Life After Joe by Harper Fox Read Free Book Online

in this corner until this latest humiliation—public tears, worse to me than public sex—was over. The tugging sensation increased, and I got up, only half voluntarily. He looked into my face. “Come on,” he said softly. “It’ll be better. Come on.”
    I didn’t believe him, but the sheer technicalities of making my doped body walk with him onto the dance floor distracted me, restored to me some kind of control. I tried to recognise the track. Not “Riverside,” thank Christ—something older, from about six years ago. “Pray” by Syntax. Rippling, insistent bass line under a bone-melting vocal. The floor was heaving. I couldn’t imagine Aaron leaping about with this bunch of kids, and for me, it would be a physical impossibility. I tried to break away from him.
    He put an arm around my waist and, without the least effort or hint of force, reeled me in. I didn’t even know what was happening until I was pressed close against him, breathing that sun-and-earth scent. There was no leaping involved. He moved with an unhurried power, picking up the strong first beat in the bar, drawing me in with him, instant sweet synch. His hand went to the small of my back. I clutched at him reflexively, first just in order to stay on my feet, and then because I never wanted to let go.
    We were the last men standing that night in the House. Midnight came and went, then small hours, and the club emptied out of all but its hard core. The dance floor population thinned down. I saw them go, saw space appear between the grappling, gyrating couples and groups. I watched, held fast, from over Aaron’s shoulder. Time became strange for me. He slid his hands slowly down my back, leaving trails of warmth behind them. He found his target on my arse, his grip large and competent, and when I returned the embrace in kind—hesitantly, because something about him made me shy, even after my recent performances—he smiled against my ear. Ah yes. A whisper through the bass, hot, racking me with shudders. Yes. He pushed his hips against me, and time was strange. I thought I could soar straight to silent climax there and then if he held me like that, and I could feel that he was hard and ready too. But whether the cocktail of drugs and tequila inside me was holding me back, or his guiding rhythm was deliberately slowing me down, the arousal prolonged itself, stretched out like pouring honey. I gave up my grasp on his backside and put my arms round his neck. He rocked me, and time stretched. I closed my eyes.
    The last men standing. The music had stopped, harsh overhead neons flickering up to kill the strobes and whirling colours. We were alone. I jerked my head up. We were still moving—only just; the shadow of a dance. I’d slept on my feet in his embrace. I felt myself blush to the hairline. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I…I think I had too much to drink.”
    “It’s all right.” He didn’t let go of me. His eyes were hazel again—a little tired in the neon, full of amusement and an affection I couldn’t remember deserving. “Did you ever think about stopping?”
    I stared at him. I’d thought about cutting back of course. Staying off spirits, not drinking alone, keeping it for weekends or every other night. Weaning myself off nice and slow, because I could sure as fuck see that I needed to. I’d make a schedule of withdrawal in my head and lose myself in its complexities. “What? Just…stopping?”
    “Yes. From now. Just stopping.”
    “I dunno. I…” Glasses were rattling on the tables around us as the collectors went to work. The overheads flickered on and off. Somewhere off in the distance, I heard a vacuum cleaner start to whine. “Don’t know if I could.”
    “Okay,” he said, as if this and any other spineless piece of ambivalence I cared to expose were all fine with him. Nothing to worry about. “You fairly sober now?”
    I gave it thought. I should have been. I’d slept most of it off on his beautiful shoulder. I ran a