“Erm . . .” Shit. Zac didn’t actually know. There had been no reason for Liam to share his surname, or Zac to share his. “I know the company’s called Sea Rave. He took me to the factory.”
Jamie’s dark brows shot up so fast that his face morphed into a slightly frightening expression. “Dear God, are you seriously telling me you’ve been shagging Liam Mallaney all this time and you haven’t had a fucking clue?”
“Who?”
“Give me your phone.”
Zac handed it over. Jamie furiously swiped and tapped at the screen until he brought up an image that showed Liam in all his beautiful glory, posing in the colourful chaos of a beachside festival, the Sea Rave logo behind him, and his arms around a wiry black man with the biggest smile Zac had ever seen. “Oh.”
“Yeah . . . oh.” Jamie tapped the phone. “Your sugar daddy is like the Mark Zuckerberg of surf clothes, only way cooler.”
“Mark who? Is that like Richard Branson?”
Jamie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, if you’re stuck in the nineties. Do you never read?”
“Piss off.” Zac shoved Jamie away. “How do you know so much shit when you spend your whole life loaded? I’ve been clean for six months and I don’t know fuck-all about anything.”
“Yeah, but you’re clean, Zac. That makes you twice the man I am, whatever way you look at it.”
The sadness in Jamie’s gaze broke Zac’s heart. He reached for his only friend and pulled him into a tight hug, burying his face in hair that was so silky now it was clean. “You can do it too. It’s not easy, but you can do it, I know you can.”
Jamie shook his head. “I can’t. I’m not like you. I’m not strong. I can’t turn tricks and live in this shit without it. I need it, Zac . . . I wish I didn’t. And I don’t even want to be clean.”
And there was the problem. Recovery had been forced on Zac, but as horrific as withdrawal had been, he’d embraced it, welcoming the pain, knowing each day spent writhing on his back, shivering, moaning, screaming, was a day closer to becoming human. The light at the end of the tunnel had been small, a pinprick in the distance, but Zac had seen it, wanted it, and chased it down until he had it.
For Jamie, any light he could see was still a train coming, a train that could only be stopped by a sweet hit of heroin.
Zac lay back down, taking Jamie with him, making the most of this time together before Jamie left him. A few months ago, they would’ve fucked some more, perhaps fucked till the night came to take Jamie away, but something—perhaps everything—had changed between them. Right then, all Zac wanted was to hold Jamie close until the shadows called them both home.
Speaking of which. “Are you going to tell me where you got that junk from? And don’t tell me you bought it, unless you robbed the bookies again.”
“I don’t go robbing anymore, you know that.”
It was true. To the best of Zac’s knowledge, Jamie had given up on the fake armed robberies—a pretend gun under a tea towel—he’d perfected in London, mainly because he was too fucked up to make a decent getaway. Didn’t mean he’d stopped doing daft things, though. Jamie had the brains of Britain, and the common sense of a rocking horse. “So where did it come from?”
Jamie raised his head and cupped Zac’s face with his callused palm, stroking his cheek with a bony fingertip. “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Can we sleep now? I want to lie on top of you and dream of the sun.”
Damn you. Jamie’s poetic way with words had always rendered Zac mute until it was too late for him to argue, and true to form, Jamie was snoring before he found his tongue again, leaving Zac with little choice but to shut his eyes and join him. He wrapped his arms around Jamie and fell asleep, dreaming of Liam, the sea, and the sunshine Jamie craved.
An earsplitting crash woke him late in the evening. He bolted upright, letting Jamie slip from his arms and fall to the side. “What the fuck was that?”
Jamie mumbled, but didn’t wake, even as footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Zac pushed him away and swung his legs out of bed. His feet hit carpet as the bedroom door was smashed open and three black-clad figures burst into the room, each one brandishing a baseball bat.
The first figure was on Zac before he could stand, throwing him to the floor and kicking him in the ribs so hard his bones crunched.
Pain ricocheted through him, driving the air from his lungs. He coughed and spluttered, curling in on himself, like he could hide from the steel-capped boot that was heading his way again, kicking him over and over until white spots danced in his eyes. “What do you want?”
“We want the money,” the man growled. “Or the product. Don’t really give a fuck. Give us what’s ours, you thieving faggot.”
The second man advanced on Zac and pulled him upright. “Where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
“The junk you stole.”
“I didn’t steal any junk. I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
