Page 82 of Glitterland
“I don’t care if it hurts.”
***
That Night
Across the moon-pale scar that marred my forearm, Darian danced in dark ink, the gracefully curving edges of his name unravelling into a spill of colour as joyful and haphazard as the promise of stars.
***
Some Day
Walking with Amy to a signing, we passed a trendy clothing chain, the sort of place that sold about twelve different types of jeans, and there was Darian. He’d been poured into one of the twelve types of jeans and was tugging playfully at a long, multicoloured scarf. Like most of his work, it was a careful piece of self-composition, but there was enough of my Darian, in the smile and in the eyes, that I had to look away.
“I banged a model,” I said. “Check me.”
But, somehow, the words didn’t come out right and I just sounded sad.
***
Some Other Day
I was sitting by the bar, reading100% Essex: Doing It the Essex Wayon my Kindle (for research), essentially on-call for the latest of Niall’s inevitably disastrous dates. He was over by the window and had already run his hand through his hair three times—which either meant he was flirting or it was the signal for “Help, get me out of here.” In retrospect, it had been a bad choice of signal. Next time I would suggest quacking like a duck if he wanted the date to end, which would send a clear message and come with the added benefit of not requiring my involvement.
“C-can I maybe buy you a drink?”
Without looking up, I quirked a finger in the direction of my Coke (full fat, not diet, with ice, and lime not lemon). “I’ve already got one.”
“Oh. Yes.” A nervous laugh. “I didn’t really think that through.”
Relenting, I put down my Kindle. “It’s quite a context-dependent line.”
“What would you suggest?” asked the Adonis at my side.
Dear God. Those eyes. That mouth. That body. Oh, that body. And he seemed to be talking to me. I waited for my libido to notice, but it lay there like a dead cat in a basket, and all the prodding in the world wouldn’t rouse it.
This was officially fucking ridiculous.
And I couldn’t keep staring at him, waiting for my cock to get with the programme. “How about…” I held out my sleeve, running a thumb lightly over the fabric. “What do you call this?”
“Um. A jacket? A sleeve? A really nice suit?”
“Steady on, we’re not playing charades with auntie. The material.”
“Oh, right. I’d say…” He touched it delicately with a forefinger. “Super 120 wool.”
“I like a man who knows his fabric, but the correct answer was…boyfriend material.”
There was a not-quite-awkward silence.
“I think you ruined my delivery,” I said. “Normally I’m beating them off with sticks after that one.”
“I believe it,” he replied, with just enough irony to almost make me smile. “David,” added the divine creature, holding out a hand for me to shake.
“A.A. Win—Actually, call me Ash.”
“What do you do, Ash?”
“I’m a writer, I supply terrible pickup lines to strange men in bars, and I’m a bipolar depressive.”
