Page 93 of Double or Nothing

That’s what I need. People who don’t come with childhood heartbreaks and daddy empires and black lines on canvases.

Hmm, annoyingly the urge for a night out goes cold within three minutes tops. The idea of mingling with a roomful of potentials just doesn’t hit the mark. Maybe a one on one is more suitable. Less small talk and scouting, more outright down and dirty.

I fire up the Casual Hookup app.

I scroll.

Tap.

Scroll again.

Ah ha. There’s a guy with dark curls and a mouth made for cock, staring out from a profile picture. Nice. Very nice. Good shoulders. Cocky grin. Definitely my type. Kind of like Ricardo, the barman who just got fired for my antics. He was sure my type.

Or one of my types.

I zoom in on his picture, hoping for a hard-on.

Nothing.

I stare harder, stroking my balls to put in some effort. Come on!

Still nothing.

Fuck’s sake. I toss the phone onto the sofa beside me.

Back to the bastard TV.

An advert for luxury holidays. A couple in their fifties laughing on a beach, clinking cocktails as if that’s the height of existence. I’d usually laugh at their stupid fake smiles, or go knock myself up a rum and Coke. But instead, I picture Alice’s face when she realised I’d bought all three of her paintings.

That moment.

The real one under the gloss.

The pure shine of her. So authentic it lit up the room.

I groan and drag a cushion over my face. What the fuck is wrong with me?

My brain, being a traitorous little asshole, summons up snapshots of Bryce next.

Bryce at the Kilby Club, pretending he wasn’t about to bolt and run. Bryce on the stool with his fake scrolling thumb and nervous foot. Bryce on all fours while I spread his gorgeous ass cheeks and dug my tongue into his tight puckered ring. Bryce in Alice’s studio, still half terrified, but daring to face it off. Bryce smiling like he’d forgotten what real smiling meant.

BT.

Sweet thing.

I lob the cushion across the room and get up.

This is exactly why I don’t get involved. This is why I keep things simple. Simple is good. No strings mean no hassle. Simple is just a hot body, a number I don’t save, and a morning without anyone hanging around my kitchen like a bad smell.

Simple doesn’t send people’s heads into cuckoo land over a guy who alphabetises his spice rack and a woman who talks about yellow like it holds the key to life itself.

I hate pacing around like a sad man. It drives me fucking insane.

My phone rings and I drop back down on the sofa as I answer it, grateful for the interruption.

“Jack Reid.”

“Hi, Mr Reid. This is Marianne calling from the Redwick Hospice art event.”