haven't seen since I watched Steve McQueen in The Great Escape at Christmas. Please don't ever give Hump a motorcycle and an escape route. He'll end up living on an island in South America under an assumed name."

His whimsical words make me chuckle and relax a little. These flashes of humour are what's made me stick around for the last couple of months. It's like he lifts his armour just long enough to seem fallible, but sadly, he always lowers it again.

"Stan, it's Raff. Am I interrupting?" Raff's voice comes from the door.

" You ," Bennett says in a tone more suited to greeting war criminals.

There's a startled silence. "Yes, me," Raff says. "I have the uneasy feeling that I'm being blamed for something. It's not exactly an unusual circumstance, but I do like to be able to fully claim my bad behaviour."

Bennett huffs. "We were talking about this ridiculous idea of a concert."

I groan. "It's jazz-funk. Not abseiling down the Eiffel Tower."

"Rafferty, please keep Stan safe," he says in a tone of voice that makes me want to scream. "You influence him into making bad choices. You need to be better."

"That sentence sounds like it should have a hashtag attached to it," Raff says, and I can detect a tiny note of tension in his voice.

"You know that I'm right."

Raff's tone is chilly when he speaks again. "Stan makes his own choices in life. He's not quite your Stepford wife yet."

" What ?" I say.

He continues, and I can hear the animosity bristling in his voice. "Stan's a grown man who makes up his own mind what he wants to do. He doesn't want or need me to wrap him in cotton wool. He's more capable than you and I put together. I'll always look out for him, but it's not because he's blind. It's because he's my best friend."

"I think we should try to consider Stan's feelings and stop this argument. You're rather confrontational this afternoon, Rafferty. Maybe it's youthful high spirits." Bennett's voice is pompous, and I hear an angry-sounding hiss come from where Rafferty is standing. "I'll speak to you later, Stan," Bennett finishes silkily.

A fraught silence falls after he's gone.

"Are you with him because you have a kink for boring headmaster porn?" Raff enquires.

I snort. "Shut up."

"No, seriously. Mr Bishop was less strict than him when he suspended me from secondary school."

"Bennett's trying?—"

He makes a huffing noise. "I'll say he is. Very fucking trying. And what was that crack about me having high spirits? Maybe I should actually be high. That might make it easier to have a conversation with him."

I feel along my chair and grab my jacket. "Forget it. We've got to get a move on, or we'll miss the gig."

"Are we dropping Hump off at the flat first?"

"We certainly are. Hump does not like jazz-funk. He prefers pop. He wants to lie down in a dark room instead." I pause. "Which sounds extraordinarily attractive to me at the moment."

"I'm only fighting for your honour, Stanley, but please don't smother me with gratitude," he says in a pious voice that makes me smile.

"How about I just smother you?"

"How very typical that all of this seems to be my fault. I might just as well wear a hair shirt."

"Well, don't give it to me to wash. I'll shrink it."