Page 32 of Hard
‘Why would she be unlucky?’Fuck.‘There is no girl.’
‘She’d be unlucky,’ Will responds, ignoring my attempt at salvaging the direction of this conversation, ‘because you’ve been storing your testicles in a drawer somewhere—unused for decades.’
‘It hasn’t been that long.’
‘Long enough,’ Mac’s deep voice cuts in.
‘Et tu?’
Mac shrugs. ‘I get it. And I don’t. How can you go without sex?’
My finger taps furiously against my glass; my lips glued closed to contain all the things I could say. Like how when you put your all into a marriage—love, hope, and faith—only to find you’ve been taken for a fool, it’s enough to put you off any kind of love, including the physical. That in working yourself into the fucking ground to provide for your family only to find you’ve become the ultimate cliché? It deadens more than just your heart.
Jayne, my wife—my ex-wife—decided I wasn’t paying her enough attention, so she fucked her personal trainer. Painful? Yes. But nothing a man can’t recover from. The rest? That shit stays.
‘Have you heard from her lately?’ Mac asks, probably reading my expression.
‘Not since she wanted money last time.’
The money she wants. Me or my child? Not so much. She hurt me and I thought I’d hurt her back by offering her money in exchange for her claim for custody. I didn’t think in a million years she’d agree, but there you go. That right there is hurt enough to make me never want to get involved with anyone. Ever again.
‘There are billions of women in the world,’ Will begins, but I cut him off.
‘You’re right, but not one of them will get the chance to screw me over again.’ I push off from the bar. ‘I need to piss.’
As it happens, I don’t need to, but I do need to get away. And by the time I get back to my pint, I’ve chased the anger away. It’s not Will or Mac’s fault. They can’t understand, and I hope they never do.
‘My round?’
‘Not at all,’ Will says, suddenly looking very pleased with himself. ‘Tracey, sweetheart? Another round when you’ve got a minute.’
‘Comin’ right up, Willie, love,’ she calls back in her heavynorf, or north, London accent.
‘I’m a man with many names; Doctor, Lord Travers, Will—’
‘Arsehole,’ adds Mac.
‘Sometimes,’ Will agrees, ‘but Tracey is the only person in the world who gets away with calling me Willie.’
‘That must be your porn star name, eh?’ I turn my head at Mac’s almost non-sequitur. And his strange smile.
‘And speaking of porn... ’ Will begins smugly.
I look down at my phone on the bar, which is currently face down. And not the way I left it before going to the bathroom. If it’s possible, the pit of my stomach hits my shoes.
‘You fuckers,’ I say slowly. I look back and forth between the pair who show not an ounce of contrition. In fact, they seem pretty fucking amused.
‘Fast Girl Media, eh? In your browser. Downloaded the app.’ Will looks fucking delighted. ‘A little too much soft lighting and artsy frames for my taste, but whatever floats your boat. You must’ve cracked the seal in spectacular style. A toast is in order!’ He takes one of the small tumblers of whisky the peroxide-haired Tracey had deposited in front of me.
‘To getting your end away,’ he declares, raising his glass.
‘I’ll fucking end you,’ I grumble, the tips of my ears beginning to sting.
‘Pay him no mind.’ Mac slaps my shoulder. ‘Y’ken that little things please little minds.’
‘That must be why he’s always playing with himself,’ I retort in a grumble.
‘Unlike some people, I don’t need to play with myself. That is, unless a certain lady, who shall remain nameless, feels like she wants to watch me take myself in hand.’
