Blue

WALKER GLANCED at me from over the head of the couch as I walked into the room. “Do you always wear so little clothes?”

I looked down at my lace trim pyjama shorts before looking back at him. “Are you rude to everyone, or just me?”

It was the first time I’d seen him since he’d dropped me outside of Duke this morning. I’d been hauled up in my temporary bedroom since Finley drove me back to the penthouse, and I was beginning to get—what do adults call it—cabin fever. Except back home, my version of cabin fever often began at ten p.m. and ended at seven a.m. the following morning. It would be easy to blame my new living arrangement, but truthfully, it was just the old habit of having a curfew.

I rounded the couch, noticing the bottle of Bourbon from this morning on the table beside him, only now it contained much less than earlier. Maybe his mood depended on how much or how little he had to drink. It would at least explain his attitude on the plane. Unless he was just a dickhead period.

He balanced his half-empty glass of brown liquid on his thigh. “Who knows?”

It was out of character for me, but still I questioned, “Do you always drink so much?”

“What’s it matter to you how much I drink?”

“What’s it matter to you why I wear so little clothes?” I shot back. “It’s not like I’m walking around in my underwear.”

“It matters,” he said dryly before his attention shifted away from me and towards the television. He was lazed on the couch in fresh workout gear, legs spread apart, watching a sports channel—well, some interview with a news reporter and a guy called Hudson Barnes. The news reporter seemed to be grilling him outside The Lagoon for information about his upcoming title fight and whether it was hearsay that he might not be fighting in the coming weeks due to a rumoured injury.

“Fuck.” He grabbed the controller and muted the television before I could hear Hudson’s response. And a mumbled “News travels fucking fast” left his mouth before he downed his drink, lurched forward, and slammed his glass onto the table.

Hesitantly, I walked over and sat beside him. I hadn’t intended to sit so close, but the angle had my knee colliding with his thigh. It brought to life a new sensation under my skin. I wasn’t sure, but something told me he was trying to ignore it with the way his jaw ticked and the way his eyes shifted to the place our skin brushed before they refocused on the screen.

“What’s the problem?”

He side-eyed me and pointed to the television. “Hudson. He’s our number one ranked middle fighter of The Lagoon, and if he can’t fight, we may as well hand the title and a hefty cheque over to the opposing team on a silver fucking platter.”

“So they aren’t just rumours, then? Has someone leaked this information to the press? And your backup fighter is… what? Not… good enough?” I didn’t know a lot about the industry my father and Walker worked in, but I’d overheard enough phone conversations to understand when my father was pissed off with other agents, and I’d always been intrigued. I did know a lot of fighters in the industry got used for their bodies the same way a prostitute would. Of course, it was a personal choice, and the fighters didn’t just love what they did; they lived for it. It was just the culture of the sport. It still came with the hypocrisy that the organisation made more money than the fighters did though, especially if their own fighters came out on top. The only difference was, the organisation got rich without bleeding all over the Octagon.

To summarise, it meant trouble was looming over Blue Lagoon, the same way our view through the windows suggested rain was threatening to fall from the clouds. And, based on what little I did know, it was terrible for business.

“Our backup fighter has some mental health issues, but I shouldn’t be telling you this, so don’t think about repeating it.”

“Who am I going to tell? Why would I jeopardise your livelihood like that?”

“Why would anyone?”

“Well, I guess you’ve already made up your mind about me.”

His voice was much lower than a moment ago when he mumbled something like, “I… shit.”

After what felt like an awkward stare-off, he shifted his line of sight. I shot my tongue into my cheek. And like our previous conversation had never happened, he threw me the most mundane question.

“How was your first day?”

I didn’t answer.

“Blue,” he encouraged, nudging his knee against mine as if to break the tension he’d created.

“Come on,” I sighed. “You don’t have to force small talk. We both know I’m here because I have to be. And you’re clearly getting something worthwhile out of this, or you’d never have agreed to let me stay here with you.”

He pinned me with an amused glare. Thirty seconds later, he spoke again, refusing to acknowledge anything I had just said.

“So, it was alright, I take it? After this morning?”

I nodded subtly, resigned that he wasn’t giving up. But how resigned was I, really? I’d wanted his company, else I’d have stayed in my room.

“It was fine.”

Liar.

It was awful.

All three of my tutors took an apparent distaste for me from the get-go. It only made me not want to be there. I couldn’t concentrate on anything they had to say in their lectures and wished I could be somewhere else. My anxiety sat like a parrot on my shoulder. And I was so far out of my comfort zone, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d made a mistake moving here. Still, fine was the most straightforward answer.

Unaware, he seemed to have angled himself towards me. “Fine?”

I sucked in a lungful of air, breathing it back out with a prolonged, “Yep.”

“And you’re studying…?”

“Media and Journalism.”

His jaw ticked. I knew what he was thinking. He didn’t have to voice it. After what he just told me about The Lagoon–about his fighters–he’d assumed because I was studying Media and Journalism, I was chasing gossip and crossing my fingers for something juicy to fall into my lap.

“What will you do with your degree?”

That was one question I didn’t mind answering. And maybe, after hearing my answer, he’d realise just how wrong he was about me. Even if my first day at Duke wasn’t anything like I’d imagined it to be.

“I’d always dreamed of becoming a social media specialist for a successful establishment. But it had never been a possible reality before now. I guess it’s still sinking in that one day I’ll have the opportunity.”

“So you’ve accomplished pissing off daddy and establishing the start of a dream in just a few weeks, huh?” he said it like a joke, but I detected a sense of gravity in his tone.

That’s what he took from that?

I threw one hand across my waist. “I guess?”

“And then what?”

“Then what?” I frowned.

“What comes after that? When you’ve got the job you’ve always dreamed of?”

“I haven’t considered that far ahead.” I scrambled for a thought. “I don’t know… maybe happiness or something.”

“Happiness?” he scoffed, his chest rising in silent laughter while a grin grew on his annoyingly handsome face. “Fuck.”

“Why are you laughing at me?”

His eyes darted between me and his surroundings, and then he smirked, his tongue coming out to suck his bottom lip. “It’s cute that you think happiness plays out like that. It’s a rarity in life that anyone is truly happy. It takes more than achieving your aspirations to get to the point of happiness you’re probably referring to.” He held up his ringless finger. “All those fairy tales are full of shit.”

“Clearly,” I muttered. He probably couldn’t hold down a relationship because he had a problem with his attitude and was fond of a drink. Ugh, he infuriated me so much that he made me do the one thing I hated. He made me judge him.

With a roll of my eyes and a confidence I didn’t feel, I leant over his lap to grab the controller to the television and began browsing through the channels, unprepared to get into something so trivial. So what if I wanted to be happy? What did he want to be? Did he want to remain miserable as fuck forever? Would he have preferred me to be grumpy and rude, just like him?

I sighed with no other angle than to ease my own stress. To keep the rest of my judgement to myself.

Eventually, I paused on a documentary called The Blue Planet. For a few minutes, we watched penguins get hurled about by heavy waves as they tried to get back to shore.

I struggled to concentrate.

With my leg touching his and his body somewhat angled towards mine, it seemed I was aware of his every breath, and those few minutes seemed to feel like hours.

It wasn’t until I was about to turn over again that he finally spoke.

“Why were you named Blue?”

“My mum.” I cleared my throat. “Apparently, she thought I was a boy.”

He was silent for a moment, and then, “What’s your middle name?”

“Really? Do you care?”

He straightened as he made a show of rubbing at his eyes, leaning back into the couch while a mumbled “I don’t” left his lips.

Ignoring his bluntness, I wavered between looking at him and scrolling through more television shows I’d never heard of. For some reason, he was making me nervous. Every time we locked eyes, my stomach twisted, and I couldn’t decide if it was because I was frustrated with him or into him. He really was something to look at, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’d been attracted to a guy’s arrogance. I’d just never been on the opposite end of it. I could only blame the attraction on a surge in my hormones.

“If we’re talking names, then why does everyone call you by your surname and not by your first name? Why not Nate?”

“Less personal,” he muttered.

“Less personal?”

He hadn’t mentioned that I’d called him by his first name earlier, but the way he tipped his chin and the corners of his eyes crinkled made me feel like he wanted to. For some reason, maybe one I’d never learn, he preferred Walker. I couldn’t help but wonder at what point in his life did people stop calling him by his first name and begin replacing it with his surname? What was wrong with everyone calling him Nate? Why did he choose to hide it from the world? More pointless questions that would take up residency in my head to go with the other senseless questions I’d often find myself thinking. Maybe one day I’d learn that every question I had couldn’t always be rationalised. Or perhaps I’d forever try to find an answer in everything and get over my brain being wired somewhat differently from most.

“My father–Nathaniel. Growing up, everyone said I took after him. I was Nate, Nathaniel’s boy,” he scoffed. “My father was a good man until my mother got pregnant by another bloke. Then he turned to drink, and when Noah was born, so did she. I guess Nate reminds me of what could have been. Of who my father was before.”

I frowned. “Where’s Noah now?”

“He lives ten minutes away–in Chelsea.”

“I don’t understand why he can call you Nate, but nobody else can.”

“He always has. He’s the exception.”

“You’re close?” I wondered. My father had slept with enough women to make it possible to give me a sibling if he’d wanted, but he hadn’t. “I’d always wondered what it would be like to have a brother.”

“As close as we can be, given our differences,” he said matter-of-factly. “There’re things we have in common, and things we don’t.”

We were silent for a moment, and then I asked something I probably had no business in asking. “What about your parents? Where are they?”

He shuffled in his seat, and though he hadn’t moved much, I immediately noticed the loss of his body from beside mine. “Likely in the same sorry place they were when we left.”

I realised he had a shitty childhood, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. Convinced he was about to ask me to go back to the bedroom, I dropped the controller on my lap. I wasn’t ready to call it a night. “Can we… watch a movie?”

His gaze darted to his watch as he debated it.

While I waited, I threw my head back onto the couch. I didn’t know where my courage came from, but I rolled my head in his direction and began fluttering my eyelashes. Maybe it was a good enough distraction from where his head was at. And perhaps I could sway him. Though it may have been my eyes that won him over with the way he was looking into them so intently.

When the corner of my mouth rose in a smile, his eyes narrowed. Besides his obvious life experience, the thin lines surrounding them were the only thing I noticed of his appearance to highlight our age difference.

I took a breath. “So, how old did you say you were?”

“I didn’t.” And then, with nonchalance, he said, “I’m thirty-four.”

I did the maths in my head, quickly working out our age difference. There were at least sixteen-seventeen years between us, depending on his birthday, but it didn’t feel that way. Sitting beside him and conversing like we were–it didn’t feel like I was talking to someone who’d been born over a decade before me.

“Noah’s closer to your age than I am,” he admitted.

Two fingers brushed across his bottom lip. Then those same fingers were on my naked thigh before he stole the controller from my lap. As quickly as he’d turned away, he loaded up a movie. I couldn’t comprehend anything he’d said as something low in my stomach prickled with awareness.

Nope.

No way.

He couldn’t and definitely shouldn’t have had this effect on me.

“Have you seen The Sixth Sense?” he asked.

I tried to relax, pulling my knees up on the couch. “Nope. Kinda embarrassing to admit, but my movie knowledge is pretty poor.” Unless I counted every Disney movie ever made, but I refused to tell him that, worried it would only highlight my age.

“Then prepare to be spooked, kid. It’s a favourite.”

“Not a kid,” I mumbled, grabbing the massive cushion from behind my back and throwing it in his direction.

He plastered a cocky smirk on his face, anticipating the move and seizing the cushion before it caught him on the chin. Then he brought it down against his chest in a death grip, showcasing the veins in his arms as he tucked it between his elbow and the couch’s armrest. The move only brought us back together.

I felt the burn of his eyes on me as I leant back into the couch right beside his shoulder. Weirdly at ease and comfortable in his presence, regardless of knowing him only a few days, and not forgetting the small tidbit that he may or may not suffer from alcoholism. Was it genetic? Many signs were there, but what did I know about something I had no experience with?

Still, there was something about him. Something I felt when I was around him that wasn’t the typical feeling of anyone else I’d met in my entire life.

As the movie started, he hit another button on the controller that turned off the lights above us, playing into the whole movie night ambience. It was something I’d craved, yet never had. And I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but it beat slumber parties and being felt up by shitfaced jocks who claimed I was the most beautiful girl they’d ever seen.

I eyed the Bourbon on the table. I probably shouldn’t have pushed it, but if he could, why couldn’t I?

“How about a drink?”

It was dark, but I was sure I saw his lips twitch. “Watch yourself, brat.”

WALKER

WE WEREN’T HALFWAY through the film before Blue leaned into my body like I could comfort her from what was happening on the screen. I had no fucking business liking it, but I did. I couldn’t remember a time me and Sophia ever sat down and spent time together like this. She’d choose an expensive dinner date over a night in; somewhere she could show off the latest addition to her wardrobe. Somewhere she could brag to whoever gave her just an inch of attention and be sure to tell them how incredibly wealthy she was. The richest thing in our marriage was my bank account. Still, I only had myself to blame. I’d encouraged it. While she played doting wife, I’d played the part of hubby. Fuck, I’m surprised the word alone didn’t make my balls shrivel up, and I, myself, grow a vagina. The same could be said for how I opened up to Blue, giving her parts of me I’d never shared with anyone.

There was something wrong with me, and I don’t think it was just the booze talking.

My gaze drifted to her arm. She had it aligned across her chest, her fingers holding her neck. From my position, I noticed goosebumps on her skin.

“It’s not real,” I said, referring to the movie.

“I know that, but it doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable. You’re enjoying this?”

“What?” I grunted. “You’re not?”

My issue was, I was enjoying her company more than I was enjoying the movie.

I felt the shrug of her shoulder, but her eyes stayed wholly engrossed on the TV. I knew because I couldn’t stop looking at her. Regardless of her words, she was watching the movie with such a high level of concentration that, as uncomfortable as she was, the film still had her undivided attention. And why wouldn’t it? It was a great film. A story of a troubled young boy who was able to communicate with the dead, partnered with an equally troubled child psychologist who attempted to help him.

I’d watched this film so many times I could watch it with my eyes closed and not miss a thing. Perhaps it was the sole reason I’d chosen it. Because despite me obliging her, I didn’t truly want to watch some boy being haunted by ghosts. Which was ironic because it would only suggest I wanted to watch her before I even began to. Ironic because, in some weird way, I was being haunted by her.

I hadn’t considered in too much detail about just how close we were seated, suspicious of the way it made me feel. At least not until she moulded her body into mine, and that suspicion felt like something welcoming. Her being so close almost felt as good as a drink. Almost.

Without thinking, I raised my arm so it laid above her head on the back of the sofa. Untouching, but near enough for me to feel the pull of her below me. She fell with me when I shuffled down into a slouch, which meant her head was now resting against my chest.

Comfort, I told myself. Shit, it seemed I’d grown fond of lying lately.

Blue tilted her head back to speak, her voice barely a whisper. “Am I–do you–do you want me to move?”

“No,” I murmured. “You’re safe where you are.”

Safe.

The word, like my arm, surrounded her like a fucking shield. Safe was the sole reason she was here. A delicate little flower, though much too soft for anything more I had to offer than a roof and security for the next however many months. And then, she’d be gone.

I swallowed a sigh, focusing my attention on the screen instead of her. I had no idea what was wrong with me, but whatever it was had to be shut away in whatever box it sprouted from. And the wires crossing in my head had to be fucking straightened out before they completely malfunctioned and fucked up everything I’d worked for.

The club.

A life of forced solitude.

Blue remained flat against me for the rest of the movie. When the end credits finally rolled around, I expected her to move; only she didn’t. And because I’d always loved to torment myself, I didn’t force her to either.

Eventually, my eyes grew tired enough to close them, but I couldn’t sleep. Somehow, the warmth of her body nestled against me loosened the stiffness that had been nailed to my chest for so long. I’d never been a religious man, but I imagined Jesus probably felt the same way when he was brought back from the dead.

Only when she began to tremble against me, I opened my eyes and realised she must have fallen asleep herself. She was breathing harder, her lips turning down at the corners, while her long lashes fluttered against her cheeks.

I frowned, unsure of how to soothe her in what could–from the outside–only be described as a bad dream. In the end, I settled for dropping my arm from the back of the sofa and holding her wherever most convenient. And given our position, it was easiest for my fingers to spiral over the skin at her waist. She was warm to the touch, despite the little clothes she had on.

“You’re safe with me,” I murmured, extending my other arm around her and lifting my fingers to move her hair away from her face.

A few seconds into assuring her, she began to wake. The intrusion had her eyelashes fluttering open, and realising where she was, she quickly sat forward, breaking my loose hold of her. The dim light of the television highlighted her clammy skin. She looked flushed for all the wrong reasons, but there was no denying it did something to me.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Her tone was velvety, and I found myself craving to stroke it with my tongue. It was the first fucked up thought I’d had.

A thought I had no right indulging.

A thought that had me hardening like a steel door.

No fucking entry.

Turn the fuck around.

“Best idea you’ve had all night, kid,” I said, making sure I punctuated every word to sound like the truth. “James never said I had to entertain you.”

She breathed a heavy breath in, her chest rising before she slowly let the same breath out between her lips. Slipping from the sofa, she shot me a look that I was familiar with. It only told me that I’d subconsciously taken more notice of her than I realised. Somehow, I knew what her words would be before she even spoke them.

“I’m not a kid. And fuck my dad.”

And with that, she twisted on her heel and began her exit from the room.

In the midst of the quiet, when I assumed she was out of earshot, I mumbled a very grave, “I know.”

As soon as the words had left my mouth, I clamped my lips closed.

The way her feet faltered on the floor between the kitchen and the hallway told me she may have heard me. I could only blame the Bourbon for making me more susceptible to getting to know her. For getting so close to her. And obviously, making me so fucking negligent. It wasn’t an excuse. Anyone who was anyone could see she was far from a kid–to look at. Her attitude may have said otherwise, but I was still undecided. And it was best to keep it that way.

As I stood from the sofa, I pressed a button on the TV controller to turn on the drop lights in the kitchen behind me. Then I grabbed my empty glass and near-empty bottle from the table.

Did I forget that Blue Sterling was nothing more than a means to an end? The juvenile daughter of my boss? And did I forget that, by law, I was still a married man, regardless of what little it meant?

My feet drove me to the kitchen island, where I poured myself my final drink of the night. I tore my eyes away from my full glass of amber liquid and to the shadow of Blue’s retreating back as she made her way to my bedroom. And it was my bedroom, though I was yet to spend a night in my bed.

I had the means and the money to furnish the entire building–buy the whole building–and yet, for some reason, I chose to sleep on the sofa. In an apartment—a penthouse that wasn’t mine. But fuck, what was less sleep when you weren’t sleeping well, regardless? And what was a roof over your head when it wasn’t really your home? I wasn’t sure I’d ever known what ‘home’ was supposed to feel like. Who knew… maybe I was lying to myself, or I’d forgotten how it felt.

Blue reached the bedroom door as my hand wrapped around my glass. I brought it to my lips while she lingered with her hand on the doorknob. I pondered the possibility that she might look back for the second time today–that there was something else she wanted to voice–but that never happened. She pushed down the handle and stepped into the room, the door closing behind her with a gentle click.

My head shook as I took a breath and brought my Bourbon to my lips. But at least, finally, I could fucking breathe without the smell of her perfume making me delirious. It was like black coffee and sensual vanilla.

Daring.

Sweet.

And too fucking much.

The heat of the bronzed liquid lined the back of my throat, then my chest, until somehow, gravity pushed it into the pit of my stomach. I stood in my kitchen alone, and now, with nothing left to focus on now that Blue was out of sight, I realised I hadn’t had a phone call from Sophia all day.

I breathed with ease, relief flooding through me for less than a second before my mind began to protest the reason why. Stroking the pocket of my shorts with my free hand, my other threw my glass to the counter.

“Shit.”

A glacier may as well have replaced the warmth in my chest. My heart, the fucking titanic.

I walked from the kitchen, down the length of the hallway, then rounded the corner and all but jumped up the stairs and into the bathroom. Both the fan and light turned on as I entered. It was the darkest room in the penthouse. All black tiles and no windows. An open shower and a granite bath that doubled as a whirlpool I was yet to utilise. If ever.

Hidden inside an aperture of the wall was the washing basket. I retrieved my dirty gym shorts from earlier today and took my phone from their pocket. Every muscle in my body grew tense as I turned it on, and messages and missed calls pinged one after the other like a spitting cobra.

Sophia.

Sophia.

Sophia.

They just kept coming.

Something close to disappointment poked at me when I realised there wasn’t one text from Blue. Though why did I expect one? I never texted her today to check in as I promised, and she’d said herself everything had been “fine” for her first day. She hadn’t needed me. Perhaps that should have been my first clue to stop convincing myself she had the attitude of a kid and just accept she was a young adult.

My phone continued to buzz in my hand with text after text from my wife, and all I could think was what sane woman believed this was fucking normal? What healthy, wholesome, ordinary relationship experienced this?

Are you with her now? Read one of her messages. For reasons unknown to me, my fingers flew over the screen, texting back. With who? I responded. There was no way she was talking about the teenage girl in my home. She couldn’t have known the reverie plaguing me.

Her reply was instant. Whatever slut you keep on the side.

A scoff forced its way up my throat at the hypocrisy.

I’ve told you time and time again, Soph, there’s only ever been you.

Her call came through within seconds, but I didn’t answer. I glanced at myself in the bathroom mirror. My eyes were glazed–alcohol and lack of sleep playing their part. My phone rang out, but before she could call again, I switched off my phone. She was the one regret I’d have to live with. Just another hurdle I’d cross tomorrow.

And the day after.

And then maybe even the day after that.

Definitely the fucking day after that.