Authors: James Dawson
Cruel Summer (23 page)
‘I don’t exactly want that video to be my first feature film either, Greg! I didn’t tell anyone about it, so sit your arse down and chill out.’ Ryan stood firm. Greg
didn’t scare him. In this battle of egos he wasn’t going to be the bitch.
The air between them shimmered like the scorched beach. The attraction was still there. Ryan remembered how he’d become addicted in the first place. As they stood nose to nose, squaring
off, Ryan swore he could feel the magnetism drawing their bodies ever closer. As angry as he was, he wanted Greg. And Greg wanted him, too. It was something powerful, chemical, and they were both
dwarfed by it.
Ryan was quite certain that sometimes love looks like it does in the films – cherry blossom and holding hands and swoon at first sight. But in his experience, sometimes love comes from
somewhere else – somewhere dark and angry and sweaty and red. That was Ryan’s love for Greg, and the only love he had ever known. One day, Ryan hoped, he would know the first kind
– the pure kind that everyone longs for – but, until that day, he would take what he could get.
‘Are you gonna strangle me, too?’ he asked, a hint of a mean smile creeping onto his lips. ‘Are we gonna get all
Fifty Shades of Gay
?’ He could feel Greg’s
hot breath on his face. It would be so easy to lean in for his lips.
Greg crumpled to the bed. Ryan had won that round. Or lost – depending on what the outcome could have been.
‘That video can’t come out,’ Greg moaned.
‘The video can’t or
you
can’t?’
‘I’m not gay.’
‘I never said you were. Are you still seeing guys?’
Greg looked horrified. ‘No!’
Ryan laughed bitterly. ‘Oh, don’t act so shocked. I was there, remember; you seemed to quite enjoy it.’ He sat opposite Greg on the bed, feeling it was wise to leave a couple
of metres between them.
Greg altered his position on the bed to face Ryan properly. His face softened, the anger that drove him loosening its grip. ‘There was only ever you, you know that. It was our
thing
.’
That was the correct answer. A little firefly buzzed in Ryan’s heart. ‘I suppose I should feel honoured.’
Greg half-smiled back. ‘You should.’
It had been ‘messing around’ for Greg and, although Ryan had known this, it had never been ‘messing around’ for him. It wasn’t until he’d felt a jealous,
burning desire for Greg Cole that Ryan had even realised he preferred boys to girls. Every time he’d witnessed Greg with one of his ‘beard’ girlfriends, he’d plotted their
violent downfall. He hadn’t done anything though – he’d just stood back and watched Greg parade each insipid stick insect around, waiting and aching for the intervals when the
rising football star would seek his company. Greg had no idea how he felt, and Ryan was just pathetically grateful he’d got the secret scraps Greg had thrown him.
It had started after football one ordinary day in Year Eleven. The shower in the changing room. Greg had initiated it that time and every other time. Ryan was powerless to resist and never said
no. This sad dance had persisted throughout the rest of their time at Longview – Ryan had been at Greg’s beck and call.
‘Seriously?’ Ryan asked now. ‘No other guys?’
‘It’s not that I didn’t want to, but I can’t trust anyone else. Can’t risk it,’ Greg told him.
Ryan didn’t pretend to understand Greg’s situation, but he felt something like sympathy. ‘Lots of sporty people are out now,’ he said reassuringly. He knew that
wasn’t true, but it was worth a go.
‘I’m not gay!’ Greg said too loudly. ‘. . . Do you think they heard?’
‘No,’ said Ryan. ‘I’m not saying you’re gay, but it’s OK for you to fancy dudes
and
girls. I know, big revelation!’
Greg rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t know
any
gay footballers, or even any
bi
footballers. They don’t exist. Ryan, you have no idea what it’s like – the
pressure. When I first joined the team, do you know what one player said to me?’
‘What?’
‘We were in the changing room—’
Ryan grinned. ‘Remember the changing room? Good times . . .’
Greg returned the smile. ‘Behave, you! So this player, an older guy, comes up to me and says “black or white?”.’
Ryan was confused. ‘Eh?’
‘He said I had to decide whether I was one of the black players or one of the white players. Apparently, in football, it matters. I had to pick a team.’
‘That’s awful. He was just a racist dick, right?’
‘Ryan, that was one of the black guys. Can you imagine if I threw some dude-on-dude action into the mix? My life wouldn’t be worth living. I already get monkey chants at away
games.’
‘If that’s what it’s like, why do you do it?’
‘What is it you said before? “Don’t hate the player, hate the game”? It’s the game, Ryan. It’s football. And football is me. It’s just how it is. I am
never, ever going to say I like guys.’
The crushing wave of disappointment that crashed inside Ryan surprised even him. He’d thought a year away would cure him of this futile love sickness but, somewhere tucked away inside, he
had clearly still been carrying a candle of hope that Greg would come out and skip across a field to greet him with open arms. That flame had just flickered. What had he thought? That one day
he’d be the first-ever male footballer’s wife? Not likely. But he had dreamed of that future many, many times. He and Greg playing Mr and Mr in a fancy LA mansion: kids and dogs and
servants by the pool. ‘I think that’s very sad,’ he said simply.
‘Oh, yeah, boo-hoo. My life as a minted professional footballer is really tough.’
Ryan shot him down with another glare. ‘You know that’s not what I meant. You may be a massive tool, but I still want you to be happy. Even if it’s not with me.’ He
looked away, embarrassed at showing his cards even a little. Greg ran a hand up his arm and onto his shoulder. Ryan pulled back.
‘Hey,’ Greg said. ‘We can’t worry about that now. I think we have enough on, don’t you? I’m proper freaking out. You saw what happened – I flipped out
on Katie. We need to get it together or we’re screwed.’
‘Exactly,’ Ryan agreed. ‘No offence, but that video isn’t our biggest worry. We just dumped a body in the sea.’
‘But if the video turns up we have more motive than anyone.’
Ryan wanted to say ‘
YOU
have more motive than anyone,’ but held his tongue. A gay actor was hardly a headline any more, however a gay (or bi-bloody-curious-or-whatever)
footballer was news. Greg had pretty much just spelled out his reasons for killing Roxanne – if he had done.
It might have been ego, but Ryan liked to think he knew Greg Cole better than anyone. He’d certainly seen things most teenage fan girls could only dream of. Beyond the obvious, there was
one thing the two of them had in common: ambition. Two years ago, Greg would have stepped over anyone to go pro. He would have killed for it.
It suddenly became clear to Ryan: he’d helped Greg dispose of Roxanne because he loved him. If he was being
really
honest, he’d sort of just assumed that Greg had killed Rox
and everything Ryan had done since then had been to protect Greg. That blew. ‘Look. The video has to be on Rox’s phone, or at least her laptop. If we’re burning all her stuff
tomorrow, the proof’ll go up in smoke, won’t it?’
Greg’s eyes clouded over. ‘But what if she made loads of copies or emailed it to people?’
Ryan slid his fingers along the bed sheets until they wove into Greg’s. Their skin coming together created a power in him. With power like that, you could rule the world, he thought. It
was rich and wild and bright. ‘We’ll sort it.’
He’d expected Greg to recoil, but Greg released his hand and ran his fingers up the smooth, extra-sensitive skin of Ryan’s forearm. The air was so charged, so heated, lightning
seemed inevitable. Ryan felt his eyes close, already anticipating what the kiss would feel like . . .
It didn’t happen. Instead, Greg yanked him into a bear hug, complete with manly back slapping. ‘Thanks, mate. I couldn’t have got through today without you.’
Bromance.
Whoever invented that term should be shot at dawn, Ryan thought, but he just said, ‘No worries. It’s over now. We just need to get rid of her stuff – and
work out if Janey’s back from the dead!’
Greg released him. ‘It’s over,’ he repeated, clearly trying to convince himself.
Ryan stood, ready to leave. He’d sacrificed enough dignity for one evening. His days of begging Greg for anything were behind him. ‘I think Erin is crashing on the sofa
tonight.’ Well, OK,
almost
behind him. ‘Do you want me to stay with you?’
Greg reacted immediately. ‘No. Not here. God, no.’
‘Cool.’ Ryan said it with as much insouciant breeziness as he could and swept out of the room. ‘Insouciant’ was a word he’d learned recently; it meant blithe
unconcern. Tonight he was playing the role of someone who didn’t care one way or the other. No one wants to see a broken heart.
R
yan slipped out of Greg’s room, almost colliding with Katie as she emerged from the bathroom. She wore a towel dress with matching towel
turban. She blushed modestly and he did everything he could to make his exit from the master bedroom look casual. He’d hidden his ‘affair’ for years; he was pretty good at it
now.
‘Greg is Greg again,’ Ryan said. ‘For what it’s worth, he seems pretty sorry.’
Katie didn’t look up from the floor. ‘OK. I suppose I’ll talk to him in the morning.’ She shuffled towards her room, not once looking him in the eye. He couldn’t
stand it.
‘Katie, please. Don’t be angry.’
This time she did look at him. ‘Ryan, he could have . . .’
‘I don’t mean Greg – by all means be mad at him. I meant me.’
An awkward pause. ‘I’m not.’
‘Girl, please. You’ve barely spoken to me since we . . .’
She gave a sad sigh. She seemed so resigned, as though all her spirit had been leached away by the events of the day. ‘What do you expect, Ryan?’
He leaned against the wall, too tired to support his head. ‘It’s all over now. Can’t we just be normal again? I hate you being angry with me; it feels like crap. What can I do
to make you laugh again?’
Katie’s blue eyes widened and there was so much pain in them, Ryan could almost feel it. He could see that she, too, longed for a rewind – some divine intervention that would have
seen their planes grounded so that none of them had ever arrived in this accursed place. ‘I don’t know, Ry. You went too far this time,’ Katie said softly.
He smiled in the hope she would too. ‘When did I ever go less than “too far”?’
That elicited a half-smile, but it came and went like a summer cloud. ‘This isn’t like when we bleached your hair, Ryan. We can’t
fix
it. What you –
we
– did was terrible. I’m not sure it’s something we can ever brush under the carpet.’
Ryan rubbed her arm. She looked cold. ‘We were just looking out for each other,
protecting
each other.’
‘I know you, Ryan. I know you think this is all a movie, but in real life—’
‘Believe me, this feels pretty bloody real!’ Ryan interrupted.
‘There are bound to be consequences. There always are.’ She shrugged. ‘At least there should be.’
‘Yeah.’ He agreed wholeheartedly. ‘And the consequence is that we have to live with it. But I can’t lose you, Katie. I just can’t.’
Katie swallowed and closed her eyes. Ryan thought for a moment that she might cry, but she held the emotion back. ‘You won’t lose me.’ Another faint smile. ‘Lord knows,
I’ve been trying to shake you for years.’
A broad smile broke out on Ryan’s face and he pulled her into an embrace. He buried his face in the warm, damp towel on her head. He felt better. His friends were his family.
S
omewhere halfway between sleep and waking, Alisha dreamt of sharks. In her dream, she, like Ryan last night, was lost in a thick, black soup of a
sea. Scarlet folds billowed around her and she couldn’t help but think of red roses, velvet petals unfurling around her body. She was wearing Janey’s dress.
Alisha couldn’t breathe, but didn’t need to. She was looking for Ben. She had to find Ben but he was somewhere out of reach and she couldn’t see him. She was suddenly angry
– where was he? She knew, too, that somewhere, Roxanne and Janey were down here with their dead eyes and cold skin.
The sharks circled, keeping her in one place. They cut through the water silently; only a silver smile or a flash of pristine white underbelly reminded her they were there. They were elegant but
deadly, teasing her with a nudge as they passed by.
Underwater someone was screaming.
No. Wait.
Someone really
was
screaming. It was Katie.
Alisha’s eyes popped open and the dream was instantly forgotten. She pushed herself up onto her elbows and saw the empty space alongside her in the bed. ‘Katie?’ She cleared
her throat. ‘Katie!’
‘I’m in the lounge! Quick!’ She could tell her friend wasn’t playing. Alisha swung her legs off the bed and hurtled onto the landing, colliding with Ben and Ryan.
Ben’s shoulder made contact with her lip and she cried out.
One day this week,
she thought,
it’d be nice to wake up to a cup of coffee.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
She ignored the sting and carried on down the stairs, taking the lead. As soon as she turned the corner, the cause of Katie’s distress was clear. The three of them stopped dead in their
tracks, their bleary eyes trying to make sense of the scene.
They’d been left a message. It took up most of the right-hand lounge wall.
