Half Moon Chambers (18 page)

I drank the water. It tasted of chlorine and old
city
drains, but it settled the dust in my throat.

Rowan had sat down beside me on the tiles, and
there
was something in his dark, frightened gaze
that
made me feel a fraction less resentful about
being
conscious again. I wiped my mouth on my
hand
. "Do you never just... fancy a punch-up?"

"Nope." Of course he didn't. He glanced off
into
the painted rooms, and I guessed what his
release
would be if he could have it. "Sorry I
spoiled
it for you."

I ought to be thanking him. Someone was still
hammering
an iron spike down my spine, though,
and
manners were for people who could breathe.

"Probably was for the best," I grunted, trying to
make
my lungs expand against the pain.

"I don't know about that. You passed out. You
scared
the crap out of me. Are you okay?"

Fine
, was the right answer. Fine, and a swift
exit
. I couldn't stay here. The places where Rowan
was
touching me were pain-free islands, the only
ones
in my whole icy sea. He was steadying my
hand
on the glass, holding my shoulder. "No!" I
barked
, startling us both. "I'm fucking not okay. I
hate
this
--
all of it. I can't bloody walk, and I can't
do
my job, and..." His grip tightened. His gaze
rested
patiently on mine, waiting for the rest. "And
everything
hurts all the time, and
--
I'm useless. I
should
've died, not Phil."

"Your brother? He's dead?"

"Yeah. I forgot to mention that detail. He was
a
hopeless bloody crackhead but he'd still have
made
a better go of things than I have."

"Oh, Vince."

"Don't!" I recoiled from under his caress. The
pain
was maddening, a swarm of flies darting at
me
, biting, blackening the sky. My hand clenched
on
the glass and I chucked it as hard as I could
across
the room. It shattered against the far wall,
and
I burst into tears.

He thudded down beside me. I couldn't see,
but
I felt him there, warm lithe muscle, the planes
of
his chest and belly. Shame seized me. I fought,
flailing
wildly. He caught me in an embrace like
steel
cables. My lungs wouldn't open. I jerked in a
panicky
spasm and the air came, one raw sob then
another
. I buried my face on his shoulder to shut
myself
up, then to obliterate vision, then because
he
felt so bloody good that I wanted to die there.

He was saying my name, his voice vibrant with
shock
against my ear, a sound that faded out as I
lost
my last shreds of control, clenched my fists
tight
in his jacket and wept.

* * *

"Have you had any dinner?"

I blinked. My vision was cloudy.
Awkwardly
I rubbed my eyes, and tried to pay attention. I was
sitting
in a chair by Rowan's kitchen table. Oh, I
was
an ungracious sod
--
I'd cried myself to a
standstill
, and as soon as I'd finished, begun
pushing
him away. He'd let me go easily, hoisted
me
up to sit here. My head was full of grey cotton
wool
. "Dinner?"

He was standing by the sink, running water
into
a pan. He shot me an amused glance over one
shoulder
. "Food. Evening meal. You Geordies
sometimes
call it your tea, God knows why."

"Oh. No, but..."

"This'll take about a half an hour to make. If I
were
you I'd go and have a bath. There's loads of
hot
water."

Maybe I was still unconscious on his kitchen
floor
. Or maybe Maric's thugs had got me after all,
and
I'd died on the Bigg Market cobbles
unmourned
. I hauled myself onto my feet.

"Rowan... Thanks, but I can't stay. I can't just..."

Can't just go off for a nice bath before dinner,
like
I lived here, like you'd welcomed me home
after
a tough day at work.
"I should go."

"If you want. Tea is spaghetti bolognese.
There's some jeans and a shirt on the bed, if you
want
a change of clothes."

I needed one. My own were clammy with
sweat
. I smelled of back alleys and despair. I
could
either stand here, trying to work out what the
fuck
had just happened to me, or I could go and
have
a bath. My eyes were swollen, my sinuses
blocked
. God alone knew what I looked like. "I've
got
to go," I repeated, then I turned and stumbled
off
down the corridor to the bathroom.

I switched the taps on full. The sound helped
blank
out my thoughts, and the tub filled quickly.

He was right
--
there were cascades of hot, unlike
the
grudging supply that made its way against the
laws
of nature to my top-floor flat. I stripped out of
my
clothes, still not thinking. The steaming water
looked
good, that was all. The pain in my back had
sunk
to its usual dull throb. A bath would help, and
then
I would be able to cope, regain my balance,
become
once more the unlovely hard-nosed
bastard
who could walk out of here and carry on
his
life.

I didn't put on his clothes afterwards. The
intimacy
of that was beyond me, and I didn't want
to
find out I'd lost so much weight and muscle tone
that
his things would fit. The dressing gown I'd
borrowed
before was on the bed too. That would
do
for the time it would take me to thank him
--
properly
this time, with the grace his kindness
deserved
--
explain to him once more the gulf
between
a copper and a civilian, get dressed and
out
of here.

He was setting out plates on the kitchen table.

Savoury smells were drifting from the pan. He
smiled
when he saw me. "Is that a bit better?"

"Yeah, much. I'm sorry I..." I hardly knew
where
to begin. He'd swept up, but there was still
a
damp patch on the wall. "I'm sorry I pitched such
a
fit. I don't know what happened."

"You were in pain. It just got too much for
you
."

His simple explanations were attractive. In
that
light, maybe I wasn't a hysterical lunatic who
needed
be ashamed to show his face. "I don't
always
cry and throw things."

"Maybe you should." He opened a cupboard
door
. "Here. I got these after I was beaten up.
They're just over-the-counter, non-opioid." Why
would
he think I needed to know that? He held out
the
foil strip to me, along with a sheet of pharmacy
details
. "Knock a couple back if they won't react
with
anything else you're taking. They're strong."

There were glasses and a carafe of iced
water
on the table. I realised that the opiate remark
had
been about him, not me. I was in the house of
an
ex-user, and he was offering me pills. I popped
one
out of the packet without looking too closely, a
tiny
gesture of faith. "That route of yours out the
back
--
do you use it often?"

"No. I just like knowing it's there."

"You said you kept an eye on me. You mean...
you
looked out for me?"

"Yeah. Not very well, as it turns out, but I
knew
when your shifts ended, when you might
come
by."

I turned to face him. My dressing gown wasn't
properly
fastened: I attended to that quickly,
pulling
the cord tight. "Why?" I sounded desperate,
and
I felt it too, though about what I wasn't sure.

"Well
--
why do you think?" He had come to a
halt
between the table and the oven, a tea towel
clenched
in his hands. "I liked what happened the
other
night. I didn't want to let you go."

"I thought you weren't bothered."

"What was I gonna do? Bar the door?"

A reverberant silence fell. We stared at each
other
, locked in place. I took a step towards him,
having
to break the paralysis. "I couldn't stop
thinking
about you."

We collided midway, so hard it knocked the
breath
from me. His first grab was a steadying one,
then
he glanced into my face as if for permission,
cupped
my jaw between his hands and kissed me.

I'd forgotten the power of that. No
--
I'd
shoved
aside the memory, because even after
everything
else we'd done, that first contact had
shone
in my mind, dazzling, wiping out the
typescript
on my paperwork. His tongue a hot
pressure
against mine, asking me for my
response
... I gave it, shuddering, bearing him back,
almost
knocking him into the cooker. I tore out of
the
kiss. "Mind your pans!"

"What? Oh, yeah
--
hang on and I'll turn them
off
."

"What about the spag bol?"

"It'll keep. Don't let me go."

I didn't. I held him round his skinny waist
while
he switched off the hobs, followed him,
kissing
the back of his neck, while he pulled down
the
blind to cover the kitchen window. "What are
you
doing that for? We'll go through into..."

"No. We'll stay here."

I gasped. He was clutching at the edge of the
sink
, his spine moving sinuously against my belly.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. Ah, Vince, yes
--
if you could..."

I didn't need ask him what. He was
unfastening
his jeans. That was my job
--
I pushed
his
hands away and unbuttoned him, lifting his
heavy
shaft as it surged out of his briefs.
If I
could
...
I didn't know. My sudden full-throttle
erection
said yes, but how would it be when I tried
to
thrust, get inside him? The painkillers were
good
, or maybe excitement was blocking the
signals
. I couldn't even climb through a window
without
collapsing. "I want to."

"Then do it. I'll brace for you. Just move
slow
."

"What about
--
"

"One in your dressing-gown pocket. And..."

He snaked out an arm and grabbed a bottle of olive
oil
off a shelf. "Here. Improvise."

I choked with laughter. He had to be kidding.

I'd loved a spontaneous stand-up fuck with Jack,
but
that had been a million years ago, when I was
still
...
When I was still a man
, a cold voice
whispered
, and I shuddered in denial, some of my
rage
flooding back to me. "No!"

"Yes. Do it, Vince. Fuck me."

I unwrapped the condom with unsteady
fingers
. I poured the green-gold oil into my palm.

He was standing propped against the sink, open
and
ready for me. He cried out when I entered him
but
didn't move, setting himself like a rock. All I
had
to do was lean into him, let myself fall
forward
, slowly up and in. I closed my hands on
his
hips: pushed his clothes down further so I
could
get to him, took hold of his cock with one
hand
and closed my free arm tight round his waist.

"Oh, lover."

"Yeah. God, you're so big. So fucking good."

I pushed, and he rocked back against me. The
movement
brought me full-length inside him. He
gave
a high-pitched wail, barely audible, arching
his
head until his soft hair brushed my shoulder.

He met my next thrust too, and the next, keeping my
pace
so that I barely had to work at it, and pain
was
light-years out, somebody else's bad dream.

Muscles I hadn't used in months bunched in my
buttocks
and thighs, their contraction delicious.

God, I could fuck him
--
I could still do this, forge
this
hot link with another human being, please him,
love
him. I lightly bit the junction of his neck and
shoulder
, flicked my tongue against his ear. He
was
rigid in my hand now, clear liquid from his tip
wetting
my fingers. "You're there," I breathed.

"Come for me."

"Not yet. Not yet. Please don't let me."

I had a trick for that. I squeezed his shaft tight
round
its throbbing base, cutting off the surge. He
writhed
, groaning, and lost his rhythmic push
against
me. "Ah, God! Sorry!"

"Don't. You're fine. You're... fucking perfect."

I laid into him with all my strength. I folded him
over
the sink, letting him have it as I would have in
that
other life. I couldn't feel a thing but wild, high
pleasure
, a vibe in my blood and my balls that was
the
song of life itself. I was a conduit again,
delivering
, giving. I undid my grasp and he shot
instantly
, jetting against the sink and over my hand.