Page 80 of Unalive On Air

God, there are so many questions I have for him, but they’re all borderline inappropriate. “Uh . . . um . . . so . . .”

“Do you want me to leave you alone in the hut for an hour?” he asks, his grin still present.

I don’t answer him, because there’s not a non-embarrassing way to say yes. My heart has run away with itself, my thoughts too, and I’m rock hard. So hard that if I were alive, I’d have difficulty walking.

“The only problem is . . . well, do you remember when we told you heightened emotions help you move objects?” Trystan says.

I pry an eye in his direction. “Yeah?”

“So, coming is probably the most emotionally heightening . . . thing we can do. That’s why Stove said it was good there aren’t any electrical devices in the cave. Are you following where I’m going with this?”

My brain is, one hundred per cent, but my mouth’s too slow to respond. It just sort of flaps like a pathetic fish on the deck of a boat.

“Basically, anything that uses electricity is . . . erm, in danger . . . of . . . exploding.” He laughs. It’s throaty and deep, and I had no idea I could get even more turned on than I was, but here I am, at risk of spearing myself in the stomach like Peter during his final illusion. “The number of times they’ve had to change the bulbs in that surf hut because of me.”

I’m still moving, but everything inside me has frozen. Every single ounce of concentration I possess pours itself into the herculean task of keeping those images out of my thoughts.

I won’t do it. I won’t think of him that way. It’s a violation of epic proportions. I won’t imagine Trystan alone on that mouldy sofa, his shirt falling open, vest pushed up over his abdominal muscles, shorts undone. I won’t picture his dick in his hand, his head thrown back, eyes clamped shut, mouth calling out into the evening. Lights flickering, the sound of the sea crashing, toes clenched against the soles of his flip-flops.

Fuck.

“Gary, you alright, dude?” he asks, placing his palm on my wrist. He’s touching me. Dear Lord, how am I meant to survive this night? “We’re at the hut. Are you tired, or do you . . . want a few minutes to yourself?”

My mouth is so dry, but I swallow anyway. “I won’t even need a few minutes,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and forcing a laugh.

“Good, ’cause I also have an issue I need to . . . handle,” he says. Then he licks his lips, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to make a mess in my ExorSquad overalls.

twenty

A Sticky End

“Okay, a few things,” Trystan says.

I’m on the hut steps, and his feet are on the rocks so we’re standing at each other’s eye level. I nod.

“Don’t worry about the bulbs. They blow up all the time on their own. Or at least that’s what the surf instructors think.” Trystan winks. “And don’t worry about . . . where you come.”

Oh, Jesus.

“It evaporates. After a while anyway. Just disappears into the ether. No matter how much there is.”

I’m aware that my chest is heaving. Even though I don’t need these bodily functions any more, my heart slams itself against my ribcage, my palms are sweaty, my thoughts are fuzzy.

“I’ll be out here the whole time, so I’ll make sure you’re not interrupted,” he says.

Instead of saying thanks or okay or anything normal, my stupid mouth says, “You’ll be out here, doing . . .”

Trystan wets his lips. “What you’re doing. But I’ve had like thirty years’ practice. I’m very proficient in it now.”

A bark of laughter escapes my throat. That might be the hottest, cutest thing anyone has ever said to me. “I was also quite the expert when I was alive.”

“Dude, you just wait. Come find me when you’re done. Or I’ll see you when the sun rises.” Gently, he pushes me through the hut door.

I’m alone and this is his space. It’s dark and damp. Lit only by the light from various standby LEDs. I place my hand on my chest. It’s weird to still feel my heart thumping beneath it.

Okay. I blow out a breath, unzip my overalls, and zip them up again.

I can’t do this.