Page 85 of Reckless Hearts
But my father hadn’t started walking again. Instead, he’d fixed me with a look.
“You’re a grown man now, Seb. I can’t tell you what to do, especially not in this area. But I can offer some fatherly advice.”
“You’re going to give me fatherly advice on gay sex?” Yes, I know I’m a bad person for trying to make my father uncomfortable, but after having his reassurance he wouldn’t tell Saskia, I was prepared to use whatever weapons were at my disposal to escape the conversation.
Especially when he looked at me with such a solemn expression.
But my father was clearly made of sturdier stuff than I gave him credit for because he continued on, “No, I’m not going to give you advice on sex. But I am going to give you some life advice.”
“What life advice?”
“There’s an old adage: if you play with fire, you will get burned.” He’d kept his eyes on me. “You should think about that.”
Now, scrolling through Marcus’s and my messages, my father’s words echo in my head.
Am I going to get burned by spending so much time messaging Marcus?
Potentially.
Even knowing the risk, I’m not sure I can resist.
Rent in Aucklandis ridiculously expensive, and even though I’m getting paid as a postdoctoral student, academic funding only stretches so far. Scummy is probably too nice of a term to describe my flat.
After I’ve made myself a scrounged-together balanced meal of microwaved frozen pizza, accompanied by a side of wilted salad leaves I optimistically bought last week in an attempt to be healthy, I retreat to my room.
I’m just getting out my laptop to binge-watch my favorite documentary series,Microbe Hunters, which follows scientists tracking down rare and potentially world-ending bacteria, when my phone starts to buzz.
I pick up my phone, and my mouth immediately goes dry.
It’s a video call from Marcus Johnson.
Trying to calm my racing heart, I press Accept.
“Hey.” Shit. I’ve tried for casual, but somehow, I’ve ended up sounding like I’m auditioning for the role of a squeaky door in a horror movie.
“Hey, yourself.” Marcus looks like he’s stepped straight out of a fashion magazine. His dark hair is artfully tousled, and the soft lighting catches the angles of his face, highlighting his chiseled jawline and making him look impossibly handsome. His eyes are bright, and there’s a slight flush high on his cheeks.
“What time is it there?” I ask.
“Eleven. I’ve just got home from the opening of a nightclub.” His words seem slightly looser than normal, which, put together with his flushed cheeks, makes me realize he’s had a few drinks.
“I’m guessing it was quite a different experience from the sticky-floored glory of The Bog,” I say, naming one of the iconic pubs in Dunedin.
Marcus laughs softly. “Ah, The Bog. Where the beer is cheap, and the regrets are plentiful.”
“So, what’s up?” I ask, adjusting the angle slightly so I don’t reveal the mountain of laundry piled beside my bed.
“I just wanted to see your face,” he says.
My heart is in my throat. “Have you forgotten what it looks like?”
“I don’t think I could ever forget that,” he says softly.
Oh my god.
“It’s good to know I’ve embedded myself in your neural pathways like a particularly stubborn parasite,” I say. Because, apparently, comparing myself to a parasite is my idea of flirting.
He laughs, and it’s a free sound that makes my heart stutter. “I’m not going to even pretend I understand what you just said, but it sounds about right.”
