Chapter 4: The flat smells of stale smoke and fresh tea as Marcus blinks awake, Clara's nails digging into his chest. Jan takes a slow sip, her gaze darkening as Clara's pace quickens. 'That's it, Clark,' Jan murmurs, her voice rough with sleep. 'Show him how we fucking wake up.' Marcus' groan finally alerts them—his hands seize Clara's waist, thrusting up to meet her.
The first sensation was a tight, wet heat, a slow, seamless encirclement that pulled him up from the depths of a dead sleep. His brain, clogged with weed and exhaustion, fumbled for context. Dream. It had to be a dream.
Then a soft, shuddering sigh above him. The heat clenched, pulsed, and began a gentle, rocking ascent.
Marcus opened his eyes to the flat’s grey dawn light. The ceiling swam into focus, stained with old damp. The weight on his hips solidified into a person. Clara.
She was astride him, her back to his chest, her head tilted back onto his shoulder. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted. She moved with a sleepy, instinctual rhythm, her body taking what it needed from his, which was already stiff and responding without his conscious say-so. Her thighs, pressed against his, trembled with the effort.
A silhouette shifted in the doorway to the kitchen. Jan. She leaned against the frame, wearing only his long, discarded t-shirt. Steam curled from a mug in her hands. She was watching, her expression unreadable—a mix of appraisal and quiet amusement. She took a sip, her eyes fixed on the place where Clara and he were joined.
Neither woman had noticed he was awake.
He kept his breathing even, playing dead, letting the scene unfold. It was a stolen vantage point, more intimate than anything before. This wasn’t the performative abandon of the booth, or the desperate, shared heat of the sofa. This was private, almost self-serving. Clara seeking a specific comfort, a slow, grinding anchor against the morning.
She lifted herself up, almost off him, then sank back down with a soft, guttural sound that was pure relief. Her hands braced on his thighs, fingers digging in. The t-shirt Jan had given her—one of his, he noted dimly—was rucked up around her waist. The morning light sketched the elegant line of her spine, the desperate curve of her arse as she worked.
Jan’s smirk became a slow, knowing smile. She mouthed something—That’s it—to Clara, a ghost of encouragement.
Clara’s rhythm hitched, became less circular, more urgent. Her breaths came in sharp little gasps against his neck. She was close, chasing it silently, using him as a blunt instrument to shake off the last of the night’s demons.
Marcus felt his own control threatening to fracture. The voyeuristic thrill of being watched by Jan combined with the physical reality of Clara’s tight, claiming ride was too much. A low groan escaped him before he could bite it back.
Clara froze. Her entire body went rigid. She’d heard.
Her head turned, her cheek brushing his. Her green eyes, wide with a startled, dawning horror, met his. The raw need in them vanished, replaced by a flood of shame. She tried to scramble off him, a clumsy, wet disconnection.
“Shit—I thought you were—”
He didn’t let her get far. His hands, which had been lying limp at his sides, snapped up and locked around her hips, holding her firmly in place, still speared on him. “S’alright,” he murmured, his voice gravel from sleep and smoke. “Don’t stop on my account.”
Her face was a masterpiece of confusion. She looked from his intense gaze to Jan, who now pushed off the doorframe and sauntered over.
“Told you he’d not mind,” Jan said, setting her mug on the floor. She perched on the edge of the mattress, her hand stroking Clara’s bent back. “He’s a tool, this one. Likes being used. Don’t you, mate?”
Her words were crude, but her touch on Clara was tender. She was reassuring her, giving her permission.
“Jan—” Clara’s protest was weak.
“You were nearly there, Clark. Weren’t you? Felt it.” Jan’s eyes locked with Marcus’s over Clara’s shoulder. A challenge. A transaction. Finish what she started.
Understanding clicked. He moved his hands from Clara’s hips to her waist, lifting and guiding her. He set a deeper, more purposeful pace, no longer a passive participant. Clara cried out, her protest melting into a moan as the sensation shifted, became more direct, less her own.
“See?” Jan whispered, her lips now at Clara’s ear, her hand sliding around to cup Clara’s breast through the thin cotton. “Better with the driver awake, innit?”
Clara could only nod, her body capitulating, surrendering to their combined direction. Her earlier, solitary quest transformed into a shared act. Jan kissed her neck, nibbling the skin, while Marcus pistoned up into her from below. Clara became the nexus, her climax building fast under their dual attention.
It crashed over her suddenly, a silent, shuddering wave that made her seize around him, her mouth open in a soundless cry. The intensity of her contraction tore his own release from him a moment later, a rough, grunted affair as he emptied into her, the warmth a final, shocking intimacy in the cool morning air.
For a long minute, the only sound was their ragged breathing. Clara collapsed forward onto his chest, a boneless weight. Jan kept stroking her hair, her earlier smirk softened into something resembling satisfaction.
Marcus stared at the water stain on the ceiling, feeling the slow, sticky disconnect of their bodies. The hollow was back, but different. Not the aching void of the night before, but a quiet, saturated emptiness. He was a drained vessel between two girls who seemed to have their own, silent language.
Eventually, Clara pushed herself up, avoiding his eyes. She found her knickers on the floor and shuffled towards the bathroom. The lock clicked shut.
The flat felt colder without her heat.
Jan picked up her mug of tea, now probably tepid, and took a long swallow. She studied him. “You’re a mess.”
“Cheers,” he said, hauling himself up to sit against the headboard. He found a half-smoked spliff in the ashtray, re-lit it, took a drag. The smoke tasted like regret. “So what was that? Wake-up service?”
“She had a bad dream,” Jan said simply, shrugging. “Woke up all tense. Needed a reset.” Her tone made it sound as ordinary as making a brew. “You were there. Handy.”
“I’m a fucking appliance.”
“Pretty much.” She grinned, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She was watching the bathroom door. “You okay with it?”
He passed her the spliff. “Would it matter if I weren’t?”
“No.” She took the spliff, inhaled. “But you are. So it’s fine.”
The bathroom door opened. Clara emerged, face washed, her hair tamed slightly. She’d put her own clothes back on—the tiny skirt, the thin top. She looked younger, more vulnerable in the harsh daylight. She wouldn’t look at him.
“I need to go,” she said, her voice small. “Work at four.”
Jan was on her feet in an instant. “Right. Me an’ all.” She started gathering her own scattered things—the black dress from the night before, a single boot.
The transition was jarring. From profound, sticky intimacy to practical dispersal in under five minutes. Marcus felt a strange lurch, a sense of unfinished business. He stayed in the bed, the sheet over his waist, watching them reassemble themselves.
“You got a gig tonight?” Jan asked, pulling her dress over her head.
“Vague,” he said. “A warehouse in Ancoats. Might be on, might be a bust.”
“Send us the word,” she said, as if asking for the time. She found her other boot. “We’ll be about.”
Clara finally glanced at him, a flicker of those green eyes. There was a question there, but also a wall. The shyness had rebuilt itself, brick by brick, now fortified with morning-after mortification. “Ta,” she mumbled, for everything and nothing.
And just like that, they were at the door. Two girls who’d shared his bed, his body, his secrets, now just shapes in the corridor.
Jan paused, one hand on the doorframe. She looked back at him, a final, assessing glance. “That hollow,” she said, echoing her words from the night. “You fill it up, it just leaks out again. Different shape, though.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. The door clicked shut behind them.
Silence rushed in, absolute and heavy. The flat reeked of sex, weed, and their leftover perfume. Marcus listened to the clatter of their boots down the concrete stairs, the sound growing fainter until it was swallowed by the distant groan of the city.
He looked at the rumpled sheets, the indentation of two heads on the pillow. He felt the cooling dampness on his stomach.
He stubbed out the spliff, swung his legs out of bed. The floor was icy underfoot. He walked to the window, peeled back a corner of the blackout curtain. Down on the street, he saw them emerge. Jan linked her arm through Clara’s, pulling her close, saying something that made Clara shake her head, then laugh—a small, real sound that carried up through the glass.
They turned the corner and were gone.
The hollow wasn’t just different. It had a new name, and it echoed with the retreating sound of their laughter on the Salford morning. He let the curtain fall, turning back to the empty, stained room. The bassline for his next set was already beginning to form in the back of his mind, a deep, searching thrum looking for its missing frequencies.