1
Freddie
The sheen of sweat on my hands glitters beneath the lights. I hold them out, palms up, and admire what nerves, excitement, and anticipation do to my body. My heart rate is elevated. I’m breathing faster than normal too.
An hour ago, I finished a twelve-hour shift at the factory. I should be exhausted, haggard like I am every other weekday, but I’m waiting in our favourite pub, in our favourite booth, and each time the heavy wooden door is pushed open, I hold my breath, thinking it’s them. My best friends. I’m going to ask them something tonight, and I already know what their answer will be, but I’m desperate to hear it from them rather than imagining it in my head.
I want to see their expressions when my question hangs there, momentous and meaningful, between us for the split second it takes them to say yes, and I know they’ll be happy for me, one friend more expressive than the other, but both pleased and congratulatory. The big question—the one meant for someoneelse on a different night—leaves me with a fear so visceral my gutcrawls,but this question has me giddy.
It feels as important as the question I plan to ask on bended knee, but with zero risks, like confirming a good thing you already know is true. I know they’ll do me the honour of being my best men. I know they’ll be by my side on the happiest day of my life.
I met them when I was nine, on a sunny June day. They appeared at the park, strangers to our village, one brash and bold, and the other quiet and studious. I had friends but I was far down the birthday party invite list. I was content with that, and then they came and our friendship was instantaneous. Everyone else and their parents were wary, but not me, and I learned the absolute joy of being chosen as a best friend and choosing them in turn.
When the door finally opens on one of them, I jerk to my feet, knocking the table and spilling our drinks. I’ve bought three half-pints of cola—it’s a work night after all—but Sharon, the joint owner of the bar with her husband, has a bottle of champagne on ice hidden from view. I’m to give her a thumbs-up when I’m ready, and she’s watching me like a hawk with a huge, knowing smile stretching her lips. She glances to the door, sees Liam, and spins away with the same grace I had when knocking into the table.
Glasses clatter in her fake attempt to seem preoccupied.
The noise level in the pub drops off the face of the earth as Liam scans the vicinity with Terminatorefficiency. He’s over six foot tall, broad-chested, and thick with muscle, but that’s not the reason everyone has stopped mid-conversation and looked his way. He’s in uniform—police uniform—black trousers, white shirt, black tie and off-black stab vest. The reflective patches on his vest are bright white, and his warrant number is stitched onthe shoulders of his shirt along with three chevrons that indicate his rank as a sergeant.
One by one, he stares everyone down until they’re waiting solemnly with their heads bowed, like he’s metaphorically placed them in a guillotine.
“Liam,” I say.
He looks at me, and the roomsighsas he unzips his stab vest and lets it hang open. It’s a signal that he’s off duty, as relaxed as he’s going to get. Liam’s always vigilant, always watching for unfolding situations, and as he stops at our table, Ifeelhim take me in. His dark brown eyes scan me like a printer, creating a frozen image of me he can analyse, then he frowns, unsure about the result.
“I bought you a Coke.”
His eyes settle on the glasses. No doubt he’s put two and two together faster than I can blink and knows I’ve been waiting a while. The ice has long melted. The cola is no doubt room temperature by now, and there’s a lemon rind on the table from where I sucked on my slice while watching the door. Liam knows all this, but he takes a sip of cola to confirm his theory, then tells me with a flat voice. “It’s warm.”
“I’ll get you another.”
He shakes his head, then gestures for me to sit down. I slide into our both and reach down to tug at the leg of my jeans. It’s a nervous tic, and Liam immediately picks up on the cue.
He sits down stiffly opposite me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
It comes out verging on hysterical, as if I’m lying, but I’m not. Nothing is wrong; everything in this moment is right. I just need Ryker to hurry up and get here for it to be perfect.
“Freddie . . .” Liam growls, and his gravelly voice suits the way he looks. He’s all dark eyes, and dark hair, and dark stubble. Even at nine he had an intensity about him. He’s the silent,brooding type, and most people find him intimidating, but not me. Liam is Liam. He’s my best friend. I’m looking at him as nostalgia sweeps over me, but rather than softening Liam’s stern expression, his mouth flatlines, and his eyebrows dip towards his nose, putting more shadow over his already dark eyes.
He’s glaring now, unimpressed. “He’s not working you too hard, is he?”
I blink, realise what he’s referring to, and shake my head. “No more than usual.”
“He’s giving you a break, right?”
“I had a break.”
My break happened to be fifteen minutes instead of the hour stated in my contract, but we’re understaffed after a few firings, and my boss, Stephen, hasn’t had time to post a job advert, let alone conduct interviews.
“If you work more than six hours a day, you’re entitled to atleasta twenty-minute break. It’s the law.”
“Thank you, Officer Bridges.”
“Sergent Bridges.” Liam corrects.
I salute him. “Yes sir, sorry sir.”
