The first time, they fuck in the alley behind the pub her dad owns and where he works in as a waiter.

She doesn't aks why because he doesn't seem to care; he salutes her with a nod and goes away, and she's dirty and alone and she's still trembling from her first not self-induced orgasm. Then, she recomposes her skirt and she gets back inside to help her dad lock up for the night.

The second time, he fucks her behind the counter and, when he starts whispering inconcievable things at her ear, she comes and comes in hot waves that never seem to end. He hugs her, this time, and he breathes on her neck, bruising her waist with his strong, callused hands; 'this is just the beginning', she thinks incoherently. She shuts her eyes tighter, trying to savour every sensation, every feeling, every smell and every way he fits perfectly around her, although none of them realises it.

The third time, she barely whispers 'James' as he's touching her, but that's enough to almost bring him to tears, because no one has ever done it before.
"Who's touching you, babe? Who is inside you, now?"
"It's you, it's you, Cook, Cook...James!"

The fourth time- well, after the fourth time, he tells her about the crazy bitch with the deep eyes and his dead friend and how he fucked everything up, while clenching his fists until his palms bleed and his chuckles take up an angry shade of white. She mends them and she kisses him even harder than before, but doesn't ask exactly why he fucked everything up: she already knows, and she has already forgiven.

When she starts losing count of the times they have fucked, it's not fucking anymore. It is clear as sunshine, because they glow when they are together, and everyone but them undestands the reason why they smile so much and why he's not as aggressive as usual.

The thirtyseventh time, he says he doesn't do girlfriends, so she asks if he wants her to be his.
He nods and laughs quietly like he's told her a secret, passing her the spliff.

The fifthieth time, she notices how blue his eyes are, and how much she loves the laughter line he has on his left cheek. She traces his skin with her fingertips and, when he closes his eyelids and sighs with contentement, she undertands he trusts her. She blows kisses on his tummy while her long, reddish hair gently tickles him, and God knows how much this boy, this man, is wrong for her, but, boy, she's in love, and he has made her so happy she actually want to stay, for once.

The one hunded and twentieth time, she finds a picture in the pocket of his jacket. It represents a group of friends and she instantly recognises her. She doesn't look like a crazy bitch, at all.

When she asks him who Effy is, he screams and they fight and, for once, he really scares her. She doesn't break into tears because she wants to show him who the toughest one is, and he desperately wants to hit her.
He doesn't, but she wishes he would. She wishes he would show her how it used to be.

When they're not angry anymore and there's only room for comfort, he embraces her from behind. He doesn't ask for her forgiveness, because he doesn't do sorrys; she smiles, though, and everything is magically OK again.
"You do love me better, don't you?"
"Of course I do. I wouldn't be with you otherwise, do you think?"

The first time he tells her "I love you" is a year and half later, but that's fine with her: he's broken and he's impulsive and he can make her lose her mind, but he loves her best.