Kissing the Dragon - 26. Vaughan

Thoughts of Constantine Morgan and his sidekick’s animosity evaporate as my mind grapples with the impending arrival of my former partner. With a cursory nod to Morgan, I allow Derek to lead me into the corridor and point me in the direction of the dining room. Once Derek excuses himself to hunt down Hugh, I follow other guests past the staircase into the ground floor room Kit and I had discovered earlier, not dissimilar to a wood-panelled college dining hall. This room seems so different filled with bodies. People are already milling around in the huge opulent space chatting excitedly, checking seating plans and finding name cards along the single dining table longer than a railway carriage. Despite standing back and observing from the side of the hall, craning my neck to check all the persons already in and entering the room, Vaughan is nowhere to be seen. Of course, he could be hours away yet. Derek did not specify when he would arrive. Eventually Kit appears and approaches me. By the genuine and open smile on his face—probably still awestruck from the tour of the house—I assume Derek has only shared the news with me.

“Hey there buddy. You waiting on me?” he says, coming up and putting a hand on my shoulder. “Want to go grab your seat? We’re at the other end with your friends.”

“Lead the way. And get me the largest drink you can find.”

He grins at my comment even though no humour was intended. With familiar faces seated our end of the table, and some I do not recognise—a couple of attractive grey haired women in their fifties, a very camp looking male couple with pencil thin eyebrows and too thin limbs—the union of brightly clothed and like-minded friends is nothing short of an affirmation. I would find the regiment of sombre suits filling the rest of the table laughable were I in a better mood. A couple of times I try to catch Derek’s eye, but he is deep in conversation with a neighbour. When eventually I do, he looks to the door, shrugs, and appears as mystified as me. Could he have been mistaken? Only Kit seems oblivious to the whole drama and becomes more and more affectionate as the evening wears on.

While we wait for appetisers to be served, his knee brushes against mine for a second time, much firmer and more deliberate than the first. As I wonder if I am making more of this than I should, his hand lands on my upper thigh and squeezes. When I turn to him, he does not look at me but continues his conversation across the table. A week ago I might have been tempted to place my own hand on top, but thoughts of Ben Whitehead are buzzing around in my head like a nest of CID hornets.

“Just want to thank you again for inviting me, Cole,” he whispers, removing his hand and leaning his shoulder into mine. Even though the truth is that he invited himself, I am glad to have him by my side. I shrug off his gestures the same way I let the use of his endearments go. A couple of people smile our way, probably considering us a couple. Unfortunately humour has left me, and as I glare into the French onion soup, I feel a gentle tug on my elbow.

“You okay, buddy?” he asks again. “Did I do something?”

When my eyes meet his, he appears troubled. I instantly regret letting my mood get the better of me. The last thing I want is for him to feel he is to blame.

“No, you haven’t done anything wrong,” I say, smiling weakly and shaking my head. “Quite the opposite. But I’ve just been told that Vaughan’s on his way.”

“You didn’t know he was coming?”

“We spoke earlier in the week. He told me he couldn’t make it.”

“This going to be awkward?”

“Probably,” I say, pausing before draining my glass. “To hell with it, let’s enjoy ourselves. Pass the wine.”

As waiters collect up plates for the dessert course of almond and apricot pancakes—a favourite of mine that I’ve barely touched—and as I am sinking into a pleasant alcoholic buzz, my gaze drifts away from the table in time to witness Vaughan and another man enter the room. If I was feeling vulnerable before, I am thoroughly laid bare now. While conversations rumble undisturbed through the hall, Vaughan scans the table for familiar faces and, as someone calls out his name, he finally latches onto Hugh. At some point, I know he will spot me, but I would rather let that happen when it does than interrupt him. Still in a dark overcoat and hauling a metallic case on wheels, he looks good and when he laughs at something Hugh says, my heart tugs.

“Is that him?” comes the voice beside me.

“The one and only. Kill me now.”

With my eyes still on Vaughan, I sense Kit turn his inquisitive gaze on me. Without a word, he slides a proprietorial arm around the back of my chair and gives me a firm squeeze of the shoulder. Unexpectedly, he leaves it there, and the warmth and pressure are reassuring. When Vaughan’s gaze finally singles me out, his smile flickers a fraction, and I realise in that instant that he had never expected me to come to the event. In return, I manage to return the smile, raise a hand in greeting, and have a twinge of pleasure when his eyes take in Kit’s arm around me. Being the perfect hosts, Derek and Hugh silence the group at our end of the table to introduce Vaughan and Oscar Bright, his colleague. It is not so much any physical gestures between the two but in the exchanges of subtle sympathetic expressions that gives me the feeling that they are more than colleagues. Vaughan and I used to do the same. Derek singles out people Vaughan may not know which includes Kit, getting them to introduce themselves.

“Chris Hansen. Token American. Friend of Cole.”

“Is that right?” says Vaughan, with barely disguised irritation. ”Funny, he never mentioned you.”

“Yeah, well, Cole’s been a bit distracted of late. In case you hadn’t heard.”

At other times, I might have relished the look of daggers that Vaughan gives Kit.

While I sit waiting for coffee to arrive, trying hard not to glance along the table at Vaughan and his friend who have been seated on the same side as us, the private phone in my inside pocket buzzes. An incoming message. Grateful for the distraction, I excuse myself from the table citing my need for the powder room, and head for the corridor. As soon as I am moving, however, I feel the alcohol fogging my head as my feet stumble on the carpeted hallway trying to make up their mind which is the left and which is the right. Once in a dark corner beneath the staircase, I check the display to find a digital photograph of Lizzie, the girl I met in the coffee shop. A short message is attached.

- This the girlfriend?

Fortunately the wine does not affect the coordination of my thumbs. I text back and get an immediate response.

Lizzie. Yes, that’s her.

- Ok

You found her?

- Almost. How are things?

Awesome. Vaughan, the ex, just showed up.

- Remember not a word about the club.

Understood.

- And I need to speak to him alive, comprendo?

Ha ha. Funny guy.

I take a deep breath before deciding to do the right thing.

Ben, another of our friends is a member.

- Hugh W. Chaudhary blagged a copy of the membership list.

Don’t kill me but he knows that I’ve been there.

- To be expected. Probably still has friends there.

Is he involved?

- No. Cast iron alibis when each murder happened.

But what if he says something to Vaughan?

- Why would he? Your ex hasn’t even been in the country.

Then why do you need to speak to him?

- Circumstantial. Just trust me on that one, Colin.

Frowning at the screen, I mull over what he has written. So Hugh is not involved in the murder, he has simply been having a good time without Derek’s knowledge. And Ben is right, Vaughan has been out of the country for over six months now. During which time each of the murders took place. An absence that can easily and conclusively be proven. Hold on a second. I have known Hugh personally for many years and Vaughan intimately even longer. No way in hell and beyond would either be involved in anything illicit. What is wrong with me? My common sense is defective. Or perhaps I have been hanging around the boys in blue too long.

This is giving me ulcers. I’m officially staying away from police work.

- Finally he gets the message.

After smiling at the screen for a few more seconds, I begin to place the phone back in my pocket. Another buzz grabs my attention.

- Stay strong, sunshine. Ur one of the good guys.

Perhaps it is the wine or my fragile emotional state, or both, but the simple sign off sends a warmth of affection through my body. Memories of Ben’s touch come back to me then and I shiver with remembered excitement. While I am still wallowing in the message, a hard voice startles me out of my reverie.

“Who’s the yank?” comes Vaughan’s sharp tone. When I look up startled, his figure is silhouetted before me and alcohol helps my mood swing quickly to the dark side.

“Fuck you, Vaughan,” I growl, inflating my stance and startling his eyes wide. He knows how much I hate anyone cursing, and rarely resort to expletives myself. I step out into the light of the corridor and wave my mobile phone at him. “You said you weren’t coming. Why didn’t you call me?”

He always looks good but now sports a slight tan. Despite what he has told everyone, life is clearly not all work. Together with the dark oily sweep of fringe that I have always admired so much, he has lost none of his appeal. In an untucked white shirt, with Mandarin collar left open to enticingly reveal the beginnings of dark chest hair, I have a sudden flashback of undoing his shirt buttons. Faultless stonewashed jeans, simple navy jacket and polished brown shoes complete the ensemble, good enough for GQ magazine. Despite a long haul flight, no doubt in flatbed business class, he appears relaxed and composed.

“I tried calling you at home. But I don’t have the time to keep chasing.”

“How much time does it take to punch numbers on a phone?”

“Colin. I’m working my arse off out there. We don’t get time for much else. And even when we do, the time zones aren’t exactly conducive. This was all last minute. My secretary did me a huge favour calling you Friday evening—two in the morning in Manila—but she had a problem with the line. So I sent you an email Saturday from the departure lounge at Changi. Didn’t you get it?”

Without dropping eye contact, I think back to the lost call on Friday and the email in my inbox that I had left unopened that morning. Too much has happened this past fortnight. I am letting small details slip which is not like me. He must notice my confused hesitation.

“Is everything okay? You don’t seem your usual self.”

“And how would you know what my normal self is?”

Silence is probably a good response at this moment because my blood is surging with anger looking for a vent hole.

“Are you and Oscar…?” I begin, but cannot articulate the rest of the sentence.

“Oz was the one who insisted I come,” he says calmly, glancing away across the hallway at one of the grand portraits. “Everything was ready to go on the deal, but then the signing was delayed. Means we get some down time.”

“And Oscar decided to tag along?”

“I invited him. So come on. Who’s the cowboy?”

“He’s just a friend, Vaughan.”

“Didn’t look like that to me.”

“And what did it look like?”

“Like he couldn’t keep his paws off you.”

“And how is that any of your business—?” I hiss, and then fall silent. In my mind’s eye, I had seen our reconciliation as something positive involving friendly smiles and maybe a warm hug. Now we face each other across an Persian carpeted battlefield. Never in our time together did I feel this hostile towards him. Maybe I could blame the over indulgence. What I know for sure is that this is not what either of us wants, I can read that clearly in his face. I take a breath and shake my head.

“Christ, I’m sorry. I don’t want to do this. It’s good to see you, Vaughan.”

“You too,” he says, visibly relaxing. “You’re looking well under the circumstances. You look…relaxed and happy.”

“Do I? Must be the wine,” I answer, attempting a smile before looking down at his shoes. “Look, let’s agree to be civilised for the sake of old friends.”

“Fine by me. But tell me the truth. Are you and the American an item?”

“No. We really are just friends. How about you and Oscar?”

The fact that Vaughan has to pause and take a deep breath says everything.

“We’re working on it. The two of us—“

But right then alcohol induced anger flares again and I do not want to hear any more. As I turn away from him I spot Kit heading towards me. Once again this day, I am overwhelmed to see him.

“I wondered where you—“ he says, as his puzzled gaze slides off me to take in Vaughan. “Ah. Are you okay? I can go, if you want?”

“Yes, Cole’s busy right now—“ begins Vaughan.

“Absolutely not. Your timing is perfect,” I say, catching up with him, gripping his arm and bringing him with me. I ignore Vaughan calling my name behind me. “Don’t worry, the two of us are finished. Well and truly. Let’s go and get another drink or seven.”

“Coffee, Cole. Either that or I’m going to have to carry you off to bed.”

“I could think of worse things.”

Throwing a conciliatory arm across my shoulders, he chuckles. Without turning back to check if Vaughan is still watching, I place my arm around his waist, and squeeze. When we get back into the dining room, I stall a moment seeing a few guests readying to depart. Hugh and Derek are once again surrounded by friends at the end of the table. Do I really want to sip coffee and fake polite conversations with strangers?

“You know what, Kit? I think I’m going to turn in for the night. I’m not in the mood to be social.”

“Good call. In which case I’ll join you.”

Back in the bedroom, feeling instantly sobered by the chill air from a window neither of us remember having opened, Kit and I tread carefully around each other. Both being gentlemen, we haggle about who should use the ensuite bathroom first. Quoting my need to unpack sleeping garb, he concedes and while he busies himself citing a hot shower I slip into cotton pyjamas. I also check both of my phones and click open the email from Vaughan. Sure enough, his short message explains his return for the funeral. Perhaps I made the right choice to leave it unread, rather than spoiling the whole weekend with the knowledge of his return. When Kit steps out with a towel wrapped around his lower body, his chest and biceps on display, I put the phones away and try hard not to stare. Unlike Whitehead, he is lean and hairless, naturally muscular rather than gym toned, a gazelle to Whitehead’s lion.

I have already switched off the main bedroom lights and left on each of our bedside lamps, mainly so they are easier to kill once we decide to sleep. He sits on the side of his bed away from me and pulls on track bottoms, dropping the towel as he stands to pull them up, giving me a good view of his muscled backside. After my recent nights of clandestine and unbridled passion with a certain detective, I find the awkward civility almost amusing. By the time I have finished my own bathroom ritual—including gulping three large glasses of water—and head back, Kit is sitting up in his bed, wearing a thin white tee and reading a magazine.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask.

“Nah, I’m good. You got nice friends,” he says, as I pull back the covers and climb into bed.

“Who think you’re a star,” I reply, sitting up in a similar fashion. We grin politely at each other, sitting there like an old married couple, a flashback to my life with Vaughan. Strange to think of my ex-partner sleeping with another man in a bedroom down the hallway. But I decide not to think about Vaughan, just want to lose myself in sleep. We chat innocently a little while longer until Kit decides he wants to sleep and we both switch off our lamps.

Fifteen minutes later, with my eyes squeezed shut I am still unable to succumb. Maybe I am being pathetic, but I cannot help pondering how long Vaughan and Oscar have been an item. Was something going on before he left for Asia? Is Oscar the reason he took the secondment out there? I remember chatting to him at one of their firm’s Christmas dinner parties. A pleasant enough man, a little squat, not someone I would consider Vaughan’s type, he had given no indication that he batted for our team. Did he have his sights set on Vaughan even back then? Or did Vaughan come on to him? Heavens, did Vaughan turn him? And, more importantly, why should I care? Although I am still fond of Vaughan, would I want us to get back together? No, is the simple truth. What we had together had run its course. And he appears happy with this Oscar person. Wake up, McCann. You have just had an end of week of incredible action, courtesy of one of CID’s finest. Not just that but I experienced a perverse kind of satisfaction seeing Vaughan’s eyes widen as he took in my straight American friend. Across the room, I hear Kit fidget irritably with the duvet on his bed, an indicator that he is not asleep either.

“You awake or asleep?” he murmurs, as if reading my mind.

“Asleep,” I reply, and hear him chuckle.

“How’re you doing?” he says and I know he means Vaughan. I sigh into the darkness.

“Wish I’d had more of a head’s up. But I’m okay. It was going to happen sooner or later. I’m glad you were here.”

“Me too,” he says, his voice warm and comforting. A short silence follows. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course. Anything.”

“You think I’m attractive?”

That particular question I had not been expecting. Opening my eyes to the room’s darkness, I take in a deep breath. It seems an odd question coming from someone I had resigned myself to believe as straight and I wonder what is behind the words. As usual, I choose to keep my response light.

“Are you serious? Of course you’re attractive. I even caught one of the lesbians eyeing you up over dinner.”

My attempt at humour provokes no reaction.

“But what about you, Colin?” he asks. “What do you think?”

“Of course I find you attractive. I almost kissed you once, remember?” I reply softly, my heart leaping. Across the room I hear him sigh.

“Sometimes you seem to be the only person in the world who doesn’t notice me.”

“Come on, Kit. Of course I notice you, but I think of you as a friend now. I thought that’s what you wanted. You know I’ve probably spent more time together with you over the past week than with anyone else in my life. Apart from my cat. And I enjoy your company. I like you Kit. But I also respect your boundaries.”

Which is all true. We had spent a couple of evenings together and most of Sunday. Perhaps our time has been a little less physically charged than my encounters with Ben Whitehead, but far more composed and equally appreciated.

“Yeah,” he says, and I hear a rustle as he turns towards me. “Sorry Colin. My insecurities getting to me.”

“Don’t let them. You’re great.”

And with that he chuckles again and I sense him relax. Feels as though a difficult moment has passed.

“You cold as me? Can’t even feel my toes,” he asks, and he’s right. Even with the window closed and the old cast iron radiator cranked up, the room is an industrial refrigerator.

“Old places like this might be majestic, but they’re a bugger to heat. Give it a minute, these Egyptian cotton sheets are top quality. They’ll soon have you warmed up.”

“Got a better idea,” he mutters, as I hear his duvet thrown back and him clambering out of bed. I assume he is going to head to his luggage to get an extra pair of socks, until his shadowed form stops next to my bed.

“Haul your ass over,” he says.

“Kit, I’m not sure that’s such a good—“ I falter, but he doesn’t give me a chance to finish.

“C’mon buddy. Let me in.”

Somewhat hesitantly I agree and he clambers into my bed. We lie facing each other, not touching, a chasm between our bodies. Unlike with Ben, I feel strangely nervous, in unknown territory. I flinch when he reaches over and tugs a button on my pyjama shirt.

“Take this off,” he says, and after another moment of hesitation, I do as asked, pulling the top over my head. In for a penny.

After helping me, he turns to throw the discarded clothing onto the floor and then returns his head to the pillow. Bewildered, my heart thumps too loudly and I am sure my ragged breathing must betray me. Either he pretends not to notice or does not care, but simply remains alongside me in the dark, unmoving. Eventually I shut my eyes and enjoy his warm toothpaste breath caressing my face. When his fingertips touch my chest, he catches me by surprise and I wake with a gasp.

“Hey,” he whispers, with a chuckle. “Relax. Not jumping your bones. Just want to share our body heat.”

With that he gently guides me to roll over, away from him, and then slides across to line his long body up against mine. We fit together perfectly. The transformation is instant and astonishing. Through the thin cotton tee, his chest feels legitimate against my back. Warmth radiates from him along my spine, behind my knees and down the back of my legs. Where his groin fits against my backside, I sense no sign of arousal, even though mine is tenting painfully against the front of my pyjama bottoms. Why can my penis not be better behaved, instead of leaping to attention indiscriminately like a teacher’s pet straining to answer a question? If he notices the tremor of my body, he says nothing. Only as he drapes an arm across my waist and brushes his hand against my erection do I gulp and flinch. He seems unfazed though and simply shifts his arm up to my chest. We lay there in silence, and even though I remain wide awake, I hear his breathing slowing, deep and regular. Has he fallen asleep? Unlike him however, my mind is racing still at the absurdity of the situation. For over a year I have experienced the driest spell in my adult sex life and in the past week not only have I had the best sex of my life courtesy of a CID copper but I am now in bed being spooned by a super hot American. Somewhere up there Uncle Dom must be laughing his proverbial backside off. Just as I finally begin to relax and drop off too, Kit’s hand moves back down to rest on my groin.

But this time his thumb strokes my length through my cotton pyjama pants, not once but three slow times.

“Kit,” I murmur. “What are you doing?”

“This is for me, isn’t it, buddy?” he whispers hotly as his hand slips beneath my waistband and fingers grip firmly hold of my shaft. This time he does not hesitate but begins stroking up and down, sending blood and arousal pumping through my body. As though a switch has been flicked, as though a drug has finally hit his veins, he surges up. With a strength that takes me by surprise, he flips me onto my back, his hands sliding beneath the waistband and slipping down my pyjama bottoms. But as his face comes level with mine, undoubtedly for an embrace or even a kiss, I brace my hands against his chest.

“Christ Kit,” I say, my heart thumping in my chest. “Stop, will you.”

“What?” he whispers breathlessly. “What’s up?”

“This is not a good idea. Up until a few seconds ago, I thought you were straight.”

“What? You think I’m a one-trick pony?” he says, the back of his hand travelling down my body again, and grabbing a handful of my arousal. “You’re not the first guy I’ve slept with, you know?”

“Clearly,” I reply with a gulp, reaching down and grasping his hand, pulling it away. “But you could have given me some warning.”

“You’ve got no idea how much I wanted this. Restraint is not normally my thing. But I finally made my choice.”

“Yes, well. I didn’t get that memo,” I say, a little irritated, reaching down and yanking up my sleep pants.

“So what? You don’t want this? Don’t want me?”

“I—don’t know what I want. For crying out loud, Kit. A week ago I’d have jumped into your arms. But you’ve been playing it ice cold. So eventually I cooled off too. One thing’s for sure. I never want to lose you as a friend.”

“But there’s no hope of anything more?”

“I wouldn’t say that. I just—need a little time. To think this through properly. Can you give me that?”

The spectral face hovering over mine is pensive. After a few moment, I sense him exhale and relax.

“Sure. Want me to go back to my own bed?”

“No,” I say, offering an olive branch, and pulling him back down beside me. “I like this. But let’s just sleep.”

After a moment, Kit lines himself carefully up behind me, only this time a steely erection presses into my backside. But true to his word, the next sound I hear is the gentle snoring of the man behind me. Eventually tiredness fuelled by too much alcohol also overtakes me and I descend into fitful sleep.

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 A very special thanks to Timothy M for helping to edit this chapter.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you'd like to join in a chat or leave any additional comments about the plot or cast of characters, I have created a forum accessed via on the link below:
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Brian (a.k.a. lomax61