6. Nikos

6

NIKOS

I sit next to a stranger in a black cab, watching out the window as Central London blurs outside. And I thought traffic in New York City was bad. London takes the cake when it comes to standstill traffic and bad-mouthed drivers.

My initial worry was that the cab driver would recognise me, since my face is plastered on the side of his car, bare chested and with nipples on display as my character rides his dragon. But like the man beside me, the driver doesn't blink. It seems he's far more interested in sticking his head out the window and shouting profanities at every car we pass - at a snail's pace, that is.

‘I'd say we decide on a location, because driving circles around London in a black cab is going to empty our pockets quicker than a shop around Harrods.'

I watch the man in the reflection of the fogged-up window as he speaks. ‘What on God's green earth is Harrods?'

His pale brow lifts into his hairline, pulling a face of mock horror. ‘You're American, right?'

‘Is it that obvious?' I retort.

His laugh is as sweet as honey. I like it. He smells like it too, no doubt the kind of man who wears perfume meant for women - not that I care. I mean, who decided that a man couldn't wear Ariana Grande perfume if he wanted to?

‘No. I mean - yes. I'm just trying to give you a comparison. Harrods is like one big…mole, like you Americans call it, just filled with designer items.'

‘Mole?' I chuckle, which soon becomes a belly laugh at the man's obvious confusion about what has me in hysterics.

‘What's so funny?' he asks, his tone an audible version of scowling, crossing his arms over his chest.

‘It's a mall, not a mole.'

‘Fuck you,' he says, but with a smile. ‘It's the accent. I know what it's called.'

I turn from the window to face him. There's barely space between us, the glass partition separating the back seats from the driver dripping with the moisture in the air. Is it criminal to use the air conditioning in a car in London? I'm sweating a little, the collar of my shirt sticking to my neck. Part from the heat, but more so from my nerves that the man at my side will finally recognise me.

‘I'm not familiar with the best places to frequent in London,' I say, offering him a distraction from his obvious embarrassment. ‘You decide. I'm just happy for the distraction.'

I expect him to ask me what I'm being distracted from, but he doesn't. There's something easy about his company. I think the fact he helped me navigate an anxiety attack in the bathroom helped break down the barrier between us as strangers. Or the fact we both made a connection from the enjoyment of pocket monsters - now that was a fact I was ready to explore when the time was right. I was a secret nerd, and no one knew it because it didn't fit with the leading man image.

‘Well, we could hit a club?'

My reply comes out too quickly. ‘No, thanks.'

‘Crowds, oh yeah. I remember. Sorry'

I nod, trying to hide my nerves. I hardly imagine that I could walk into a club in the heart of London and keep up this luck of not being recognised. Being anonymous like this hadn't happened in so long that toying with the man at my side was a thrill.

‘Well, then we could go get food?'

My stomach rumbles in response, but again, restaurants seem to be out of the question. Sadly, I can't say no, since he heard the growl too. ‘I could eat.'

‘Any requests?'

It's obvious he finds this more awkward than I do, like he's never picked up a person for a night. He fidgets with the material of his jacket, picking the threads from the seam until they fray. ‘I'm not in London often, so how about something quintessentially British?'

My purposely bad rendition of an English accent makes him smile. And what a nice smile it is, all lips and a hint of teeth. It's the type of grin that stretches from ear to ear, warming the cheeks and putting sparkles in the eyes.

‘Be careful what you ask for - ' He stops himself, fumbling over the fact that a name would fit in his sentence, but he doesn't have one. He bites his lip. ‘If I told my friends I just got in a car with a stranger whose name I don't even know, they'd kill me.'

‘I could say the same.' I waggle my eyebrows. ‘But to really make them cross, how about you give me a name. Just for the night. Go for it.'

This is the test. A way to work out if this man does, in fact, know who I am.

He narrows his eyes, roaming his gaze over my face. I feel every inch of skin he passes over, as though he's trailing a feather over it.

‘Hmm, I think I need to think about that.'

‘Don't think too hard, you might hurt yourself,' I reply in jest.

‘You don't know my name either, so I think the trade is only fair.'

I lean in, taking a deep inhale of that honey-kissed perfume. I wonder if he tastes as sweet as he smells. I suppose we might find out.

‘How about this,' I begin my proposal, just as the cab comes to an abrupt halt. The driver slams his palm into the horn, and his string of fuck you, prick, bastard chops, dick head comes spilling out. ‘If you can successfully distract me from my responsibilities tonight, then I might just tell you my name come morning.'

Because come tomorrow, I'll be on a flight heading out of London, and it won't matter if he knows who I am. The least I can do for tricking him is give the man a good story to sell to the gossip news sites - the fact that he spent an evening running around town with Nikos Ridge.

His eyes brighten. ‘Okay, deal.'

He extends a hand, which I take. Following his lead, we shake on the agreement. His palms are so soft I almost melt into him. I can tell from the sheen of his nails that he paints them with a clear gel. They're extremely well-manicured, whereas mine look brutalised because I've bitten them to stumps.

‘Deal,' I reply.

He leans forwards, and for a moment I think he's going to kiss me. I don't know why my mind goes there, but I'm actually disappointed when he knocks on the plastic window between us and the driver to get his attention. ‘Drop us off here, please.'

The driver doesn't complain. Clearly glad not to have to drive any further through London, he pulls up to the curb, takes the cash from my companion, and lets us out.

As I climb onto the streets, I leave the little trepidation I had in the back seat of the car. No thoughts of the film, of my father, or the kittens Selina must be having right now as she works out how to cover that I'm missing.

I'm not a monster. I texted her as I left the bathroom, letting her know I was safe and heading back to the hotel, not to be disturbed, to which she replied with a string of angry face emojis.

Tomorrow, we have a short flight to Paris for the final press interview - she can berate me then. But tonight doesn't belong to me, or the film. It belongs to the man who threads his soft fingers in with mine and drags me into the side streets of London.

‘Whoever came up with the idea of mushy peas deserves a lifelong sentence in prison, no chance of parole,' I say as I watch my distraction scoop up a glob of green mush on a piece of battered fish.

‘Don't knock it,' he says through a full mouth, which I would find gross on anyone else, but which is endearing on him, ‘until you try it.'

‘No thanks, you can have it.'

My stomach is full of fish and chips which apparently, he claims, is ‘the most English meal you can eat'. When in London and all that. I scarfed the entire portion down.

My stomach aches from the overload of carbs, which I'll need two extra sessions in the gym to burn - or I would've, if I was still trying to be in shape for the movie. The habits of the last year will die hard. But I try not to care. The bottled beer he brought for us certainly helps wash it down. As does the view of the Thames.

‘It's really peaceful here,' I say, leaning back on the stone steps, a cool breeze caressing my face. I close my eyes, listening to the sounds of the rushing water.

‘It fucking stinks,' he replies. ‘But it was the only place I could think which wouldn't have a crowd.'

He isn't wrong. The river certainly stinks - of fish and shit. But the quiet makes it all better. As does the way the lights from the buildings on the other side of the river twinkle as they reflect across the dark waters. In the distance we can hear horns and cars, the chatter of people as they experience London after dark. But here, there's only us and the water.

I've always loved the water. Growing up in a small town back in Greece, I would wake and hear the lapping of ocean waves, and fall asleep to the sound too. When life got dark, there was always the water, offering me a lullaby.

My Mama once told me that the sound of the waves against the shore was her whispering stories to me, no matter where she was in the world. That stayed with me when she died.

Sitting here, on wet stone steps, with a stranger at my side and the water singing in front of us, I don't care about the smell. Nothing has the power to ruin this moment. It's by far the most peaceful I've felt in years.

‘How did you find this place?' I ask, peering at him out the corner of my eye. ‘Seems like a hidden gem that you can only find when you really need a place to hide from the world.'

The stranger smiles at me, a corner-lip grin that warms me from the inside out. ‘It's near the offices I work at. I found it the day I got my job offer. There was so much going on in my mind, a list of endless possibilities of how my life was about to change. I got lost walking out the offices and found myself here. It seemed that this spot found me, to be honest. Since then, whenever I've felt the need for some peace, I come here. It's my special place.'

‘Well thank you - ' It was my turn to stumble on the lack of his name, ‘ - for sharing your special place with me.'

He shrugs. ‘You're welcome, I guess.'

I look at him, really look at him, as he stares longingly over the water. He takes a deep breath in, as though he can absorb the peace of his hidden gem. I see something in him that I share. A need for escape, a need for quiet and contemplation.

‘It would be nice if the night stretched on forever,' I say, breaking the sudden quiet between us. ‘I like this, existing in a place where the only thing I worry about is the name of the man I'm sitting beside.'

It's been almost three hours since we left the premiere, and he's still a mystery to me. I thought I could last the night without caring to work him out, but alas I find myself craving answers.

But answers would lead to the truth, and I don't think I'm ready for that to ruin the moment. Not yet. And the fact that he hadn't told me his name either only proves to me that he feels the same.

‘I have an idea,' I say, sitting up, almost knocking over the Styrofoam tub of mushy peas I've left untouched.

‘Should I be worried?' he replies.

‘Maybe.' I wink. ‘But tonight we both wanted to escape from something, right?'

Right…'

‘Have you ever watched Cinderella?' I ask.

‘I'm gay,' he replies with a laugh. ‘I could recite any Disney film word-for-word. Of course I know Cinderella, although I'm more of a Little Mermaid kinda man.'

To be honest, I haven't even contemplated his sexuality, the same way I never really think of mine. I mean, I guess I've never allowed myself to really think about my own sexuality before.

‘Well,' I say, quickly diverting the topic before I could say something that crosses the line. ‘We're both like Cinderella, fleeing the ball and leaving lives behind us. Our crystal slipper is currently back at that premiere, and with it our pasts. We exist only in this moment. So, instead of swapping names and stories, why don't we make them up for each other?'

My perfect stranger ponders this for a moment, taking a swig of beer as he contemplates. ‘Ok. You start. Give me a name.'

It was easy. ‘Honey.'

‘Excuse me?'

‘Honey. Because you smell like it. You're sweet and sticky - sticky, I mean, because you've stuck yourself to me with ease. Hold on, that came out wrong. I mean it in a good way, of course. I like honey and I just think you're - '

Honey silences me with a hand on my knee. The moment he touches me my entire body erupts in shivers. Even with the material between his hand and my skin, I still feel as though he's imprinting himself on me.

‘Okay, no need to dig your hole any deeper.' He smirks. ‘Honey, I like it.'

I smile, running a hand through my hair nervously and pushing the strands off my face. ‘And what are you going to call me?'

‘Adonis,' Honey says with confidence.

I laugh. Really laugh. The type that builds in a person's stomach and is almost forced out, breathless and rushed. ‘I suppose I can cope with that. How did you work out I was Greek?'

‘I didn't,' Honey replies. ‘It was more from the way you look.'

I smile harder, which makes Honey's cheeks stain red. ‘I'll take that as a compliment then.'

Honey rubs his hand on the back of his head. ‘I'm not flirting, you know.'

‘That's a shame,' I say, nervous bubbles popping in my stomach. ‘I wouldn't mind if you were.'

‘It's just straight men often think a gay person being nice to them is for ominous reasons. I was simply pointing out that you're hot in a no-homo kinda way.'

‘Who said I was straight?' I say without thinking.

Tonight, I can be anything. As I said to him, there is no past. No Nikos Ridge. No responsibilities. I can be anything tonight, and Honey's presence certainly makes that possible.

‘Well, whatever you are, it doesn't matter.'

‘No, you're right, it doesn't.'

I hold Honey's stare a beat longer than friends would. I read his embarrassed expression and can't help but find it endearing.

‘So,' he says nervously. ‘What do you want to do next?'

Who do I want to do would've been a better question. ‘The night is young. Anywhere else you want to take me? I'm all yours, Honey.'

I see it then, a glint in his eyes. I know without a doubt he's thinking the same thing as I am. Where else can we exist where there's no crowd, a place we can continue to hide away and play the part of strangers without questions?

A room. Preferably, a bedroom.

‘Well, I have beer at my house, Adonis.'

I swear the way he uses that nickname makes me want to show him just how fitting it is. ‘I like beer,' I reply.

‘I can tell,' Honey replies, looking to my empty bottle.

‘Do you know what,' I say, standing and offering him a hand to pull him up. ‘I think I've got room for something sweet. I do like to follow up my meals with a dessert.'

‘Really?'

I love the way his voice cracks when he's nervous. I lean in, breaking the last wall between us. My mouth comes so close to his face that I can smell the salt and vinegar on his breath. It doesn't repulse me, not even the slightest.

Nor does he pull back.

‘I have a taste for Honey,' I say.

‘You - do?'

Nothing is stopping me from pressing my mouth to his. Only myself. I know, if I do this, then the story Honey can sell tomorrow morning would really be juicy. Nikos Ridge, fucking a man instead of a leading lady. But maybe that's what I want. A way to sabotage myself, my career - a way to sabotage my life until it's no longer beneficial to the man who I once called father.

And maybe it's even more than that. Maybe I just want Honey for myself.

‘Shall I book an Uber, or do you fancy a walk? I ask.

Honey sheds the nervous glint in his eyes and smiles, as though he's finally come to terms with what's about to happen. ‘Whatever gets us there quicker.'

I pull back, noticing how he leans in a little more. ‘I like the sound of that.'

My phone is in my hand in seconds. I pay no mind to the screen full of missed calls and texts and open the Uber app. Honey recites an address and in two minutes our car is booked. Another five minutes and it arrives. In twenty minutes we're scrambling into his townhouse, greedy hands all over each other.

I was right. Honey is exactly what I need. And from the way his mouth crashes into mine, the feeling is mutual.