Chapter 2
LUKE
Assuming I’m following, but not turning to check, Neil tosses his keys into a bowl adjacent to the front door.
Home is a roomy maisonette occupying the two floors above Earth.
I don’t know how I pictured a wannabe rockstar/bar owner’s home, but this one could belong to an architect, or maybe a graphic artist. Someone with a penchant for geometric lines and bold colours.
Neatly framed vintage posters line the walls, lending it a lived-in feel, but the warmth stops there.
The wooden floors are bare, and four blue dining chairs are tidily tucked under a square table.
The sofa and two armchairs are also blue—matching the table—with plain red cushions.
No clutter, nothing astray. A wide archway leads to a charcoal-grey fitted kitchen.
The doorframes and light switches are grey too, whilst the walls are the colour of rich clotted cream.
Four bright red mugs, a bright red kettle, and a stacked set of three red pans adorn the worktops. And that’s pretty much it.
The muffled thump of the bass travels up with us. Neil flicks a switch, and three blue lamps simultaneously provide low light.
“This is nice,” I comment, mostly to remind Neil I trailed after him as he stomped up the stairs.
That he doesn’t want me here is perfectly clear and the reason for the hum of anxiety, low and electric, buzzing under my skin.
I’m not spineless, but I’ve learned the hard way that conflict avoidance keeps me on an even keel.
Neil, with his bruised head and ego, strikes me as a man itching for any excuse to lash out.
Grabbing a red tea towel from a drawer, he heads to the fridge freezer and extracts a bag of something frozen. His movements are efficient and precise—graceful if I’m being honest. He’s no more drunk than I am.
“Starting to wish you’d not got involved yet?” He spins on his heel, the frozen veg now wrapped in the tea towel and pressed against the back of his head. “You didn’t think that one through, did you, doc?”
Just above my left ear, a familiar prickliness starts up. Like pressure, or a tick crawled under my scalp. When I was really ill, my hair talked to me, telling me to yank it out.
Pressing my thumbnails into the pads of my index fingers, I count to five in my head. “I’m helping Ezra out. And it’s Luke, not doc.”
Neil studies me from across the kitchen. “He won’t know if you fuck off. I’m not gonna tell him.”
It’s tempting. Almost as tempting as reaching up under my hoodie and plucking at the hairs above my left ear, disguising it as a scratch.
But if I left now and something happened to him, I’d never forgive myself.
As Neil slips out of his worn black leather jacket and tidies it into a cupboard, I give the beads at my wrist a couple of tethering flicks.
How hard can periodically checking up on him be?
I don’t have my evening meds with me, but I can manage without for one night.
“No. Staying’s no problem.”
Neil kicks off his boots. They go into the cupboard too. I didn’t have him down as a neat freak, but his flat tells me otherwise.
“How’s this work, then?” Adjusting his cold compress, he throws me a dragging look, picking over my ordinary body, ordinary jeans, and the hoodie covering my hair as if forced to choose something from a menu when not hungry.
It’s unsettling rather than flattering; he’s enjoying my discomfort.
“I mean, how closely do you plan on monitoring me? Am I going to need to change the sheets in the morning?”
Desperately wanting to flick my wristband again, I swallow. “I’ll stay here on the sofa and set an alarm to check on you every couple of hours.”
His upper lip curls in an unsubtle smirk. “Whatever.”
When two a.m. crawls around, the time I’ve arbitrarily chosen to check on Neil, I’ve still not slept a wink.
At least my anxiety is under control. With a few breathing exercises and my wristband, I’ve resisted pulling my hair.
Below, the music stopped on the dot of one a.m. Apart from the odd car passing, the street has also largely fallen silent.
In a room above me, Neil’s been silent too.
I creep upstairs, steeling myself for a barrage of swearing or worse.
Movement-sensor plug-in nightlights, of the sort parents install for small children, light the staircase.
Two doors leading to the bathroom and an unoccupied bedroom gape open.
Both have nightlights, too. What is it with this guy and lighting?
A third door, which I deduce leads to Neil’s bedroom, is a fraction ajar.
My pulse thumping hard, I push it open, then pause.
Nothing but the slow rhythm of breathing emanates from the shadowy shape in the bed, and the room smells like sleep– warm, heavy, quiet.
Good, I’ll be in and out and back downstairs before he’s barely registered I’ve checked up on him.
I plan to give him a gentle shake until he says something sensible, apologise, and back out again.
Feeling foolish, I sneak closer on socked toes. God knows why I’m trying to be quiet; the whole point is to fucking wake him up.
As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I make him out more clearly.
He’s lying on his front, head pillowed on his arm and the duvet pushed down to his waist. He’s naked, of course, at least the top half.
I wonder if the bottom half is bare too.
I tiptoe closer. I don’t need to study Neil’s back to know it will be gorgeous, but my eyes are drawn to it anyhow.
And yes, as expected, he’s taut and tapering and symmetrical, with all of his dips and hollows perfectly dipping and hollowing in all the right places.
I let my gaze linger as I debate the best way of rousing him.
My sexuality is fluid (not that anyone cares or has ever asked), but if I ever doubted my attraction to the blue end of the spectrum, the proof’s right here.
I can’t drag my eyes away from the smooth sweep of Neil’s shoulder blades or the inviting upwards curve of his arse disappearing under the edge of the duvet.
My anxiety temporarily takes a back seat.
How would that warm, unblemished flesh feel against the skin of my cheek?
How would he smell and taste if I press my lips into each of the dimples at the base of his spine? The texture of—
“I’m awake and fine. So when you’ve had your fill of ogling, doc, you can fuck off.”
I leap away as if I’ve suddenly been snatched off the ground. “For fuck’s sake.”
Neil’s eyes open, heavy-lidded and idly watching me as I no doubt turn scarlet.
I can feel his leery grin; I don’t need to see it.
As my breathing comes back under control, my shocked panic switches to irritation.
I don’t need this stress in my life. Neil can take his chances with his head injury.
I’m out of here. He’s as big a tosser as I suspected.
“Do you know something, Neil? I’m going to take you up on that offer.
You’re right. Your head is clearly fine.
” I back out of the door. I might be breaking every medical ethic instilled in me for the last decade but, right now, my precarious mental health feels far more important than this guy’s potentially cracked skull. “Phone 999 if you’re unwell.”
“I’ll tell Ezra.” His sing-song voice trails after me. “He won’t be very happy.”
“Pretty sure he’ll understand, actually, given that he’s spent plenty of time in your company.
” My palms itch with the effort of not bringing my hand to my head.
If I lose a few hairs on the short walk home, it will be this arrogant wanker’s fault.
I give my wristband a vicious flick. “Frankly? I’m staggered you ever manage to get anyone to stay a whole night with you. ”