“Still with me?” Brix briefly touched a sore spot on Calum’s cheek and nudged a mug of something hot into his hand. “I’ve got some eggs if you’re hungry?”
Calum’s stomach growled, but the thought of eating anything made him heave. He shook his head. “No, thanks. I guess I should call my mum and try and figure a way of getting home. Can I use your phone?”
“Where’s yours?”
“In the bin at Paddington Station.”
Brix said nothing. Just passed Calum a battered iPhone. “Pass code is one-eight-three-eight. Call whoever you want. I’ll be outside with the girls if you need me.”
He stood and returned to the back door, stepping into his wellies before closing it behind him and leaving Calum to face his mother alone.
Calum tapped Brix’s pass code into the phone and brought up the dial pad, keying in the number of his parents’ Reading home. As he raised the phone to his ear, the very real possibility that Rob had called there first made his head spin. He’d charmed Calum’s mother before, to the point where Calum had been sure that she’d quite happily trade him in and keep Rob for a son instead. If only she knew how scathing he’d been the moment his parents had boarded their train back to their simple home. “Seriously, who still wears Crocs? Your ’rents are so pathetic.”
It broke Calum’s heart that he’d been weak enough to agree.
He wasn’t sure he could face his ma’s voice, and as luck would have it, he didn’t have to. After three rings, the answer machine kicked in, reminding Calum that it was October—the time of year when his parents packed their bags and flew to Spain to spend much of the winter with Calum’s aunt. Great. So he couldn’t even borrow a score and run home with his tail between his legs.
Calum set Brix’s phone gently on the coffee table, ignoring the urge to smash it against the wall. Unlike Brix’s, his own temper had always been gentle: a slow burn that even those who knew him well might miss. Not that there’d been many people around to notice recently—Rob had seen to that. And you just let him, didn’t you?
Fuck this. Calum got up, though to do what, he wasn’t quite sure. Brix needed his phone back, but beyond that, Calum was lost. How the hell was he supposed to explain to Brix that he had nothing to his name except a bottle of rum that was as empty as his bank account?
He had no idea, but found himself drawn to the back door anyway, and despite his preoccupation with the end of the world, his gaze zeroed in on Brix, who seemed to be scooping mud out of a large wooden box, surrounded by dozens of . . . chickens?
It was probably the most bizarre scene Calum had ever witnessed, but the flock of hens stirred a memory in his tired mind.
“Brix?”
“Yeah?”
“Your van stinks of shit.”
“Not just any shit, mate. Chicken shit. Trust me. It’s good for the soul.”
Calum didn’t know about that, but there was no denying the peaceful half smile lighting Brix’s face. He looks happy. Despite a wave of envy, Calum was so pleased for him his chest ached. The Brix he remembered had been a good man, kind and generous with his time. It felt right to see him so content.
Right enough for Calum to brave venturing out of the cosy living room and into Brix’s back garden, if he could only find his shoes.
After a few minutes scouring the small cottage, he discovered his shoes by the front door, sitting beside a pair of paint-splattered leather boots he’d recognise anywhere. He stared at them, for a moment transported back to his apprenticeship days in Camden, back when Brix had been more legend and mentor than friend. Those boots had seemed almost mythical, and Calum couldn’t count the hours he’d lost to obsessing over the way they hugged Brix’s mile-long slender legs. Legs that, Calum was fairly sure, had brought his bisexuality to life.
The notion that he might never have considered men in a sexual way if he hadn’t met Brix was jarring. Calum stamped into his shoes and drifted to the back door, gaze once again drawn to Brix, who’d moved on from shovelling mud to scattering straw in a large, fenced-off pen. As tall as Calum, slender, and covered in ink, with his electric eyes and hair long enough to wrap around Calum’s fingers . . . yup, Brix Lusmoore was fucking beautiful, even if Calum couldn’t imagine being with anyone—bloke or bird—for the rest of his natural life.
“You look like a zombie.”
“Huh?” Calum pulled his mind from the gutter to find Brix eyeing him, his frown measured, like he had plenty to say but was waiting to see if Calum was coherent enough to hold a conversation. “Oh, nah. I’m all right, just hanging like a bitch. I’m so sorry you had to see me like that. I don’t know what happened.”
“It’s okay, mate. Shit happens to all of us. Did you get hold of your ma?”
Calum shook his head. “They’re in Spain. The contact details are in my phone.”
“Which is in a bin at Paddington?”
“Yup.”
“Was it an iPhone?”
“No, a Nokia.”
“Ah, shame. You can usually find all your stuff again if you get a new iPhone.”
