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Taylor moved to his side, turned his head and slammed their foreheads together, but she said nothing and was gone before he had a chance to.
No one was eating much. Sam went out to get more beer and Angus got angry. He went to the backyard and called Heather, but Damon could hear his shock and apprehension. He left the table and went out to the yard.
“On your six, mate,” he said, standing on the deck. Angus was somewhere in front of him, his feet moving on the grass.
“Doug says the Blink is quiet. I told Heather. She’s coming over after study group.”
“Hope she’s hungry.” A poor attempt at a joke. Heather ate like food was a sin and she was desperate to stay out of hell.
Angus stepped up on the deck. “You’re sure this specialist is the best there is?”
“I can get other opinions.” He would, he needed to chase up additional recommendations. “But we need the test results first.”
“I want to know the worst-case scenario.”
“No point thinking like that. It’s likely to be so much simpler.” It felt like a big deal. He’d given himself a stress headache over it, but he wasn’t bleeding anymore, whatever the doc gave him to numb his throat made him feel less choked up.
“As if you’ve not already gone there, Damon.”
“I haven’t.” There was no reason to panic Angus with worst-case scenarios. He refused to believe that’s where this was headed anyway.
“This whole tell the gang thing is admirable. A huge improvement on let’s not tell anyone I’m totally blind, so I’m a fucking danger to myself, but you’re only giving us half the story.”
“Give me a break, man. I’ve told you everything I know. There is nothing more to say, until after the tests.”
“What about admitting you’re shit scared you’re going to lose your career.”
Damon waved him off. “Because I’m not. I get I’ve upset you. But it’s not going to go that way. There’s no history of cancer in the family. I don’t smoke, drink to excess, do anything else that’s a risk factor other than belt out songs in your bar. It’s not about the cigs the other night or the beers or the song list. It’s just one of those things.”
“If you’re not being straight with me I’ll save the lot of us the worry, I’ll rip your tongue out.”
He sighed and turned to go back inside. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”
“Like what?” Angus ducked around in front of him, a hand to his chest. “Concerned?”
“When you don’t trust I’m telling the truth.”
“Fuck my hesitancy on that front.”
“I didn’t lie to you. I didn’t tell you everything. There’s a difference. I copped to it because the effect on you guys was the same as if I had lied. But I didn’t set out to lie to you and I’m not doing it now.”
Angus slugged from a bottle and breathed heavily. The breathing of a man wrestling with a dilemma. But, shit, he had it easy now: a successful business to run, a life he liked, a woman he loved, health he took for granted. Once they’ve have sorted this out with a scuffle, a few punches, well aimed on Angus’ part, lucky on Damon’s. He made a fist and then shook it out. He’d need more than luck to get a slug in and he didn’t want to fight with Angus, there were enough fights ahead.
“Rip my tongue out, my career is definitely over. I can’t begin to tell you what it’ll do to my love-life.”
Angus snorted into the neck of the bottle, muttered, “Smug bastard,” and the moment was over.
Georgia stayed the night, though it was one of her nights for being at her own place. He tried to talk her out of it with no enthusiasm. He couldn’t have raised a fake eyebrow of it. He didn’t want her to think she had to stay. He was well, he was feeling in control, but he was desperate to be alone with her, and so relieved to finally have her in his bed, both of them equal in the dark, reliant on touch and smell and sound to see each other’s passion.
Their lovemaking was gentle and considerate, as if Damon’s day had already held too many terrors and they needed to be rubbed away to nothing with sliding hands and sticking skin and kisses that drugged them both into a delicious frenzy then a languorous stupor.
Georgia touched him everywhere, filled his head with shiny visions and coloured shimmers. She let him hear her abandon when she screamed her orgasm, when she cried, unrestrained; wetting his neck and his throat and cheeks with her release and fear and love.
He could handle losing his voice temporarily if he had the sound of Georgia in his life. He’d get through this and he’d find a way to do it that didn’t crush her with his need.
24: Kiss it Better
Georgia carried it around for a week. It was postmarked London, which was another word for trouble. It was addressed to her at Avocado in Hamish’s big scribble, reason enough to believe it was a letter bomb and best left undisturbed.
