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That was one thing I’d always had. The love of my parents. They’d known I was gay from around the age of four, Mama had said. I’d not needed to tell them, and they accepted it for what it was, even Pops.
The older generations were often less accepting, but that had proved untrue in my case. I checked the clock. I had just enough time for some food. Then it’d be time to get to work.
Warmed-up lasagne was the meal of the day, and for some reason, it made me think of Liam and what he was eating tonight.
Seeing him again today reminded me of the two bastards in prison. Damian and Stuart were brothers who had groomed young, unsuspecting men, playing with them until they’d had enough. Ziggy had been the first victim we knew of, left for dead in a derelict area of Liverpool. Miraculously, he’d lived and had married the paramedic, Marc, who had saved him.
Liam hadn’t been so lucky. He’d had a run-in with Stuart and was nearly killed, but he’d survived, coming away with a horrific scar on his head and a broken arm. At Ziggy’s insistence, he had spoken to Sam and me.
His testimony, along with Ziggy’s, had helped us put the brothers away for a very long time. But we’d been lax in our follow-up of Liam and had seen nothing of him since the court case.
A little later, Sam and I sat in our office, going over the case we’d closed last night.
“You got a haircut. About fucking time. You were looking like Shirley Temple.”
“Fuck off, Sam.”
I was too tired for his shit.
“Ooh, someone didn’t get their eight hours of beauty sleep, and that’s most unlike you. What happened?”
Should I tell him about Liam? But there was nothing to tell. An accidental meeting that had possibly stirred up memories of a time he most certainly wanted to forget.
“Nothing. Just another day when I didn’t win the lottery.”
I left it at that, but the rest of the night, thoughts of Liam plagued me and what I could have done to change his life.
The answer was nothing.
CHAPTER THREE
LIAM
Several days passed, and although I’d not seen John again, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
I remembered our first meeting, the curl of his lips as I recounted my relationship with Stuart, the look of revulsion on his face.
Not everyone agreed with my choice of lifestyle, but that was exactly what it was—a choice.
My choice.
I didn’t have a queue of Daddies to replace Stuart. If I was honest, it had put me off. As much as I wanted someone to care for me, I could do that myself. I just wasn’t doing a wonderful job of it.
“What’s up?” Drew asked. We’d finished work, and it was our pizza and movie night.
The empty box sat on the coffee table next to a half-full bottle of wine. We’d likely open another before the night was done. It was cheaper than going out.
Drew was curled up on one end of the sofa, his pug, Perry on his lap. I sat on the other end, my purple-and-white crocheted blanket I’d picked up in a charity shop covering my legs.
I sighed and rested my head on the back of the sofa. “Just stuff.”
“You’ve been different ever since that police officer came into the shop. Is he an old flame?”
I shook my head.
“No one says that anymore, Drew.” He might have only been a few years older than me, but his vocabulary was that of a middle-aged woman sometimes. “And no, he wasn’t an old flame.”
I touched the scar on my head. Even though it had happened five years ago, occasionally it would tingle. My scalp was still numb in places. Nerve damage, the doctors had said. I’d likely never get full feeling back. As for my arm, the first hint of cold weather, and it ached. I carried more than emotional scars.
