I wake thinking of Luke; maybe because things with Henry are progressing speedily and I'm guilty of leaving Luke behind.
Henry's left a note that he's out for the morning.
I munch on granola, then take an Uber to Hillingdon Hospital.
I fill Luke in on the attack; sharing fears and pain I don't share with Henry because whatever I've been through it will always pale in significance to Henry's ordeal. Not that he talks about it. It's the storyboard that is his body. The more I touch his scar tissue the deeper my imagination runs.
"Luuuuuke, pleeeeese fucking wake."
He's my best friend. He's dying in front of me and I can't save him.
***
I hear the key in the door. She looks pissed.
"What's up?" I ask.
"Nothing."
Her voice is void of its characteristic warmth and buoyancy.
"Nothing usually means something."
"Nothing means mind your own business."
"Ok."
"Fine."
We both know the definition of fine! Wait for it...
BANG!
Since meeting Phoenix I've learnt that the word 'fine', though short, is complex.
Ten minutes later she reappears standing uneasily at the breakfast bar.
"Hey," she says, her tone remorseful.
"Hey," I say gently.
"I'm so sorry."
"I take it everything's not fine?"
"I feel like a traitor. He's lying there after saving my life and I'm obsessing over getting inside your boxers. I'm evil."
"Phoenix," I invite, opening my arms.
She nestles in like she's staying for the weekend.
"It's hard, Henry. Luke's always been there for me. He should be having the time of his life, acting all bad and boujie. Writing lyrics for his songs. Auditioning."
I hold her close. I don't kiss her yet. She's too sad.
***
Comfort converts to desire.
"Henry," I say my tone coaxing. "Undress me."
His fingers move to my top button.
"You can tell me to stop," he says.
I'm begging for it. Panting for it.
"Don't ever fucking stop."
He pulls the edges of my shirt apart until it's discarded on the worktop. His fingers, lips, tongue: on the crook of my neck, shoulder, the tops of my breasts. I'm holding tightly to his jeans waistband as my nipples strain against the lace, desperate for attention. Henry's merciful: his hand slips inside my bra, covering my breast. It's achingly glorious. My lips pull on his, stretching like elastic, hot like chilli, as we crush together. His fingers find my nipple and my desire is nearly too much to harness; it is so deep that my lips are feeding on Henry's. I nearly devour him until he pulls away.
"Phoenix? You're shaking."
"Am I?"
I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I've never felt so out of control...but my head is pounding. Is it pain or pleasure?
YOU ARE READING
The Rebirth of Henry Whittle
Teen FictionPhoenix Whittle, orphaned at 11, has been in and out of foster care. She's systematically bullied at school and facing homelessness. Until she's offered a home by an estranged uncle, Henry Whittle. But that was the old Henry. Now a killer and id...
