Sometime later, after talking himself out of filching any of the tramadol he’d seen piled up in the bathroom, Zac forced himself to leave the grotty bedsit and shuffled home to his own flat—a space that had seemed more cold and bare than ever since he’d crawled home in disgrace from Liam’s house.
He let himself in and kicked his shoes against the wall, trying to care that they left a mark big enough to take a chunk out of his deposit. He failed and abandoned them where they lay, hauling himself into the shower to wash away the grime of a long night’s work.
Under the spray, he fiddled with Liam’s leather bracelet, contemplating for the thousandth time how it would feel to take it off, bury it, chuck it in the bin like Liam had never existed, but he couldn’t do it. Liam’s fury still felt like a knife to his chest, his ignored phone calls like acid lacing his blood, but it was a pain Zac clung to grimly, afraid to let it fade in case it took all that was left of him with it.
Dude, no one died. Zac shut off the shower with a heavy sigh, eyes closed, head bowed. The pain lancing his heart was tough to bear, but the knowledge that Liam knew an agony far worse was unbearable, because someone had died for Liam, someone whom Zac had been a fool to believe he could ever replace. Liam had founded a business with Cory, built a house, married him. Syringe or no syringe, hooker or not, Zac had never had a hope of being anything other than an empty fuck.
At least, that’s what he’d told himself every day since Liam had so furiously thrown him out, the rage in his eyes second only to the overwhelming sadness that had hurt Zac far more than his anger ever would. You hurt him. Zac didn’t know much, but of that he was certain. Stuffing that fucking syringe in his pocket had been the worst mistake of his whole miserable life.
And miserable Zac was. So miserable it was all he could do to pull on some unwashed trackies and crawl into his bed. He stared at his phone, willing it to light up, but of course it didn’t. Aside from a few regular johns’ calls, his phone had remained as dark and desolate as the fog that clouded every moment he was unfortunate enough to be awake.
Zac closed his eyes and chased sleep, running down the blank nothingness that had become his only relief. He found it more quickly than he had of late, drifting into a deep sleep, worn out from days and days of gazing at the ceiling, and night after night of turning tricks.
It was midmorning when he woke with a jump, sitting bolt upright, cold sweat streaming down his face and chest, heart racing, feeling for all the world like he’d been dropped back into the hell pit of withdrawal.
He laid his palm over his thundering heart. What had woken him? Most mornings this week he’d slept past noon. Then he heard it: a light knocking at the front door that had him scrambling from the bed like a cat on roller skates. He stumbled out of the bedroom and into the hall, shoulder-barging the doorframe in his hurry.
He threw the door open, slamming it into the wall behind. His heart searched for Liam, and for a moment he almost convinced himself that the stooped figure on the doorstep was tall and strong, wild-haired and bright-eyed, but then the halo of golden hair dulled to an inky, greasy black, and the eyes darkened, revealing a repentant-looking Jamie.
“All right, mate?”
Zac blinked. Though history had taught him Jamie would eventually return, he was, for some reason, the last person Zac had expected to see. Seriously? You thought Liam was going to come running back and beg you for one more night? The absurdity of the notion hit Zac hard. He laughed, manic and loud, a crazed burst of laughter that sounded like it had come from someone else.
Jamie clearly thought the same. His red-rimmed eyes widened, and he caught Zac’s arms. “What the fuck’s up with you? Are you trashed?”
If only. Zac had a bottle of corner-shop whiskey stashed in the cupboard and four cans of Stella in the fridge, but he hadn’t dared touch them for fear of where the bottom of a bottle would lead. He’d learned the hard way that binge-drinking alone was the toughest test of his resistance. Even this far from London, it wasn’t like he didn’t know how to get junk. Christ, Jamie was right here. Chances were he had a pocket full—
“Zac?”
In his haze, Zac hadn’t noticed Jamie getting his foot in the door. “What?”
Jamie stared at him, holding his arms in a death grip. “What’s the matter? You look fucking awful.”
Coming from Jamie, it was all Zac could do not to laugh again, but perspective returned in time for him to remember that Jamie was an unwelcome visitor.
He wrenched his arms free and found the remnants of his equilibrium. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” Jamie dropped his hands, but didn’t step back. “I came to say sorry for being a cunt, if you’ll let me.”
“For being a cunt?”
“Yep . . . yep, that’s me. I’m a cunt.”
“Why’s that?”
Jamie frowned. “You know why.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Fine . . . for bringing skag into the flat and nicking your dosh. Are you going to let me in?”
“No.” And for a brief moment, Zac truly meant it. His anger with Jamie had faded as time had gone by, overwhelmed by a yearning for Liam so strong he could hardly hold himself up, but staying close to Jamie was still a bad idea, especially now, when it wouldn’t take much to persuade himself that there was little point resisting all Jamie had to offer.
But the longer Jamie stared at him, his familiar gaze and hesitant smile seeping into him, the harder it became to push Jamie away. Jamie’s mistake had cost him the only thing he’d felt good about in as long as he could remember, but did that make it Jamie’s fault? It wasn’t Jamie who’d shoved the syringe in his pocket, and it wasn’t Jamie who’d convinced him he was worthy of anything other than the misery he had for company now. No. He’d done that shit all by himself.
He stood back and let Jamie pass. “Don’t steal my stuff.”
“Don’t look like you have anything.” Jamie had already drifted past him and opened the empty Super Noodle cupboard, and then the barren fridge. “Seriously. I know we’re crap at this domestic bollocks, but you always buy milk and bread. And what’s with the beer? That was here when I left. You stuck in a time warp, or something?”
