Page 12 of Total Creative Control
Lewis sank the rest of his pint while the barman finished up with another customer. When he wandered back over to them, Owen ordered two more pints of Fullers and a couple of bags of salt-and-vinegar crisps.
“Can I ask you something?” Owen said, once the fresh beers and snacks had arrived.
Lewis opened a bag of crisps and stuffed a handful in his mouth. “Go ahead,” he said through a mouthful of crumbs.
“Ugh,” Owen said, eyeing him in disgust. “So, you know how you just said that Aaron’s notyourAaron?”
“Yup.”
Owen met his gaze squarely. “How would you feel about me asking him out?”
“What?” Lewis stared at his brother in angry disbelief. How could Owen imagine for a second that that would be acceptable?
“Like I said earlier,” Owen went on, as though Lewis hadn’t spoken, “he’s a very attractive guy, and if there’s definitely never going to be anything between—”
“Fuckingno way!” Lewis snapped. “Jesus, Owen!”
And then Owen—the fucking bastard—burst out laughing.
“Oh my God,” he said between gasps. “Lewis, yourface!”
“Fuck off,” Lewis grumbled, horribly aware of the sudden heat in his cheeks. “Of course I don’t want you shagging my assistant. He’s the best PA I’ve ever had. I don’t want you chasing him off.” Then he scowled harder and added, “Besides, he’s already got a boyfriend.”
“Sure,” Owen said, eyes sparkling with amusement. “It’s because he’s your assistant. Got it—aaand since you’re such a possessive dick, I won’t even bother asking about Mason.” And then he was off again, chuckling at his own lame joke. Which really was lame, because Lewis couldn’t care less if Owen shagged Mason six ways from Sunday. Aaron, however, was an entirely different kettle of fish.
“It’s not jealousy,” he muttered. “I’m just not risking losing my assistant because you fancy getting your end away.”
Owen clapped one big hand on Lewis’s shoulder. “Whatever you say, little bro,” he said and lifted his glass again. “Whatever you say.”
Chapter Three
Aaron
Mid-September brought an unseasonal heatwave that had Aaron melting on his morning commute, crammed nose-to-armpit on the Central Line. Not that he really cared, too absorbed in reading the thirty-six comments that had been posted overnight on the latest chapter of his fic.
Each one fizzed in his soul like little golden bath bombs of joy. It never got old, that thrill of knowing that someone—some random stranger—had read his words and been moved enough to respond. Even after a decade of writing fanfiction, feedback still left him buzzing with gratitude.
OMG I LOVED THIS SO HARD. It read exactly like an episode.
Such sweet, tortuous pining! Poor Faolán. I just can’t!
I stayed up way too late reading this and will pay for it tomorrow, but I don’t care because your stories are just SO GOOD. You’ve got the character voices spot on, and your writing is really beautiful. Amazing work. Thanks for sharing it with us.
Had he been able to, Aaron would have given every commenter an enormous hug. Instead, he would spend a couple of hours that night responding to every comment, trying to convey how much they meant to him.
Feeling hyped, he piled off the train along with everyone else at Shepherd’s Bush and marched through the station, then up and out into the warm September morning. Winding through the commuting crowd, he made his way to Grinder,his favourite ironically named coffee shop, and picked up two bacon rolls along with Lewis’s current favourite froufrou nonsense drink—a mint hot chocolate with whipped cream and sprinkles—and a black Americano for himself.
It was a short walk from there to the offices of RPP, which were located in an unprepossessing building on Charecroft Way, tucked behind the busy Uxbridge Road. Waving his pass over the sensor pad outside the office, Aaron pushed through the revolving door into the reception. “Morning, Dymek,” he called, lifting his hand to wave. “How was the match last night?”
“Terrible. Chelsea play very bad.” Dymek shook his head from behind the security desk. “Their goalie has butter for fingers.”
Aaron gave him a thumbs up. “Butterfingers. Excellent use of the idiom.”
“Yes.” Dymek grinned as he held out a stack of post. “Mr. Hunter is already upstairs. He is wanting his breakfast, I think. Very grumpy.” He glared at Aaron to illustrate the point.
Aaron grabbed the post, juggling it with the bacon rolls, and nudged open the door to the stairwell with his hip. “Should have bought his own, then, shouldn’t he?” He rolled his eyes with exaggerated exasperation. “But thanks for the heads up. I’ll brace myself.”
Given how slow and unreliable the lift was, Aaron took the stairs most mornings. Besides, climbing four floors was good exercise, and he didn’t need Colin to tell him that he spent far too many hours hunched over a laptop—for both work and leisure. The thing was it was difficult to find time for the gym when you could be using those precious hours to write the next chapter, and it was impossible to—