Chapter 15 Freddie
Freddie
“Oh fuuuuck…!”
“Freddie?”
Oh fuck.
I thought the house was empty or else I wouldn’t be having such a vigorous wank at five in the afternoon.
Shit! This was meant to be my weekly giga-wank. My one wank to rule them all. My seminal work, pun intended. I’m so close. If I can just—
“Are you in your room?” Rory’s heavy footsteps draw near.
“Just a second,” I whimper, my orgasm knocking at the gates of Minas Tirith. I try to hold it back—
Two loud bangs on the door.
Too late.
My back arches as my whole body erupts in waves of sparks. A moan escapes my lips before I can muffle it with a pillow.
“What are you—? Oh for God’s sake!”
I wish this was the first time Rory’s interrupted me mid-wank. I wish it was the tenth. Sharing a bedroom growing up, it was kind of inevitable. At least now he knows better than to walk straight in.
“I’ll be in the living room,” he makes no effort to hide his disdain. “Come through when you’re… done.”
“No problem,” I call back to him as I reach for some tissues to wipe the spooge off my belly.
Once I’ve cleaned myself up, I get dressed, wash my hands and head through to the living room where I behold a rare sight: Rory in casualwear, a pale blue hoodie and a pair of grey jeans, to be precise.
“Wow, what’s the occasion?” I ask.
He stands up without looking at me. His car keys jingle at his side, gripped tightly in his gammon-coloured fist. For a second, he just stands there, jaw working. Then, he says, “I’d like to go to the pub. Both of us. Tonight.”
I stare at him, dumbstruck.
“You wanna go to the pub with me?”
“Tonight,” he repeats. “Okay?”
It sounds more like an order than a request. What the hell is going on?
Did I come so hard I slipped into a parallel dimension where Rory wants to hang out with me?
I can’t remember the last time Rory even went to a pub, let alone invited me along.
Maybe it’s a ruse. Maybe this is the night he finally murders me and chucks my body in a bog at the side of the motorway.
“How come?” I try to mute the suspicion in my voice.
Rory lumbers to his feet, ignoring my question. “Let’s go.”
Two minutes later we’re in the car and driving into town. It’s painfully quiet. Rory doesn’t like chatting while driving, he’s all about safety and he says talking distracts him. The same goes for the radio—it’s always off.
We pass Sabre, where a burly lorry driver is carrying kegs inside for a twink bartender so skinny you could floss your teeth with him.
I almost suggest going for a drink here to Rory but think better of it.
Creatures like Rory aren’t made for places like Sabre, where everything is fluorescent, loud, and go-go dancers hand out lap dances like free condoms in the sexual health clinic.
Instead, we park up two streets away in front of the Penny Farthing where the clientele averages about thirty years older. Of course my brother, twenty-nine going on fifty, would take us to a place like this.
Stepping inside, we’re greeted by a kind-faced woman who shows us to a booth.
As we pass the bar, I spy a chalkboard advertising “happy hour” from five till six and, to my surprise, an open mic night from six till eight.
However, as it’s almost five-thirty and most of the patrons look about as happy as a nonce in a nursing home, the chalkboard might not be reliable.
As we take our seats, the hostess takes our drink order and offers us two food menus. To my surprise, Rory accepts.
“We’re eating?” I ask once the hostess goes off to get our drinks. “You do know I’m broke, right?”
Rory’s avoiding my eye by staring intently at the menu.
“I’m paying, if it means you’ll stop stealing my meal prep.”
I open my mouth to defend myself but Rory cuts across me.
“I found the Tupperware under the sofa, Fred—” Bollocks! From behind the menu, Rory’s forehead crinkles. “Points for hiding the evidence, but you forgot to come back and dispose of it.”
Shit, I know what this is now. This is a guilt dinner.
This is killing me with kindness. I’ve run out of lives and now he’s going to feed me up one last time so he can feel better about throwing me out on the street.
Now it makes sense why he gave me the job ultimatum in the first place—he never dreamed I’d actually get one.
It was never about the job; he’s been looking for a reason to evict me for ages.
Rory cracks his knuckles. “I’m really impressed by you, Fred.”
What the fuck?
“Excuse me?” I exclaim.
Rory folds his menu and sets it down on the table.
“I mean it, I am seriously impressed.” Dread swells like a balloon in my stomach.
If he’s about to yell my face off, why bring me to a public place?
Maximum humiliation? I clench my fists as Rory carries on.
“Honestly, I didn’t think you’d get a job in a million years, but I underestimated you.
I was acting like a dick the other day and I guess it’s because I don’t like being proven wrong.
Plus, work has been mental and… well yeah, I’m sorry. ”
I blink, waiting for the end of that sentence. Sorry what? Sorry I’m such a scumbag? A manchild? A drain on his finances and his sanity?
“What’s the catch?” I say, once I can’t take the silence anymore.
Finally, Rory looks me in the eye and, for the first time in forever, I don’t feel like he’s two seconds from throttling me.
“No catch. I shouldn’t have said what I did about your music either. And you were right—” he coughs and thumps himself on the chest, “—about Mum. She really liked your playing, she said so all the time.”
My jaw is on the floor. Could this be a genuine apology? Better triple-check. “Are you sure—”
“Oh for God’s sake, Freddie!” Rory barks, loud enough that the hostess heading our way does an immediate one-eighty to wipe an empty table. My brother lowers his voice, “I am not trying to trick you. I’m sorry. Now can you please acknowledge that so we can leave this horrible conversation behind?”
I don’t believe in miracles, but an apology from Rory is like a blue steak: rare as fuck.
“Apology accepted,” I offer him my hand which he wrings like a chicken neck in his Terminator grip. “I guess I should apologise too, for using Mum as a weapon like I did. It wasn’t cool and I felt like a complete shithead afterwards.”
Rory nods, releasing my hand which I hide under the table to massage in secret.
The hostess returns with our drinks, looking a lot less friendly after Rory’s outburst. Apprehensively, she asks if we’re ready to order food.
Rory asks for a ribeye, medium, in his grumpiest voice and I go for a fish supper, making sure to be extra smiley in case she’s thinking about sneezing on our food.
“So, what’s going on at work?” I ask after the hostess bustles off. Small talk with him feels like an alien language.
Rory clicks his tongue. “We have auditors in all week.”
“I see,” I say, like I have the faintest clue what that means. “That’s gotta be, um, stressful?”
“That’s an understatement.” Rory takes a swig of his alcohol-free lager. “Like I’ve not got enough on my plate without Trevor from head office combing through every invoice I’ve touched this year.”
“Sounds annoying.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
I sip my rum and coke and ponder how I want to play this. “How high up is your office?”
Rory frowns. “Third floor. Why?”
“Well,” I tilt my glass from side to side like I’m weighing up options. “You could just pick him up by the ankles and dangle him out the window a bit. Scare him into giving you an A-plus or whatever.”
“Oh sure, great idea,” he scoffs. “It’s a bank, not the mafia.”
“Pfft. Like no one’s ever been dangled out a Wall Street window before.”
The faintest quirk of a smile tugs at Rory’s mouth. Despite the ludicrousness, I can tell he’s enjoying this fantasy.
“And what if I dropped him?”
“Then you should fire your gym coach for your piss-poor grip strength.”
My hand throbs under the table as Rory gives a single grunt of laughter—the most he’s uttered in years. “You’re a cheeky bastard, you know?”
I shrug. “I know. Got it from Mum. Along with my good looks.”
Rory gives a noncommittal jerk of the head and sits back in his chair, bringing his pint to his lips. I mimic him and we drink deeply, letting the moment run its course. I polish off the rest of my glass. Thinking about Mum is sobering enough that I’m not worried about drinking on an empty stomach.
Rory sets his half-drunk pint down and wipes foam from his top lip. “So how are things at…?”
I realise I never told him which café I’m working at.
“Cream he knows me too well. I play it cool.
“Nah, he’s straight,” then, because I can’t help it, “at least, he thinks he is.”
Rory shakes his head. “The day you stop thinking everyone wants to sleep with you is the day I stop worrying about you getting slapped with a sexual harassment charge.”
I cross my arms, feigning offence. “Hey, I was a good boy, okay? He said no, so I backed off.”
Rory’s eyes widen. “Wait, so you actually tried it on with him?”
Yes is the honest answer, but I find the truth is often better delivered unvarnished.
“Not exactly. I was being my usual charming self but he wasn’t into it.” At least he says he wasn’t. I’m still not entirely convinced that handsome beefcake doesn’t have the hots for me. Those eyes don’t lie. I pick up my glass and swirl the ice cubes. “It was no biggie.”
Rory lets out a long, slow breath. “You’re lucky he didn’t fire you on the spot.”
Luck has very little to do with it. I’m pretty sure he was so desperate for staff that I could’ve gotten butt naked in my interview and still got the job.