Page 3 of August’s Thief
CHAPTER 3
“He kissed me on the lips,” I said. And flushed. “No… no one ever does that.”
Three wintry days had passed, and I was back on the couch. This time, the box of tissues remained undisturbed.
“You like him,” said CUPID. A statement, not a question.
“Yes. Yes, I do. He’s…” The normal side of my face dimpled into a smile at the memory of Dawson’s long fingers poking from the sleeves of my sweater as he popped a sweet into my mouth. Only Dawson had made that happen in a very long time. Our kiss had tasted of sugar and peppermint; the taste had lingered on my drive home. “He’s not like anyone I have met before.”
I remembered his delicate features too, the neat line of his glossy lips, the jut of aristocratic cheekbones (there was the irony), the velvet pull of those violet eyes. My dimple vanished. “There’s not a cat’s chance in hell the feeling is mutual, of course. Dawson’s funny and clever and stunning. And I’m… not.”
CUPID tutted, a strange, mechanical sound. “Let’s review, shall we, before we jump to conclusions?” The dry schwiff of pages flipping filled the room.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, suspicious.
“I want a femme,” CUPID quoted, in an unnervingly accurate imitation of my own dull, cultured tone. “Someone that likes to fool around with mascara and shit. Was Dawson wearing mascara?”
“Yes.” His beautifully applied make-up was one of the first things I noticed about him. In the pause that followed, I swore I heard a soft chuckle before CUPID continued, “With fabulous eyes that gaze up at me like I’m everything he ever wanted. Like he really needs me. Someone who sees beyond this shitty mess on my face. Who sees beyond my pots of?—”
“Yes, okay, I get your point. Who knows whether he sees beyond my pots of money, but he certainly let me spend it on him. Not that I mind—it’s only money. I have more than I could ever lose.”
More pages riffling. “Ah, here we are. Did Dawson let you dress him like a doll?”
“No! Don’t be ridic—” I stopped, and my face heated some more. “Well, yes. Sort of. But only because his arms were full of shopping bags.”
A pen scratched. “We can tick that one off, then. Anything else?”
I clapped a hand to my head, recalling the scones. And the milk jug. You can be mother. God, this was awkward. “Um… yes. He seemed happy for me to wait on him hand and foot. And yes, his hands are pretty. Very. I can’t comment on his feet, yet.” Encased in tatty Converse, they were petite; I’d spotted that much.
“Something to look forward to,” purred CUPID, evidently enjoying themselves. “The rest of your desires will follow in time. You’ll see.”
I harrumphed. “You say that, but he hasn’t tried to contact me. I’m still not convinced he’s interested. And he certainly doesn’t need me—he seemed extremely capable of looking after himself. I think he viewed our trip out as nothing more than a bit of a lark. And a free ride home from the police station via one of the few remaining supermarkets he’s allowed to shop in!”
CUPID let out a long, uncannily human sigh. Followed by another mechanical tut. “You could always go and visit him . You know where he lives. Maybe he hasn’t had time to visit you. Our young Dawson is quite a busy boy.”
“Is he?” It hadn’t occurred to me to ask Dawson if he had a job. How arrogant to presume he hadn’t, having heard about the shoplifting and, oh my God, propositioning a poor naive copper. The image of those lips wrapped around my own cock flashed through my mind.
“There’s more to our proud Dawson than meets the eye. Don’t let outward appearances deceive you, Gussie . I told you to trust me. He’s your perfect match; he fulfils every single one of your desires.”
Gussie? How on earth did CUPID know about that?
I didn’t set much store by material possessions, having the undeserved good fortune to be able to replace them all. Nonetheless, on clicking the lock of the Porsche, now parked outside Dawson’s insalubrious row of shops, thus abandoning the vehicle to whatever fate it befell, I experienced a pulse of anxiety. Three youths of the unbelted denim and clumpy trainers variety loitered outside the scruffy Co-op, regarding it wolfishly. Until a strident voice yelled at them from up on high.
“Oi! Don’t even think it, Yoz! Nor you, Sean! He’s with me!” The diminutive owner of the voice, hanging out of an upstairs window, then turned his attention to me. “Gussie! Yay! Come in the back door! It’s open!”
The boys sniggered. “Your back door’s always open, innit, Daw? Bloody pansy!”
“Shut it, Yoz! That’s not what your dad calls me when he’s got his trousers round his ankles and his mouth round my knob!”
Oh Christ. Not the happy reunion I’d envisaged, to be honest. I hurried past the youths in as dignified a manner as I could to find Dawson waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase.
“Don’t worry about the car, Gussie, they’ll look after it. We were only joshing.”
And with that, he planted a wet smacker on my repulsive cheek. “Afternoon, lover.” His breath ghosted over the remains of my ear, sweet and cool. “You’ve kept me waiting, haven’t you?”
Without hanging around for a reply, he took my hand, tugging me up the stairs. “Sorry about the mess,” he said over his shoulder. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have put on some smarter clobber and tidied the place up a bit. And him. He likes having visitors.”
Him? I had questions, but before I had a chance to pose any, Dawson was pushing through the door and into the flat. It opened straight into a small sitting room with a TV in one corner showing a children’s television programme, the sound muted. A wheelchair, the comfy, big, padded sort, was positioned directly in front of it.
“Best behaviour now, Mikey. Gussie’s come to see us. You know, the hot posh bloke I was telling you about.”
Leaning over the chair, he planted another smacker on the face of its occupant, who responded with a happy, snuffling sound. Dawson beckoned me over.
“Come on, Gussie. Come and say hello. Mikey don’t bite, not unless you’re trying to give him one of them disgusting iron tablets, anyhow.” He grabbed the handle of the chair, clicking off the brake. “I’m turning you around, Mikey.”
There was a good reason Dawson didn’t have a proper job; I realised that now. Or rather, he did, but it was more an unpaid labour of love. And, from the glowing look on his flawless face as he proudly introduced me to his flawed twin brother, a job he didn’t consider onerous or laborious at all.
“Hi, Mikey.” Following Dawson’s cue, I took Mikey’s stiff, fragile hand in mine. Replicas of Dawson’s brilliant eyes flicked up at me with vague interest before sliding back to the television screen.
“He won’t answer,” explained Dawson. In a swift, practised move, he produced a tissue and wiped saliva from his brother’s chin. “He can’t. He had a knot in his umbilical cord when we were born. Starved of oxygen. I’m lucky he lived. He can’t move much or talk or anything, but he can see and hear us.” He gave a little laugh. “Though I bet he wishes he couldn’t hear me sometimes, don’t you, my love?” The hand that had been wiping drool briefly settled around his brother’s thin, twisted shoulders before once more turning the wheelchair towards the TV. “I’m just going to make a cuppa for our visitor, Mikey. Back in a minute. Come into the kitchen, Gussie.”