Chapter One

 

Culhwch

 

What’s the definition of the term “coyote ugly”? Something about gnawing your own arm off so as not to disturb the sleeping beast you brought home when drunk? Well, this is a little like that, only maybe it’s “coyote handsome” in Houston’s case.

He’s disarmingly handsome, painfully so. But I still want to gnaw off my own arm to get away unscathed.

It’s bad enough I allowed myself to melt into that kiss, let alone come home with him and let him fuck me senseless until stupid o’clock in the morning, getting all of an hour’s sleep and then being woken up by the mother of all blowjobs, only to then roll him onto his back and slowly, sensually make love to him like we did way back when.

My head aches, and it isn’t through drinking too much. I wasn’t even drunk. Slightly buzzed, but I wasn’t the worse for wear. No, that’s what makes this that much worse. I was sober enough to know exactly what—and who—I was doing last night.

Slowly, I slip out of his bed and creep around his room on tiptoe to find my discarded clothing.

He mumbles something sleepily and I’m sure I’m going to get caught sneaking out, but no. He rolls back over and is snoring again in seconds.

I’m rooted in place as I look over the muscles of his back that are exposed by the covers that have slipped down to his waist.

He’s really a sight to behold. Taut muscles, broad shoulders, a firm ass. He always did have the picture-perfect body. And what’s better is he knows how to use it. Last night as much as during our relationship.

Dragging my eyes away from him, I find my socks and shoes before tiptoeing from the room and closing the door softly behind me.

I dress on the landing and hurry downstairs. Pulling up the app, I book an Uber and slip outside into the cold morning air.

As I wait for the taxi to arrive, I ponder why I allowed last night to happen. I don’t want him back. So, what was it? Mind-blowing sex? That’s a possibility. It’s been so long since I was with someone that I’d forgotten what it was like to have somebody else get me off instead of myself. And even when I get myself off, it’s usually to a mental image of my ex, the very same man I left sleeping upstairs.

The driver pulls up, and just as he gets to the bottom of the drive, I’ve never been gladder to have changed my number. A very dejected-looking Houston is standing in his doorway, wearing just loose jogging bottoms. I watch his reflection shrink in the rear-view mirror before sinking into the plush leather seat for the duration of the ride home.

One thing is for sure—nobody can ever find out about this little blip, this momentary lapse in judgement. Least of all my mum. I’d never hear the end of it. She’d curse me out for being so fucking stupid.

“Culhwch Lee Matherson, what in Heaven’s name were you thinking? Are you insane? He broke your heart, killed your trust, shook your self-confidence… he made you doubt yourself so much that you strived to become someone new. Now you’re back in his arms, his bed… I ask again, are you fucking insane?”

They would more or less be her words of choice. Maybe not the f-bomb. Not my mum. She doesn’t like when I curse, so she’s not likely to do it herself. But then, if she found out about where I spent the night, or rather with whom I spent it, she may start cursing worse than a sailor on shore leave. Stranger things have happened.

***

I strip and walk into the steaming hot shower. As the water sluices down my body, I close my eyes. Images from last night—and early this morning—assault me. The fiery kisses, the soft hands roaming, the rock-hard cock that Houston had been so eager to reacquaint with my body… my traitorous body as it stretched to accommodate him just the way it always had. The explosive orgasm that rocked through me when he woke me in the small hours. The way he lay there, eyes locked on mine as I pushed his thighs towards him and watched as my fingers sank into him before being replaced by… well… yeah.

My eyes snap open and I have to mentally shake myself. I don’t need those images being stored in my mind. I need to hit rewind and erase. But there’s fat chance of that happening. Not when it’s still so fresh in my mind at least.

Glad it’s the weekend, I slip into a pair of grey jogging bottoms and a white T-shirt as I lounge in front of the television with Disney+ on. I look through my watch list and reach for the freshly popped corn in the bowl on the coffee table.

It’s been a while since I did nothing and just lay here all day without moving except to get food, a drink or take a piss. I’m owed a day of moping around. I did just make the second biggest mistake of my life, ever meeting Houston in the first place being number one on that list.

Houston who? Fuck him and all thoughts of him. If I was as good at spells as Hermione—and if magic really existed, of course—I would whip up a spell to erase my own memory. Maybe I can borrow a neuralyzer from Agent K from Men in Black.

An old classic catches my eye, so I settle in with the bowl in between my crossed legs, ready to sing my heart out along with Ariel. Jeez, I don’t know why she wants to be part of his world so badly. He’ll only break her fucking heart.

Typical, always the cynic these days. And I’m still the same old geek I used to be when it comes to the things I love, like Disney, Star Wars, my collection of action figures. I’m still the Culhwch from two years ago, albeit in a more bulked-up body and free of the glasses now I wear contacts. Shit, my contacts! I took them out at that asshole’s house. No way in hell am I going back for those.

I pause the film as I stand up and make my way to the bathroom cabinet to retrieve my spares. I really should change to disposable ones. That’ll teach me for hooking up with someone I don’t have any intention of seeing again. And I don’t… except for in my head. I can’t escape those images. Or is it that I don’t want to?

***

Waking with a crick in my neck, I rub the sore spot and realise I fell asleep during one of my favourite films. That’ll teach you to have mind-blowing sex until stupid o’clock, Culhwch Lee Matherson.

I get up and stretch before heading into the kitchen for a cold bottle of water. Grabbing one from the fridge, I walk back to the lounge and notice a blinking light on my answer machine. There’s only one person it can be. My mum. Only she still calls me on the damn thing.

Hitting play, I lean against the doorjamb as mum’s voice comes to life.

“Culhwch, darling, it’s mum.”

Sheesh, no shit, Sherlock.

“I just wondered if you were coming for your Sunday dinner?” she asks, even though she knows full well I always do. Every week like clockwork. I haven’t missed one in… two years.

“Anyway darling, give me a call when you get this. I tried you last night, but you mustn’t have been home. Hope you weren’t out too late, you’re like a bear with a sore head when you’ve got a hangover. And if you were out late, make sure you take a vitamin tablet and some paracetamol. Must go, your father can’t find the remote… again. Love you.”

She blows me a kiss before hanging up. I swear, if I didn’t love her so much, it might bother me that she still blows me kisses on the phone. I’m twenty-nine years old for crying out loud. But as she always likes to remind me, no matter what my age, I’ll “always be her baby”.

I pick up the phone and send her a text to let her know I’ll be there tomorrow. I don’t feel like talking, especially not so soon after “the incident”. Yeah, that’s what I’m calling it now.

My phone chimes with a text, so I open it as I head back to the couch to chill.

 

>Have you forgotten how to work your phone darling?

 

>No mum. Just heading into the shower. Sorry. I’ll call you later.

 

>Okay. Remember your vitamins.

 

>I’m not hungover mum. Just tired. Love you.

 

>Love you too, my sweet boy.

 

Satisfied that I got a tiny white lie by my mum, the human lie detector, I go back to my watchlist. The Mighty Ducks, that might cheer me up. I always did think Emilio Estevez was hot. Not that he’s the only reason to watch it, but it definitely has its appeal.

Emilio is enough to keep my mind from straying to “the incident”, or almost enough. What do I have to do to remind myself that he’s the enemy? I was literally sleeping with the enemy. I am equal parts turned on at the memory and pissed off at myself for giving in.

There hasn’t been anyone significant since Houston. Maybe if there had have been, I would have found it easier to move on, but as it is, there’s only been someone in my life for a couple of weeks here and there, nothing serious. Certainly nobody worth writing home about or introducing to my parents.

I don’t do dating apps. Tinder, Grindr, whatever. Nah, not for me. There’s no appeal in looking at someone across the table from you, knowing that they aren’t the person in their profile picture. Being catfished is nothing new. I mean, I watch the show sometimes, but believe me, people have been doing it longer than Nev and that handsome silver fox Max have been investigating for. Now I’d settle for someone like him. Max Joseph, I mean. Not that he swings my way, and even if he did, he lives a million miles away. Okay, not a million, but across a rather large pond. In any case, if I could find me a lookalike of him, yeah, that would be great.

I guess you could say I don’t really have a type, physically. I mean, Houston has brown hair, green eyes, taut muscles, broad shoulders, a big… no, let’s not go there. But although I found him extremely attractive to look at, I’m not only attracted to people on looks. I want a man with a vibrant personality. Someone who makes me laugh, someone who cares, someone who makes me feel safe. I want someone it’s okay to be vulnerable with. I want someone who is faithful, loyal, dependable, strong—mentally and emotionally, not necessarily physically. I want someone who loves me for me and doesn’t try to change me. A man who puts me first. Is that really so much to ask for? I never used to think so, but that’s because I was with a man just like that from the age of twenty-four to twenty-seven, even if that was all behind closed doors. But the least said about that, the better.

My best friend Sophia would tell me that I’m worthy of all that and more. But then she’s ever the optimist. But I guess she has reason to be. She’s married to Alex Wainwright, brother of Houston, and they have two kids—my goddaughters, Maisie and Pepper. Sophia has everything she could want: a great job, a gorgeous home, a loving husband, two beautiful daughters and let’s not forget about the dog, Max. Named after the dog in The Little Mermaid.

I think that film might be what made us bond in the first place at the age of five, when we started primary school. She was a little wild and unpredictable, even at that age. And I was shy and introverted—her exact opposite. But they say opposites attract, so that’s probably the underlying reason for us being so close as we grew up.

She helped me come out of my shell over the years and I helped tame her wild side. Or at least I think I did. Sometimes she can still surprise me, but she’s definitely mellowed more since meeting Alex and having kids.

Sophia was there when shit hit the fan with Houston, even though she didn’t know it was her brother-in-law that broke my heart.

Thinking of her makes me pull up a photo of her and the girls on my phone. They’re all so beautiful it makes my heart hurt. If anyone ever hurts them the way he hurt me, god help them, I’ll hunt them down and make sure they’re eating through a straw and only able to piss into a catheter.