Page 3 of Torn
I nodded. The fatigue was coming into plainer view. My bag, an old leather duffel that once belonged to my dad, was gaining weight with every step I took. My black nylon backpack was mysteriously getting heavier too.
We finally wound up outside an old redbrick courtyard building. We were a stone’s throw from the St. James’s tube station. The building was in the heart of everything one imagines when one thinks of London—close to the Thames and all the iconic landmarks, dripping in British charm and grandeur. Something occurred to me. “Your friend Trevor must have a great job to be able to afford a place here.”
Boutros shrugged. “I’m not sure what he’s got on at the moment. Anyway, it’s a council flat, so he doesn’t pay much.”
We rang Trevor’s buzzer.
I watched through the leaded glass window as a wide figure clambered down the stairs. The latch was thrown, the door opened wide, and Trevor stood there to greet us. He was a big man—both in terms of height and width—with a shock of thinning blond hair and skin so pale I wondered if he could qualify as a legitimate albino. But then I looked into his dark brown eyes and realized he was simply pasty. Color rose to his cheeks as he eyed us both. He didn’t hesitate to grab Boutros in a bear hug, squeezing him so tight Boutros gasped and pushed him away. “Get off me!” he snapped.
Trevor laughed, and the old cliché regarding the connection between being fat and jolly rose up in my head. “And who’s this tasty morsel?” He gave me a once-over, wrapping up his inspection with a lascivious wink.Uh-oh, I thought.Boutros told me Trevor’s flat is only a one-bedroom. Will I be expected to share a bed with our host? There’s no such thing as a free lunch, or in this case, free accommodations in a posh part of London. I will do what I must for the cause of cheap lodging, but I hope I don’t have to. Nice as Trevor seems, I don’t think he’s quite my type.
But Lord knows I’d never ruled anyone out before for not being my type! I would say I’d been egalitarian in my past choice of bed partners. Boutros would say I was simply an undiscerning slut. “Any cock’ll do!” he’d once quipped.
God, I adored him.
Trevor extended a hand; we shook. I peered into his dark eyes, smiling. “I’m Ricky Comparetto. Boutros’s friend. From the States,” I babbled, discovering that suddenly I was more than a wee bit nervous.
Trevor laughed, a big gruff sound, appropriately eyeing me like I was some sort of lunatic. He mimicked what I’d said, making it sound harsh and flat—what I suppose my American—Chicago in particular—accent sounded like to him.
But then a warm smile lit up his face. “Welcome, Ricky from the States!” He turned a little to gesture toward the stairs, which I could now see were carpeted in some kind of faded pink floral pattern. Cabbage roses, maybe? At the first landing, there was a lovely stained glass window in hues of violet, cobalt, and yellow. Simple squares and rectangles of varying sizes. “My castle is your castle. Come on in.”
He turned to head up the stairs, stopping to grin at Boutros. “You can come too.”
“Of course I can, my dear. My presence can only lighten up this dreary shithole.”
They both chuckled.
We headed up the stairs.
The flat was small. Cramped kitchen with a clothes-drying rack perched above the sink. On it, two pairs of jeans and a black T-shirt. Miniscule counter with a microwave and electric kettle. Appliances that looked miniaturized compared to their American cousins.
The main living area was fairly ample, the walls painted a cheerful yellow and bordered by white baseboards and crown molding. Scattered around was what looked like thrift-store furniture, brightened by throws in almost eye-hurting shades of turquoise and orange. A little black here and there calmed down the color riot. A bay window looked out onto the courtyard.
Trevor led us into the cramped bedroom. A full-size walnut bed with a chenille bedspread, neatly made, graced the room. The only other furniture was a nightstand next to the bed and a small black lacquered dresser. A cut-glass lamp stood on the nightstand, and beside it was a bottle of lube.
“Didn’t this belong to your mum?” Boutros ran his hand along the white chenille fabric. “Weren’t you conceived on it, during a shore leave?” He picked up the lube and considered it, set it back down. “I believe that belonged to your mum, too, didn’t it? They always talked shit about how ‘dry’ she was. I assumed it was because of her sense of humor.” Boutros snorted.
Trevor rolled his eyes and ignored him. “You two will be in here, so just throw your bags down and make yourselves at home.” He paused, one forefinger at his lips. “You lot are okay with sharing a bed, right?” He raised one of his eyebrows, making me notice for the first time that he had a pair—they were so pale as to be almost translucent.
“Oh, we’re not a couple,” I blurted out, lest Trevor had the wrong idea.
Trevor squeezed my shoulder. “Darling, I didn’t think that for a moment. You? With this ancient queen? Never!” He shivered.
“He’d be lucky to have me, Trevor. I’ve seen some of the trolls he’s taken home from the bars. Believe me, I’d be a huge step up.” He eyed me, grinning. “We’ll be fine. Thank you.”
The bed was calling to me. The overnight flight and the jaunt through the busy streets of London had finally caught up, demanding restitution.
I plopped down on the bed and tried for my best British accent. “I rather fancy a nap. Do you chaps mind?”
Boutros’s upper lips rose in a sneer. “I could just kill him.”
“Me too,” Trevor agreed.
“Go on and have a nap. I have a night out planned for us. You’ll need your rest,” Trevor said to me, and then to Boutros, “Come on, then. Fancy a spot of tea?”
Boutros followed. “I’ll be mother.”
The last thing I remember was the white door, thick with many, many coats of paint, closing.
