Work for it, p.7
Work for It, page 7
The staff kitchen is spacious, dotted with a few rickety sets of tables and chairs. The counters and cupboards are made of stained, old wood, and chipped mugs dry on the rack by the sink. The room smells like bleach and burnt toast. I turn toward Keynes with my first aid kit menacingly in hand, and falter when I find him watching me with way too much focus. Laser focus, genius-scientist-in-the-lab focus, the kind I never draw. Something strange buzzes over my skin like an electrical charge.
Then the kettle hums behind him, distracting me. He must’ve turned it on while I searched for the kit. The two of us are dripping rainwater onto the lino, and his lips are curved into that unkillable smile, the one that makes me uncomfortable because I don’t know why I want to smile back.
“What?” I bark. I may be quiet, but that doesn’t make me subtle.
He just arches a brow and murmurs, “You think rather ferociously.”
I don’t even know what that means. “Are you calling me thick again?”
“As if I’d waste my gracious apology so soon. It almost killed me.” He straightens as the kettle sings. Grabs two floral mugs with his left arm, still keeping the right tucked close to his side.
“Stop,” I say. “Let me have a look at you.”
“Be a darling and fetch the milk.”
I sigh and fetch the milk. God only knows why. I think he’s hypnotised me.
We take our tea the same: splash of milk, no sugar. Don’t know why I assumed all posh people took it different; Henry certainly does. But Keynes and I have near-identical cups, and we stand face to face as we sip from them. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, I’m blocking him in like a brick wall. The night we met slams violently against the closed door of my memories.
Close; we’re too close. I should put down my tea and do my job, be brisk and managerial, make sure this strange, undefined guest hasn’t been seriously injured on our land. I know that. But I don’t do it.
My eyes stay locked on him and my body stays locked in place. He’s studying me with subtle warmth in his expression, welcoming creases bracketing his eyes, the rim of his mug pushed against his full lips. Pressure. The word whispers through me, spiralling from the centre of my chest, winding tendrils around my limbs. That mug must be hot against his tender mouth.
He notices me noticing, and his green gaze turns hooded.
My stomach turns to lead in response. “Let’s get you out of that shirt,” I mutter, looking away.
“Short and to the point. I approve. But it’s not the most compelling offer I’ve ever received.” His voice is so soft it merges with the tea’s steam.
It’s easy for me to ignore his innuendo. I just remind myself that some people flirt like it’s a hobby or a hilarious joke—usually people who look good and charm easy and don’t take guys like me seriously.
“Will you do it or not?” I demand.
“Not,” Keynes says delightedly, like this is a kid’s game, and smiles. It’s so rare for him to smile at me, and he looks so beautiful, that I almost forget to be stern. Truthfully, I almost forget my fucking name.
But then I remind myself that I’m the responsible first aider here. Supposedly. “If you take that shirt off without my help, it’ll hurt.”
“I predict taking a shit will hurt for the next week or so, too, but I’ll still be visiting the bathroom,” he replies.
I just stare at him. My silence is monumental, which doesn’t always come in handy, but I think it might right now. Rain bounces off the roof. The world is cool and shadowed, and Keynes is slowly relenting. I see it in the downward sweep of his lashes and the sharp, annoyed line of his jaw. He puts his mug by the sink with a clatter and faces the window, his back to me.
After a moment, he says tersely, “Fine.”
Then he starts unbuttoning his shirt.
This really shouldn’t feel like a strip tease, not when it’s for first aid purposes. But I suppose my dick doesn’t know that. It sees a masterpiece of a man undressing with subtle, deliberate movements, fixates on the shift of his shirt as each button is released, wonders what that sunshine skin looks like below the neck, and springs to life. My blood is hot, too hot, for one electric second. Then I force myself under control, because he needs my help, not my inappropriate attraction.
I hesitate, then reach out and ease Keynes’s shirt sleeve down his right arm. My breathing is steady and my heart’s barely pounding at all. This is fine. He’s wearing a vest beneath the shirt, and I focus on helping him drag it over his head, rather than the rasp of his exhales and the unsteady movement of his hands. He seems nervous. I have no idea why, or if I’m even reading him right, but it reminds me of the way he froze up on Sunday night, and I feel like a sick fuck for enjoying this. That kills off the last of my desire like nothing else.
But, if it hadn’t, the sight of his ribs would’ve done the job too. “Why didn’t you say something?” I scowl, my fingers hovering over his skin. I can’t bring myself to touch. His right side is a mess of abrasions and a few mottled bruises. “Nothing major, you said. Doesn’t this hurt like a motherfucker?”
“Yes, it does. But I’m not dying.” His nervousness has faded, replaced by a wry smile. I think he’d laugh at me if it wouldn’t hurt his ribs.
“Alright, tough guy. Move. I mean, excuse me.”
He snorts, winces, steps aside.
I wash my hands in the sink and say, “Sit down.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Oh, it’s not. We need to see how bad an idea it is, so’s I can decide what to do.”
He tuts and goes to sit. His breath hisses through his teeth on the way down, but he doesn’t clutch himself or even whine about it, so I suppose he’ll live. I grab the first aid kit and some painkillers, chucking the little box of pills onto the table. While Keynes pops the blister packs, my knees hit the lino beside his chair. We begin.
Antiseptic wipes, an icy sting that makes him stiffen; my clumsy hands, trying so hard to be gentle, and he doesn’t complain. I expected him to complain. Or call me stupid, or flirt to make me sweat, then laugh when I drop things. Instead, he’s a silent statue while I clean and bandage his grazes.
I ask him all the important questions. “Do you feel nauseous?”
“Only when exposed to poor hygiene or mayonnaise.”
My jaw flexes. “Do you have any shooting pains in your stomach or shoulder?”
“Yes.”
I look up sharply. “What?”
“My stomach. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I could murder a baked potato.”
For fuck’s sake. I scowl and continue. “Do you feel any—?”
“Oh, don’t waste your time. I raised a ballerina,” he cuts in. “I know all about falls and bruises and potential complications. I am fine.”
I rock back on my heels and blink up at him. With his effortlessly upright spine, despite his bandaged side, he looks a little bit royal. “You got a kid?” It occurs to me that I have no idea how old he is. Put a gun to my head and I couldn’t guess.
“My sister.”
So he raised his sister. That’s common enough round here, but not from people who speak like Keynes. It makes more sense than him having a child, though. He doesn’t seem the family type; he seems the type who’s left a string of broken hearts behind him, during however many years he’s been alive. The fact that I still can’t guess those years is starting to bother me. There’s fine lines around his eyes and bracketing his mouth, but since smiles are the main weapon in his charm offensive, he’s probably had those since he was nine. There’s a permanent freshness about him, but there’s something heavy, too.
He says, “Why are you so quiet?” just as I blurt, “How old are you?” Then we both look at each other.
He speaks first, no surprise. “I’m thirty-eight, and you’re very rude.”
“I was curious. And I’m not being quiet. I just make sure of what I say, which is better than running your mouth all the time.”
“You look very severe,” he murmurs. “Are you trying to hint?” Don’t smile at me. Don’t smile at me. Don’t—
He fucking does, and I’m hypnotised. This is how he wins, how he makes me all dizzy and soft: he smiles, for real, and for me.
He’s dangerous.
He’s also still shirtless, and now that his injury is bandaged, all I can see is… the rest. Brown skin, lean hips, tawny hair trailing down his taut belly. His chest is broad and defined, his nipples tight little discs. My mouth is dry as a desert. I need more tea.
Keynes cuts into my thoughts, taking me by surprise. “You’re the only one who’s ever noticed, you know.”
I do know, without being told. I know exactly what he’s talking about: shaking in the dark.
But he explains a bit more, with a self-conscious chuckle. “Well. The only one who ever noticed before I really lost my shit, anyway.” There’s a tension vibrating through him that matches his awkward laugh. One that says, I know this seems serious, but I don’t want it to be.
So, even though I feel weirdly protective, like he’s a sapling starved of light or a baby bird that fell from the nest—and even though I want to ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing, taking someone outside when he knew it would hurt—and even though I want to snap at him and scold him and then do something… else, something softer—I try my best to make a joke instead. “What do you do with the ones who don’t catch on fast enough? Eat them alive?”
His laugh, this time, is real enough to hurt his ribs. I know because he winces as he says, “Something like that.” Then, out of nowhere, Keynes gives me a touch made of words: “You look good down there.” His voice is even deeper than usual, feeling like midsummer air, heavy and sweet. When I look up at him, his mouth is soft and open, and his gaze is hot on me. But there’s a spark of surprise in his eyes, as if he’s not sure where his own words came from.
“I look good everywhere,” I joke, because I definitely don’t, and then I wink. I wink. Who am I?
Apparently, someone Keynes likes, because he smiles again. “I think you might be right. I think you’re a dark horse.”
Am I having a fucking stroke, or did he just call me attractive? I honestly don’t know, but when I wet my lips, his gaze dips to my tongue and I heat up from the inside out. There’s an almost violent wrench of want in me, of hunger, but I leash it with gritted teeth. This moment is fragile like apple blossom: petal by soft petal, we could easily collapse. I need to be careful with him.
When I speak, my voice is rough and raw. “What else do you think?”
Olu
A simple question, five words, but it feeds the little, leaping flame of my desire. What’s come over me in this kitchen is the opposite of my usual, uncomfortable distance. I tell myself this firmly grounded feeling is down to the icy rain, or the intense ache in my side—anything but the sight of Griff on his knees before me with those dark, gentle eyes.
Then his big hands disappear behind his back, as if he’s protecting me from touches I might not be able to handle, and my cautious flame grows. It would be so easy to put my hands on this man, the man who makes me feel things—real things. Not just lust, but all the emotions I’ve missed for months, the parts of myself that hovered out of reach.
Vanity, vicious anger, petty and childish teasing; they’re arguably my worst qualities, but they’re nowhere near as terrible as the cold nothingness, and Griff brought them back. Then there’s the urge to gentleness, and the pride in hard work, and the temptation to touch—these are the things I used to like about myself, and today, they’re back too. I’m almost giddy. I lean toward him until my lips graze his ear. His closeness races up my spine. He smells rain-wet and fresh, with a hint of something like berries, and for such a hard man, his skin looks ridiculously soft—like the vulnerable, inner curve of a petal. Like the silk of his hair.
He’s holding his breath.
“I think,” I whisper, “that something about you makes me 65% less violent, and that’s well worth exploring.”
He laughs, but the sound is shaky. Affected. Good.
“What about you, Griffin? What do you think?”
“I think…” His voice is scratchy, his hesitation filled with my assumptions. He’ll say he thinks we should fuck right now. He’ll say he wants to drag me onto the floor and cover my body with his until I beg. That’s the sort of thing men always say to me, and I suppose I’m not entirely myself again, because the thought doesn’t thrill me like it used to.
In fact, the longer he pauses, the faster my heart pounds. I tell myself it’s just this precious, budding arousal, but the truth is, it’s anxiety. Anxiety. That’s a word I’ve never used for the stomach-roiling discomfort that chases me, but it… fits. Hm.
I’m swallowing hard and worrying about that when Griff finally speaks. “I think,” he tells me slowly, “that I want to hold your hand.”
My thoughts grind to a halt. My heart stutters in my chest. I stare at him, speechless, and he looks steadily back, those strong and stony features impassive. As if there’s nothing remotely unusual about what he just said.
Something rises inside me like the sun, burning away every sickly, nervous fear that was trying to encroach. The voice in the back of my mind can’t whisper that he’s a stranger, that he can’t be trusted, that he’s trying to hurt me, when all he wants to do is hold my hand. So the voice fades.
I reach for him.
But then we hear the building’s front door open, down the corridor. It’s as if we’ve been trapped in a gleaming, iridescent bubble, lighter than air, and that noise pops it. Suddenly the air feels cold against my bare chest, and the feelings churning inside me are as much a vulnerability as they are a victory. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.
Like what?
Wanting.
It strikes me like lightning that this is the foundation of my fears: I don’t want to touch anyone, don’t want to be with anyone, because even the men I sleep with can’t be trusted to see me wanting.
But there’s no time for me to think about that. I’m rigid and robotic as I jerk away from Griff—until he rises to his feet and picks up my vest, holding it out in a way that warms me through. I stand, and he slides the fabric over my head, quick but careful. As if he knows instinctively that the first priority is getting me dressed, because no-one can be permitted to see my nakedness or my injuries.
I let him see, though. And I wasn’t afraid.
Once the vest is on, he grabs my shirt and helps me ease into it, though there’s no time for the buttons; I can hear voices in the corridor. I move faster, gritting my teeth against the pain, and Griff glares as if he’d like to tell me off. I focus on the furrow of his heavy brow. I focus on the occasional graze of his fingertips over my skin. I focus on him.
Rebecca, Holly, and Pete walk in just as Griff adjusts my collar, their expressions caught between smiles and curiosity. I do believe they think they’ve stumbled on a scandal. Perhaps because we’re standing so fucking close.
Griff steps back.
“Everything alright?” Rebecca asks, calmly enough, but there’s a teasing glint in her eye.
She’s likely directing that question at Griffin, but I don’t think he’ll relish dredging up an answer under so many avid eyes. It feels natural to slide into the gap for him, to distract the social attention that I’ve noticed, these past days, weighs on him heavily. As natural as the way he just dressed me without a word.
“You won’t believe what this monster did to me,” I say, light and airy and smiling. “He put a blue bandage on my ribs. Blue. Not a nice, subtle blue, either: it’s a disgusting, E number blue. Completely clashes with my eyes. Sabotage, that’s what I’d call it.”
Everyone laughs. Nothing to see here. But when Griff walks by me a moment later, the back of his hand brushes mine.
6
Olu
I go to Maria’s for tea that evening, and every time I smile at her, I mean it. She is sweet and slightly bossy and entirely wicked.
“What do you think of Fernley?” she asks me.
“There’s barely anything to think of,” I drawl, and she laughs.
A cup of tea later, she says, “When you go to the farm, do you see much of Griffin Everett?”
The more time I spend in this place, the clearer it becomes that Griff is the local anomaly. People at work who are all warmth with me give him wary looks that I know—I know—he’s done nothing to earn. There are meaningful pauses and subtle sneers when his name comes up. So I stiffen at Maria’s question and say cautiously, “I do. It’s rather difficult to miss him.”
She laughs again, but there’s no malice there. “He’s a sweetheart, isn’t he?”
Relief. I’m deciding how to answer when the floorboards creak, and one of Maria’s sleepy-eyed children appears in the doorway. “Mam. I’m thirsty.”
Maria is distracted and my scrambled emotions are saved from exposure.
The evening rolls on easily, and the more we chuckle and chat together, the more I feel like myself. Like an undead thing coming slowly back to life. We call it a night, and as I climb the stairs up to my flat, I realise that for some months I have been lonely.
I suppose that’s what comes of purposefully avoiding everyone you love. But I had to—have to—stay away from them, at least until I’m not so miserable, so distant, such a burden. Don’t I?
I’m no longer sure. After getting ready for bed, I find the journal marked F and spill out my thoughts by the light of the moon. My eyes, quite frankly, are not what they once were, so this practice involves a lot of squinting and a sneaking suspicion that every sentence I scrawl has been written at a slant. Oh well. I have to put all these thoughts somewhere, and brooding in the dark makes me feel childishly like a real writer, like someone with actual talent and purpose rather than an excess of emotion and a pen, so I continue.
