Read Online This is Not a Love Story by Suki Fleet - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Suki Fleet
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fling the stupid blankets over the railing, sink down onto the wet floor, and sob.
Phillippe waits until I’ve finished, then offers me a sandwich made from two pieces of stale bread shoved together, no filling. I realize dejectedly he’s just as lost as I am, and that he wants to stay with me mostly so he doesn’t have to be alone.
The sun is on my back as I sit, my head dropped between my knees, and think.
If I go alone to the white house and hand my paltry list of demands over to Vidal, he’s going to laugh in my face. Peter’s right, he’s not going to help me. Why would he?
Even if I allow myself to be fucked and used by every punter who walks into that house, Vidal wouldn’t give a toss. He has hundreds of boys willing to do that for less trouble and inconvenience than the answer to a question. Who’s Malik? he’d say. And what could I do about it?
Because he can’t understand me, I realize I’m no longer including Phillippe in any of this, although I am assuming he’ll go wherever I go.
Every detail from the night before plays out in my head. Everything I heard Malik say, the taste of the drink, the faces of the other boys I can remember. Julian watching me as I drew his face, that look. Falling asleep with him and… dreaming. Was it a dream? Can I let myself believe it wasn’t a dream right now? And even if it wasn’t a dream, even if it was real, maybe it was because of the drugs, the sleeping pills. Maybe they dissolved our inhibitions along with our consciousness. But that would mean we had inhibitions to be dissolved, that underneath our fears there were wants and desires. And for me there are, without question, but for him?
Maybe I’ll never know now. Maybe the most erotic moment of my short life will slowly blur in its drug-induced haze, remembered only in agonizing fragments. Maybe it will be my undoing. Maybe I am already undone.
“Romeo?” Phillippe touches my shoulder. “Do you think we should maybe go somewhere else? They’re not coming back. I’m sorry,” he adds when I lift my head and stare at him icily.
No, I don’t fucking think we should maybe go somewhere else . I don’t fucking know what to do, and right now staring at the fucking wet floor seems like a great idea to me.
I’m so frustrated he can’t understand me, and I can’t snap at him.
Without warning I remember the last argument I had with Julian, which wasn’t really an argument at all, just me being fucking obnoxious. The force of it is like an iron fist gripping my chest and then ripping my heart out. I stifle a sob and push myself up off the slippery floor.
Okay, we need to get out of here.
And just like that, I make a decision. Where do we go when things get bad? Who is my only solid connection to Julian?
Gem.
Julian would find me there, I know he would. How have I suddenly switched it around to Julian finding me? And how is he going to do that if they’ve… if he’s….
I dig my fingers into my skull.
I need to move and not think. I glance up at Phillippe. I beckon him to come. And using every last ounce of energy in me, I take the stairs three at a time and run.
It’s painfully exhilarating, and Phillippe is doubled over holding his chest as I use the last of the money I earned yesterday to buy two tube tickets. Time is ticking away unbearably fast and walking will take hours. If we were taking overground trains, I’d jump the barriers, but the tube is too well policed these days.
Inside, the station is crowded and disorientating—the last time I used the tube was months and months ago, long before I became officially homeless—and I forget how easy it is to take a wrong turn and end up waiting for the wrong train.
We descend deeper under London, staircase after staircase, escalator after escalator.
Down here the darkness rushes, and the sooty blackness has a sound that echoes off the curved white tiles and mixes with the hundred-year-old scent that permeates the air.
I peer into
Phillippe waits until I’ve finished, then offers me a sandwich made from two pieces of stale bread shoved together, no filling. I realize dejectedly he’s just as lost as I am, and that he wants to stay with me mostly so he doesn’t have to be alone.
The sun is on my back as I sit, my head dropped between my knees, and think.
If I go alone to the white house and hand my paltry list of demands over to Vidal, he’s going to laugh in my face. Peter’s right, he’s not going to help me. Why would he?
Even if I allow myself to be fucked and used by every punter who walks into that house, Vidal wouldn’t give a toss. He has hundreds of boys willing to do that for less trouble and inconvenience than the answer to a question. Who’s Malik? he’d say. And what could I do about it?
Because he can’t understand me, I realize I’m no longer including Phillippe in any of this, although I am assuming he’ll go wherever I go.
Every detail from the night before plays out in my head. Everything I heard Malik say, the taste of the drink, the faces of the other boys I can remember. Julian watching me as I drew his face, that look. Falling asleep with him and… dreaming. Was it a dream? Can I let myself believe it wasn’t a dream right now? And even if it wasn’t a dream, even if it was real, maybe it was because of the drugs, the sleeping pills. Maybe they dissolved our inhibitions along with our consciousness. But that would mean we had inhibitions to be dissolved, that underneath our fears there were wants and desires. And for me there are, without question, but for him?
Maybe I’ll never know now. Maybe the most erotic moment of my short life will slowly blur in its drug-induced haze, remembered only in agonizing fragments. Maybe it will be my undoing. Maybe I am already undone.
“Romeo?” Phillippe touches my shoulder. “Do you think we should maybe go somewhere else? They’re not coming back. I’m sorry,” he adds when I lift my head and stare at him icily.
No, I don’t fucking think we should maybe go somewhere else . I don’t fucking know what to do, and right now staring at the fucking wet floor seems like a great idea to me.
I’m so frustrated he can’t understand me, and I can’t snap at him.
Without warning I remember the last argument I had with Julian, which wasn’t really an argument at all, just me being fucking obnoxious. The force of it is like an iron fist gripping my chest and then ripping my heart out. I stifle a sob and push myself up off the slippery floor.
Okay, we need to get out of here.
And just like that, I make a decision. Where do we go when things get bad? Who is my only solid connection to Julian?
Gem.
Julian would find me there, I know he would. How have I suddenly switched it around to Julian finding me? And how is he going to do that if they’ve… if he’s….
I dig my fingers into my skull.
I need to move and not think. I glance up at Phillippe. I beckon him to come. And using every last ounce of energy in me, I take the stairs three at a time and run.
It’s painfully exhilarating, and Phillippe is doubled over holding his chest as I use the last of the money I earned yesterday to buy two tube tickets. Time is ticking away unbearably fast and walking will take hours. If we were taking overground trains, I’d jump the barriers, but the tube is too well policed these days.
Inside, the station is crowded and disorientating—the last time I used the tube was months and months ago, long before I became officially homeless—and I forget how easy it is to take a wrong turn and end up waiting for the wrong train.
We descend deeper under London, staircase after staircase, escalator after escalator.
Down here the darkness rushes, and the sooty blackness has a sound that echoes off the curved white tiles and mixes with the hundred-year-old scent that permeates the air.
I peer into
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