Page 9 of August's Thief
“I’m not!”
Yes, definitely amused. I was being heckled by a fucking bot. “Surely there must be a dusty Rolex buried at the bottom of a drawer in that ancient pile you insist on referring to ashome.”
Home.Home is where the heart is. Wasn’t that the expression? In which case my home was now a shabby one-bedroom flat above a betting shop. Because my heart stayed behind every time I reluctantly left Dawson and Mikey to driveback to my stately pile. Could I ever persuade them to move? Mikey would love the fields and gardens, especially in the spring when the lambs appeared and the daffodils pushed through the rich, damp…
I was getting way ahead of myself again. Moreover, I had a bot to argue with. “And, in exchange for lavishing cash on the pretty young things dangling from their arms, a sugar daddy is convinced his friends stuck with jaded older partners are jealous, when in fact they’re all just thinking he’s a sad bastard. So yes, to my mind that’s very transactional. And already, I feel what Dawson and I have isn’t, even though I’ve spent my money on whatever he needs. And even though he’s pretty and young.”
“He is,” agreed CUPID. “Were any of the things he needed gifts for himself?”
“No.”
Though I wanted to buy him things. I’d love to lavish him with presents. I’d start with a sleek wristwatch, matching my own but made for a slimmer, more elegant wrist. And a soft cashmere sweater that fitted him properly, along with a winter coat, a whole palette of eye make-up, and tubes of lip gloss in every subtle shade of?—"
“Tell me, August Angel, in return for the money you have spent, what has he given you?”
“It isn’t transactional,” I snapped.
CUPID made a weary, electronic sigh. “Okay, let me assist you. He gives you joy. Helping Dawson makes you happy. You gain pleasure because you’ve direct experience of pain and distress yourself. You have a lot of empathy for him and Mikey and their financial struggles, so you want to take that pain away from them. That transaction is nothing to be ashamed of.” They paused. “Your turn, August.”
I winced. This bot understood me better than I understood myself. Huffing, I crossed my arms and pulled a face. I had noidea if CUPID could see me. I thought of our sex, how right it felt cuddling on the sofa with him, how perfectly Dawson fit in my arms. “He’s given me a reason to get out of bed in the mornings. A purpose. And um… perspective on… on this.” I waved my hand at my monstrous face. “And…” My pulse quickened as I recalled Dawson greedily begging for more when I’d finger-fucked his arse.
“And the best sexual encounter of your life?”
I groaned, a rush of heat climbing my neck. “Jesus, CUPID. Don’t be coy, just bloody get it all out there.”
The odd sound of a bot sniggering echoed around the empty room. “So itistransactional,” CUPID continued in a satisfied monotone. “But, ask yourself this, August: on balance, who is gaining the most?”
That was a no-brainer. “Me. Obviously.”
“And one last thing. Tell me, August. You must know by now. Does your perfect match have pretty feet?”
A memory of them snuggled in my lap last night, as we pretended to watch the television but mostly watched each other, filled my head. Slender and pale, I’d kissed the tips of each of his ten toes, making him squeal with delight. Toe sucking. Not that I was going to sharethatwith CUPID. “The prettiest.”
CHAPTER 7
Days turned into weeks. The Porsche became a permanent fixture outside the betting shop. Yoz and Co. extorted twenty pounds a day to guard it. I’d have happily paid two hundred if it meant spending every afternoon with Dawson and Mikey. I never stayed the night; Mikey slept in the only bedroom, and with the best will in the world, Dawson’s squishy two-seater sofa, which flipped into a narrow single cot, couldn’t accommodate the both of us.
Mikey’s routines became my routines; I discovered he enjoyed having his palms massaged while watching Peppa Pig. I grew to adore his appreciative hums whenever Dawson produced a shortbread biscuit dipped in strawberry yoghurt. I learned his dislikes, namely every single drop of every single medicine, and Dawson’s creative strategies for disguising the taste, centring around chocolate buttons. I looked after him on my own sometimes when Dawson popped to the shops, and no crises befell either of us.
Needless to say, I fell deeper in love with both.
On Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, a very jolly man arrived in a minibus to collect Mikey and ferry him to a day carecentre. There were no prizes for guessing how Dawson and I passed the time.
“Will you come and stay at the estate for the weekend?” I asked as he lay in my arms. “With Mikey?”
I revelled in these moments of quiet intimacy after sex, my entire world reduced to a lumpy sofa and our two bodies nestled together. Sometimes, amongst the whispers and giggles, we’d kiss and get semi-hard again. We’d rub against each other, not taking it anywhere, just loving each other’s bodies, knowing the closeness was enough. “The farmer has moved the cows to a field near the house. My housekeeper can make up a bed for Mikey in my dressing room, so he’ll only be a few feet away from us.”
Dawson raised his eyebrows atdressing room. “Not sure his beanie chair will fit in the Porsche.” He said it teasingly, but my lover had been a little subdued today. He’d coddled Mikey as usual and taken extra special care rubbing cream into his thin, stiff calves. He’d even sung nursery rhymes and pulled silly faces to distract him during nappy changing, and Mikey had gurgled and jerked his arms like they were sharing the best joke ever. But I hadn’t missed the sag of his shoulders as we waved the minibus off, nor the thin line of his lips as he turned away.
“I have another car.” I nuzzled into his neck, breathing in his biscuity, warm scent. “It’s plenty big enough for all of Mikey’s things. A Range Rover.”
“Of course you do,” he chuffed. “What self-respecting gazillionaire hasn’t?”
“Hey…” I stroked my fingers through his hair. “Don’t be like that. What’s wrong?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
