“No.” Ezra gives his head a firm shake. “You’ve been drinking. It’s the first thing you said after you fell off the stage.Too much fucking vodka, Ez. And although you seem better now, I’m not happy leaving you alone.” He shoots me a determined look. “The medical advice is to have someone staying.”
Neil blows out an annoyed sigh. I let it waft over me. Vodka doesn’t smell very much, I suppose. Maybe he’s good at hiding it. Nonetheless, something isn’t adding up.
“Get Jacko back here, then.”
Ezra shakes his head. “No way. He’s stoned. He’ll get you stoned. And I can’t trust him not to sleep all night. I’ll ask Jess—she can finish her shift behind the bar early and I’ll pay her to stay.”
“She’ll say no. We’re not talking right now.”
“For fuck’s sake, Neil. How did you manage to upset her this time?”
“Fucked her married brother again.”
“What?”
Neil shrugs carelessly. “He came on to me. And he’s hot. Not my fault if he fancies a bit of the other after a drink or two.”
With no part to play in this conflab and my role in the evening resolved, I edge towards the door. I’ve a half pint of beer left on the bar, and I could really do with it. By now, I expect it’s been cleared away.
“Hey, Luke?” Ezra’s voice is infused with charm.
I falter, my stomach churning with the certain knowledge he’s about to turn his problem into my problem. “Yeah?” I have no clever excuses at the ready.
“I don’t suppose you could…uh… spend the night with Neil, could you?”
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.”
