Cream & Sugar (Shaun & Freddie #1)

Chapter 1 Freddie

Freddie

There aren’t many things that can rouse me from a drunken snooze, but the sound of my brother’s footsteps thundering through the house is one of them.

Partly because they have the ground-shaking resonance of a bass amp turned up full blast, but mostly because it usually means I’m about to get screamed at.

Mashing my face into my pillow, I brace for impact, clinging on to the tiny possibility that I’m still dreaming.

“Freddie, you bastard!” Rory bellows.

Ugh. Knew it.

My eyelids smear open. I’m lying on top of my duvet, stark naked with my arse to the ceiling. My throat hurts and my head is banging like a bag of spanners in a washing machine. Rory booms my name again and I wince, far too hungover for that level of volume.

He comes to a halt outside my bedroom and the doorknob rattles. My stomach lurches at the thought of Rory barging in and seeing a whole load of my butt but, mercifully, the door’s locked. Thanks, drunk Freddie. Saved the day again.

“Freddie isn’t here right now,” I croak, my tongue feeling like a slug dipped in sand.

Rory bangs on the door, the impact rattling my bones. “Either you open this door right now or I’ll break it down and make you pay for the damages! Your choice.”

I don’t know how much a broken door costs to fix, but I know it’s more than I’ve got. I groan and belch, the sour taste of Jack Daniels and coke lapping at my tonsils. There’s a good chance that if I stand up now, I’ll spew all over the carpet.

“Five more minutes?”

“Now!”

He sounds like he’s about to blow a gasket.

Rory’s temper has different levels of explosiveness, from “I’m starting to lose my cool” all the way up to “Chernobyl on steroids.” Even from the other side of the door, I can tell he’s approaching nuclear.

If he gets any more pissed off, no one in a five-mile radius will be safe.

“Alright, I’m coming.”

Shielding my eyes from the sunlight streaming through the curtains, I shamble to my feet, swaying slightly at the change in altitude.

A wave of nausea comes over me, then thankfully ebbs away, bubbling just below the surface.

I grab a pair of boxers from the pile of unfolded laundry on my dresser and wrestle them on.

I’m still a bit pissed, so I can’t guarantee they’re the right way round, but I’m pretty sure Rory isn’t going to give a shit.

Ready to face the monster, I head to the door, release the lock, and pull it open.

There he is—my brother. He towers over me, teeth clenched, eyes wide.

The snakelike veins in his neck bulge and strain against his too-tight tie, the crimson shade of which perfectly matches the colour of his face.

He looks like he wants to rip me in half, and I have no doubt he’s capable of it.

Rory’s six feet of muscle packed into a pinstripe suit.

To look at us, you wouldn’t guess we’re related.

I've often wondered if one of us got mixed up at the hospital.

I lean against the doorframe and yawn. “Good morning, brother dear.” I sniff the air, smelling something acrid. “I think your toast is burning.”

“No, it isn’t, you freeloading shitebag.” Rory bares his teeth, looking proper feral. Don’t poke the beast, warns a little voice inside me. As usual, I ignore it.

“Jeez! Who pissed in your protein shake?”

Rory seethes. Burst capillaries sketch a roadmap across his eyes.

For a second, I think he might actually punch me and send me flying through the wall like a cartoon character.

Somehow, he holds himself back. “Hopefully not the same prick who tried to burn the house down last night or I might actually have to murder him.”

He’s not shouting any more, but his venomous growl is far more menacing.

I try to paste an innocent look across my face which, since I haven’t got a clue what he’s talking about, comes pretty easily.

“What are you on about?”

It’s only when Rory raises one of his tree-trunk arms that I notice he’s holding something. He brandishes what looks like a lumpy black plate. I raise an eyebrow and he thrusts it right up to my face, so I can see what it really is: a pizza, burnt to a crisp.

“Where’d you get that?” I ask, fingering a charred disc of pepperoni.

“The oven,” says Rory, chewing his words. “You should know. You’re the one who left it there.”

“What? No, I didn’t—” My train of thought goes off its rails as hazy memories cloud the tracks. I vaguely recall shoving something in the oven late last night, waiting for it to cook, getting bored, and then…

Oh.

“Shit,” I say.

“Shit is right.”

I wrack my brain for a plausible excuse. When none avail themselves to me, all I can muster is a sheepish grin.

“Oops.”

Rory shakes his head, teeth grinding. “You’re unbelievable.”

“What?” I say with a shrug. “No one died.”

Rory hurls the cremated pizza to the floor where it shatters into shards. “This is my house! And you’d see it burned to the ground!” He’s shouting now, white spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth.

I roll my eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” He draws himself up to full height. “Okay, how’s this for dramatic? You’re moving out, Freddie. You’re moving out today.”

I blink at him. A small part of me thinks he’s kidding, but it’s getting smaller by the millisecond.

“What? Rory, come on. It’s just a pizza—”

“No, it’s not just anything. This is the final fucking straw.”

“What were the other straws?” I ask, as innocently as I can, but Rory’s not biting.

“You know full well! I can deal with the mess, the men you bring back at all hours of the night who help themselves to breakfast in the morning like this is a fucking hotel. I can handle the fact you haven’t paid your digs in months.

But I won’t wait around for you to burn the place to ashes with me inside, or wake up to find half my stuff missing because you’ve forgotten to lock the front door again, or have to apologise to the neighbours because you decided to piss on their flowerbeds at three in the fucking morning! ”

I tut. “Come on, that was one time!”

“I don’t care!” he barks. “I’m done, Freddie. I’m done with all of it.”

Fear trickles down the back of my neck. He sounds pretty serious.

“Rory, mate, you can’t chuck me out! Where am I going to go?”

“That’s a you problem. You’re an adult. Figure it out.”

“I’m your brother!”

“Aye, and you’ve been leeching off me for years! I’m done.”

My heart skids. Rory’s threatened to kick me out before, but I always knew he wouldn’t actually go through with it. This time feels different though. This time might be for real.

“Please Rory,” I beg, desperate now. “I’ll try harder. I’ll take better care of the place. I’ll pay back what I owe you, just don’t kick me out!” I’m scrambling, searching for any way to save my own skin.

Rory narrows his eyes. “With what cash?”

“I’ll get more gigs soon,” I say, unconvincingly. “It’s just… it’s winter, you know. Things are a bit dry right now.”

He laughs at me, a little crueller than necessary. “You haven’t played a gig in months!”

That hurts, even if it's true. It’s been ages since my last gig. Not through lack of trying, but West Marbank’s a small Scottish town. It’s hard to find people who are willing to pay for a singer at the best of times—let alone in the off-season and in this economy—not that Rory will give a toss.

“Well, I’ll busk! I’ll go around all the pubs again. I’ll sing fucking Christmas carols door-to-door if I have to!” I give him my best puppy dog eyes. “I’ll find the money. Please Rory, don’t do this.”

I watch as my brother wrestles with his conscience. He may be furious, but he’s still my brother. He loves me. At least, I bloody hope he does. If not, I’ll be freezing my arse off on a park bench tonight!

Finally, he lets out a bitter sigh, his shoulders slumping.

“Last fucking chance, Freddie. I swear.”

Relief washes over me. “Fuck yeah!” I punch the air. Rory scowls, eyebrows meeting like a pair of hairy, muscular caterpillars. I lower my hand. “I mean, um, sure. Absolutely. Thanks Rory.”

“I mean it. No more bullshit.” He folds his arms across his chest. “You’re going to stop going out every other night and flirting your way to free drinks at Sabre.

You’re gonna clean this house from top to bottom and you’re gonna make a CV.

” He looks me up and down with thinly veiled disdain.

“Put some clothes on and go get a bloody job, why don’t you? ”

My hangover creeps its way back into my head with a dull, throbbing ache. “Sure. How about tomorrow—?” Rory clenches his fists, his knuckles crunching. I backtrack. “No, of course. Today. Silly me.”

Rory scrutinises me for a moment, as though testing to see if I’ll dare make some little quip or joke. I bite my tongue.

“When I get back from work, I want to find the house spotless and you employed. You can use my computer to print off CVs.”

Now I know he means it. Rory’s PC is worth more than everything I own put together, which is why I’m explicitly forbidden from touching it.

Fighting my headache and trying to look as sincere as a guy in his possibly backwards underwear can be, I say, “Rad. Thanks Rory. I’ll do my best.”

Rory lets out a heavy sigh, the crimson finally draining from his face.

“I’ve heard that one before.” And with that, he turns heel and strides off down the hallway, leaving me feeling about an inch tall.

Rory has a way of making me feel like this, of letting me know what a disappointment I am without actually uttering the words.

You get used to it.

I drag myself into the shower, letting the hot water melt away my hangover, before drying off and throwing on a clean T-shirt and jeans. By the time I make it to the kitchen, carrying the shards of burnt pizza in my hands, Rory’s already left for work.

His PC monitor glows in the corner, left unlocked on a blank Word document.

I can’t believe he’s trusting me with his computer again.

The last time he let me use it, it got a virus which may or may not have been a direct result of the dodgy porn safari I embarked upon.

Rory went ballistic when he found whole folders of his work had been corrupted.

I fully denied any involvement, of course, but he rumbled me after checking the search history which was, to put it kindly, explicit as fuck.

I won’t make the same mistake again, especially since I’m on thin ice with him as it is, but also because impending homelessness doesn’t exactly put me in the mood for a cheeky morning wank.

I stare at the blinking cursor for a moment, the stark page as empty as the pit in my stomach. What the hell am I going to put on a CV? Besides gigging, I’ve never had anything close to an actual job.

As I make some tea and toast, I decide I have no choice but to lie. Everyone lies on their resume a bit and I don’t have any other choice, especially if I’m going to blag my way into a job—today!

Taking a big bite of jammy toast, I sit at the keyboard and crack my knuckles. Allons-y! Let the bullshitting commence.