Author: maleghast (Page 3 of 35)

Hitchiking was always discussed as “the one thing you don’t ever do” when Hugh was growing up, and yet here he was in the passenger seat of a sweet Mercedes convertible, having scored a lift all the way back to London. The guy who had picked him up was apparently called Roger, an older guy but a good looking one, and thankfully he didn’t seem to be cruising. Of course his apparent disinterest made him seem all the more attractive, but Hugh had already decided to leave that well alone. Coming on to this guy was only a potential risk vis à vis the lift, and he needed to get back to Shepherds Bush even more than he needed a blowjob, even if it was a close call.

He fumbled around in his pockets for cigarettes, eventually finding them in the very last one that he checked, naturally. He looked over at Roger, trying to catch his eye, and then motioned with the pack;

“You mind if I smoke, man?”

Roger laughed;

“Sure, go right ahead. In fact, can I get one of those?”

Hugh lit two smokes and passed one across to his driver.

The cold water from the walls was seeping through Geris’s cloak, his torch was sputtering in the draft. When Derral had suggested that they go adventuring, Geris had not really expected cold, wet, dark passageways; never being dry. No that had not been his expectation at all. He had been looking forward to ancient temples, treasure beyond imagining, heroic deeds and perhaps the odd hapless maiden, but nothing had prepared him for reality. He shifted his weight, trying to rest his aching legs; not that it really helped. There was no part of his body that was not soaked and he was fairly sure that he would have given anything to be in a hot bath instead.

The sound of footsteps approaching up the tunnel snapped Geris out of his damp-based melancholia. He closed his hand around the hilt of his sword and raised his shield, waiting, ready for whoever was approaching.

As the approaching torchlight started to get closer, Geris tensed up, trying to steel his nerve. He had been in fights before, but that was no comfort.

Her lips did not really taste of anything, but kissing them made him feel so transported, so excited that it really didn’t matter one way or the other. She let out a soft moan as she opened her mouth and started to tentatively offer him her tongue, her fingers snaking through his hair. He reciprocated and as their tongues danced across each other and darted urgently into each other’s mouths he let himself slide away.

It could only really have been moments, but they kissed for what seemed like an age, hands traveling everywhere that did not have an overt next-level about it, their shared passion rising as if from nowhere to fill the whole room. Then, on instinct, he let his hand gently cup her breast, his thumb seeking out her nipple through the thin layer of fabric, and she let her head fall back as she pressed her hips against him, pulling his mouth onto her neck.

As he rained kisses down on her neck and the top of her chest he felt a hand slipping over his waistband and then her hand closing around his cock.

The lights came up and he felt the familiar heat bathing his face, and let the applause wash over him. He let the audience bathe him in their welcome, using the time to remember his opening, and then once he was ready he took a big breath and made an overblown ‘cut’ motion.

“So… Thanks for coming down here tonight. Yeah, thanks so much. I can’t tell you how many people you are proving wrong just by being here. Anyway, it’s good to be back in London…”

As he paused for the cheers that would always predictably come from the name-drop on the town he caught a glimpse of movement in the wings, stage right. There should not have been anyone over there and knowing that there was somone darting about on the edge of the stage really threw his rhythm. He nearly didn’t pick up the line after the cheers petered out, but just caught it;

“So a local crowd, then? Excellent!”

He paused for a moment and then unleashed it;

“So who here saw Watchmen? Yeah? A few of you, good. Let me ask you, did the blue cock bother any of you too?”

“Wipe those fuckin’ tears away yer shallow bastard! You didn’t give a fuck about her, so what are you cryin’ for, eh?”

David was wide eyed and terrifying as he screamed at Tony. The whole room fell silent and turned to watch the confrontation. David sensed he had an audience and addressed the room;

“Yeah, yer may all look, you bunch o’simperin’ arseholes! Not man one o’yer gave a shit about her and yet here you all are, sipping tea and sayin’ how she’ll be missed. Fuckin’ tea! For the love o’ all that’s Holy, where’s the damn whisky? I mean is this a wake or what?”

People shuffled their feet, nervously looking about whilst trying as hard as they might to not make any eye contact with anyone. The room was silent in response; no one dared to disagree with David, in fact they did not so it was easier to stay silent.

David relaxed a little, took a deep breath and then in a more calm and measured voice;

“G’wan, leave. Go. Yer none of you helpin’ an’ frankly yer make me sick.”

Five minutes later he and Tony were alone.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. Really.”

She cocked her head on one side, frowned and then;

“That’s bullshit, and I don’t deserve that. Now come on, what’s wrong?”

Daniel sighed. He had really hoped that he had covered effectively enough, that she would not see through him and see the conflict between his happiness and his disappointment.

“You enjoyed the concert, yeah?”

She nodded, her frown turning into mild concern; suddenly she had no idea where this was going.

“Well I did too, so much in fact, but now we have to go back to reality.”

Still confused she motioned for him to continue.

“Here we are, together, seeing a band that means so much to both of us, at a time in that band’s story that is going to be very important, and I am so happy about that. I’m happy about getting to share this with you, and now it’s over and in another hour we’ll be getting off the train and heading back to our respective homes and neither of us will be able to explain to the people waiting for us why this night was so special.”

“Is it always like this?”

I look around to find a young fellow who looks a little familiar standing next to me on the crowded platform. I am still trying to place him when he intervenes;

“You don’t quite remember me, do you? I’m the fencing club’s, vice-president’s boyfriend. We met at a party at the weekend.”

It all comes rushing back, and I am slightly embarassed by the fact that I probably did not quite remember him because I was off my face; as usual. It’s no secret that I don’t fence, or that I only really hang around with the University fencing club because of a social coincidence years before, but I imagined that this guy was wondering what on Earth I had been doing at that party.

Again he intruded on my inner monologue;

“You remember? I’m Ted?”

I decide to go with it;

“Yeah, Ted. Sorry about that. Monday morning you know? Yeah, Gina’s chap, I do remember. Just about anyway. Was I very drunk?”

He nodded and chuckled; I kept my face together, but inside my heart was sinking.

“So, anyway, is it always like this?”

What I have always hidden from my children troubles me in these, my last hours. I have long since been certain that what I have told them about their mother and the way in which she left our lives is the only truth that they perceive, and that they have no reason to doubt me. Even so, I am suddenly moved to question my decision.

It was the long hot summer of 1976 when I lost her, when our Lottie was three and her brother Peter was only eighteen months old. Her work often kept her on campus long after I had left. The real beauty of my life as a mathematics fellow is that I have always been able to work anywhere, and so I could easily be present in our children’s lives where her requirement for laboratories made a very different impact on her time at home. I still remember the first night that she returned home, somewhat in a daze, her sentences filled with mentions of someone called Alec.

It took two gin and tonics and the dinner I had kept warm for her before I was able to decode that Alec was a new colleague.

As Horace moved the blade back and forth in a gentle circular motion over the oiled stone he allowed his thoughts to drift to happier places and kinder times, trying to push from his mind that the morning would bring naught but blood and death.

Unlike many of the men under his command he was no longer enamoured of war. A lifetime of killing the enemies of Rome had left him more than jaded, it had genuinely damaged him. He had not seen his wife and sons for nearly two years, and the last time he had been free to spend time with them he had felt no peace whatsoever, constantly haunted by the faces of men with whom he had held no real quarrel and yet he had put them to the sword without a second thought.

It was of no comfort, even, that they would have just as soon run him through if he had not fought with all the fury and cruelty that he could muster. In the heat of war it was not hard to simply survive, but the ghosts that followed him around in the quiet between battles were starting to weigh heavily upon him.

The house band was playing a rather dirgey tango as Tito walked into the hotel bar. A handful of couples were dancing, most of them American tourists gamefully attempting to tango rather than pulling it off, while most of the tables were occupied by local business men and their Friday night girls.

He made for the bar, cutting a swathe through the lazy clouds of cigarette smoke, feeling his heart quicken to the beat of the music, memories of dancing with Connie swirling around his mind, distracting him from his purpose.

He took a seat at the bar and nodded at the barman, who recognised him and moments later placed a mojito in front of him before gliding away to serve drinks for an impatient looking waitress. He stirred the drink lazily and waited; Sanderson was late, as ever.

He turned on the stool and placed his back against the bar, scanning the room for DIPA, sadly they were easy to spot. Satisfied that there were no faces he recognised, and no suspect new ones, he turned his attention back to his cocktail.