Chapter Four The Bitter Pill
Chapter FOUR
The Bitter Pill
Trent woke to the sour burn of regret clawing up his throat.
He made it to the bathroom in time, bracing his hands on the cold porcelain as last night’s poor decisions hit the toilet bowl with a violent heave.
His stomach cramped, head pounded, and his mouth tasted like every terrible choice he’d swallowed whole between shots of tequila and the ghost of Reece Morgan’s hands on his skin.
God, he hated mornings like this.
And yet, he never fucking learned. Every night chasing oblivion, and every morning drowning in the fallout.
Pleasure first. Regret always right behind.
He rinsed his mouth, splashed cold water on his face, then dragged himself back towards the kitchen, where Dev was far too chipper for the morning after the night before.
Especially when it had been he who’d handed him the shots that were now making their way through the Worthbridge sewer system to the North Sea.
“Rough night?” Dev lifted a battered clay mug to his lips.
Dev had made that mug himself during one of his find-yourself-through-art phases at the local college.
Pottery class lasted about as long as his typical flings.
Three weeks of enthusiasm, a messy finish, and something imperfect but oddly endearing left behind.
That was Dev in a nutshell. Always chasing the next distraction.
New hobbies, new men, new ways to fill the quiet.
And none of them ever quite fit, none of them ever stuck.
But Trent had no room to judge.
Not when his own brand of self-destruction still pounded behind his eyes and soured his stomach, echoes of last night’s fleeting hedonism as loud and unforgiving as a hangover heartbeat.
“Make me a coffee,” Trent pleaded in his best pity-me voice, dropping his forehead onto Dev’s shoulder. “I need caffeine, sugar, and possibly a small, dignified death.”
“You’d think you’d get enough of death.”
“I do, none of it dignified.”
Dev let out an exaggerated sigh, then set his mug down with a dramatic clatter and wrapped his arms around Trent. “You’re a disaster. A walking, talking, five foot eight—”
“—Nine—”
“Eight and a half catastrophe.”
Trent lifted his head to fix Dev with his best pout. “Look after me? ”
Dev snorted but pressed a quick kiss to his temple. “Always. Someone’s got to stop you from spontaneously combusting and me having to call the fire service.”
“Please don’t. Let me burn.”
Dev let out a sharp, theatrical laugh as he turned to the kettle.
“Oh, spare me the tragic act. Like your biggest fantasy isn’t a big strapping fireman storming into a burning building, dragging your sorry arse out over his shoulder, then confessing his undying love while you cough dramatically into his rugged chest.” He flicked the kettle on with a pointed look over his shoulder.
Trent slumped against the counter, watching him through half-lidded eyes.
“Where’d you vanish to last night, anyway?” Dev peered back over his shoulder with that too-knowing glint in his eyes. “One minute you’re the life of the party, dancing with that ridiculously hot guy in the leather jacket, next minute, you’re Houdini.”
“Needed some air.”
“Mm hm.” Dev shot him a look so loaded it could’ve powered the National Grid. “I believe you. Trillions wouldn’t.”
He handed Trent the coffee, thick and syrup sweet. A liquid hug.
“You’re as bad as Rory and Niko.” Dev folded his arms with that infuriatingly patient look that always meant he was about to be right. “Why don’t you admit you like him?”
Trent sagged against the counter opposite.
The kitchen barely qualified as one. More a narrow gangway masquerading as a cooking spot.
If two people tried to move at once, it turned into a full-contact sport of bumped knees and sharp elbows.
But that suited them fine. Dev’s idea of cooking rarely strayed beyond mixing a lethal cocktail, and Trent lived off meal preps done in a manic burst of productivity during his four days off rotation.
So the oven mostly served as storage for Dev’s growing collection of overpriced gin.
It certainly wasn’t the heart of the house as it had been in his childhood home.
He missed a decent homecooked meal from a gas stove in a kitchen that was the beating heart of the house.
But that was a lifetime ago. He shouldn’t dwell on it.
Someone cooking decent, hearty grub for him was a thing of the past.
“I don’t like him,” Trent bit back through gritted teeth, the lie so worn it wilted under its own weight.
“The fact you immediately know who I’m talking about says otherwise, babes. You’re not as blasé as you pretend.”
Trent blew across the top of his coffee, eyes fixed on the swirling liquid. “Maybe I just like his dick.”
“Oh, babes. You don’t just like his dick.
You like his soul .” Dev waggled an accusatory finger at him with a crooked grin.
“And that’s your real fucking problem.” He jabbed that finger on Trent’s chest, as if poking the truth straight through his ribcage.
“You are burning for him, yet you’re too damn scared to admit it. ”
“You warned me off him, remember? The first time. Said he was a player. That you’d seen him at the hotel more than once. With a woman. That he wasn’t worth me even bothering with.”
“And yet, you played with him, anyway. Like a moth to a…what is it, babes? What is it?” Dev clicked his fingers. Once. Twice. “Ah yes, a flame .”
Trent shot him the middle finger without lifting his sorry head from his coffee.
“If you’d admit you’re curious. Hell, more than curious.
If you say you’re intrigued to know what’s behind all that ink and swagger, behind the banter, the chiselled jaw, and those I’ll fuck you senseless eyes, then we could start planning the inevitable fallout party now.
I’ll bring tissues and tequila. We’ll make a whole dramatic night of it. ”
“I don’t care—”
“Bullshit.” Dev’s voice cut through the air, sharp and uncharacteristically serious. “This thing you’re doing? Pretending it’s nothing? Acting like you’re made of stone while you sit there, waiting for him to prove you right? It’s exhausting to watch.”
“Then don’t watch.”
Dev let out a bitter laugh. “Don’t watch ? This is like a full-blown episode of MAFS, babes, and I am here for it.”
“Great. Thanks. Summing up my love life as an episode of shit reality telly.”
“Because it is, babes!” Dev pointed at Trent as if he could shove the truth straight into his chest. “This whole act —telling yourself he’ll get bored the second you show him who you really are, that he’ll walk the fuck away when it’s more than sweat and rough hands—it’s wasted energy.
You think if you keep it physical, keep it dirty and meaningless, it won’t hurt when he moves on to his next bad habit.
That if you only let him have you when you’re drunk enough to feel nothing, he won’t take anything real with him when he goes. ”
Dev paused, gaze catching Trent’s, daring him to fight back.
Trent didn’t.
“But here’s the kicker, babes. It will hurt.
Whether you call it casual or not. Whether you admit you feel it or keep pretending you don’t.
And for what it’s worth…” Dev wrapped his fingers around Trent’s wrist enough to make the words land.
“You’re pretty fucking special sober, too.
So either go find someone who actually wants that version of you…
or stop playing games and show the playboy the re al Trent.
The one who’s sweet and loyal, but also vulnerable and is this ridiculously adorable little puppy who needs taking care of.
And for God’s sake…” Dev smirked. “Get it over with before we all drop dead waiting for you to figure out you deserve it. You’ll be issuing CPR at this rate.
And while Rory won’t mind a bit of mouth-to-mouth, I have no interest in you cracking my ribs, babes.
This chest is far too pretty for trauma. ”
Trent stared out the kitchen window, where the grey Worthbridge sky pressed low and heavy over the rooftops, rain beading on the glass as if it, too, were crying.
“Who the fuck is the real me, anyway?”
Dev opened his mouth to answer, but the sharp buzz of Trent’s phone cut through the moment.
Trent snatched up the phone. “Jamie?”
“I…missed the 6:42 and the schedule’s wrong and the Class 37’s not coming today and…and it’s crowded, Trent, it’s too loud and I can’t…I can’t breathe—”
Trent’s blood ran cold. “Hey, hey! Jamie, listen to me. My voice, yeah? Focus on me.” He pushed away from the counter, moving on instinct, Dev right there in his peripheral, tossing him his hoodie and grabbing the keys. “Are you still at the station?”
“ Yes. Platform Three…but it’s too loud, Trent, and I can’t…I can’t…”
Trent’s heart kicked hard, hearing the soft, desperate thuds of Jamie hitting his own head through the line. He closed his eyes, forced his voice calm, steady.
“Jamie, love, listen. Remember the bench by the ticket office? That quiet corner, yeah? I want you to go there now. I’m coming. I’m on my way, alright? Keep breathing for me. In and out. You can do this.”
“…Okay… Okay… ”
The line stayed open, Jamie’s panicked breathing like a ragged soundtrack as Trent and Dev burst out the door into another humid and wet morning. Dev unlocked the battered Mini with one hand and threw a glance at Trent as the engine coughed to life.
“In answer to your question, babes…” Dev’s gaze flicked over him, all warmth and brutal honesty. “ This is the real Trent.”
“Yeah. Don’t I know it.” Trent swallowed hard around the lump tightening his throat. “And who wants any of this long term, eh?”
He let Jamie’s voice fill the space between his panicked breaths, muttering numbers under his breath, reciting train schedules that weren’t coming, as if clinging to the familiar could hold back the rising tide.