Page 62 of Darling
“I just meant, well, he used to say those sorts of things to me as well. He had complete faith in me.”
I shrug. “Because he knew you were a good person.”
Christian meets my eyes. “And what about you, Asher Fox, do you think I’m a good person?”
I don’t need to think about it. “Yeah, I do.”
“Even after today? After what I did to you on the floor right there, after another man had been inside you?” The dip in my stomach from the reminder is wild. Liquid fire pouring through me, dick hardening under the bathrobe.
“Especially after that.” I smirk. He tilts his head, studying me curiously. “I don’t think how people choose to give each other pleasure in private is any sort of measure of a person’s… goodness. Is that a word?”
“Incredibly, yes.”
“Well, that’s what I think. I grew up in a place where being good equalled being devout to God’s word. But God’s word was whatever they decided it was that day. Whatever they interpreted it to mean that month, and a lot of people interpret God’s word differently. Anyway, I’m getting off topic. What I mean is that I know you’re a good person because I can feel it. The way you talk about the people you love, the way you talk about your wife, the way you carry this love for her in your heart still. How you treat me. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the things that turn you on, just like I don’t think there’s anything wrong with how I pay my rent. It’s the footprint we leave on the world that matters, and whether it’s in politics or not, you care about people and the world. Your footprint is a good one.”
He stares at me a long time. “You turned out remarkablyworldly and astute for someone who grew up in a religious cult, you know.”
“Right? It’s a miracle, isn’t it? I mean, it wasn’t all terrible… it taught me some shit I’m grateful for.”
Christian nods. Then, gravely, he asks, “Did they hurt you? Physically or...”
I shrug. “Nothing too bad. The mental stuff was way worse… not the healthiest environment for a little gay who liked to paint and wear his sister’s clothes.”
“Christ.” He squeezes me tighter.
“Triggered.”
He lets out a surprised laugh and reaches up to kiss me softly on the cheek. Then the mouth. “Youarea miracle, Asher Fox.”
Something flutters in my chest. “You can bet that’s not whattheyused to call me.”
“Well, their loss is my gain.” He holds me like that for a long time, tight against his chest, the steady beat of his heart against mine. “Why don’t you come to London with me? It’ll be a little complicated, and god knows I’ll be busy, but we’ll stay in my favourite hotel and spend every night like this.” He sounds like a kid at the toy store who’s just been told he can have anything he wants. “Have you been to the UK before?”
I shake my head. I’m almost reluctant to burst his bubble because he’s so fucking excited about the prospect of it. I want to go. I want it more than anything, actually.
But… “I can’t.”
His face falls, but he covers it with a very practised smile. “Of course you can’t. You have responsibilities here, a job… that was bloody stupid of me.”
“No, it’s not that, I don’t really have responsibilities. I’m a pretty responsibility-free guy and I’m pretty sure I could film some content in London.” There are a lot of creators therewho’ve reached out that I’ve had to politely refuse. “I actually don’t have a passport.”
This is the most shocking thing I could have said by the looks of it. His mouth drops all the way open. “You don’t… have a passport?”
“Nope. Never had one growing up, and after I left home, I was sort of screwed without a copy of my birth certificate. I wanna travel to Europe so bad. Cole was talking about going to Europe today, and it reminded me that I need to sort the passport thing.”
He’s nodding now, trying to pretend the fact that my provincial ass has never left the country is endearing. Which, for a diplomat, must be a bit of a trip.
“Butsorting itwould involve your parents?”
“Not necessarily. I think I can do it online, but I’m scared in case I have to go back to Ohio to get one from the state there, and even thinking about going back sort of stresses me out.”
“Of course, I understand.” He’s thoughtful again, fingers back to stroking me again. “I wonder… I wonder if I could enquire as to whether it’s something our department could arrange, without you having to go back there.”
“I mean, I don’t know. I guess you could ask the question. Won’t people ask you the question, though? About why you’re asking questions?”
This amuses him. “Perhaps, but if it saves you having to do something you don’t want to do, then it’s worth asking the question.”
“I would like a passport,” I sigh.