Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(206)

At the bottom of Oxford Road, two other roads met in the apex of a triangle. These were Carnarvon and Wellesley. The latter led to Pier Avenue, the former to the Marine Parade, and both of them led to the sea. Cliff paused here, his hand on the gear lever, not so much considering which direction he wanted to set off in as considering the manner in which the last few days had played out in his life.

Okay, so Gerry had gone a bit rough with him. It wasn't like he didn't deserve it. On the other hand, Gerry always went a bit rough when he got his teeth into a subject. He couldn't ever just let it go.

And when he didn't have his teeth into something—some shortcoming of Cliff's that he felt needed an adjustment right NOW—he was all over him like a rash, looking for reassurance that he was loved and treasured and wanted and …shit. Sometimes living with Gerry felt like living with a clinging woman. It was all long, meaningful silences that had to be interpreted just so, soulful sighs that were supposed to signal God only knew what, nuzzles on the neck that were meant to be taken as foreplay, and—here was the worst and it made him crazy—that stiff dick poking against him in the morning, telling him what someone's expectations were.

And he hated anyone's expectations. He hated knowing that they were there, like unspoken questions he was supposed to answer immediately. When Gerry prodded him with his prong, there were times that Cliff just wanted to smash him in the face, wanted to shout, You want something, Ger? Then just f*cking say it for once.

But he never said anything directly, did Gerry. Only when he accused was he finally direct. And that—above all—really pissed Cliff off. It made him want to strike out, do things, break things, and hurt someone bad.

He saw that without thinking he'd taken the right side of that triangle whose apex was created by Carnarvon and Wellesley roads. Without realising where he was going, he'd driven to Clacton market square. He'd even pulled to the kerb in much the same fugue in which he'd made the turn.

Whoa, he told himself. Hang on here, son.

He grasped the steering wheel and stared beyond the windscreen. Someone had hung bunting above the market since his last visit, and the arrowhead banners of blue, red, and white all fanned out from a single small building at the square's far edge, as if with the intention of directing the gaze of every shopper to the public conveniences, a low brick building on which the sign GENTS seemed to shimmer in the heat.

Cliff swallowed. Christ, but he was thirsty. He could get a bottle of water in the market square, or a juice of some kind, or a Coke. And while he was here, he could also do most of the shopping as well. He'd have to pop round the butcher's for the steak, and although he'd previously been thinking that he could get the rest of the meal from the grocery in Jaywick …Didn't it really make a hell of a lot more sense to buy everything here, where the food was fresh and the air one breathed was fresh as well? He could get salad and the veg and potatoes, and if he had the time—which he obviously had because he'd taken a half-holiday, right?—he could browse through the stalls and see if there was something special to give as a peace offering to Ger. Not that he would know it was a peace offering, of course.

And anyway, he was so f*cking thirsty that he had to get something to drink before he drove another mile. So even if he didn't do the shopping here, he could find something to soothe the fire in his throat.

He shoved open the door, kicked it shut behind him, and strode confidently into the market square. He found the water he was looking for, and he drank down the bottle in one long go. God, he actually felt almost human again. He looked for a rubbish bin for the empty. That's when he noticed that Plucky the scarf seller was having a special sale of his phony designer ties, scarves, and handkerchiefs. Now, that would do for a gift for Ger. Cliff wouldn't have to say where he bought it, would he?

He began to weave over to the stall where the brightly coloured bits hung on a line, fastened with plastic clothes pegs. There were scarves of every size and design, arranged with Plucky's usual attention to artistic detail. He did them in gradations of colour, did Plucky, working from a paint wheel that he'd nicked from the local ironmonger's.

Cliff fingered through them. He liked the feeling of their slickness against his skin. He wanted to bury his face in them because it seemed to him—in the godawful heat—as if they'd cool him like a mountain stream. And even then—

“Nice. Aren't they?” The voice came from his right, at the juncture of two of the stall's corners. A table there was laid out with boxes of handkerchiefs, and standing in front of them was a bloke in the sort of abbreviated muscle T-shirt that cut in from the shoulders and revealed his well-developed pectorals. The shirt revealed his nipples as well, Cliff noted, and one of them was pierced.

Christ, but he was a looker, Cliff thought. Awesome shoulders, just a nip of a waist, and wearing running shorts so short and so excruciatingly tight that it made Cliff shift his weight uncomfortably as his body registered its reaction to what his eyes were seeing in front of him.

All it would take was giving this bloke the look. All it would take was locking eyes onto eyes and saying something like “Dead nice, they are.” After that a smile—eyes still locked on eyes—and the willingness would be revealed.

But there were vegetables to be bought for the dinner, he reminded himself. There was salad to be purchased, potatoes to take home and bake. There was the dinner to concern himself with. The dinner for Gerry. Their celebration of unity, fidelity, and lifelong monogamy.