Page 26 of A Loser by Christmas
I follow them, ending up in a hallway leading to some bathrooms. That’s where I get my shit together under yet more Christmas decorations that have only just stopped spinning when the hallway door opens a minute or two later.
It closes behind Calum.
“Hey.” He snags me by the elbow. Unlike Lito, there’s no shaking him off. He doesn’t let go until I face him. “Yes,” he blurts. “Yes, you can use the content any way you want.”
I fumble for my camera, realising a beat too late I left it leaning against a candle. I fish out my phone and set it recording. “Say that again.”
His voice pitches so much deeper. His agreement is almost subvocal. “You can use the content.”
“I can?”
He nods.
“All of it? Even if I can’t promise to?—”
“Use it to get me off the hook?” He scrubs at the back of his neck. “That was never my idea. It was Jack’s. A long shot. The footage is yours, okay?”
Relief swamps me.
A way out opens ahead, this lifebelt thrown by a saviour who grumbles, “I was overthinking. Running through legal scenarios before they even happen.” He huffs. “Where’s a coach with a game plan when you need one? The numbers I’m risking are so big that I . . .”
His face does something complex, and a true documentary maker would focus on this conflicted visual. I should step back so my phone can catch yet another reason to include a split screen in my final entry. His creased expression is such a contrast to his determined game face. It tells a whole other story.
He’s lost.
I reach up without thinking to trace forehead furrows.
And sad.
I skim caring lines that must be genetic—I saw them so often while shadowing his brother.
Why is he so worried?
Calum’s eyelids lower. Dark gold spiky lashes cast shadows I last saw in my cabin. In my bunk. And great, now I’m thinking about what we did together: about him touching me with shaking fingers, about fireworks casting light on hidden bruises, and about spiteful sex that absolutely wasn’t.
Most of all, I can’t stop replaying how warm he left me.
I’m warm all over again when Calum whispers, “Why can’t I stop thinking about you? About what we did.”
I squash a grin and aim for solemn. “Because your last performance was so very disappointing? I understand. Somepeople are naturals.” I point at me. “Others need a lot more practice.” I point at the ceiling where spinning decorations include a sprig of green leaves and white berries.
He looks up at the mistletoe, then lowers his head to meet my gaze in a reminder of the videos I watched with Dad this morning. Calum commits to a kiss, and I don’t even care if he’ll taste of regret and ashes. I’m pretty sure I’ll be one-star flavoured, which will make us even.
I tip my head back, ready for him to get bisexual, and he doesn’t keep me waiting. Forget my joke about him needing practice. His mouth is a perfect fit for mine, his lips the same velvet I remember. His beard prickling is every fucking thing until he hoists me up, then him holding me up one-handed so he can yank open a door is even better. It closes behind us, and yes, this is some kind of stock cupboard—bottles clink against each other—but we might as well be back aboard my boat. I’m rocked all over again by how much I like this.
How much I likehim.
And sure, we’ve done more than kiss already. His lips parting for the fraction of a second it takes to let our tongues touch gives me more tingles than I’ve ever experienced in a boat-show bathroom.
It doesn’t last—he smiles too hard to keep kissing for any longer.
I don’t need any light to see that, which is just as well. This cupboard is pitch black, but I can feel his lips curve against my throat until he speaks. “Seriously, why can’t I stop thinking about you?”
I’d tell him that he’s been on my mind too only his mouth finds mine again in the dark, and this kiss has more bite. More teeth. I like that even better. “Why?” he asks. “Why you, when literally anyone else on the planet would be less of a dick.” His mouth returns to my throat, his chest rising against mine. “Youeven smell good to me. I can’t fucking explain it. I spend all my time with men.” He growls. “Why is ityouthat I can’t?—”
I might give explaining a try if his lips didn’t brush the corner of mine. I’d tell him that I haven’t pushed my bunk back to its usual narrow alignment since he tucked those blankets around me. I’m too busy chasing his mouth to say so, and he rises to that challenge.
Both his hands clamp my arse, and more bottles clink. His breath catches, and I find out why—I already traced his forehead furrows. Now I slide down his big, hard body to trace an outline through his trousers. His cock is firming, well on its way to hardness.
