I keep catching my breath, because he’s even hotter than he was before. He’s so pumped up. His biceps are about twice the size they were last year. I run a hand over his broad, rock-hard chest and feel a wash of lust so strong, I can hardly breathe. But somehow I murmur, “Shall we go upstairs?” and he nods and leads me out of the room.
“How big is your bed?” he asks teasingly as we go up the stairs, and I realize he’s never been to my bedroom before. Last year, he was staying in an empty flat in Canary Wharf that belonged to some movie friend of his. We spent all the time there, on the luxurious super-king.
Well, mine isn’t super-king, but at least I changed the linen yesterday.
“It’s big enough.” I smile as I pull him into the room and we tumble onto my bed. We’re kissing and rolling back and forth and Ryan is unbuttoning my shirt, and I’m trying to unbutton his at the same time. Our fingers keep getting tangled up and at last I start giggling.
“OK,” says Ryan, sitting up, giving me a mock-serious look. “Enough. One at a time.”
He takes off his shirt and I suck in breath at the sight of his tanned, rippled torso. He looks phenomenal. I can see him checking out his own reflection in the mirror opposite, and I say admiringly, “You’ve been working out.”
“Yeah.” He nods matter-of-factly. “I bench a hundred kilograms every day.”
“Right,” I say, hoping I sound suitably impressed. “Amazing!”
I’m a bit hazy about benching levels, but that sounds enormous. I’ve got a pair of weights, but they’re only five kilograms each. How does he even lift one hundred up in the air? Does he have help? I’m about to ask, “Do you have help?” when I realize that might not be the thing to say.
“Amazing!” I say again instead. “You look so hot.”
“You look hotter,” says Ryan, slowly pulling off my shirt. “God, I’ve missed you, Fixie. You should have come out to L.A. with me. Maybe everything would have been different.”
I blink at him in shock. I should have come out to L.A.? He never said anything about coming out to L.A. I would have been there like a shot.
“I don’t remember being invited,” I say, making sure I sound light and jokey.
“I should never have let you go.” He shakes his head. “That was my big mistake. You and me, we’re good.” His hands are running over me tenderly. “We’re just good, you know what I mean?”
I want to cry out, “Yes! I do know what you mean! Of course I do!”
But thankfully I’m not quite that uncool. Not quite.
“Well, we’re together now,” I say, my voice husky. “Let’s just enjoy … the moment.”
I pull him playfully backward onto the bed. And he’s leaning in to kiss me, when he stops.
“What’s that?” he says curiously, peering over my shoulder. I follow his gaze and freeze dead in horror. Shit. How can I have been so stupid?
The thing with bedrooms is, you get used to them. You get used to your faded lampshade and your creaky wardrobe door and the stack of books in the corner. You stop noticing them. And you also stop noticing your pile of school memorabilia on the window seat, topped with a framed photo of … guess who?
“Is that me?” Now Ryan is leaning over and grabbing the photo, in fascination.
“Oh, right!” I try to laugh casually. “Yes, maybe! I’ve still got all this old school stuff …”
I’m expecting him to comment on me having a framed photo of him, but he doesn’t; he silently peers at the image. It’s a picture I took once of him and Jake, leaning against the school fence. (I cropped Jake out.) Ryan’s smiling, his school tie askew and his sleeves rolled up. His hair is gleaming. He looks golden. Perfect.
“I had no definition in those days,” he says at last with a frown. “I was a skinny bastard.”
“You were gorgeous,” I contradict him, and run a hand over his back, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s reaching for an old DVD labeled Jake’s Park Picnic.
Oh God.
“Is that our Park Picnic?” he says incredulously, taking the DVD out of its box. “Is this a video of it?”
“Er … yes,” I admit. “I filmed the football match and stuff.”
The Park Picnic is a tradition at our school—all the leavers head there after their final classes and there’s a football game and they all drink beer and make a mess and residents write to the local paper and say it’s a disgrace. I wasn’t even supposed to be there, but I snuck along with Hannah and filmed it. Well, I filmed Ryan, mostly. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again.
“The football match.” His eyes light up. “I remember that. Let’s put it on.”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s looking at my TV. He means right now? Is he joking?
No. He doesn’t seem to be.
Well, I guess we can put sex on hold for a bit. It’s not like I’m desperate. (I am. I am desperate.)
I load the DVD and we wait for a few silent moments—then suddenly we’re looking at a sunny day, fourteen years ago. The park is crowded with kids lolling on the grass, swigging beer, and playing football. Some of the guys are bare-chested, like Ryan, who’s playing football, beer in hand, laughing and joking and looking like what he is: the golden boy of the school.
I remember filming him, creeping forward to the sidelines of the football game with my video camera, borrowed from Mum. And watching it later, over and over.
“Oh, Fixie,” says Ryan, with a massive sigh. “How did we end up here?”
I glance at him and my heart sinks slightly. His brow is knotted in a morose expression which I recognize from drunken evenings out with Jake. It’s the why-am-I-so-bloody-old look, which swiftly leads to the what-happened-to-my-life speech.
I mean, fair enough, I think those things too; everyone does. But we didn’t come up here to think about how crap life is. We came up to have sex.
“I’m glad we’re here,” I say encouragingly. “We’re together … you’re going to have a great job … it’s all going to work out.”
“You think?” His eyes don’t move from the screen, from his young, lithe, carefree self.
“Of course! You’re Ryan Chalker!” I say, trying to impress this on him. “You know, just the name Ryan Chalker used to give me goosebumps. I used to see you coming down the corridor and nearly faint. And not only me. Every girl in the school felt the same. Every person in the school. You must know everyone had a crush on you, even the teachers.”
Ryan’s brow has relaxed as I’ve been speaking, and his hand wanders toward my thigh again.
“So what did you think about me?” he asks idly. “I mean, what was it you liked?”
“Oh God, everything! Like, your hair and your laugh, and you were so fit …”
“Not as fit as I am now. I didn’t even work out back then.” He starts kissing me again, with more purpose, then murmurs into my ear, “What else did you think?”
“I thought you were like a rock star. I thought if you asked me out I would die,” I say honestly, and Ryan gives a soft laugh.
“What else?” he says, pulling me toward him.
This is turning him on, I suddenly realize. OK, quick, say some more.
“I used to think, Oh my God, it’s Ryan! He’s the sexiest guy in the school! And all I wanted to do was kiss you, but you never even noticed me because you were, like, Ryan the Sex God.”
“What else?” His breath is coming quicker now. He’s pulling off my underwear. I can tell he means business.
“I used to hitch up my school skirt whenever you were nearby,” I improvise hastily. “And I used to watch you play basketball and … er … you were so gorgeous, I wished you were bouncing me, not the ball.…”
No, wait. What am I saying? This is gibberish. But Ryan doesn’t seem to mind.
“What else?” he gasps as he enters me.
OK, it’s nearly impossible, trying to summon up sexy stuff to say while Ryan is driving rhythmically into me. My mind doesn’t want to work; it wants to surrender to sensation. But I must keep talking.
“That time we all went to the beach,” I manage, “you looked so hot, everyone fancied you.…”
“What else?”
“You were so sexy … everything about you was amazing.…” My mind goes blank. “Er … you had really cool sunglasses.…”
“What about my car?” he pants, his face contorted.
“Yes!” I exclaim, grateful for the idea. “Your car! Of course. I used to love your car. It was so hot and sleek and … and long. And hot,” I repeat for good measure. “And … and hard …” I’m racking my brains for another good word. “And throbbing,” I say in sudden inspiration. “It was such a … a throbbing car.”
“Oh my God!” Ryan explodes with a roar and collapses on me like a deadweight.
I don’t dare to move for what feels like half an hour.
“Bloody hell,” says Ryan at last, and heaves off me.
“Yes,” I say faintly, because I’m fairly sure I agree with “Bloody hell,” whatever he meant by it.
For a few moments we’re both quiet. Ryan is staring up at the ceiling and he suddenly sighs.
“You’re good for me, Fixie,” he says. “Have I ever told you that before?”
“Yes.” I can’t help smiling. “A couple of times.”
“There’s been too much bullshit in my life. I need you to get me through the craziness. You know?” He turns to face me directly. “That’s what I need. You.”
His blue eyes are unguarded. His face is earnest. He’s playing lovingly with a strand of my hair. And I feel myself melting all over again, because Ryan needs me. Not a girl in L.A. with a perfect figure, but me.