The Lover's Children - Box Set One

Chapter Fifteen - Georgie

Chapter Fifteen - Georgie

I check my watch.

Only fifteen minutes…

Maybe the traffic is bad…

The barman c***s a brow at my empty glass, and I push it across the counter for a refill. The door swings wide and I crane to see, but it’s not Borje. Only some stranger bringing the chill night air in with him.

You wouldn’t stand me up…

Would you?

Plenty of others have…

My arms goose and a frisson shivers through me. The strappy top I’m wearing looks good, showing off my shoulders and neckline, but perhaps wasn’t the best choice for the weather.

Sitting alone, bored and waiting, then worried and waiting, perhaps I drink more quickly than I should. I’ve almost emptied my glass again, and now my watch tells me Borje is thirty minutes overdue.

The door swings wide and Borje, flush-faced, hair tousled, all but sprints inside. “Georgie, I…”

“You're late.” I snap the words, then could bite off my own tongue…

He stalls, his face very bland, voice very calm. “My apologies, Georgie. I was held up at work. It's been a long day.”

I brandish my phone. “You might have messaged me.”

“I tried. But I was on the subway.”

As though on cue, the mobile vibes in my hand, then Pings. Incoming message…

sorry held up on my way

… and a timestamp from twenty minutes ago. Borje’s eyes ping pong between the phone and my face. His voice acid, “Believe me now?”

“Um… Yes. Sorry.” I swallow with a throat too dry. Swallow again: a gulp of my too-strong gin ‘n T…

Calm down…

The barman slides a bowl of peanuts between us. “Can I get you something, sir?”

Irritation ripples through Borje’s voice. “No, thank you. I…”

Something like panic rips at me. “Borje, I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn. I shouldn’t have. Please don’t walk out on me.”

“What makes you think I was planning to walk out?”

“We’re at a bar. You don’t want a drink.”

His eyes crinkle. “Ah, yes. I see how that would look.” Swiping a hand through his hair, he looks back to me, a smile ghosting at his lips. “What is it that brings out the temper in both of us? Georgie, I repeat, my apologies for being late. It was absolutely not my intention. Now… Perhaps could we start the evening over?”

How can I not smile? This beautiful man, asking for my company.

I want you…

And I think you want me…

I hope.

I hope…

“Perhaps we should.” I slide off my bar stool, tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Good evening, Borje. It’s lovely to see you.”

“Good evening, Georgie. And you’re looking lovely too.” He gestures to the door. “Shall we?”

“We’re not staying?”

“I simply asked you to meet me here. I didn’t want you standing out in the cold in case I… um… ran late.”

And feeling like the complete b***h I just showed myself to be, I follow him out.

*****

Double doors swing open, and a solo sax purrs its melody over the floor. Borje holds one door aside, standing back to let me through. “I hope you like my choice of venue. I enjoy music, but I also enjoy conversation. I don’t care for the places where the sound levels blast your eardrums and jellify your brain.”

“Sounds good to me.”

We’re booked in at the Blue Cat Club for the evening, a venue I know by reputation for live music, but have never visited. A server shows us to a table to the edge of the room, with a good view of the band, but not so close as to be deafened by the music.

Borje holds out my seat, sliding it behind me as I sit. “You like jazz?”

“Yes, sure.” Then feeling sheepish, “Some jazz,” I admit. “A lot of it sounds to me more like a dozen guys tuning up their instruments.”

He chuckles. “I get that. I prefer a touch more melody myself.”

“You come here a lot?”

“Fairly regularly. They serve the meal throughout the evening, spreading out the courses so you can mix eating with conversation and dancing.”

“It sounds as though you’ve brought a few of your girlfriends here?” Then, cursing myself, wish I could swallow the words whole.

Borje gives me an old look, then, “Ah, here's the wine. And we'll order, shall we. They do a lobster bisque to die for. I'll start with that."

"I'll have that too, then."

*****

Borje was right about the food. The bisque smells of heaven in a bowl. Rich and creamy, succulent and savoury, fragrant with some herb…

Dill, maybe?

The bread is warm, crusty and obviously homemade.

And yet, my date seems subdued. Borje picks at his bread, stirs the exquisite soup around the bowl, not eating. And now, sitting close, surreptitiously assessing him, I see the stress lines written into his face.

"You look a bit tired. Are you alright?"

He shakes himself wide-eyed. "Sorry, I’m being rude, aren’t I. Um... Rough day at work." He makes a show of spooning up some soup.

“Must have been. Actually, you don’t look just a bit tired. You look beat. Mice could hide in the shadows under your eyes.” He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that… “I… didn’t mean to upset you before. Really, I didn’t.”

“You haven’t upset me.” He gives a shake of the head, sharp with surprise. “Not at all, Georgie. I’ve been looking forward to this evening.”

The band abruptly changes rhythm, a foot-tapping beat now, fast and furious. I don’t know the piece, but Borje breaks into a smile. “Ah, one of my favourites.” His enthusiasm returns and he bites into a bread roll.

*****

The waiter clears our soup bowls. “Your main course will be about thirty minutes,” he announces. “Can I get you anything while you’re waiting?”

“No, we’re fine, thank you.” Borje gestures out over the floor. “Georgie, would you like to dance?”

“I’d love to. But I’m not very good.”

“All the more reason to practice.”

As we make our way to the dance floor, the melody changes again, now smooth, soft and slow. The subdued golden lighting softens Borje’s grey eyes. Pinwheels in red and blue and green glint and gleam, cavorting across the room, dancing over his frosty hair.

We move together, his body near mine, but not too close, one hand barely resting at my waist, the other touching at the narrow strap at my shoulder. His breath kisses my cheek, then my ear; a soft caress that sends heat slamming at my chest, racing through my belly, my core.

The brief taste of him is raw… Primal…

I want more…

“I won’t bite.”

Borje blinks. “Bite?”

“You barely touch me.”

He pauses, pulls away a little, enough to meet my eyes. “You haven’t given me permission to touch you.”

“Permission? You need permission?”

He clucks. “Yes, I need permission. What kind of men have you dated before, Georgie? The sort who assume that because you agree to share wine and food with them, you have agreed to share everything? The whole of yourself?”

“Um… I suppose…” I dry up. Flummoxed, I don’t know what to say.

“You have allowed me to dance with you, Georgie. I do not assume that means you have consented to more than that.”

I’m lost for words. Almost any other date I’ve ever had, by this stage he’d have had one arm wrapped around my waist pulling me in and the other headed south for my ass.

And the memories I keep so carefully suppressed, emerge from their squalid depths: unwelcome guests at any time, certainly now. I never think about it. Never let myself dwell on it, on what happened.

Luke…

Lucas Baxter…

I thought he liked me. He charmed me…

By the time I realised the truth, it was too late.

Tied…

Helpless…

Staked out on the bed like a skin spread out to dry in the heat…

Pleading for them to release me…

They would have r***d me…

The recollection burns a trail through my thoughts but firmly I push it back where it belongs, into the dark…

I resurface. How long? Perhaps a second or two has passed.

In any case, Borje hasn’t noticed my lapse. “What must you think of the male species, Georgie? To assume that I would behave so.”

It takes a few seconds for me to work up saliva to speak. “For the avoidance of doubt, you have my permission to touch me.”

His smile is like a slow bright dawn. “That’s good. Thank you, Georgie.” The hand at my waist slides around and tightens. The one at my shoulder shifts to rest, warm and welcome, on my skin. A little taller than me, he rests his cheek at my temple.

And we move together to the melody. Soft. Smooth. Slow.

“You smell good,” he murmurs.

“So do you.” I say it from reflex, then realise it’s not quite true. Borje does smell good, the scent of clean male. A touch of some body splash with the tang of green tea and pine.

But there’s something else. Just a whiff.

There...

And then gone.

What was that?

Context. It’s all context.

The ghost of a smell. Something that hasn’t quite washed off. That doesn’t belong here in this place.

Alcohol? Disinfectant?

Formalin?

Should I ask?

Excuse me, Borje, but you smell weird. Would you mind telling me what it is?

I hold my tongue.

The music picks up pace once more, to a rocking rhythm that has us swinging and swaying, swirling over the floor, laughing as we collide with another pair of dancers and exchange smiling apologies. As I grow warm, beginning to perspire, my lightweight top comes into its own. Borje too, has a sheen of sweat on his face. And now, all I smell is the clean, musky fragrance of male flesh, heated with exercise.

The song ends and the band set down their instruments for half-time. “Thank God for that.” Borje swipes hands across cheeks shiny with heat and sweat. “C’mon, let’s sit and cool down.”

I fan my face with a hand. “Sounds good to me.”

*****

It’s a lovely evening. A perfect evening. Full of laughter and smiles,

Despite my ‘permission’, Borje doesn’t try to touch more than my hand, just for a moment twining fingers around mine, giving them a squeeze as he looks into my eyes. "You're so shy, Georgie.” His head inclines. “You pretend you’re not. But it’s all an act... Or is it just me you're shy with?"

"I… I'm not very good with people. If I don't talk, I can't say the wrong thing. I don’t mean to, but I always seem to try to… to…"

He’s barely hiding his grin. “To take control?”

“Yeah… I'm sorry. As I’ve mentioned, and as you spotted Day One, I take after my father. Do you know what that's like?”

The grin morphs to a thoughtful expression. “In fact, I do. For what it is worth, I’ll say that while I realise you respect your father. A great deal…” He blinks, lowering his eyes, then raising them again to mine. "You look like your father's daughter, but you don't behave like him. Not truly."

"Well, Dad's kind of... forceful... If you know what I mean."

"I do, yes. It goes with the territory."

"What territory?"

His gaze shears away from mine.

After some moments, he says, “I am not dating your father. I’m dating you. And you talk too much about him. You should talk about yourself more.”

Really?

What are you avoiding?

“What about me?”

I didn’t mean to sound testy. Borje lifts hands, palms upward as though weighing the air. “Ah, Christ… Whatever… Your work perhaps. You clearly enjoy it.”

“You don’t talk about your work…” The words, bitter and toxic, fall from my lips… “… Except to say that it makes you late.”

The hands fall. His eyes shift away. Then he cracks a smile, gives me a depreciating shrug. “No. You’re right. I don’t. Look, there’s…”

Something Bings.

Whatever Borje was about to say is lost. He breaks off in mid-sentence, smile fading. Reaching into a pocket, he produces a flashing phone, stares at the screen for a moment… “Damn” … Rising from his seat, he flags down the waiter. Wallet in hand, he’s already holding up a credit card. After a muttered exchange, "Georgie, I'm very sorry, but I have to go."

Words and disappointment tumble from my lips. "What...?"

"I can't apologise enough for this. I don’t want to spoil your evening. You enjoy the music. Finish your meal. I've told the waiter that when you're done, to call you a taxi to get you home. I’ve already paid for it."

The waiter returns with his coat. Borje throws it on, gives me a peck on the cheek, then strides away and out.

Eyes pricking, I pick at my plate, but the food tastes stale and the wine sour.

At least I didn't screw it up myself this time...

Did I?

"Would you like to choose a dessert, Madam?"

"No, I’ve had enough. Could you order my taxi, please.”

*****