Zac’s voice sounded too far away for Liam’s liking. He raised his head and touched Zac’s cheek, drawing Zac’s eyes from the ceiling. “Thank you. I might’ve managed to do it myself if you hadn’t been here, but I’m glad you were.”
“I like being here.”
Liam wanted to ask him to stay forever, but pride and common sense kept him quiet. Instead he kissed Zac, trying to remember a time when Zac’s lips had been forbidden. Trying and failing as Zac pulled back and fixed Liam with a gaze that seemed too shrewd for his young face.
“What is it about your dad that makes it so hard to see him like this?”
If the question had come from anyone else, Liam would’ve dodged it—changed the subject and moved on—but somehow he knew that whatever answer he gave, Zac would understand. “My mum died when I was nine. Breast cancer. Before that, my dad wasn’t around much. He worked on the crab boats out of Cromer, and the mackerel ones. He worked all night, sometimes all day too.”
“Fisherman?” Zac nodded. “Makes sense. He looks like one.”
“Smelled like one too, back in the day. Until mum died, we never saw him without salt crusted all over his hands.”
“What changed?”
“Everything . . . and nothing. He still worked the boats, but he had to do everything else too—the cooking, cleaning, even shit like sewing Rosa’s country-dancing costume. There were women in the village who’d have helped him, but he insisted on doing it himself.”
“Strong man.”
Liam sighed and put his chin on Zac’s chest. “The strongest, in every way. He coped with everything me and Rosa ever threw at him. Didn’t bat an eye when I came out, when Rosa got herself married and knocked up in ten seconds flat.”
“And that’s why it’s so hard, eh? Because he doesn’t seem like your dad anymore?”
“I guess.”
Zac wove his fingers into Liam’s hair and fiddled with the strands. “I have a friend who lives a different life to me these days. I don’t like seeing him weak when he used to be so much stronger than me. Makes me feel like there’s no hope for anyone.”
Liam couldn’t handle the sadness in Zac’s gaze. He crawled over him and kissed him deeply, grinding into Zac as Zac lifted his legs and wrapped them around his waist. They fucked again later that night, more than once. Zac slept in between, waking without protest each time Liam nudged him, smiling and opening his arms, and holding Liam’s eyes as Liam pushed inside him again and again, until they both trembled and groaned.
In the morning, Liam watched the sun rise to a clear sky that had no doubt brought a bitter frost with it. Beside him, Zac slept on, sprawled on his stomach with his arm flung out, his hand resting in Liam’s lap. During the night, Liam had held it from time to time, learning the web of veins and scars, his bitten-down nails, and in the glistening light of the early morning, he took it once more, counting the warm pulse in Zac’s wrist and willing him to wake up.
It didn’t happen, and before long, it was time for Liam to get ready to take Rosa’s place with Len, and prepare for a long day of decisions they’d hoped against hope they’d never have to make.
Reluctantly, Liam left Zac and hauled himself into the shower. Alone, the hot water held little allure for him, so he didn’t linger. He dried off, then padded back to the bedroom, picking up his stray clothes as he went and tossing them into the neglected hamper in the cupboard.
He hung Zac’s clothes on the end of the bed: his socks, T-shirt, and jeans—sometime during the night, his boxers had disappeared. As he hung Zac’s jeans, something fell out the pocket.
Liam bent to retrieve it, feeling about under the bed. His fingers closed around a plastic tube, and what felt like a bag. He pulled his hand back. In his palm lay a syringe and powder-dusted plastic bag, and the small beacon of hope he’d found the previous day crumbled into the grey despair he’d been stupid enough to ignore.
He stood up slowly, blinking and hoping each time that the hard undeniable truth would disappear.
But it didn’t, and the perspective he’d obviously lacked for the last month crashed into him like a freight train. How the fuck could he have been so bloody naïve? Prostitution and drugs came hand in hand. Everyone knew that. And now Zac had brought drugs into Liam’s home, perhaps even used them, shooting up in the bathroom each time he’d told Liam he was taking a piss.
Liam fingered the empty bag. What if he hadn’t taken the drugs? What if, instead, the bag had leaked, scattering who-the-fuck-knew-what all over the place? Len’s house? On the couch for the dogs to find? In the boys’ bedroom?
Fury swept over Liam, so swift and sudden that he was standing over Zac before he could take a breath. He lashed out, waking Zac with a sharp kick to his legs. “Get up.”
Zac gasped, sucking in a harsh breath that made him splutter and cough in a way that would’ve broken Liam’s heart five minutes before. But it was already broken now, the pain masked by rage, and an all-consuming need to get Zac out of his house.
“Get. Up.”
Zac rolled over, rubbing his shin where Liam had struck him, and shooting Liam a confused, dozy grin. “Hey, hey, easy. I’ll do anything you want. You don’t have to boot me.”
Liam wanted to do more than thump him. He wanted to scoop him up and chuck him through the damned window. Instead, he threw the bag and syringe in Zac’s face. “You dropped something. I’m going to see my dad. I suggest you find anything else you’ve misplaced and get the fuck out of my house.”
Zac lay on the couch and stared at the tiny flat-screen TV that was built into the wall of this particular john’s living room. He should’ve got up and gone home hours ago, but he couldn’t make himself move. It hurt, and he was tired, so fucking tired. He’d worked every night since Liam had kicked him to the kerb, and tonight had been particularly brutal. Not that he’d noticed the pain much, or, at least, he hadn’t until the tenth night in a row he’d cruised the club and gone home with whichever grubby dude took his bait first.
Wincing, Zac shifted, and a dull ache spread up his spine and down into the tops of his thighs. The last john—now passed out on the sofa opposite—had done a real number on him and it hurt like hell, but . . . “Get the fuck out of my house.” Nah. The pain in his heart was worse.
