I spend a couple of hours in the storage shed, but leave with just a small bag of things. The photographs I singled out, a couple of books I remember loving and, at the last moment, a teddy bear I slept with as a child. I don’t know why: the nostalgia’s apparently getting to me.
I’m staying at a friend’s apartment. She’s doing her PhD in Egyptian Archaeology and is outside of Cairo for a year on a dig. Her place is in Surry Hills, a suburb lined with terraced houses, leafy trees and wrought iron balconies; it’s far nicer than I could justify being able to afford right now. The course I want to do is going to be an investment and it’s not like starting a photography business is going to be easy.
Not only has she loaned me her apartment, but she threw her Vespa into the mix as well. ‘Seriously, it has to be driven or it will die. Helmet and keys are in the laundry.’
I step over the seat, kick the stand and rev the engine. On the first day I could barely start the thing and now I weave it in and out of traffic as though I’ve been riding motorbikes all my life.
It’s winter but beautiful, with a blue sky, crisp temperature, shining sun. I take the Vespa off the highway, turning towards Surry Hills, retracing the roads I drove along earlier today. A few minutes from where I’m staying, I pull over and grab a champagne bottle on a whim—it feels like a day worthy of marking. I’ve been dreading going to the storage shed for years and now that I’ve done it I feel like I deserve a pat on the back.
I tuck the champagne into the bag that sits on the side of the Vespa then slide the helmet into place, dipping my head forward as I drive the rest of the way.
I can’t miss the plane that flies overhead, the trail white against the immaculate blue sky, and something fires inside of me. Memories I’ve been working very hard not to give in to. Memories of the Hart jet, the bed, of Holden Hart. Memories of the way he to
uched me, kissed me, worshipped me as though I were some kind of idol and he a devout follower, brought me over the edge of pleasure time after time after time after time.
And, beyond those memories, acceptance.
He’s probably gone by now. I didn’t ask what he was coming to Sydney for, nor how long he intended to be here, but I doubt someone like him stays anywhere for very long.
Whatever we shared on the plane, neither of us intended for it to be more than that, otherwise we would have swapped numbers, made sure we had a way to speak to each other, to arrange another...
Stop.
It is what it is. He’s so much a part of my past he might as well have his own dusty little box in the living museum of my life that is that storage shed.
I pull the Vespa into its space and cut the engine, but I don’t move. I sit there, lost in thought, giving myself a moment before I unhook the helmet and head inside.
* * *
Cora Andersson in the flight crew uniform that didn’t quite fit was sexier than I have words to describe. Cora Andersson in my bed, naked and panting with need for me, was hotter than hell.
But this?
I shift a little in my seat, glad for the darkly tinted windows that allow me to observe her without being noticed. Astride a small motorbike she looks wild and free, sexy and untamed. I strain against my pants, my cock recognising its mistress is right across the street. A few moments pass and then her hands—hands that curled around my length and held me tight—undo her helmet. She keeps it in one hand whilst lifting a bag off the bike in the other.
Curious, I watch her a moment and try to imagine how this will go down. What the hell will I say to her? Will she be happy to see me? Or freaked? Like I’m some kind of stalker or something?
It’s a sign of how hooked on her I am that I can even think like that. Women usually throw themselves at my feet, but not Cora.
Cora was different.
Before I can second-guess the wisdom of this, I open my door and step out. ‘Stay here,’ I direct the driver under my breath, closing the door behind me and doing a cursory inspection for cars before I step across to her.
Perhaps she sees me in her peripheral vision because she pauses, midway to a dark green door, and turns around.
I see the moment she recognises me. Her eyes flare wider, her lips part and she lifts a hand to self-consciously brush her dark hair back from her face.
There’s something different about her—something I instinctively recognise because it moves within me. A darkness. A sadness. I pause, a frown creasing my brow.
‘Holden?’
She’s dressed for the weather. Jeans, a jacket and a brightly coloured scarf that picks up the pink tones of her cheeks.
I close the distance between us, my body only an inch or so from hers—close enough that I imagine I can feel her warmth, close enough that I can taste her familiar scent on my tongue.
‘Hey.’ My voice is low, drawn from deep inside me. I briefly wonder what I’m doing—once is always enough. But I know myself, and I know that, despite that, I want Cora again.
‘You’re still here?’