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Read Online Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome by Richard Rider - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard Rider
Tags: Romance, Contemporary
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fuck, I think you broke my ribs."
"Yeah, lucky I didn't shoot you in the face. What the fuck do you think you're doing, sneaking around like that in the middle of the night?"
"Can't I sleep in here? There's weird noises in the other room."
"What weird noises?"
"Like... whooshy noises."
"That's the sea ."
"And different weird noises. Sounds like your house is farting."
"It's just the floorboards settling, you idiot," he says, but he's laughing again now and he already knows it seems stupid to be holding a gun to someone's head when you're laughing so he moves it away, he gets up onto his knees so he can reach to put the revolver back in the drawer then holds his hand out to help the kid up. "Get lost, go back in your own room. I told you I hate sharing my bed."
"Didn't hear you complaining earlier."
"I mean I can't sleep with people."
"Come on , have a heart. I just let you put your cock up my arse, least you can do is let me sleep with you after."
Standing now, still with hands clasped from dragging Valentine to his feet, Lindsay dressed in pyjama trousers and Valentine wearing nothing but a borrowed shirt, Lindsay has this startling epiphany that there's nothing in the world he wants more than to wake up in the morning smelling the kid's shampoo.
He's a bit disgusted with himself. He has to fake reluctance.
"Tonight only , do you understand? You can go to sleep with headphones on if you don't like noises but this is my room."
"Okay, only tonight, yeah, okay."
59
C H A P T E R 4
"Right." He drops Valentine's hand abruptly and goes to sort out the mangled covers, waiting for him to climb in before pulling them up and getting in next to him. "Listen, let's set some rules. If you snore, you're out. If you nick my covers, you're out. Don't touch me. Don't talk to me. Don't fidget. Don't wake me if you get up for the toilet."
Valentine nods his head earnestly and crosses his heart like a child.
He ends up doing all of the things Lindsay told him not to – and the next night, he sleeps there again.
60
S T O C K H O L M S Y N D R O M E
5.
The third week in August is the hottest he can remember. It feels like there's no oxygen. Even the sea doesn't seem to be helping. You can smell it in the air, salt and seaweed, but the air itself feels hot and still, clinging like a blanket. Lindsay's trying to read, but he can't get comfortable in his chair. He's got a glass full of ice and water and he's wearing the thinnest shirt he owns, but the linen is sticking to his skin and the ice is melting faster than he can top it up.
Valentine isn't helping. He's stretched out on his back on the sofa flicking incessantly through the music channels, wearing only a black vest and his big flared jeans rolled up like fat denim doughnuts around his knees. His blond hair is damp and dark with sweat, scraped and bobby-pinned back into a ponytail so he can get the full benefit from his makeshift newspaper-fan on his glowing face.
"Is this how you live?" he says. "You sit round all day reading books ?"
"It's too hot to move."
"I'm getting another ice pop, you want one?"
"No."
61
C H A P T E R 5
He's clutching two anyway when he comes back from the kitchen, rubbing them over his sweating face and making happy sighing noises until he's slung himself back on the sofa and lifted his vest up a bit so he can lay the red one across his stomach. He rips into the plastic wrapper on the blue one with his teeth and makes obscene slurpy noises around the end, sucking up the melted juice first before he pulls a piece of the ice in between his teeth and bites off a big chunk. It's like a ritual, the way he eats these things. He does it the same way every time. Lindsay should know; he's watched him eat fourteen over the last two days. His brain's been counting, entirely against his will.
"I opened all the doors and windows down here," he says, playing the diminishing bit of blue ice around his mouth with his tongue. "Can't fucking
"Yeah, lucky I didn't shoot you in the face. What the fuck do you think you're doing, sneaking around like that in the middle of the night?"
"Can't I sleep in here? There's weird noises in the other room."
"What weird noises?"
"Like... whooshy noises."
"That's the sea ."
"And different weird noises. Sounds like your house is farting."
"It's just the floorboards settling, you idiot," he says, but he's laughing again now and he already knows it seems stupid to be holding a gun to someone's head when you're laughing so he moves it away, he gets up onto his knees so he can reach to put the revolver back in the drawer then holds his hand out to help the kid up. "Get lost, go back in your own room. I told you I hate sharing my bed."
"Didn't hear you complaining earlier."
"I mean I can't sleep with people."
"Come on , have a heart. I just let you put your cock up my arse, least you can do is let me sleep with you after."
Standing now, still with hands clasped from dragging Valentine to his feet, Lindsay dressed in pyjama trousers and Valentine wearing nothing but a borrowed shirt, Lindsay has this startling epiphany that there's nothing in the world he wants more than to wake up in the morning smelling the kid's shampoo.
He's a bit disgusted with himself. He has to fake reluctance.
"Tonight only , do you understand? You can go to sleep with headphones on if you don't like noises but this is my room."
"Okay, only tonight, yeah, okay."
59
C H A P T E R 4
"Right." He drops Valentine's hand abruptly and goes to sort out the mangled covers, waiting for him to climb in before pulling them up and getting in next to him. "Listen, let's set some rules. If you snore, you're out. If you nick my covers, you're out. Don't touch me. Don't talk to me. Don't fidget. Don't wake me if you get up for the toilet."
Valentine nods his head earnestly and crosses his heart like a child.
He ends up doing all of the things Lindsay told him not to – and the next night, he sleeps there again.
60
S T O C K H O L M S Y N D R O M E
5.
The third week in August is the hottest he can remember. It feels like there's no oxygen. Even the sea doesn't seem to be helping. You can smell it in the air, salt and seaweed, but the air itself feels hot and still, clinging like a blanket. Lindsay's trying to read, but he can't get comfortable in his chair. He's got a glass full of ice and water and he's wearing the thinnest shirt he owns, but the linen is sticking to his skin and the ice is melting faster than he can top it up.
Valentine isn't helping. He's stretched out on his back on the sofa flicking incessantly through the music channels, wearing only a black vest and his big flared jeans rolled up like fat denim doughnuts around his knees. His blond hair is damp and dark with sweat, scraped and bobby-pinned back into a ponytail so he can get the full benefit from his makeshift newspaper-fan on his glowing face.
"Is this how you live?" he says. "You sit round all day reading books ?"
"It's too hot to move."
"I'm getting another ice pop, you want one?"
"No."
61
C H A P T E R 5
He's clutching two anyway when he comes back from the kitchen, rubbing them over his sweating face and making happy sighing noises until he's slung himself back on the sofa and lifted his vest up a bit so he can lay the red one across his stomach. He rips into the plastic wrapper on the blue one with his teeth and makes obscene slurpy noises around the end, sucking up the melted juice first before he pulls a piece of the ice in between his teeth and bites off a big chunk. It's like a ritual, the way he eats these things. He does it the same way every time. Lindsay should know; he's watched him eat fourteen over the last two days. His brain's been counting, entirely against his will.
"I opened all the doors and windows down here," he says, playing the diminishing bit of blue ice around his mouth with his tongue. "Can't fucking
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