Buy Me Sir(94)

I browse gay hook-up sites on my phone until sleep finds me too.





Chapter Thirty-Three





Alexander



The usual undertone of desolation is absent as I make the drive across to Hampshire on Sunday afternoon. Even Brutus seems to grin at me, his overbite looking especially slobbery as he pants in the passenger seat.

I think he liked having Amy in our house again last night.

Having a new cleaner in the house first thing this morning, not so much.

“You’ve got to stop doing that shit,” I tell him, as though he stands a hope in hell of understanding. “You’ll get us into trouble one day, boy.”

Having to rescue a damsel in distress from behind your kitchen doorway at seven a.m. – dressed in nothing but your bathrobe – raises the heartrate somewhat.

Brutus still looks thoroughly pleased with himself.

At least our sweet Amy slept through the fracas.

My sweet Amy slept like an angel. An angel with a sore fucking asshole. I can’t fight the smirk.

I’m enjoying the sensation of waking up in my own bed with her tight little body next to mine. I’m enjoying her gentle laughter. I’m enjoying the way she wants me.

I’m enjoying everything.

And I’m going to enjoy seeing my boys, too.

They’re already waiting when I pull up on Claire’s driveway. They rush though the front door as their mother paces out after them, but even the scowl on her miserable face can’t dent my mood.

I give the boys a hug and tell them to pile on in to see Brutus, and Claire waits until they’re safely in the Merc before she launches into her monologue about state school being the right option for the boys, and have I thought any more about my silly position on the whole thing.

I tell her no – in no uncertain terms – and she shakes her head.

“You’re unbelievable, Alex. You need to think of the boys.”

My response is instant. I am thinking of the fucking boys.

“They are moving schools!” she blusters.

I hold my ground. They’re not moving fucking schools without my say so and she fucking knows it.

I’d strip her of her lavish lifestyle in a heartbeat, fight her through the courts with a legal prowess far more intimidating than she’ll ever have access to.

She’d be a fool to fight me head-on and she knows that, too.

“You’re a stubborn bastard,” she says, and I nod.

“Think what you want, Claire. The boys need a decent education.”

“Like you had? So they can turn out like you?!”

I don’t grace her with an answer to that one. I’m already heading back to the car, fighting to keep hold of my sunny disposition long enough to smile through crappy burgers and too much football lingo.

“Ask them what they want!” she calls after me. “At least ask the boys what they want!”

So I do.

I ask them as soon as we’ve taken a seat with our offal-based meat products.

“Your mother tells me you want to change schools,” I say. “Is that true?”

Matthew nods his head with a smile, blissfully oblivious of any potential tension.

Thomas not so much.

His eyes leave mine and stare at the table top, burger discarded.

“Well, Thomas? Is it true? Do you want to change schools?”

He shrugs.

It isn’t like him to avoid a direct question, and since he is avoiding the question this really isn’t the right place to push it, not amongst the screaming toddlers and the families out for a cheap bite to eat.

I change the topic of conversation, focusing instead on Portsmouth’s goal-scoring record this season, and that works well to lighten the mood.

“I’m going to play for Portsmouth,” Thomas tells me. “Terry says I’m really good.”

“He does, does he?” My boy nods, and even though Terry’s fucking name makes my insides grimace, I’m undeniably proud. “That’s good,” I say. “Well done.”

It’s Matthew who drops the next shitty bombshell. The poor kid has no idea.

“We’re going training!” he gushes. “Terry’s going to put us in kids’ club!”

“Excellent,” I lie. “And what does kids’ club involve?”

Thomas tells him to shut his stupid little mouth, and I’m taken aback by the venom in his tone.

“Enough of that,” I snap. “Let your brother speak.”

But Matthew doesn’t want to speak. Not now. His lip trembles as he holds back tears, and he looks so young sitting there. I’d forgotten how young he is.

Thomas folds his arms. “It’s on a Sunday. You won’t let us go anyway.”

“Won’t let you go?”

He shakes his head. “Mum said there’s no point even asking. She said you’ll never say yes.”