screws fall out all the time.

I wasn't going to share anything this week because I keep thinking I'm only a day or two away from actually posting the chapter (I fear this may be wishful thinking), but @gettingbyi tagged me so now I must :)

This is, once again, from chapter 3 of Slow Disaster.

“No one is saying this is over.” Carl taps the cast against his pint, takes another drink, jostles his leg under the table, accidentally brushing James’ knee. The need to pace is as difficult to tamp down as the urge to crawl into James’ lap. He needs to move, shake the desire loose from his skin so he can fucking think, but there’s a pub full of people on the other side of the wood panelling who absolutely do not need to be privy to this conversation he wishes to fuck he wasn’t having.  “Yet.” “Fuck you,” James says, far more cutting than those two words ever sound coming from him, face scrunched up in frustration and something dangerously close to hurt. “You really think that if I wanted to break up with you, I’d have my wife do the dirty work for me? What’s got into that daft fucking head of yours?”  Fuck if he knows, apparently. “Are we dating?” “We’re something, Jesus Christ.” James shakes his head. “What would you call it?” “Sex.” James sighs, now he just looks sad. “It’s more than that for me.”  “Wasn’t meant to be.” “Och, you fuck.” James gives him a hard look. “Fucking hell. You’re really going to sit there and try to tell me that’s all this is to you? Meaningless sex?”