After Felix - Lily Morton Page 0,18
probably recharging his tank even as we lie here.
Max moves suddenly, flinging one long arm over his head and turning his head restlessly. He mutters something in another language with a few English words thrown in, and I lean closer to listen. I pull back immediately when his hands clench into fists. “Ivo,” he rasps. “Ivo.”
I wonder what that means. His voice is so intense. Is “Ivo” a place? Some small part of the world he’s dreaming about so fiercely?
My thoughts scatter as I hear the scrape of footsteps on gravel and the sound of my name being called in a very drunken slur.
“Shit,” I mutter, rolling to the edge of the bed.
“Felix!” comes the shout again. “Where the fuck are you, you little shithead?”
My stomach cramps. He’s going to wake the whole row of boats—stupid fucker.
When the shout comes again, Max wakes with a start. There’s no bleariness from sleep or confusion in his eyes. He snaps into comprehension with an eerie swiftness. I suppose it’s a hangover from his journalism days.
“Who’s that?” he asks, his voice hoarse and deep.
I wriggle into my clothes and kick my feet into my trainers. “No one. Don’t worry about it and go back to sleep.”
“Shit, I never meant to fall asleep.” His voice is tinged with crossness.
My familiar stomach dip happens again. Of course he didn’t want to stay the night with me. He’d meant to do the usual shag and go. I force the feelings away. It’s the way we both want it.
I swear under my breath as the voice from outside comes again.
“Felix, you little wanker. Where are you, boy? You’d better answer me now, or you won’t like the fucking consequences, you little faggot.”
“Who the fuck is that?” Max’s voice is tight, his face angry.
“It's just my dad. Leave him to me.” I wave my hand in a calming gesture.
Shock crosses his face as my dad launches into more abuse. Max throws himself off the bed. “No fucking way,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m not leaving you to deal with that on your own.”
I stare at him. “Why on earth not?”
He gives me a confused glance, but when my father’s voice gets closer, Max’s expression clears and he pulls on his clothes with angry motions. He pushes past me and walks in quick strides toward the door.
“Oh no,” I hiss. “Max, don’t do anything silly. Ouch!” I trip over the eiderdown puddled on the floor and scramble up in a rush.
Max opens the door and says in a very loud, cold voice, “What the fuck is going on out here?”
“Oh no,” I groan again. I follow Max outside, where he and my father immediately become locked in a stare-off.
Max stands with his arms folded over his chest, his stance combative, while my dad is listing and teetering. My father is trying for indignation, but the best he can manage is bleary confusion.
When he sees me, the usual anger crosses his expression. “What the fuck is this, Felix? You’ve got a bodyguard now?”
“Hardly,” I scoff, shivering in the cold early morning air. “You’re not exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger. I think I’ll be safe to take my chances on my own.”
He shakes his head. “Where’s my fucking money, you little shit?” He comes closer, and I step neatly around Max, ignoring his move to stop me. I can smell the alcohol on my dad’s breath. “I want it,” he slurs.
“I haven’t got any money of yours,” I say for the fifty-billionth time. “And you know it.”
“You cheated me,” he says, waving a fist at my face.
Max bats it away quickly. “Don't touch him,” he snarls.
Mortification floods me—I don’t want Max to witness this—but his presence beside me is warm and solid and I’m grateful for it.
My dad steps back and staggers. It’s only my hand on his arm that stops him taking a header off the towpath and into the water. However, as per usual with my father, there’s no gratitude. Instead, he flings my hand off. “Get the fuck off me,” he hisses. “Got it… you have, Felix. Cheated me, you did.”
I shake my head. “You sound like fucking Yoda. Stop it.”
“Is Yoda your sol-solicitor?”
I bite my lip, and Max and I exchange humorous looks before I turn back to my father. “Yes, and he says back off, you must.”
Max tries to stifle his chuckle, but it escapes and angers my father even more.
“Ungrateful little tosser,” he sneers at me, continuing on his tour of the golden oldies. “Never happy