Slumping heavily onto the wooden chair next to the table, Joe picked up the first envelope and tossed it straight in the rubbish bin. Junk mail. More adverts and fliers followed the same path.
Then, right at the bottom of the pile, a real letter, addressed to him both by name and by hand.
Scott.
Joe tore open the envelope and unfolded the paper.
Someone walked into the staff room. Whoever it was said something. They were probably talking to him, but Joe didn’t answer. He didn’t even take in what they said.
Frowning, Joe ran his eyes over line after line of words.
There were too many of them. As much as Joe loved Scott, he also knew that he wasn’t the kind of guy who found it easy to get to the damn point and just tell a man what he really wanted.
Turning over the paper, Joe turned his attention to the very last paragraph.
Thank you, sir. If you still want me to belong to you, I really want that too.
Joe bowed his head over the letter. Whatever Scott’s requests or demands were, whatever the earlier portions of the letter contained, Joe knew now that everything would be fine.
“Joe, are you actually intending to do any work today?”
Looking up, Joe saw Mark, the shift boss, standing in the doorway doing his stern and pissed off act.
“Bloody hell, are you okay?” Mark asked. His eyes opened very wide as any attempt to act like a hard-arse failed him. “You look like shit.”
“I’m…” Joe glanced down at the letter. “I’m going to take a sick day today.”
He must have looked authentically ill because Mark didn’t even make a token protest. With more than ninety percent of Scott’s letter still unread, Joe headed for the exit. If he’d had his car, he could have driven around the corner, pulled over and read it properly. On his bike, and with the rain pattering against his leathers, that wasn’t an option.
Joe revved up his bike and turned it toward Scott’s place. By the time he reached it, torrential rain poured down around him. He took the stairs up to Scott’s room two at a time, dripping rainwater with every step, and hammered on the door.
Water pooled around his boots as he glared at the woodwork and waited impatiently for Scott to answer. It was the middle of the night. If Scott wasn’t there, Joe damn well wanted to know where he was, what he was doing, and, perhaps most importantly of all, who the hell Scott was doing it with.
Nothing.
Joe pounded on the door again.
“The guy’s at work.”
Joe glanced down the corridor. The man who rented the neighbouring room stood in his open doorway, sleep mussed and unshaven, wearing nothing but his boxers.
“What did you say?” Joe demanded.
“The guy from that room—he’s at work. And if you two are going to have the headboard banging against the wall again, or be screaming blue-murder when you get off, find a roomsomewhere else. Some of us work regular hours.” He slammed his door behind him as he retreated into his room.
A frown still creasing his forehead, Joe pulled his phone out of his pocket and called up Scott’s number.
It rang once, twice, a third time.
“Hello—”
“Where the hell are you?” Joe demanded.
“S-sorry, sir. I-I’m at work. D-did you get my l-l-let—?”
“Where?” Joe bit out.
Scott only hesitated for a moment before he gave Joe the address of a factory estate on the edge of town.
