June 2007

ZOE

There's nothing special about my last day at uni. In fact, I'm glad to be out of there. Every damn corridor holds memories of JJ. Our first unofficial date in the cafeteria. Our first kiss outside his economics lecture theatre. The bathroom where I cried when I caught him cheating for the third time. The library where he broke up with me, probably because he knew I wouldn't be able to cause a scene in there.

With my final exam done, I don't spare the campus a second of sentimentality. Onto the next chapter. A better one, hopefully.

"Do you want to go out tonight?" Mark asks when I get home. "I've got a couple of evenings off work. We can celebrate you finishing."

"I'm seeing my parents," I say. "Let's leave it until next week and we can celebrate your birthday at the same time."

He won't want to celebrate his birthday. He never wants to do anything remotely personal. It drives me up the wall, but I've learnt to accept it, because no matter how much he shuts me out, he still cares for me. He looks out for me. And that's more than can be said for my other friends.

Plus, he's great in bed. He doesn't treat me like I'll break. I'm having the best sex of my life, and it only gets better each time we go there, even though we always say it's the last. It never is, because every time we give in, we trust one other a little more. In fact, the bedroom is where I get the most communication from him. And that's fine, because if we can keep sex separate from emotions, then I'll stand a fighting chance of coming out of this with my heart intact.

The guy is emotionally unavailable, and I've no interest in dating someone who's eventually going to break my heart just like JJ did.

"I don't want to celebrate my birthday," he says.

"What a surprise." I kick off my shoes and collapse onto the sofa.

His eyes narrow as they follow my trainers tumbling across the living room floor. Such a neat freak. Except in the bedroom. In there, he's just a freak.

He folds his arms and stares at me. "Everything okay? Did your exam go badly?"

"Exam was fine. I'm just not looking forward to seeing my parents later."

"Oh." He sits down on the armchair and adjusts his cuffs. "I thought you got on fine with your parents."

"I do. They can just be overbearing, that's all. It comes from a good place but it's intense."

"Do you want company?" he offers. "I still owe you from the funeral."

I try not to bristle at the insinuation. We're friends. Even he admits that we're close. So why does he always insist on justifying something that should be totally normal by suggesting there's an unemotional reason for doing it?

"You'd hate it," I tell him. "They despised JJ, so if they think there's the possibility of romance between us, they'll get overexcited at the idea I'm moving on."

"Just tell them we're friends," he says.

I rise from the sofa and shake my head. "No. If I bring you, they'll assume it's because there's something between us."

"Fine." He catches my waist as I try to squeeze past him for my room. "I'll pick you up so you're not getting the bus back by yourself. We can go for a drink if you want to, or just come straight home."

"Fine," I murmur. Then, to be stubborn, I add, "And we can celebrate properly next weekend for your birthday."

He shoots me a tiny smile. "Fine."

*

Mum and Dad spend the first half of the meal quizzing me about my grad scheme: when do I start, what's my first posting, how am I feeling about it? They offer some well-intentioned, if slightly contradictory, advice.

Dad: Don't let anyone walk over you.

Mum: Network and make as many friends as you can.

They've been married for twenty-five years, and they're the perfect example of opposites attract. As a couple, they're everything I'd wish for in a relationship. Loyalty. Stability. Dependability. As parents, they have a tendency to suffocate me.

"Has Joel been in touch?" Mum asks when we move onto dessert, not quite managing to pull off the casual delivery she was aiming for.

"Not too much."

"I hope you don't reply to his messages." Dad scowls into his apple crumble.

"Of course not."

It's a lie, but even if I wasn't trying to avoid their disappointment, I'd still be ashamed to admit it. JJ broke my heart. Stamped all over it, even. Multiple times. So when he sends me a message, and I know he's thinking about me, I can't help the surge of satisfaction. It's pathetic, but it makes me feel like I still hold some importance in his life.

"And how is the flatmate?" Mum asks. "Are you staying with him again next year or looking elsewhere?"

"Staying with him. The flat has good transport links and I'm settled there."

"That's sensible." Dad nods. "Gives you space to concentrate on your work if your home life is stress-free."

When we leave the restaurant half an hour later, Mark is leaning against the bus stop opposite, his hands deep in his pockets, those emerald eyes scanning the street with familiar habit. Can I get away with pretending not to have noticed him, to spare him the interrogation from my parents?

Then his eyes land on me and he straightens up. That'll be a no, then.

"Mum, Dad... This is Mark. My flatmate. He didn't want me travelling home alone this late."

Approval lights up Dad's face, just like I knew it would. I don't understand Mark's game here. It's like he wants to meet my parents, and why would that be the case when he's so reserved and shut off from most human contact?

"Mark." Dad holds out a palm and they exchange a firm handshake. "Let me buy you a drink."

"Oh." Mark glances at me. I raise an eyebrow; can't say I didn't warn him. "That's very kind but not necessary. I'm just looking out for her."

"Exactly." Dad claps his shoulder and steers him back into the restaurant, towards the bar.

Mum's hand curls around my elbow. "Wow, isn't he striking?"

I pretend to misunderstand. "He works out. Needs to be fit for his line of work."

"Not the muscles... Though they are lovely. But it's the eyes, Zoe. God, you'd spill your soul to them, wouldn't you?"

A year ago, I would have done. Now, they make me drop my pants when I'm horny or storm off in a temper when I'm mad. Two distinct reactions, both of which are equally possible depending on the day.

"I manage okay."

Mum tuts. "You expect me to believe this Adonis is just a friend to you?"

"Mum, I promise you, he is absolutely just a friend."

*

In a weird twist of events that can only be explained by Mark getting a personality transplant on his journey here, he gets on with my dad like they've known each other years. They talk football for the first drink, then London for the second.

Dad likes to pretend he knows London, just because his company had an office in Soho that he visited twice a year, but Mark has lived here his whole life. He's a city boy through and through, whereas Dad would never give up our five-bed coastal property in north Devon. Still, they chat about pubs and parks, and then order a third round.

It's all going far too smoothly, until my mum says something that fills my boozy blood with cold dread.

"Zoe tells me you're a police officer, Mark."

Crap. I try to catch Mark's eye, to convey a silent apology, but he hasn't looked away from my mother since she asked the question.

"Used to be, yes. Recently left the force. I'm a bouncer now."

"Which area of London was your patch?" Dad asks, which is a convenient segue to continue the London-centric discussion.

"South East." Mark smooths a thumb over the condensation forming around the base of his glass. "I was in an accident so had to leave."

God, I wish I was sitting next to him so I could squeeze his leg and reassure him. He doesn't seem bothered, though, not even when Dad starts talking about a friend who used to be in the police and the stories he'd tell. In fact, Mark relaxes. He perks up, even. And I don't get it, because everything about the police is a sore topic whenever I mention it.

Yet now, he's exchanging war stories with a near stranger, talking about horrendous things he's seen, at which Dad doesn't bat an eyelid, and keeping his tone so neutral and engaged that I feel like I'm observing a new man. Plus Dad encourages it. Asks follow-up questions. Revels in the gore.

Until the day of Ben's death, I'd been ignorant to the dangers and horrors Mark faced every shift. He'd seemed so unaffected. Even now, he's respectful in his anecdotes, keeping details vague without going into individual, specific cases. It's a level of resilience that I could only dream of possessing.

Mum and Dad finally leave at around ten. We say bye outside the restaurant entrance, and Mark watches their departing figures with a wistful look in his eye.

"I think they liked you," I say.

"I liked them." He places a hand on my lower back and coaxes me away from the restaurant. "Come on. I owe you a proper drink."

*

We're three drinks down, on top of what we consumed with my parents, and the world has a warm, fuzzy glow to it. We huddle together in a booth at the back of a noisy bar, calves intertwined beneath the table. With every glass emptied, Mark's figure is blurring, yet his hands on my legs, my arms, my back, feel better than ever. Safe but exciting. Familiar but dangerous.

"You're lucky to have supportive parents," he murmurs in my ear, his palm edging under my blouse and splaying across my stomach.

I arch my back to encourage his touch higher. His fingertips brush the wiring of my bra before retreating to the safer territory of my waist.

The alcohol numbs my nerves and draws out the natural follow-up question.

"What happened to your parents?" I nuzzle my face in his neck, the manly scent of his aftershave mixing with the vodka in my blood and bringing me higher. My teeth graze the sharp edge of his clean-shaven jaw, and instantly his head dips to capture my mouth.

The hand cupping the side of my face is firm and possessive, his tongue determined as it twists with mine. It's a distraction technique. I might be tipsy, but I'm not daft. So when he pulls away and whispers his response against my tingling lips, I'm stunned into silence for more than one reason.

"They died when I was eighteen."

My mouth dries up, and half the alcohol in my blood seems to evaporate as a sobering chill envelopes me. His grip doesn't ease, but he leans back an inch to meet my gaze.

"I've got a sister. Couple of years older. She lives in Spain. Probably for the best because I became obsessively protective of her when she was here."

"Because you'd lost your parents?"

He hums. "I was terrified I'd lose her, too. She's strong-willed, though. Independent. Spain was a fresh start for her. She writes to me every month."

"You weren't tempted to follow her?"

His thumb brushes absentmindedly along my cheek as he averts his gaze across the bar. "I was, but I'd set my sights on the police by that point. I knew I had to honour Dad to move forwards with my own life."

"Can I ask what happened...?"

"Burglary gone wrong." A lump descends his throat as he swallows. "Em and I weren't in at the time. Mum tried to stop him taking her jewellery box. There was some kind of physical altercation and she hit her head on the dressing table. Dad didn't realise and tried to stop the burglar leaving. He was hit by their car and died a couple of days later in hospital."

He's calm and factual as he retells the story. Alcohol slurs some of his usual sharpness, but there is no evidence of emotion. I complain that he doesn't let me in or share anything about his personal life, but maybe this is why. It's a barrier. A floodgate stopping traumatic memories resurfacing. Only now, after ten months living together and several drinks down, is he telling me something deeply intimate.

My frustration at his lack of openness seems misplaced now; instead, I'm frustrated that he's gone through all this and I had no idea—no way to support him.

"Did you get to say bye?" I ask carefully.

He nods. "And the burglar was caught. Dad's account plus a shit ton of DNA evidence because it got physical with Mum. Justice, I suppose, but it made me more determined than ever to join the police."

"To take guys like that off the street?"

"Yes, but also to follow in Dad's footsteps."

"How long had he been in the police?"

"Twenty-eight years. He was never interested in promotions. Wanted to stay on the beat, catching the bad guys, helping the public hands-on. It was inspirational."

Clearing his throat, he picks up his glass and downs the last dregs of liquid. My next question dies on my tongue when he grabs my face with both hands and kisses me deeply. Hungrily. Like he's suffocating and I'm his source of oxygen. Blood thunders through my veins, and the hazy alcoholic glow returns. Mutes the noise in my brain.

"Let's get out of here," he mumbles against my lips.

We stumble out of the bar and make it halfway down the street before he's pushing me up against a You Are Here map of London to kiss me again. His lips are soft but purposeful, alcohol adding a faint burn to his tongue.

Catcalls from across the road snap us out of our trance, and then he's grabbing my hand and dragging me down the steps to the Tube station.

"We not getting the bus?" I ask as he navigates through the underground labyrinth of corridors without needing to look at the signs.

"Tube's quicker from here."

It's also a longer walk to the flat on the other end, but that's clearly not his concern right now.

We board a nearly empty carriage. A couple, similar age to us, cuddle in two of the seats, eyes only for each other. It's just as well, because Mark presses me up against the central pole, one hand curled around the metal railing above my head, the other cradling my jaw. As the train careens through the tunnels at speed, our lips work even faster.

We break apart when we enter each station, only to resume once we pull off again. Nobody else gets into the carriage, and with Mark's back to our only other companions, I snake a hand between our bodies to palm his erection through his jeans. A low noise vibrates deep in his throat. Squeezing harder, I run my hand down the thick length of him, then back up, slow but firm.

Around his shoulder, I steal another glance at the couple. They're kissing now, totally oblivious to us, but even if they looked our way, they'd see nothing but the broad back of a 6'4" hunk.

When I flick my eyes back to Mark's, his pupils are dilated with dark lust. I know that stare. There's not much about this man I can read, but I know when he's turned on. It's sometimes the only language we have in common.

Buzzed off the alcohol and encouraged by his wandering hand over the curve of my bum, I pop open the top button of his jeans. Then another. And the final one. The train slows as it approaches another station, and Mark presses his hips into my abdomen to hide my handiwork from view. Only a few passengers stand on the platform, none of them for our carriage.

The second we're moving again, I ease my hand beneath the waistband of his boxers and curl my fingers around the silky flesh of his erection.

Excitement flutters through my veins. I've never done anything like this before. Listening to strait-laced Mark pant down my ear as I stroke his dick in public is an even bigger buzz than the vodka. I'm deliberately subtle with my movements, not wanting to draw attention to us, but that makes it even more electric. The secrecy. The illicitness. The fact we're both so drugged on desire for each other that we can't wait until we're home.

And that's why I whisper, as quietly as I can, "If these two leave before us, will you let me suck you off?"

His fingertips bite into my backside so hard that I'm sure I'll bruise. I hope I'll bruise. He straightens up, his eyes bouncing around the top of carriage. Looking for CCTV, no doubt. Maybe he draws the line at hand jobs in public, or maybe the thought has only just occurred to him.

"You want to?" His gravelly rasp is sexy as hell and only encourages me more.

At my eager nod, his jaw clenches. He doesn't have much time to consider it, though. At the next station, the couple rise from their seats and alight. Nobody gets on. The train starts to crawl towards the tunnel again.

Mark's still undecided as we gather speed, but then his eyes drop down to mine.

"Fuck." He lets go of the pole and clutches my shoulder, shoving me to my knees. "Do it."

I yank down his jeans and boxers just enough to free his erection, then guide him into my mouth. There's no time to adjust to his size. This needs to be quick and dirty. Not that it gets much dirtier than kneeling on a filthy train floor while I suck someone's dick in public, and the ironic thought spurs me on. I take him deep, just the way I know he likes, and he grips my hair to pull me forward to meet each needy thrust, just the way he knows I like.

The train swerves around a corner, forcing him deeper down my throat. A bolt of adrenaline zaps down my spine to settle between my legs. I bob my head faster, suck harder, moan louder, gag and whimper and glug, until he spills onto my tongue with a low groan. I swallow every drop, licking him clean.

Seconds later, we reach a station, and I scramble to my feet as he hikes up his jeans and fumbles with his buttons.

"Fuck, Zo..." He shakes his head to himself. "You've ruined the Tube for me."

***

Thank you for reading :) xx

***

These two just can't help themselves. What did you think of Mark meeting Zoe's parents?