By the time we get back home, it’s evening, and everyone is exhausted. Seb and I both put Cami to bed, then we make some tea and migrate to the sofa. I curl up under his arm, my head on his chest.
Mary Berry discusses batter consistencies on the telly, and I watch the light from the screen flicker across Sebastian’s chiselled face. His words echo in my head. I think you belong with us. With all of us. Fear expands inside me, and I push it down fiercely.
I don’t remember the last time I really belonged with anyone. I don’t know if I ever have. I can’t bring myself to believe he really meant it. He was probably just happy and post-coital.
He glances down at me. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” I look at the TV and sigh. “That soggy-bottomed flan just made me super sad.”
He squeezes me closer. “Beth,” he growls, and I squirm as the low rumble vibrates through me.
I reach out and take his hand, playing with his fingers. “I still can’t believe they treated you like that,” I say quietly. “I can’t believe they made you feel so awful about yourself.”
It’s funny; I spent all my childhood so jealous of other kids, who had parents, and houses, and siblings. That’s all I wanted. Back then, it never even crossed my mind that someone could have a family that hurt them.
He lifts my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “Don’t feel bad. That was the best trip to my parents I’ve ever had.”
“But—”
“Stop worrying,” he murmurs. I open my mouth to argue, but he shuts me up with a kiss. It’s a very efficient tactic. I melt into goo as he crushes our lips together possessively, curling his tongue against mine.
The front door suddenly slams open, and we both jump. Cyrus strides into the flat, his hair sticking up and his face like thunder. There are still streaks of baby oil shining on his arms, like he hasn’t cleaned himself off yet. I frown, checking the clock. His shift barely started. “Cyrus?”
He doesn’t say anything, kicking off his shoes and tossing his keys noisily on the counter. “Do we have any booze harder than a bloody Carlsberg?” He demands.
Sebastian and I share a look. “I put a bottle of white in the fridge,” I say slowly.
He nods and storms over to the fridge, yanking open the door and pulling out the wine. Seb and I both watch as he sloshes a third of the bottle into a glass, gulps it down, and refills the glass. He swallows another mouthful, then freezes, looking at me. “Uh. I can drink this, right?”
I slip off the sofa and go to join him, putting my hand on his arm. He’s tense, all of his muscles vibrating with energy.
“Cy,” I say softly. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
He pulls away from me and takes another deep glug of wine. “This, this fucking girl—” he throws his arms out, exasperated. “Look. I’m used to girls getting handsy onstage. They’re not supposed to, I don’t love it, but I am shoving my bits in their face. It’s why I wear the sock, in case some horny fan decides it’s okay to pull my underwear off.” I frown. I don’t like where this is going. “That’s one thing,” he continues, “but this girl came backstage, followed me into the bathrooms, and literally walked into my shower cubicle while I was butt-ass naked.”
My mouth falls open. “Oh my God. Are you okay?!”
“I’m not upset. Just pissed.” He kicks the table leg, his jaw clenched.
“Did she touch you?”
“No. I yelled, and security got in there quick.”
I reach for him. “Oh, Cy, that’s awful.”
He turns on me suddenly. His dark eyes are burning with intensity. “You know why it pissed me off so much?” He demands.
“… Because you were violated?”
“No. Because it made me think of you.”
I pout. “I thought you liked it when I visited you in the shower.”
“Not like that.” He heaves a sigh, running a hand over his face. He looks exhausted. “Does it bother you? What I do?”
“Oh my God, are we having this conversation again? No, I do not care that you take your kit off onstage.”
“I’m not talking about the dancing,” he insists. “I’m talking about the women. Me touching women. Me picking women up and tossing them around. Grinding one inch from their faces. Letting them rub baby oil over my chest.” He wipes a hand over his mouth. “I like you, Beth. And it feels really unfair to sleep with you every single night, but still let other women grab my junk.”
“Yeah, but it’s just a performance, right? Choreographed. You’re not really Cyrus up there, you’re Randy Romeo. The girls are just part of your routine. If you were an actor, I wouldn’t get mad at you for kissing your co-star.” He doesn’t say anything. I reach up and touch his face, grazing my fingers down the line of his smooth jaw. “I appreciate you checking how I feel. I get why it would bother some people, but you don’t have to worry about me. I love that you have a job that you love. I love that you entertain people. And I love that you come home to me,” I take his hand, putting it on my hip. “And I get the real deal. I’d never want you to stop doing what you love for me.”
His eyes rove over my face. “I would,” he blurts out. “I stopped for Chloe.”
“And?”
His shoulders slump slightly. “It wasn’t enough. She was still jealous. She still didn’t trust me. I’d given up my whole career for her, switched back to bartending instead, and she still thought I was probably picking girls up at the bar. Because that’s just what men like me do.”
“She should have trusted you,” I say honestly. “I can’t even imagine you cheating on someone.”
His dark eyes flare. He pulls me even closer. “You’re really not jealous?” He asks quietly.
I snort. “Cy, I’ve seen the women at those shows. They’re all drunk, most of them have, like, penises drawn on their faces because they’re at a hen do, and they spend the whole night yelling at you to get your junk out. I don’t think there’s much competition.”
He cups my cheek. “None. There’s none.”
I sigh as he kisses me softly, his mouth hot and gentle. His big hands slide off my hips and down to my bum, giving me a little squeeze. I had sex less than four hours ago, but I still feel a flutter of desire between my legs. All I want to do is grab Cy by the collar and drag him to the nearest bedroom, but as he tentatively nudges my mouth open with his, I can still feel that something’s off. He’s still feeling insecure about something. And I don’t really think that sex is going to fix it.
“Since you’ve got the night off,” I whisper against his lips, “do you wanna go out?”
He blinks. “What?”
I thread my fingers through his silky hair. “You. Me. Cheesy chips from that dodgy van on the corner and a moonlit stroll by the river.” I glance back at Sebastian, who’s still sitting on the sofa, watching us like we’re an episode of his favourite soap opera. “That okay?”
He nods, his lips tugging up like he’s trying not to smile. “I think that’s a great idea.”
Cyrus pulls me closer. “You asking me on a date, Bethie?” He purrs.
“I sure am.”
His nose nudges mine. “Why?”
“Because you’ve had a hard night, and I fancy the pants off you.” I step back, clenching my thighs together under my dress. “Come on. Get your coat. Let’s hit the town.”
