Oscar - 29. Part 29

We could have gone around and around in circles.

Trapped in a hopeless loop. Him demanding or begging for the truth. Me pulling more and more lies out of my arse in a desperate attempt to cover my tracks. The dire process repeating and repeating until one of us snaps or storms out or both.

I could have told him I didn’t have my wallet on me. Or I didn’t have any ID full stop. Saddle up my high horse and get all indignant and offended. It’s not a legal requirement to carry any in this country. I could have left it at home. Lost it. Never applied for one in the first place.

But I had applied for it. And I did have it on me. Tucked inside my wallet next to my debit and National Insurance cards. Thin, pink and plastic: my driving license. Good picture. Bad birthdate.

Liar.

He saw it in my face. Otherwise he wouldn’t have looked at me like he did. Sad and disappointed. Cold. Then, in a flash, hot and sharp. Searing and angry. Like I’d betrayed him.

Worse than betrayed.

The way his brow crinkled and his top lip snarled, it was like I’d stabbed him in the back. Or slapped his mum on her birthday. Or walked into his house at Christmas and taken a steaming shit on his presents.

The jig was up. He’d caught me out red handed, or in this case, empty handed. No ID. No explanation. But he wasn’t saying anything. He just kept staring. Staring and staring like he was seeing me for the first time.

I was no longer the runner from the park who had gone to the school he’d worked at. Now I was an ex-student obsessed.

Gone was the man I’d met in the old creek field: dark and broody and intrigued. And long gone was the man I’d known for the best hours of my life. The muscled power-house that had ruthlessly ploughed me. Stretched my throat and hole open fuller and wider and fulfilled me more than any man.

The sensual, affectionate man smiling at me from the driving seat of his car. Sending me cute text messages. Listening.

That man had gone. And I had no idea how to find him again. No idea what to say.

I’d never been in this position. Sure, I’d lied to plenty of guys in the past. Told them I was a virgin longing to finally have my arse broken in. Or I had a girlfriend but she wouldn’t let me fuck her in the back. Something to get them going. Something they could latch onto or lap up to feed their fantasies itching to be acted out with or in or on my toned and eager teenage body.

But I hadn’t cared about them. Hadn’t cared if they’d found out I was telling porkies. Hadn’t cared if it had bothered them. As far as I was concerned they’d been cash machines with cocks. Walking distractions with thick arms, nice abs and nicer cars. I hadn’t given two short shits about any of them. Still didn’t.

But Mr. Price. He was real. We were real. And sadly, unlike the rest, I couldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear. Because he wanted the truth. And the truth was too embarrassing. Too fucked up.

What would I say? That I’d been following him? Watching him run around a park for the last two weeks so I could learn his movements before implementing some master plan to win his heart?

He’ll hate me. Or worse, pity me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

He turned his head away. Looked at the empty beer bottle wedged between his huge hands and sighed. Said nothing.

Reaching out, I touched his forearm. For half a second he allowed it. Allowed me to feel his skin and hair and heat and muscle in a blissful blink. Then he pulled away, still saying nothing.

I tried again. Tried to grab hold. Pull his arm toward me and hold his hand against my cheek. I told myself if he let me I would tell him everything. Explain it all. Tell him why I’d lied. Why I’d used Adam and why he’d deserved it.

Then I would tell him how much I needed him. How he was the first man to ever give me any sense of hope. That maybe, with him by my side, I could have a decent life in this fucked up town. That maybe dreams do come true.

But he shook me off. Pulled his arm away and turned his head so all I could see was his powerful profile and the sublime line of stubble where shaved head met strong neck.

A neck I will never hang off again.

‘Please, I’m sorry,’ I said.

He shook his head and turned back to face me. Said nothing. Just kept staring at me with unblinking eyes. The muscles in his jaw clenched and throbbing. His body so close but so far away.

‘I didn’t mean to lie to you,’ I said, reaching out for a third time.

Dodging my hand, he grabbed his bottle and stood up.

‘Please don’t touch me,’ he said, looking down at me.

‘Please? Tim?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t. You lied to me.’

I said nothing and looked at my hands; the weight of his stare too much for my shoulders.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ he said.

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Admit it.’

‘Ok.’

‘Ok, what?’

‘Ok, yes,’ I said, sweat beginning to bead under my hairline; my face red, my palms moist, my skin itching like a colony of fire ants had made me their home. ‘I lied to you. I’m not nineteen.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘Prove it.’

‘I’m still at school. Adam and I are in the same year.’

‘I need proof.’

‘Why?’

‘I have no idea who you are, Oscar! You could be fifteen for all I know! When I say I can’t deal with lies in my life, I mean it!’

‘Ok, ok,’ I said, reaching around my back and pulling my wallet out of my back pocket, his voice still booming in my ears.

Opening the tattered leather, I took out my ID. Handed it to him over the table. He put his beer down and looked at the rectangle of laminated plastic for exactly three seconds before giving it back.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘You’re welcome,’ I muttered.

‘Now get out.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Why do you think?’

‘I’m still legal! I haven’t done anything wrong!’

‘Haven’t done anything wrong?’ he said, placing his hands on the dining table and leaning towards me; his biceps and triceps and pecs bulging under the thin grey cotton of his jumper.

‘You told me you were nineteen,’ he said.

‘So what?’ I said, still sweating under his scrutiny. ‘People lie about their age all the time.’

‘Yeah. You’re not wrong. People do. And you know what? I wouldn’t have cared. I wouldn’t have given a flying fuck if it’d been as simple as you adding a few months on because you didn’t want to put me off.’

‘Then why? Why should I leave? Why do you hate me now?’

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. A short, sharp hiss filling the room as he inhaled. I felt his outbreath, warm and moist and smelling of beer.

Opening his eyes his face was softer. But still an eternity from the face I’d been in awe of, lying in his arms.

‘I don’t hate you, Oscar,’ he said.

‘Yes, you do,’ I said, my voice weak and pathetic.

‘No, I don’t. But I don’t get you.’

I looked up and the room was suddenly blurry. There were tears in my eyes. Wiping them in my elbow crease I shook myself out of it.

Don’t fucking cry.

Taking a deep breath of my own, I focused. Controlled my emotions. Pushed the sadness and pain down and away.

‘If you don’t hate me,’ I said, as calm and collected as I could. ‘Why do you want me to leave?’

‘Because of Adam.’

I said nothing. Shook my head and made a face that said I couldn’t believe he was still taking that over-sized moron’s side.

Bad idea. Mr. Price’s fire did not need any more fuel.

‘Stop it!’

‘He’s lying!’ I said.

‘Why?’

I said nothing.

‘Why would he make up something like that? Why would he beg to talk to me? Tell me through streaming eyes that you’d sat on his cock and let him fuck you for information.’

‘I don’t know!’ I tried to say but ended up shouting. ‘He’s fucked up.’

‘He’s fucked up? That’s rich.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You stalked me! You literally threw yourself at me!’

‘I told you why I did that.’

‘How can I believe anything you’ve told me?’

I said nothing. My mind was blank. All I could focus on was the sinking feeling in my stomach. My guts twisting and knotting and tightening. Nausea rolling through me like polluted waves.

‘Exactly,’ he said, shaking his head at my silence. ‘I can’t believe you. I gave you a chance, Oscar. To tell me the truth. You looked me in the eye and lied to my face. I don’t want anything to do with you.’

‘Please, Tim,’ I said, words finally working. ‘Don’t do this. I need you.’

‘Need me? You need me?’

I nodded fast. Tried to think of what to say. How to phrase it so he would listen. But he didn’t give me a chance.

‘You don’t need me. You used me. Which, hey, I really shouldn’t be complaining about should I? A boy like you, who gets anyone he wants, no matter the cost. I should be grateful. Thankful you even bothered to look at me.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Whatever, Oscar. The truth is I can’t see you anymore. I can’t keep second-guessing my life and the people in it. I lived a lie for too long.’

‘But I only said those things so I could be with you. I didn’t want to hurt you.’

Shaking his head, he walked out of the room to the kitchen. Bare feet clapped against tiles and the fridge opened. A bottle of beer hissed. Just one. Then came the slow, morbid applause of naked soles again.

He appeared by the doorway with his fresh beer in his hand. Leant against the frame and took a swig.

‘Ok. You didn’t want to hurt me. I suppose I can see that. But you knew. You knew all along. About my ex-wife and my history. About Adam. And you sat right there. Right there, in my dining room, listening to me tell you a story you already knew just so you could what? Build my trust? Manipulate me?’

My mouth opened but nothing came out.

‘What kind of person does that?’ he said.

Silence descended again. My chest numb.

‘Answer me!’