Page 4 of August’s Thief
CHAPTER 4
I trailed after him into the narrow galley kitchen, experiencing a jumble of emotions, including the usual infusion of self-hatred whenever I encountered anyone with physical afflictions much, much worse than my own. I’m not sure what I had been expecting to find when I paid Dawson a visit. Not Mikey, that’s for sure. No wonder he gave scant regard to my face. Truth be told, I felt like an idiot. And humbled beyond belief. And also in awe of the pocket dynamo now shimmying around his tiny kitchen, pulling out mugs and biscuits and a sippy cup and chattering non-stop.
“Shove those over there,” he instructed, pointing to an open bag of adult nappies and a bumper pack of wipes. “Next to the medicines. And grab the milk. Is full-fat okay? I buy it on account of Mikey—he needs the calories. Can I squeeze past you to get to the kettle?”
When he said squeeze, Dawson wasn’t kidding. Swinging a cat would be nigh on impossible. He grinned up as his graceful body brushed past mine. “Is this our second date, Gussie? Because, just so you know, if it is and you want to get to second base, this kitchen is the place to do it. Unavoidable, to be honest.”
I chuckled, a rusty creaking sound as Dawson leaned across the sink to fill up the kettle, throwing me a saucy wink over his shoulder like a pose from a vintage postcard. His cute little tush encased in cute little dungarees wiggled a bare inch from my own nether regions, thanks to the minuscule dimensions of the kitchen. Bypassing second base, my mind leapt to fourth.
“Well?” He turned to face me, somehow having managed to fill the kettle and switch it on while my brain stalled, its blood supply busily rushing south. A small smile tugged at his lips. “It takes a couple of minutes to boil, and I can think of a few ways to pass the time.”
Dawson kissed like he lived, full throttle. Like kissing was an adventure he was going to explore to the max, as though the man desperately kissing him back was everything he’d ever wanted. And I’d never been kissed that way before.
As if my face was whole.
Dawson broke away, panting, and one of his hands slid between us. Hunger flared in his eyes as his palm curled around my needy cock. “I reckon a couple of minutes will be plenty long enough.”
“Possibly too long,” I gasped as his busy fingers found my belt buckle and teased it apart. Clenched into tight fists, my own hands hung uselessly at my sides because I was so shite at this. He dragged them up to the clasps of his dungarees.
“It’s a team sport, Gussie.” He plunged his tongue into my mouth, delivering another punishing kiss, pushing me back against the door. As the heat of his lithe body pressed against mine, I forgot that a corner of my mouth didn’t move properly and that one half of my face was a mangled rope of flesh because this joyful, determined fucking radiant beam of sunshine had his hand around my cock, as though there was nowhere else he’d rather have it, and was thrusting his own hard shaft through the tunnel of my fist like it fucking belonged there.
I came, embarrassingly quickly, on legs as shaky as a newborn calf’s and accompanied by the triumphant shrill whistle of Dawson’s cheery red kettle. He pumped me until I winced and pushed him away, erupting into delighted laughter at the perfect timing, even as his own release spurted hotly across my palm. With a happy sigh, he collapsed against me, and for a long while I just held him, my arms tight around his back.
“You okay, Gussie?” he whispered against my chest. “Your heart’s galloping like a racehorse.”
“Yes. Very.”
I didn’t add that my mind galloped faster. Cantering far ahead, to summer pastures, to the lush fields of my estate, and me, strolling through them with this beautiful boy tucked under my arm, his fabulous eyes gazing up at me like I was everything he ever wanted.
Galloping far too fast and dangerously out of control; I tugged on the reins. “But that cuppa won’t make itself.”
I teased us apart and made efficient use of the wipes. After fastening my own clothing, I reached for Dawson’s dungarees, still pooled at his knees. With a lopsided grin, he allowed me to dress him.
“Mikey gets eggy if his tea arrives late. He likes his routines.” He dropped a last soft kiss on the corner of my mouth, on the ugly corner. And my heart melted a little bit more.
“Is there just you and Mikey living here?” I asked as he poured boiling water over the teabags.
“Yeah. I’m his sole carer.”
I thought back to the police cell and our trip to Tesco. “Who looks after him if you have to go out?” Or get arrested?
“Eileen in the flat next door comes and sits with him. I only pay her five quid an hour. He loves her—she’s eighty-two with a dicky ticker, so she doesn’t get out much either. She brings her knitting and lets him get the wool in a tangle. She sings to him as well—bloody awful racket, but he loves it. Pass us the milk.”
While Eileen was undoubtedly a wonderful woman, Dawson’s back-up network sounded a little precarious. “Being his um… sole carer must be… hard work?”
Dawson threw me a friendly smile. “Nah, not really. ‘He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.’ Know what I mean?”
Fishing the teabags out of the mugs, he flicked them into the bin. “Well, that’s actually a lie. He is heavy; getting him in and out of the bath and up and down those stairs is a fucking nightmare. But he’s worth it. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Milk came next, a splash each for him and me, half and half in the sippy cup. “Like, social services wanted to put him in a home, but that’s not happening.”
My mind spooled back. “How do you get him up and down the stairs?”
“I carry him,” he answered simply. “In my arms, like this.” He made a cradling motion. “The gaffer of the betting shop below lets me stash his other wheelchair in their back office, so I don’t have to drag that down too. That would be an even bigger fucking nightmare.” He handed me my tea. “I’d like to get out more, really; Mikey loves the park, loves animals too, like dogs and sheep and cows and stuff, but the buses aren’t exactly reliable.” He shrugged. “We’re cool. We’re happy apart from, you know…” Sharp frown lines briefly creased his smooth forehead.
“Apart from what?”
He grabbed a packet of biscuits and handed them to me with a knowing wink. Lidl’s luxury custard creams. “You know, the… um… shoplifting.”