Knight in Shiny Leathers

By Glyn Soitiño

"Oi! I'll be 'aving that, mate!"
I froze, my left hand holding my wallet open low in front of

me, concealed from sight of whoever it was standing
behind me, my right still clutching the fifty pounds the ATM
had just spat out. Something hard and pointy poked me in
the back, and I heard the scuff of soles on concrete as the
speaker shuffled closer.

"Gimme the cash!"
The mingled stench of stale alcohol and unwashed

clothes hung in the still November air. My pulse rate
rocketed, my mind racing nineteen to the dozen as I told
myself to calm down and assess the situation.

He only wanted the cash, not the wallet, which he

probably hadn't seen anyway, but it was only logical to
assume… Never mind. He had a weapon of some kind --
unless that was just a finger in my back. One voice, one set
of footsteps.

I decided he was alone, just a chancer, probably a street

drinker, who had seen idiot Chris standing there at the ATM
in the otherwise deserted street and thought he might as
well try his luck.

"Give me the money, or I'll carve you up!" The voice grew

louder, quavering with fear or panic, I couldn't tell which. The
poke came again, harder this time, hard enough to bruise
through the overcoat I'd put on to make the five-minute walk
between the multistory car park, where I'd left the Mini, and
my office. Hard enough to bruise, but there was no prick of
a knife point there.

So it wasn't a knife, unless it was a very blunt one, and it

wasn't a gun or he'd have said "shoot you." As I processed
the information, a hand snaked out and wrapped around my
right wrist, the one of the hand holding the money, and I
made my decision.

Slipping my wallet down the front of my trousers and into

my briefs, I swung around and smashed my left fist into my
assailant's face.

Though the sun was not yet fully risen, the street lamps

were already off -- these latest austerity measures were a
godsend for the criminals. In the dim, drizzly light, it was
difficult to make out much more of him than a gaunt, stubbly
visage framed by long, greasy hair, and a mouth smeared
with blood from the punch I'd landed. The blow had made
him stagger a pace or two, but he still had firm hold of my
wrist.

"You little git!" he snarled, blood spraying from his lips. I

closed my eyes and turned my face away, just in case this
guy was an intravenous drug user as well as a drunk -- hey,
I may be a lot of things, but I'm not totally stupid. So I didn't
see his return punch coming.

It caught me on the side of the head, rocking me back on

my heels; the other side of my head slammed against the
cowling of the ATM. My vision blurred, my legs gave out,
and I found myself sitting with my back to the wall. Both of
his hands were now trying to pry the banknotes out of mine.

I should let go, I told myself. I should just let him have the

money. After all, he probably needed it more than I did, if
only to get drunk or high or whatever else it took to get him
through another day.

But I didn't. It was the principle of the thing. It wasn't

my

fault he was in the situation he was in. Why should

I

be

made to pay?

Fingers wormed beneath mine, prizing one free.

Whimpering, I steeled myself in anticipation of the pain as I
expected my finger to be snapped.

"Please," the mugger snuffled, exerting steady pressure

but not pushing it further. "I don't want to do this. Please, just
give me the money, and I'll leave you alone."

It was the 'please' that did it, that broke through my

righteous indignation at being randomly targeted. I opened
my eyes, looked up and focused on his face, doing my best
to ignore the pain in my head. In the slowly brightening
daylight, I could see the tear tracks on his cheeks, mingling
with the mist-like drizzle and the blood now congealing on
his chin.

"All right," I said as I relaxed my grip on the crumpled

banknotes. "Take it."

"Thanks, mate. I'm sorry, really I am…"
Before he could take the money from my hand, there

came a rumble like thunder and a dazzling light that burned
my eyes. My mugger let out an anguished wail and
snatched the notes before bolting like a rabbit. The rumble
blipped a couple of times and then shut off.

Exhausted, I just sat there, propped up against the wall of

the bank, cradling my aching head and wondering what the
hell was going to happen to me now.

The light shut off, too. I raised my head, squinting against

the afterimages imprinted on my retinas. There was a
motorbike, a big one, gleaming in the drizzle. Astride it was
a man, also a big one -- he'd have to be to be able to walk
that monster around -- maneuvering it into position at the
curb. He tilted it onto its stand, then climbed off and came
toward me. In his glistening black leather one-piece, he
looked for all the world like a frogman. He raised the visor
of his full-face helmet and squatted down in front of me.

"Are you okay?" His voice was deep, his eyes dark, his

forehead creasing as he peered closely at my face.

"I think so," I managed. "My head's a bit sore, but I

believe I'll live."

He smiled, little crinkles forming at the corners of his

eyes, and removed his helmet. "Let me take a look. Where
does it hurt?"

After what I'd just been through, I felt a little wary, but his

eyes were kind, reassuring. I showed him where my head
had done its little bouncing act between the mugger's fist
and the ATM.

His fingers were firm but gentle as they probed beneath

my hair. I sat quietly, studying his face while he examined
me. His hair looked as black as mine was blond, and I
could smell his shampoo mingled with the scent of wet
leather. He had a very attractive face, with strong, regular
features. As far as I could judge, he was maybe a couple of
years older than me, but definitely no more than thirty. I felt
myself relaxing, the headache already fading beneath his
touch.

"Did he get your money?" he asked.
It took me a while to answer. It had been a long time

since anybody had touched me this intimately, and I found
myself enjoying it, despite the circumstances. This stranger
was making me feel good. He made me feel safe.

His fingers stilled for a moment. I reran the question and

gave an embarrassed little cough. "Yes, but he didn't get
my wallet. I hid it in my pants."

"Your underpants?" His eyebrows rose, and the corner of

his mouth twitched.

"Well, yes." I felt the color rise in my cheeks. "Safest

place I could think of on the spur of the moment."

"I suppose most muggers would think twice about going

after it there," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Good move."

"Yes, but not very comfortable." And it wasn't, but there

was no way I was going to stick my hand down my pants
and retrieve it while this guy was doing such amazing things
to my head. Somebody might see and draw the wrong
conclusions.

But the street was still empty of pedestrians. It seemed

that nobody but me, and the occasional mugger, was too
keen to be out and about this early on a Friday morning. I
remembered that I'd intended to get to work early; it was
time to put an end to this pleasant interlude.

"So," I said, and gave my head a tiny shake, "what's the

verdict?"

My knight in shiny leathers took the hint. "Okay." His

hands dropped to his thighs as he sat back on his heels,
those dark eyes fixed on mine. "You've got a couple of
bumps, but there's no bleeding, at least not on the outside.
But I can take you to the hospital and let them check you out
properly, if you like -- I'm on my way there anyway."

Too early for visiting hours, I thought, but what did I know?
"Thanks, but I'm fine. I have to be at work early, so I can

leave early."

"Plans for the weekend?" An innocent question, but there

was that little smile again. And his hands had felt so good
on me. Might he…?

'You wish!' sneered a voice in my head, bringing me

back to reality as it always did. I sighed and pushed myself
to my feet.

"Dinner with my parents," I explained. "It'll take me all

afternoon to psych myself up for it." As if on cue, the street
began to fill with people.

"Oh," he said, standing in turn. "Where do you work? I'll

walk you there."

"You don't have to," I protested, but not too strongly. "It's

just down the road."

"I'll walk you there," he repeated.
I looked up into those twinkling dark eyes and could not

come up with a single good reason to deny him. But a very
good one to delay him.

"Just a sec." I turned my back, retrieved my wallet from

its hiding place and returned it to my jacket pocket. "Okay,
let's go."

We walked in silence for the next two minutes or so, he

pushing his gently rumbling monster machine as if it
weighed no more than a bicycle, his helmet hooked over
one forearm. I wasn't too sure if it was legal to push a
running motorbike on the pavement, but the other
pedestrians merely gave us a wide berth as they hurried
about their business. When we reached my office building, I
stopped and thanked him again.

"Only too pleased to help," he said with a shrug. "Are you

going to report the mugging? I didn't get much of a look at
the guy, but I'll be happy to give a statement."

I shook my head, glad that the bumps and bruises were

invisible under my hair. Dinner with my parents was touchy
at the best of times, and I wouldn't want to have to explain a
battered face, especially to my father.

"No, but thanks for the offer."
He lowered his eyes, seeming suddenly unsure of

himself, and propped the bike on its stand. "Look, I may be
barking up the wrong tree here, but…" Taking a pen and a
scrap of paper from one of his many zippered pockets, he
quickly scribbled something down and handed it to me.

I glanced at it, then looked back up into his eyes. "What's

this?"

"My mobile number," he said, and gave a tentative smile.

"If you survive dinner with your parents, maybe you might
like to give me a call? Because I'd really like to see you
again."

I stood there, gaping like an idiot, as he put his helmet on

and made his escape. It wasn't until the bike had turned the
corner and disappeared from view that I collected my wits
enough to examine the paper. It was an old till receipt.
'Paul,' it said on the back, followed by a number. He wanted
me to call him, wanted to see me again? I shook my head
in disbelief. Things like this just didn't happen -- not in my
experience, anyway.

Paul was exactly the kind of man I dreamed of, but I

couldn't for the life of me imagine what he might see in me!

***

I did survive dinner with my parents, but it took me

another three days to pluck up the courage to call that
number.

He answered on the second ring. "Hello?"
I took a deep breath before speaking. "Hi, it's Chris." My

voice sounded squeaky, querulous even, and I winced at
the thought of how it must sound to him.

"Chris who?" His voice, on the contrary, sounded friendly,

if a little puzzled.

Right, of course -- I hadn't told him my name, had I? I

cleared my throat and tried again. "Um, Chris. You
remember, the stupid little blond whose bumps you felt up
last Friday morning?"

Blood rushed to my face as I realized how utterly wrong

that sounded. Luckily for me, none of my colleagues was in
earshot. For a moment I considered ending the call to
spare myself further embarrassment, but the warm, deep
chuckle on the other end stayed my hand.

"Chris, of course," Paul said. "Hi, it's good to hear from

you. How was dinner?"

I breathed a sigh of relief at his apparent willingness to

overlook my total lack of social skills. "Food-wise, it was
fine. My mum knows that the way to a man's heart is
through his stomach."

"So does mine, though when I first heard that saying I

thought it was instructions on how to rip out body parts."

"Me too! Like, when the Aztec priest has just dropped his

knife over the edge of the pyramid and needs to
improvise."

Paul laughed. "Yes, just like that." A pause, then he

asked, "Are you free on Saturday?"

"When on Saturday?" Not that it mattered; my Saturday

nights were as free as all the other nights of the week.

"Whenever. All day, if you like. I have to drop some

books off at the library, but apart from that…"

A daytime date? Just spending time together, getting to

know one another, each of us free to leave at any time
without the discomfort of having to sit through dinner or a
film or whatever if things fell flat? This man was just perfect!

At which point, inevitably, that sneering inner voice

decided to stick its oar in. 'Perfect?' it whispered
insidiously. 'Remember how perfect things seemed with
John, and again with Karl, and yet each of them up and
dumped you without a moment's warning. Do you really
want to risk that happening again?'

"Chris? Are you still there?"
I mentally booted the voice up the arse and sat up

straight in my seat. So what if I had a history of being
dumped when everything with my partner appeared to be
going fine? That didn't mean I couldn't enjoy Paul's
company. After all, it was just a day out, not a marriage
proposal.

"Yes," I told him. "I'm still here. Where and when would

you like to meet?"

***

As first dates go, mine with Paul was the best I'd ever

had. We met outside the library at ten thirty sharp. The
weather had taken a turn for the better, and Paul was
standing on the steps, wearing black jeans and a biker-
style leather jacket. He had a backpack slung over one
shoulder, his nose buried in a book.

In the full sunlight I could see that his hair wasn't black as

I'd first thought, but a rich, deep brown. He looked up as I
approached. Our eyes met, and his face broke into a
broad, easy grin.

"Chris, I'm glad you could make it."
I smiled back and nodded toward the book. "What are

you reading?" It wasn't an idle question -- I knew next to
nothing about Paul, and I reckoned you could tell quite a bit
about a person from the kind of books they read. With a
little shrug, he handed it to me.

The cover was bright and cheery, with smiling animals

dressed up like people. I didn't recognize the author's
name, but then I had no reason to.

"A little young for you, don't you think?"
"It's for my niece," he explained. "She likes me to read to

her. And do different voices for the different characters. We
haven't done this one yet, but it seems to have a decent
storyline."

"And lots of pictures," I said, thumbing through the book.

"How old is she?"

"Coming up to three." I handed the book back, and he

stowed it in his pack. "How about you?"

"Coming up to twenty-five," I answered deadpan,

deliberately misunderstanding the question to see how he
would react. Luckily, it appeared we were on the same
wavelength.

"Score one to Chris," he said with a smile. "But really,

any nieces and nephews?"

"No nieces, no nephews. No siblings either. Just me and

my parents." Which was the main reason why my
relationship with my father was so strained, but it seemed a
little premature to dump that baggage on Paul -- this was
supposed to be a fun day.

And it

was

a fun day.

Though the sun was out, it was still November, and there

was a distinct chill in the air. Seeing me shiver, Paul
suggested we go and warm up over a cup of coffee.

"There's a bistro near my office," I suggested as we

moved away from the library steps and the jostle of people
going in and out. "The food's overpriced, but the coffee is
fine."

"Sounds good to me," Paul said, "and then for lunch I

know a great place, if you don't mind pub grub."

"I love pub grub. It's inexpensive and nutritious, and you

can usually get a decent pint of bitter to go with it." I smiled
up at Paul. "I'd take a pub lunch over a fancy restaurant any
day."

He grinned back and bumped my shoulder with his. "A

man after my own heart, though I must admit I was afraid
you'd be too up-market to hang around with the likes of me,
the way you were dressed on Friday."

I mulled that over as we entered the bistro and found a

table. The place was far more up-market than I was -- the
waiter even wore a white apron, French style -- but the
coffee was hot and strong and just what I needed.

"I was wearing a suit," I said after taking a sip. "How is

that too up-market?"

"Most people don't wear suits to work," he replied, and

licked coffee from his lip. "Jacket and trousers, yes, but not
a matching suit."

"And you noticed that?"
Paul shrugged. "I'm very observant," he said matter-of-

factly. "It helps to be, in my job. People don't always want to
tell the truth, so I have to be able to figure things out for
myself."

"Are you a detective?" Though if he was, he was like

none I'd ever read about in my mother's countless mystery
novels.

He laughed, his eyes twinkling. "No, I'm a nurse."
A nurse? That seemed even more unlikely than a

detective!

"I'd never have guessed," I said. "Score one to Paul."
"One all," he agreed. "So, the suit?"
"Persistent, aren't you?" I said, smiling to show him it

wasn't a criticism. In fact, it was nice to talk to someone
who actually gave a damn about what I had to say.

"I can be," he admitted, and took another sip.
I did likewise, then set my cup back on its saucer. "It's

just how I was brought up. According to my father, if you
work in an office, you wear a suit. I have two, so I can
alternate, though I'm going to have to get some more soon
because they're both getting a little worn." Not to mention
out of fashion, but I've never been one to follow trends. "Did
you notice that, too?"

Paul drained the rest of his coffee and shook his head.

"Nope. I was more interested in the person wearing it."

His look was very direct. If I'd had any doubts about

whether or not this was an actual date, they were fast
disappearing. I swallowed hard and looked him in the eye.

"You're really interested in me? I mean -- you know --

that

way?"

"Yes," he said, his expression deadly serious. "I am,

Chris."

Oh, wow! I lowered my gaze, swirled the remaining

coffee around, and swallowed it down in one. When I
looked up again, his eyes were still fixed on my face.

"Are you still on for that pub lunch?" he said softly as he

beckoned the waiter to bring the bill.

Too damn right I was! "Oh, yeah," I managed, reaching

for my wallet. "And I hope the bitter's good, because I'm
suddenly in need of a drink."

***

"So why do you need detective skills if you're a nurse?" I

asked once we were settled at a table in the pub. Paul must
be a regular here, I reckoned, since the barman had
greeted him by name.

Paul took a long swallow of beer before answering.

Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he looked back at
me and smiled.

"I work at the hospital, in the geriatric ward," he said.

"That's where they need big, strong nurses, to lift and turn
the patients. And a lot of the old folk are too proud, or too
embarrassed -- actually, it amounts to the same thing -- to
ask for help with personal stuff. So I keep an eye out for
signs of distress, anticipate their needs, and lend an ear if
they need to talk. Being old can get very lonely, and scary,

especially when you're hurting, maybe confused as well,
and stuck in a room full of strangers."

I raised my glass in admiration. "Paul, you are a saint!"
He clinked his glass against mine and took a sip, then

set it back down on the cardboard beer mat in front of him.
"More of a sinner," he said, "if my grandfather has anything
to say about it. But he's the only one in the whole family who
seems to have a problem."

"With?"
"My being gay, of course."
Of course. And his family was fine with it. I wished mine

were.

"You're lucky," I sighed, echoing my thoughts. "My father's

still in denial. He's still hoping for grandchildren."

Paul winced. "Ouch. And your mother?"
I shrugged and picked up the menu. "She's cool with it.

She just wants me to be happy. So," I said, deliberately
changing the subject, "being a little bit observant myself, I
noticed that the barman knows you, so presumably you're
familiar with the menu."

"Excellent work, Sherlock," Paul said, his teeth shining in

that big, easy grin I was quickly becoming rather fond of.
"One of my brothers is a barman here, so I know the place
fairly well."

One of his brothers? How many siblings did he have? I

wondered. "Is he here now?" Having never had a brother of
my own, I was curious to see if there was a family
resemblance.

"No, he's off on a long weekend with his girlfriend. But

yes, I know the menu."

"Hmm." I scrutinized the list. "Ham, egg, and chips

sounds tempting. But is it thinly sliced ham, or a nice, thick
gammon steak?"

Paul gave me a serious, studied look. "Do you prefer it

nice and thick?"

Two could play at that game. "I do," I said innocently, "but

to get back to the ham…"

Paul's guffaw was loud enough to attract the attention of

most of the clientele. "Score two to Chris," he managed to
get out as he wiped his eyes. "You're more than a match for
me."

"I don't know where it's coming from," I admitted. "I'm

usually at a total loss when it comes to flirting. I guess it
must be you." Feeling a blush coming on, I dropped my
gaze and began to pick at the edge of my beer mat.

"So you're not seeing anyone?" Paul said, his voice low

and intimate. I looked up and met his eyes.

"No," I said. "Not now, not for a long time. You?"
"Me neither. You know, I'd really like to--" The chirping of

his mobile phone cut him off before he could tell me what it
was he'd really like to do. He glanced at the screen and
shook his head. "Sorry, I have to take this."

"I'll go and order our meals," I volunteered. He told me

what he wanted, and I made my way over to the bar, leaving
him to his phone call.

"That was the hospital," he informed me when I got back

to the table. "They need me to go in this evening -- they're
short-handed because of the flu that's going around. I'm

sorry, Chris, but I can't let them down."

From the look in his eyes, he was really disappointed at

having to cut our day short. 'Either that or he's a very good
actor,' that little voice in my head chimed in. For the sake of
my self-esteem, I decided to ignore it.

"Don't worry about it," I said brightly. "We still have the

afternoon, don't we?"

He flashed me that grin again and raised his glass. "Yes,

we do."

The meal was every bit as good as I'd hoped. The ham

was indeed a thick gammon steak, and Paul's ploughman's
lunch looked delicious, too. Between bites, he told me
about his family -- parents, brothers, a sister, a niece, two
nephews, and another on the way. He lived on his own in
the town, in a block of tiny flats the council had built about
ten years ago as affordable housing for rent.

In return, I told him I lived on my own in a nearby village, in

a house I'd probably still be paying off the mortgage for fifty
years from now. About my parents I volunteered very little
information. Tactfully, he didn't press me for more.

After lunch, we decided to go to the park. Despite the

chill in the air it was a beautiful day, and it wasn't too cold
so long as we kept moving. As we walked, we discussed
football, books we'd read, films we'd seen, and all the other
kinds of things people talk about when they're getting to
know one another. His conversation was entertaining, and
he seemed to take a real interest in what I had to say. By
the time the sun began to set, I felt as if I'd known him
forever.

"Where did you park your car?" he asked as he glanced

at his watch. Though I didn't want this day to end, Paul
needed to get ready to go to work.

"In the multistory on Crown Street."
"That's not far from my place," he said with a smile. "I'll

walk you there."

Not only did he walk me to the car park, he accompanied

me up the stairs and all the way to the Mini. I didn't tell him
why I preferred not to take the lift, and he didn't question my
choice. Maybe he thought I did it for the exercise.

Standing beside the car, I took the keys from my pocket,

suddenly at a loss as to how to say goodbye. Should I ask
him out on another date, or leave the initiative to him? Once
again, Paul came to my rescue.

"I've really enjoyed our day, Chris," he said, gazing into

my eyes. "I'd like to do it again, some time. Some time
soon."

"I'd like that, too," I managed. "I really would."
There was nobody else around, and even if there had

been I don't think he would have noticed. At that moment,
Paul only had eyes for me. My heart sped up as he closed
the space between us and placed a gentle kiss on my lips.
Just a brush of skin against skin but with a promise of much
more to come.

"Wow," I breathed against his mouth. "Who won that

point?"

"I think it was a tie."
I gave a little moan of pleasure, and he kissed me again,

longer and harder. As my lips parted to take the kiss

further, he pulled away and stepped back. His breathing
was uneven, his eyes hot with what I interpreted to be
passion.

"Hold that thought," he murmured and brushed the hair

from my forehead. "I'll call you, okay?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Okay," he said again, then turned and headed for the

stairs.

I watched him go, my pulse racing, and when he turned in

the doorway and waved to me I felt something I hadn't felt in
a very long time: happiness. Pure, unadulterated
happiness. I got into the car and drove home with a song in
my heart.

It seemed like my luck was finally changing.

***

Of course, it was too good to be true.
Paul called me late the following morning to make a date

for lunch at the same pub next Saturday. He sounded
cheerful, but a little tired -- not surprising if he'd been
working the ward all night.

"And later, maybe I could cook you dinner at my place?"

he suggested. "The flat's not much to look at, but I'm a dab
hand in the kitchen."

Did he do breakfast, too? I wondered, remembering the

warmth of that kiss and the look in his eyes as he'd said
'hold that thought.'

I agreed to the date, then hung up and took a long, lazy

shower that involved a lot more soaping up than was strictly
necessary.

For the next three days I was floating on air. My

colleagues must have noticed because they started asking
questions, but I refused to be drawn as to why I was
suddenly much more cheerful than usual. Which was just as
well, given what happened on the Tuesday evening.

I'd stayed late at the office, waiting for a scheduled early

morning phone call from a contact in New Zealand. By the
time I finally left for home, it was after nine thirty p.m. My
walk back to the multistory car park took me past the place
where Paul and I had had lunch. Automatically, I glanced
toward the pub, on the other side of the street. My heart
skipped a beat as I saw Paul standing outside, one arm
draped over another man's shoulders. The man was
smoking a cigarette, and the two of them appeared to be
deep in conversation.

Feeling a little like a peeping tom but unable to stop

myself, I ducked into a darkened shop doorway and
watched. In the artificial light pouring out through the pub
windows, the man with Paul appeared to be tall and dark
haired, with a strong, manly profile. After about a minute, he
took a last puff of his cigarette and stubbed it out in the
ashcan fixed to the wall of the pub.

He turned back to Paul, who put both arms around him

and pulled him in for a long, close hug. My chest tightened
as Paul drew away and ruffled the other man's hair. Then
the two of them went into the pub, leaving me skulking in the
dark and feeling like the happy little bubble I'd been living in
for the last few days had just been cruelly burst.

As I drove home, I tried to convince myself that there was

a rational explanation for what I'd seen, but I couldn't. Why
would Paul have been hugging another man when he'd
made it so clear he was interested in dating me? And
ruffling his hair, to boot? It all seemed very intimate to me.
Paul and this other guy obviously knew each other very well.

Had he been playing me for a fool? If so, it had worked. I

went over in my mind all the things Paul had said. About
observing the old people in the hospital, anticipating their
needs, listening to them, making them feel that somebody
cared. He'd done exactly the same with me, and I'd fallen
for the act.

And that call he'd taken -- I only had Paul's word for it that

it had been the hospital calling him in to work. Maybe it had
been that other guy instead -- his boyfriend -- checking up
on him. No wonder Paul had sounded tired when he called
me the next day. He'd probably been up all night, doing the
dirty.

Come to think of it, did Paul really work at the hospital?

Was he even a nurse? Maybe everything he'd told me had
been a lie.

Or maybe I was just being paranoid. Paul had said he

wasn't in a relationship, but maybe he had been until
recently. Maybe he'd thought it was over, so he'd asked me
out on the rebound, and then he and his ex had made up
again and I was now yesterday's news. In which case he'd
call to cancel our date. I could deal with that. I didn't like it,
but I could deal with it.

Alone in my bed that night, I tried to look on the bright

side. At least it had been quick, if not entirely painless.

Unlike with my two previous boyfriends, I hadn't invested
months of time and emotion in a doomed relationship
before Paul had dumped me. Even if, technically speaking,
he hadn't actually dumped me yet. My throat tightened at
the memory of the two of them embracing, at how
comfortable they seemed with one another. Why couldn't I
ever have that?

'Hey,' the little voice chided me, 'stop whining! You

weren't even looking for a relationship. Just write it off as a
lesson learned. It's no big deal, all right?'

"Easy for you to say," I told it and switched off the

bedside lamp. Behind my closed eyelids I could still see
those warm brown eyes, that easy grin; feel the touch of his
lips; the heat of his body just inches away from mine.

But the voice was right, as usual. As I drifted into an

uneasy sleep, it was clear to me that whatever it was I'd
hoped I might have with Paul, it was over.

***

But apparently, it wasn't clear to Paul.
He called me on my mobile Wednesday lunchtime.

Having decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, I was
fully expecting him to cancel our date. I steeled myself
against the disappointment and accepted the call.

"Hi, Chris," he began. Despite myself, I felt a pang of

longing at the sound of his voice.

"Hey, Paul, how are you?"
"Fine, thanks. It's just that I've been offered a couple of

tickets for the football match on Saturday afternoon."

"Oh." Here it comes, I thought.

"So," he went on, "I was thinking we could reschedule our

date…"

"Sure. Whatever."
"Great! So I'll meet you at the pub an hour earlier than

planned, and we'll be able to get to the stadium in time for
the kick-off."

What? He hadn't called to dump me after all? I felt a brief

rush of elation, quickly smothered by the memory of what I'd
seen outside the pub. It wasn't fair that he should be
stringing me along like this -- not fair on me, and definitely
not fair on the other guy. His boyfriend, I reminded myself
bitterly.

I cleared my throat. "I'm sorry, Paul," I said, struggling to

keep the tremor from my voice, "but I think it would be
better all round if we didn't see each other again."

There was silence from the other end, and then Paul

spoke again, his voice unsteady. "What? Why? What's
wrong? Chris, what's happened?"

He sounded so caring, so upset. Upset for me. I brushed

the sudden tears from my eyes, glad that my colleagues
preferred to eat out at lunchtime. There was nobody around
to see me fall apart.

"Nothing's happened." I held my phone at arm's length

and snorted back phlegm. "But I can't see you again.
Believe me, it's for the best."

"Is it your father? Has he said something, done anything?

Please, Chris, just tell me!"

"No, nothing like that. I'm fine. Just don't call me again,

okay? Goodbye Paul." I cut the call and switched off my

phone, then swept my half-eaten sandwich off the desk and
into the rubbish bin.

By the time my colleagues returned I had cried myself out

and was hard at work. Sarah, whose desk was opposite
mine, did a double take as she sat down. "Jesus, Chris,
you look like shit! Are you coming down with the flu?"

"Maybe," I said and gave her a feeble smile. "There's a

lot of it about."

She sniffed and scooted her chair back a little. "Well, just

don't give it to me."

"I'll do my best," I promised.
By Wednesday evening, Paul had left four messages on

my voicemail. I deleted them straight away.

On Thursday, he sent me ten text messages. Though

reading them would have been less painful than hearing his
voice, I deleted them all, too, unopened.

Friday morning, five more texts. Surely this counted as

stalking?

My nerves were beginning to unravel. I briefly considered

getting a new phone, with a different number -- but then why
the hell should I? It wasn't my fault he couldn't take no for an
answer, and damned if I was going to all the trouble and
expense of changing my phone on his account! If I just went
on ignoring him, he'd get the message eventually.

And yet, despite the stalking, despite the fact that he had

a boyfriend, I still wanted him. Which was pathetic, I told
myself sternly, and exactly why I couldn't give in.

Alone in the office Friday lunchtime, I'd just unwrapped

my sandwich and was about to take the first bite when my

mobile rang. I put down the sandwich and picked up the
phone. Though I didn't recognize the caller's number, I
decided to answer anyway -- at least it wasn't Paul's.

"Hello?"
"Chris, we need to talk."
My heart gave a lurch. "No, Paul, we don't," I managed.

"Please leave me alone."

"Fuck that, Chris! I'm on my way to your office, and we

are going to talk, whether you want to or not."

The call cut off. I stared stupidly at the phone, my

stomach suddenly in knots. I'd never heard that, or even
any, level of anger in Paul's voice before. But then, I hadn't
listened to any of his messages.

"Oh, fuck!" Running my hands through my hair, I

desperately tried to get my thoughts under control. Paul, my
stalker, was on his way, and he was obviously angry --
angry at me. The building had no security system; anybody
was free to walk in off the street. I could lock myself in my
office, but would that be enough to keep him out? No, I had
to get out of there before he showed up.

I shoved the phone into my pocket and raced for the

stairs. As in most small towns, the building wasn't very tall,
only four floors, and our offices were on the top floor.
Though there was a lift, I had never used it. I now sped
down the stairs as fast as I could manage without falling
and smashing my head open. A previous boyfriend who'd
been a fitness freak had told me that stairs were the best
way to stay on form.

He'd been right. I was down to the ground floor and

heading for the door in no time, without breaking a sweat --
until, that is, I saw Paul standing there in the doorway,
blocking my exit.

***

It was not my proudest moment.
I skidded to a halt. Paul's eyes met mine across the

entrance hall, and I was caught like a rabbit in the
headlights. He didn't look angry as such, just determined.
Even so, he was stalking me, and we were alone in the
lobby. There was no one to turn to for help if he decided to
get physical.

"Chris," he said gently. "Talk to me."
I glanced around me, saw that the lift was there -- of

course, everybody had used it to go out for lunch -- and
made a run for it. I hit the button. The doors began to open
and I slid between them, already slamming the close button
before they were fully open. But the damn things were too
slow to react. Before I had time to realize what a huge error
of judgment I'd made, Paul followed me inside.

The doors closed behind him as I backed against the far

wall. Paul hit the button for the top floor. The lift began to
rise. Neither of us moved or said a word until we'd passed
the third floor. Then Paul triggered the emergency stop,
trapping us between floors. That's when I really began to
panic.

And not through fear of Paul, either. There's a reason I

never take lifts if I can possibly help it, and this lift was like a
box, a tiny box with four metal walls. My heart began to
pound against my ribs, my whole body breaking out in a

cold, clammy sweat.

"Let me out, Paul!" I yelled, as I tried to shove my way

past him to get to the buttons. He grabbed my wrists in
those big hands of his and pushed me, gently but firmly,
back against the wall.

"Chris, just calm down. I'm not going to hurt you, I swear."
At that point I couldn't have cared less whether he was

going to hurt me or not. "I'm not scared of you, you big
idiot!" I screamed in his face. "I'm claustrophobic!"

He stared at me. "You're claustrophobic, and yet you

drive a Mini?"

"That's different!" I wailed, struggling against his grip.

"The Mini has windows! Please, Paul, just let me out of
here!"

Releasing one wrist, he pushed the start button and the

lift began to move again. As the doors slid open, he drew
me out into the deserted corridor.

I slumped against the wall, gasping for breath. Paul put

his hands on my shoulders and pulled me into his embrace.

"I'm sorry, Chris," he murmured into my damp, sweaty

hair as he held me close. "I didn't know. But in that case,
why the hell did you get into the lift in the first place?"

"To get away from you." I pulled back, away from the

comforting, steady beat of his heart against my chest. "I
need to get to the stairs." Nobody used the stairs. Now that
I was sure he wouldn't hurt me, at least not physically, I'd
have it out with him in private and then send him on his
merry way.

"Okay." He followed me through the door and we sat

down, side by side, on the top step.

"Whose phone did you call me from?" I asked, stalling for

time.

"Just some guy in the street. I told him it was an

emergency. I guessed you wouldn't take the call if it came
from my phone."

"You guessed right."
"But why?"
"Because I don't like being stalked." The cold of the

stone step was leaching through my trousers. My shirt was
sticking to my back. I could smell my sweat, the rank smell
of fear. I pulled my jacket closer around me and hugged my
arms across my chest.

"I'm not stalking you," Paul protested. "I just want to know

why you won't talk to me. We had a great time on Saturday.
Or at least I did, and I had the distinct impression that you
did, too. So what changed your mind?"

Feeling his gaze on me, I took a deep breath and looked

him in the eyes. "You said you weren't seeing anyone. I
don't go out with guys who already have a boyfriend. You
may not think fidelity matters, but I do."

His brow creased in a puzzled frown. "I'm not seeing

anyone. I don't have a boyfriend, honest I don't. Whatever
gave you that idea?"

He sounded so sincere, and the hurt in his eyes was

plain to see. Every fiber of my being wanted to believe him,
but I knew what I'd seen.

"I saw you, Paul. Tuesday night. Outside that pub you

took me to. You were with another man. He was smoking.

The two of you were talking and laughing. You hugged him.
You ruffled his hair, and then you went into the pub with
him." I paused, letting my words sink in. "Do you deny it?"

Paul shook his head, his eyes rolling. He heaved a sigh

and gave me a pitying smile. "No, I don't deny it. But he's
not my boyfriend, Chris. He's my brother."

"Your brother?" The skepticism in my voice was plain,

even to me.

He reached into his pocket and took out his phone.

"Yes," he said as he fiddled with the phone. "My brother.
The one I told you about, the barman? He was working
Tuesday night and had asked me to drop by because he
had a surprise for me. We went outside so he could have a
cigarette."

"What was the surprise?" I still wasn't convinced he

wasn't lying, but the doubt was starting to take root in my
mind.

"He had tickets for tomorrow's football match, but his

girlfriend had made other plans for the two of them and he
can never say no to her." He handed me the phone. "So he
gave them to me. Look, here's a photo of me with my
family, at my parents' wedding anniversary last year. This is
the guy you saw, right?"

I looked at the picture. That was the guy, all right,

standing between Paul and a young woman who had her
arm slung possessively around the guy's waist. There were
three generations in the photo. Paul was holding a little girl
in his arms, and everybody was smiling and obviously very
close. I felt a pang of envy as I made the comparison with

my own small family.

"I was hugging him to thank him for the tickets," Paul

went on. He gave a little snort of laughter. "I can't wait to
see his face when I tell him you thought he was my
boyfriend!"

I handed the phone back to Paul and hung my head in

shame. Such a simple thing as a hug between brothers,
and I'd immediately jumped to conclusions. Paul was the
best thing that had ever happened to me, and I'd let my
insecurity talk me into blowing it. I was pathetic.

"I'm sorry," I murmured. "I should have known better than

to doubt you."

"No, but you should have talked to me about it. It would

have saved us both a lot of grief."

I looked up at him, trying to read his expression. He was

bound to dump me now, after all the paranoia and
histrionics I'd treated him to. Or was he? I couldn't tell.

"I'm sorry I wasted your time," I said, offering him an easy

out if he wanted it. "You must think I'm such an idiot."

He reached for my hand, his fingers wrapping around

mine. "I don't think you're an idiot, Chris. I think you have
trust issues and problems with communicating, but that's
something we can work on."

"It is?" Did he really want to see me again after the mess

I'd made of things?

"It is," he confirmed, giving my hand a little squeeze. "But

you never actually answered my question."

"What question?" My spirits lifted at the sight of that

broad, easy grin spreading over his handsome face.

"Do you want to go to the match with me tomorrow

afternoon?"

"Yes," I said, returning the smile. I could hear activity

through the walls, people coming back from lunch to hurry
through the last few hours of work before the weekend. I
was going to be late, but I didn't care. "I do. But on one
condition."

"What's that?"
"Promise me you'll never tell your brother I thought he

was your boyfriend."

Paul cocked his head to one side. "That's going be

difficult. But yes, I promise."

I nodded, satisfied. "I trust you." Hearing no protest from

that little inner voice, I added, "I'm looking forward to it
already."

Paul shuffled closer. Taking me in his arms, he gave me

another of those sweet, almost chaste kisses that had
blown my mind the previous Saturday, then pulled back and
brushed the hair from my forehead.

"Okay," he murmured. "Then it's a date."

End

If you liked this book you might like: By the same author:

Out of the Blue, Only Human, Too Much Information,
Serendipity, Some You Win, Wanna Be Your Dog,
Patrimony, Euphorbia, and Hungry.

Knight in Shiny Leathers
Copyright © 2012 by Glyn Soitiño
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Torquere Press, Inc.: Sips electronic edition / August

2012

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