At the flat, he looked at her
solemnly for many moments, before taking each of her hands in one of his.
“What Oi said before. I meant it.
Maybe Oi am bad for ya. Oi love
ya, but Oi love Tom too. And … ya kanow
… sometimes Oi’m goingta pick up blaokes at the pub. None of that mains Oi daon’t love ya. Oi do.
But, Ezz, I am gay. That’s what
Oi am. Maybe if Oi hadn’t been on the
straits and had to whore, maybe Oi would never have found out. Ya knaow, lots of the blaokes who hired me,
they were married. Seriously.
“But this is important. Oi’m prolly always going to be gay.”
Esmé shook her head. “First, I think you’re bi, not gay.” She reached down and caressed his cock which
immediately started to swell. “Which
proves my point.” She smiled at
him. “Second, I’ve already said it. You’ve been to hell too. You know the road there. And the road back. “Somebody nice and normal”—she put scorn into
her tone and expression—“someone who hasn’t seen what hell looks like …”
“… the walkin’ wounded?”
It didn’t sound like a cliché
coming from him in his strong ocker accent.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.
Someone who knows what it feels like.
To … you know.”
“Yeah. Oi knaow. But Oi still
think ya naid someone to love who loves just you.”
“Do you want that?” Esmé’s regard was painfully direct.
Keith was tempted to lie and say
yes. Because he truly did think he would
hurt Esmé and he didn’t want to. Maybe
it would make it easier for her—for both of them—if he just forced the decision.
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