Their Last Long Hot Summer

His remorse drove him towards calling her to apologise, but the shame and guilt held him back. What he'd done, what he'd said, was unforgiveable. There was no coming back from that. It was over.

He wasn't worthy of her love and affection. Of anybody's.

Lightning flashed again, glinting off the edge of the kitchen knife lying beside him on the bed. He stared at it, at the smooth skin of his arm - thick blue veins, his tendons tense - then back at the knife. It laughed back at him. You're such a drama queen, you always get me out but don't have the balls to use me, it was saying. Put me back, who are you kidding, you're embarrassing yourself. Paul picked it up and threw it; it clattered against the wall and fell to the floor, refusing even to embed itself in the plasterboard and do that little thunk-wobble you always saw on TV. I even failed at that, he thought.

Paul heard their doorbell ring, his Mum answer it; then soon after some movement, shuffling, muttered words. He didn't care. He was pretending to sleep. He didn't want to see anybody, ever.

Music started playing, then a soulful voice picked up the line. "Baby, morning's just a moment away, and I'm without you once again..."

Samantha's voice.

He didn't want to hear it. That feeling of panic flooded through him, constricting his throat, heart pounding in his ears. He wanted to run, get out of there... but the only way out was through the door she was behind, singing. The window was three floors up - no way out that way.

The song continued, almost accusatory. "I wonder if you need me now?"

He recognised the song, of course. Lionel Richie compressing the pain of a break-up into three minutes.

A small spark fired, deep in his memory. Of the karaoke bar, a few months ago, in Canada. She'd sung Richie's "Hello", the song he'd once written out for her in a Valentine's Day card, in a moment of whimsical hope that perhaps one day they'd be together. He was staggered that she'd remembered a chance conversation they'd had, as she came off the stage, finally knowing it was him that had sent the card. A conversation about singing, about engaging an audience; about choosing a crowd-pleaser when performing, but of how the slower stuff was better, more soulful.

About his favourite Lionel Richie song. This song.

"Two people lost in a storm..."

The world blurred as the emotions crashed through him. When she'd sung "Hello", it had been to taunt him. This wasn't like that at all. That she would remember such a detail, from months ago, before she even had any feelings for him, just boggled his mind.

He could hear her voice wavering, emotion creeping in. "We lost what we both had found; you know we let each other down..."

Paul found himself on his feet, dizzily making his way to the door, wiping the tears from his cheeks. He didn't know what he was going to do. Run, scream, faint?

"I do love you, still," she sang, and he threw the door open as the instrumental began.

She stood there - soaking wet, her hair matted and plastered over her face, no make-up, blouse sagging with water, white trainers splattered with mud. Eyes red.

She had never looked more beautiful.

As the song came towards its end, Paul found himself harmonising alongside her. "We made our mistakes along the way... I know deep in my heart you needed me, 'cos I needed you so desperately..."

She reached forward, and he laced his fingers through hers, stepped towards her. "But then most of all, I do love you..."

She reached round his neck, pulled them together, and placed the softest kiss on his cheek. They whispered that last heart-breaking word into each other's ear. "Still."

///

Paul couldn't stay in the flat, the air was too full of bad thoughts. "We're just popping out for a walk," he called back to his Mum, swinging the front door of the flat closed behind him. They made their way down the concrete steps back to ground level, blind to the graffiti on the walls and the rubbish strewn across the floor. They only had eyes for each other.

For a while they walked in silence. The storm had passed, the world washed clean. The streetlights reflected from the wet road and pavement, and that earthy smell hung in the air. Making it feel shiny and new, Paul thought, in the words of Madonna.

"I'm sorry," Paul began. "What I did with Izzy, it was unforgiveable. I..."

She stepped in front of him, put her finger to his lips. "Stop," she said, and kissed him. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"But..."

"Let me finish, Paul, please." She took a deep breath. "God, I was so pissed off with you. An engagement ring, in front of all those people? What were you thinking! I went straight to the bar, had a whole load of shots. Stupid, stupid thing to do. It just made me angrier. I should have stayed with you, talked it out. It wasn't that I don't love you. You know what you mean to me." He kissed her head. "But it was the wrong time. And then, while the rage was burning, there he was - familiar hands, comforting me, holding me. He knew how to touch me. And I just wanted the anger to go away. I'd've done anything to stop the thoughts churning round my head."

Paul remembered his own rage, his own confusion. "I know," he whispered into her hair.

"It was stupid and wrong. I hate myself, so much, for hurting you. All those years me and the girls have been bullying you. When you saw me and Mick back together, you must have thought our whole relationship was a lie, that I'd just been luring you into some kind of sick trap..."

Paul just pulled her close. She felt him trembling.

"I could never do that to you. You're too precious. You're a gift, and I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make this up to you."

"There's nothing to forgive," he whispered. "I'm sorry I upset you. I pushed you away. And I cheated on you, with your best friend."

"No," she said.

"Yes. If not in my actions, then in my thoughts. I admit that I believed it was Immy come to comfort me, and if it had been...? Maybe I would have done it, gone through with it, all the way." He looked in her eyes. Saw understanding rather than anger. "So yeah, part of me wanted what you had with Mick. And after... I was so scared, that I'd destroyed what we had, that you would never want to see me again. That I'd ruined my one chance to have someone. It was so unlikely that we'd ever get together in the first place, how unlikely for it to ever happen again. I..."

She stroked his hand, encouraging him to let it out. Lance the boil, let the poison out, or it will eat away at you.

"She said the most horrible things about you, trying to turn me against you. I think that's what stopped me. When I wanted to defend you, I realised how much I loved you, even though I was hurting."

"Well, then thank god for Izzy, I guess." She walked along, stroking his arm, reassuring him. It wouldn't be the first time she and Izzy had fought over the same guy. But she was damn sure it was going to be the last.

"I didn't go all the way with her, I promise."

"I believe you."

"I mean it. I couldn't do that to you. You're the one for me, only, forever," he said.

That's a big promise to make, she thought. Forever was a long time, to be exclusive. She doubted she could manage it, much as she never wanted to hurt him. How can I explain this, to a guy in the full flush of his first relationship, his first and one true love, she wondered? "It's not about the sex," she said. "We're young and horny, sex happens. Izzy's a hot temptress, and you're a little naive and inexperienced. Me and the girls, we've all fucked each other's boyfriends, and gotten over it. I'm not the jealous type, Paul. I understand that you are, that I upset you with Mick. Hell, I upset myself too; I regret so much how it made you feel, how that makes me feel. That's what I care about - that we don't hurt each other. If you fucked her because you fancied her, that's one thing - but if you fucked her because you hated me, wanted to get back at me, that's something else entirely."

"It didn't go that far. And I didn't hate you. Izzy trying to take me from you just made me realise how much I was still in love with you." A pause. "I can prove it," he admitted.

"How?"

He looked at her. "I taped it." He tapped his jacket, over the inside pocket. There was a plastic rattling noise as the cassette shook in its case.

"You did what?"

"When I realised it was her, and not Immy, I thought she might try to pull some stunt. So, I hit record on my tape deck. I've got the whole thing. Kind of like an insurance policy? In case she tried to claim I attacked and took advantage of her, or whatever."

Samantha decided this wasn't the time to have a conversation about boundaries, about recording sex with a girl without her consent.

"What's going to happen to the band?" he asked.

"Fuck knows. Maybe we would have split up anyway when we all went to Uni. Maybe we find another keyboard player. Or maybe we just stick together - plenty of bands hate each other. Look at Fleetwood Mac; Rumours is one of their best albums and they were barely on speaking terms."

"Hmmm, I guess you're right." Paul was not convinced; he wasn't sure he could bear to be in the same room as Izzy any more. Certainly he couldn't wrap his head round the thought of being with both her and Samantha. How weird would that be? He still felt like scum for having even touched Izzy in that way. He needed Samantha to understand what had really happened.

"I can play the tape to you, if you like?"

Samantha didn't know how to answer that. Except by asking "How? We're out on the street!"

"We're right outside your house," Paul pointed out. And he was right; she must have walked them here on automatic.

"Well, so we are. You better come in, then."

The house was dark - it must have been gone two o'clock in the morning. She turned her key in the lock and gently pushed the door open, as silently as she could, so as not to wake her parents - or, for that matter, the dogs. Wake them and the whole neighbourhood would know about it. But they both popped their shoes off and headed to the kitchen. Turlough, the elder German Shepherd, opened his eyes and saw them both. Paul let him sniff his hand, gave his head a little ruffle. The other dogs - Nyssa and Tegan - woke to the fuss but were quickly settled with a doggy treat. Samantha led Paul towards the front room.

"Give me your sock," she said.

"Why?"

"Just do it," she pleaded. Bemused, Paul peeled it off his foot and passed it to her; his confusion continued when she tied it around the doorknob on the outside of the lounge door, before pulling it closed. At least closing the door will keep the dogs out, he realised.

Poor naïve thing, Samantha mused. Still, there was no way she wanted her parents coming in and disturbing them by accident, should they decide to head downstairs in the middle of the night. She popped the Hi-Fi on low in the background, a bit of Slash and Axl to drown out any noise they might make.

She went over to the fire, piled on a couple of logs and lit the firelighters beneath. Soon there was a roaring blaze going, to warm her wet clothes. She sat on the cream fur rug in front of the fire, and Paul sat next to her.

They continued their conversation about the events of the past week. They realised it didn't matter who had wronged who, what was important was that they had forgiven each other, and vowed never again to retreat into silence. Silence bred fear and doubt and anger. Better to talk it out, be a team.

"So, about that tape," she said.

Paul took it from his jacket, held it out towards her. "I have nothing to hide. I've told you what I did, what she said."

Samantha smiled, took the tape from his hands. Threw it straight into the flames.

"I trust you, Paul. I don't need to listen to that."

Pop, crackle. The cassette warped, melted. Paul watched the flames turn all kinds of colours as the chemicals started to burn. God, I hope that's not toxic, he thought. Unlike the contents, which certainly are. Were.

"I know you would never hurt me, at least not on purpose," she continued. "That's not your nature. That's what I love about you. You never want to upset anybody, which means sometimes you tear yourself apart trying to please everybody. You need to believe in yourself and give yourself more credit." This boy - no, this man, she corrected herself - was too good for her. She hoped she'd never break his heart again. He'd forgiven her so much; years of teasing and bullying. In retrospect, forgiving him this one thing was nothing in comparison, just a small part of a huge debt repaid.

Paul watched his alibi disappear in flames. "What if she starts making allegations...?"

"She won't. And besides, we don't have to tell her we destroyed it." They watched it burn. "Now, don't you have anything better to do than think about my toxic friends?" She stroked a finger across his cheek, and very gently pulled his face back round so he was looking at her.

He watched the flames flicker in her eyes, and suddenly wasn't sure if that was a reflection or just natural desire. She really was the most beautiful woman in all of creation. He leant forwards, and her mouth met his.

How did my life change so much, he thought. How did I get so lucky, for the girl of my dreams to have fallen for me, forgiven me. Then, her touch made it impossible to hold higher thoughts in his head. He was consumed by her lips, her tongue, her hands unbuttoning his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders, caressing his chest, teasing his nipples.

He fussed at her blouse, and they broke their kiss so she could lift it over her head. Paul gasped, involuntarily. Every time he saw her breasts, even in a bra - perhaps especially so, when they were held, presented, in satin and lace - he lost his mind. Something primal, something basic, took over. He couldn't help himself; he teased his fingers over her cleavage, lost in the way the skin gave ever so slightly under the gentlest of caresses. He trailed his fingertips across the swell of one breast, into the crease between, fingertip disappearing between her flesh.

Samantha watched his eyes glaze over as he touched her. She knew how fascinated he was by her boobs. It had always annoyed her, with her ex-boyfriends; she'd even considered reductions, hating the attention. But with Paul it was different. Maybe it was the innocence, the deference, that he brought. Maybe it was the slight tremble in his hand as he took the weight of her in his palm, calling to something deep inside her. I'm making him feel that intensity, she knew; it was such a turn-on. Maybe it was that he didn't just grope her, that he was gentle and teasing, even as he brushed his thumb over her hardening nipples. God, I'd let him do anything to me, she knew. Anything he wanted.

Paul watched the firelight dance across her pale skin. She glowed, the flames enhancing the natural highlights and colours of her hair, her drying skin looking alive, as if the fire was inside her. Like he would get burned if he got too close. He wanted to burn, to be consumed by her. What a way to go, he thought.

She popped the bra and lay back topless against the fur of the rug. Watched Paul's eyes as her full breasts rippled over her chest, watched as he leant forward to take one of her hard nipples between his lips, felt his tongue dance over it. "Oh, fuck yeah..." she breathed. She let him taste her, for a while, until her hands met his at the button on the waistband of her jeans.

"Yes," she said. "Now, please..."

She raised her cute peachy ass from the rug as Paul slid the jeans and lace thong down her thighs, revealing her glory to the firelight. Paul sat, breathless, looking at the naked beauty as the light flickered over her sexy teenage body. A view he would never forget.

She reached for his jeans, unbuttoned him, pulled them down his kneeling legs. He stood, let her draw them from him as he stood before her, at full attention. Then he knelt back down in front of her, offering himself to her lips, looking between her legs and offering his mouth to her.

"No, not tonight," she said. "Just get inside me; it's been too long," she begged, wrapping a hand round the back of his neck, drawing him down towards her.

"I can't tell you how much I love you," he said. "The words don't exist. I don't deserve you."

"Stop apologising and fuck me already," she said, impatiently, desperate for him to reclaim her. After all, she thought, I'm the one who cheated here. Let me make this up to you.

And then, as if they'd never parted, they were home. Paul slid easily inside her, that sweet resistance wrapping around him as she welcomed him back into her.

"Mine," he said, a tear escaping his eye as he looked down at his angel.

"Mine," she agreed, wrapping her hands around his tight butt, pulling him into her, smiling.

The soft fluffy fur of the rug tickled against their skin as they moved together, adding to the sensations. Paul watched, transfixed, as her breasts rocked on her ribcage with each gentle thrust, as she moved and circled against him. He could watch her boobs forever; her small pea-sized pink nipples surrounded by slightly puckered-looking areolae, smattered with the freckles that peppered most of her upper body. The way her moist lips parted as she breathed, sighed, moaned with the building pleasure.

She pulled her legs up and back, encouraging him deeper, until each thrust brought him slamming against her clit. "Oh god Paul, I missed this so much..."

Paul couldn't say anything, didn't trust himself to speak in case it triggered him. He concentrated on the movement, trying to keep his muscles in check, stopping himself going wild and early. He both wanted and didn't want to watch her. She was mesmerising.

She knew what he was doing, and was having none of it. "Don't hold back," she pleaded. "Enjoy it." You can finish me afterwards, she thought. For now, we both need this, as intensely as we can bear.

He took her at her word, pushed up with his arms, and got to work. It wouldn't be long, but God, it would be good. Pivoting with his knees, he thrust his hips for all he was worth, pulling himself almost out of her before plunging back inside, all the way, each time sliding his full length between her lips to her limits. He felt her wrapped around him, clinging to him, resisting the movement.

Samantha watched his face. He still had that look of delighted amazement whenever they made love, as if he couldn't believe this was happening. He treated her like a gift, and she loved him for it. Love and lust combined; she felt his hardness buried inside her, stretching her opening each time he rocked forwards, that perfect pressure bringing the ultimate pleasure.

"Oh god, Samantha. What you do to me... I can't control it..."

"Then don't," she purred. "Give it to me."

Who am I to deny you, he thought, as his back snapped to attention and he thrust forward one last time, crying out as he emptied inside her. "Aaaaah fuck, fuck, fuck..."

It felt so good, him filling her, hot and silky. She felt his pulse intertwine with the pumping of the orgasm, watched his head shake and bounce with each contraction as all the muscles of his body involuntarily twitched in solidarity. She felt like she wanted to watch that face coming for the rest of her life. And certainly for the rest of that night.

As they lay there, panting, forgiving, they saw dawn breaking through the window, and heard Axl's gravelly voice drift over the morning air: and when your fears subside and shadows still remain, I know that you can love me when there's no-one left to blame.

///

Izzy lay on her bed, wondering where it had all gone wrong. She felt so angry - with the world, with her friends. With Paul.

With herself.