Page 23 of Dream a Little Dream

“Let’s go.” Aaron pulled Mel toward the turnstiles.

“Wait, I want to get one of these smoothies.” She unlinked her arm and joined the queue for the café, leaving Aaron right there as Kenny exited the gymnasium and meandered into the reception.

There wasn’t anywhere he could hide. His fucking hair was a beacon. He’d dye it back blond tomorrow. Or shave it all off. Okay, that might not help him blend in, but nor did the raucous rugby lads bounding out from the basketball hall and causing Kenny to glance his way.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing else. No fair. No rugby lads. No cafeteria whizzing up smoothie concoctions to give the students their five-a-day. It was just two souls entangling the same orbit as they’d done that night in Inferno. Locked in a fight they both lost days ago. Probably years ago.

Kenny stalled. Aaron didn’t move either and the impulse to tug on that invisible thread that had bound them together Saturday night was overwhelming. But he wrestled it down with the smidgen of restraint lurking beneath his skin.

“Hey, Dr Lyons!” Mel slurped on her drink, waving at him and dragging Aaron over.

Aaron would kill her.

With his bare hands.

“Great lecture, today. You a member of the gym here, then?”

“It helps to keep the body active to appease the mind.” Kenny took a drink from his water bottle. “You should try it.”

Mel grimaced. “I only run when I’m being chased.”

“Who says you’re not?” Kenny wiped his face with his towel.

Dark.Aaron might have just fallen in love.

“You signing up to the clubs?” Kenny spoke to Mel, but Aaron could see him struggling to keep his focus on her.

“We did. I signed up for about twenty. Aaron’s gonna be a pole dancer.”

That got him looking. “Pole dancing?”

Aaron shrugged. “Something to fall back on if the porn career doesn’t work out.”

“Can see why you needed all those A’s in your A Levels with that sort of career trajectory.” He took a swig from his bottle and his eyes drifted to Aaron’s neck. The Mars symbol. Now devoid of the bruise that had been there at the beginning of the week. He lingered on it and if he hadn’t been drinking, Aaron was sure he’d be drooling. “Enjoy your weekend.”

He went to leave, but another bloke came out of the gym, chasing after him, old enough to be staff, and Aaron and Mel hovered away but Aaron’s heightened senses had him listening.

“Ken! Wait!” Bloke stopped, handing him a scrunched up piece of paper. “Heather will meet you at the Jobber’s Rest at eight. She’ll be wearing red. Said you’ll wear a blue shirt. You got a blue shirt, right?”

“Yes, but, Jesus, Dom, I’m not sure about this blind date thing anymore.”

“You were cool with it last week. She’s nice. Really nice. You’ll like her. And if you don’t, the steak and triple cooked chips are enough to leave the house for, anyway.” Bloke tapped the back of his hand on Kenny’s chest. “But youwilllike her.”

Kenny took a long swig from his bottle, as if contemplating his next move, and Aaron watched his throat gulp as he glanced at Aaron, their eyes locking. Something flashed between them, but Kenny tore his gaze away just as violently as it had met Aaron’s. Then, without a word, he strode toward the door, his exit punctuated by the heavy thud of it slamming shut behind him.

Aaron stood frozen, breath shallow, the air shifting in Kenny’s absence and a strange, foreign pressure seized his chest, coiling tighter with each breath. He curled his hands into fists, trembling with a need for release, for some form of violent outlet, and he cursed himself for biting his nails to the quick. There was no satisfying pain from digging into his palms. What the hellwasthis? The intensity clawed at him, twisting his thoughts, the desire not to quell the storm, but let it rage, overwhelming.

Was this…jealousy?

For years, he’d wondered if he were normal for not having the same emotions as others. He could recall having had love ripped away so callously. Could remember how losing his mother hadfelt as though he were being torn limb from limb. Remembered the following years wishing, hoping, begging and pleading for her to return. He’d grazed his throat and damaged his voice from screaming for her night after night, not being able to sleep without her singing, without her special medicine, without her all-consuming love for him. After being told to shut up more times than he could remember, being beaten into submission, being told he was ugly over and over, he’d grown layers and layers of protection, preventing anything from leaking through to his cold, dead heart. He’d died the day they changed his name, believing that would change his fate.

How could one man, one encounter in a club, cause a crack in his armour?

He hated it.

Hatedhim.

“Fancy coming to the uni bar tonight?” Mel asked as they made their way out of the sports centre.

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