Page 6 of August's Thief
“Is he?” It hadn’t occurred to me to ask Dawson if he had a job. How arrogant to presume he hadn’t, having heard about the shoplifting and, oh my God, propositioning a poor naive copper. The image of those lips wrapped around my own cock flashed through my mind.
“There’s more to our proud Dawson than meets the eye. Don’t let outward appearances deceive you,Gussie. I told you to trust me. He’s your perfect match; he fulfils every single one of your desires.”
Gussie?How on earth did CUPID know about that?
I didn’t set much store by material possessions, having the undeserved good fortune to be able to replace them all. Nonetheless, on clicking the lock of the Porsche, now parked outside Dawson’s insalubrious row of shops, thus abandoning the vehicle to whatever fate it befell, I experienced a pulse of anxiety. Three youths of the unbelted denim and clumpy trainers variety loitered outside the scruffy Co-op, regarding it wolfishly. Until a strident voice yelled at them from up on high.
“Oi! Don’t even think it, Yoz! Nor you, Sean! He’s with me!” The diminutive owner of the voice, hanging out of an upstairs window, then turned his attention to me. “Gussie! Yay! Come in the back door! It’s open!”
The boys sniggered. “Your back door’s always open, innit, Daw? Bloody pansy!”
“Shut it, Yoz! That’s not what your dad calls me when he’s got his trousers round his ankles and his mouth round my knob!”
Oh Christ. Not the happy reunion I’d envisaged, to be honest. I hurried past the youths in as dignified a manner as I could to find Dawson waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase.
“Don’t worry about the car, Gussie, they’ll look after it. We were only joshing.”
And with that, he planted a wet smacker on my repulsive cheek. “Afternoon, lover.” His breath ghosted over the remains of my ear, sweet and cool. “You’ve kept me waiting, haven’t you?”
Without hanging around for a reply, he took my hand, tugging me up the stairs. “Sorry about the mess,” he said over his shoulder. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have put on some smarter clobber and tidied the place up a bit. And him. He likes having visitors.”
Him?I had questions, but before I had a chance to pose any, Dawson was pushing through the door and into the flat. It opened straight into a small sitting room with a TV in one corner showing a children’s television programme, the sound muted. A wheelchair, the comfy, big, padded sort, was positioned directly in front of it.
“Best behaviour now, Mikey. Gussie’s come to see us. You know, the hot posh bloke I was telling you about.”
Leaning over the chair, he planted another smacker on the face of its occupant, who responded with a happy, snuffling sound. Dawson beckoned me over.
“Come on, Gussie. Come and say hello. Mikey don’t bite, not unless you’re trying to give him one of them disgusting iron tablets, anyhow.” He grabbed the handle of the chair, clicking off the brake. “I’m turning you around, Mikey.”
There was a good reason Dawson didn’t have a proper job; I realised that now. Or rather, he did, but it was more an unpaidlabour of love. And, from the glowing look on his flawless face as he proudly introduced me to his flawed twin brother, a job he didn’t consider onerous or laborious at all.
“Hi, Mikey.” Following Dawson’s cue, I took Mikey’s stiff, fragile hand in mine. Replicas of Dawson’s brilliant eyes flicked up at me with vague interest before sliding back to the television screen.
“He won’t answer,” explained Dawson. In a swift, practised move, he produced a tissue and wiped saliva from his brother’s chin. “He can’t. He had a knot in his umbilical cord when we were born. Starved of oxygen. I’m lucky he lived. He can’t move much or talk or anything, but he can see and hear us.” He gave a little laugh. “Though I bet he wishes he couldn’t hear me sometimes, don’t you, my love?” The hand that had been wiping drool briefly settled around his brother’s thin, twisted shoulders before once more turning the wheelchair towards the TV. “I’m just going to make a cuppa for our visitor, Mikey. Back in a minute. Come into the kitchen, Gussie.”
CHAPTER 4
I trailed after him into the narrow galley kitchen, experiencing a jumble of emotions, including the usual infusion of self-hatred whenever I encountered anyone with physical afflictions much, much worse than my own. I’m not sure what I had been expecting to find when I paid Dawson a visit. Not Mikey, that’s for sure. No wonder he gave scant regard to my face. Truth be told, I felt like an idiot. And humbled beyond belief. And also in awe of the pocket dynamo now shimmying around his tiny kitchen, pulling out mugs and biscuits and a sippy cup and chattering non-stop.
“Shove those over there,” he instructed, pointing to an open bag of adult nappies and a bumper pack of wipes. “Next to the medicines. And grab the milk. Is full-fat okay? I buy it on account of Mikey—he needs the calories. Can I squeeze past you to get to the kettle?”
When he said squeeze, Dawson wasn’t kidding. Swinging a cat would be nigh on impossible. He grinned up as his graceful body brushed past mine. “Is this our second date, Gussie? Because, just so you know, if it is and you want to get to second base, this kitchen is the place to do it. Unavoidable, to be honest.”
I chuckled, a rusty creaking sound as Dawson leaned across the sink to fill up the kettle, throwing me a saucy wink over his shoulder like a pose from a vintage postcard. His cute little tush encased in cute little dungarees wiggled a bare inch from my own nether regions, thanks to the minuscule dimensions of the kitchen. Bypassing second base, my mind leapt to fourth.
“Well?” He turned to face me, somehow having managed to fill the kettle and switch it on while my brain stalled, its blood supply busily rushing south. A small smile tugged at his lips. “It takes a couple of minutes to boil, and I can think of a few ways to pass the time.”
Dawson kissed like he lived, full throttle. Like kissing was an adventure he was going to explore to the max, as though the man desperately kissing him back was everything he’d ever wanted. And I’d never been kissed that way before.
As if my face was whole.
Dawson broke away, panting, and one of his hands slid between us. Hunger flared in his eyes as his palm curled around my needy cock. “I reckon a couple of minutes will be plenty long enough.”
“Possibly too long,” I gasped as his busy fingers found my belt buckle and teased it apart. Clenched into tight fists, my own hands hung uselessly at my sides because I was so shite at this. He dragged them up to the clasps of his dungarees.
“It’s a team sport, Gussie.” He plunged his tongue into my mouth, delivering another punishing kiss, pushing me back against the door. As the heat of his lithe body pressed against mine, I forgot that a corner of my mouth didn’t move properly and that one half of my face was a mangled rope of flesh because this joyful, determined fucking radiant beam of sunshine had his hand around my cock, as though there was nowhere else he’d rather have it, and was thrusting his own hard shaft through the tunnel of my fist like it fucking belonged there.
I came, embarrassingly quickly, on legs as shaky as a newborn calf’s and accompanied by the triumphant shrill whistle of Dawson’s cheery red kettle. He pumped me until I winced and pushed him away, erupting into delighted laughter at the perfect timing, even as his own release spurted hotly across my palm. With a happy sigh, he collapsed against me, and for a long while I just held him, my arms tight around his back.
