“Don’t bank on Tom hating stuff. Me and Cass got arseholed once and decided we wanted a falafel cart. I spent all that summer frying chickpeas outside Fabric in Shoreditch.”
“Seriously?”
“Yup. Made a fucking fortune too.”
“I’ll bet. I used to get pumpkin shawarmas from a cart at Euston Square. Couldn’t beat it after a night on the lash.”
“Anyway . . .” Nero clutched the duvet to himself and swung his legs out of bed.
Lenny blinked. “What?”
Nero shrugged awkwardly. “If I’m going anywhere, you’re gonna have to fuck off a minute, ’cause I’m kinda nekkid under here.”
“Oh.”
Oh. It was a word Lenny uttered a lot, but the blush that accompanied it this time, combined with the bare hint of a smirk, was too much for Nero. Heat coursed through his veins, sudden and violent, and the memory of shoving Lenny into the kitchen invaded his mind. His attraction to men had been dormant so long he’d half convinced himself it had been all about Cass—that no other would do—but his brief, heady encounter with Lenny had blown that theory out of the water. Kissing Lenny, holding him—shit. Lenny needed to leave, now, before Nero made a twat of himself again.
Perhaps sensing Nero’s impending implosion, Lenny slid from the bed and edged his way to the door, his cheeks flushed. He opened his mouth as though he had something to say, but he turned and fled without another word.
With him gone, Nero flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Having Lenny in his room was almost as unnerving as kissing him the night before, and Nero couldn’t remember the last time anyone had sat on his bed. Still, he was running out of time to chew his own face off about it. London was calling his name.
He dragged himself up and retrieved the clothes he’d tossed around the room the night before. His T-shirt was out of the game, but the jeans would do. He took a quick shower, trimmed his dark beard, and got dressed. Then he ventured out of his room to find Lenny asleep on his feet in the kitchen, mechanically spooning sugar into a mug of tea. The sight stirred something new in Nero, an ache in his heart that overcame the lingering simmer in his blood. “You can sleep in my bed if you want?”
“Hmm?” Lenny glanced up, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot.
“While I’m out,” Nero said. “Get in my bed and have a kip.”
“But you’ve been nekkid in it.”
“Don’t bother me, mate. Just offering you a go on my proper pillows.” Though Nero couldn’t help imagining how he’d feel sliding back into a bed he knew Lenny had slept in. “Might do you some good to get a few hours’ shut-eye. Don’t know about you, but insomnia sends me mental.”
“What about your dreams? Do they bring you back to earth?”
“No, they send me to Hell, but my dreams ain’t yours.”
“Aren’t they?”
“No, so get some sleep. I gotta roll. See you later.”
Nero left the flat without looking back, trying not to contemplate just how many conversations with Lenny were destined to end with one of them doing a runner halfway through. He drifted to the underground, which was oddly quiet. He checked his phone: 5:37 a.m. Damn. No wonder it was nearly deserted. It was too early even for the psychotic commuters he usually tried to avoid. Still, it didn’t really matter. Nero had keys to the Vauxhall site and needed nothing but himself and a camera to get his shit done.
On-site, he let himself into the warehouse. Work had already begun gutting the place and installing utilities. Nero’s job today was to finalise the floor plan for the kitchen, a task that was far easier without anyone hovering over his shoulder.
He moved methodically around the site, closing his eyes from time to time, picturing the kitchen and bakery, and imagining how it would feel with three industrial and two wood-fired ovens blasting heat into the place. Working kitchens were always hot and dangerous, but this one would be something else. Fire, heat, smoke—
Damn it. Nero’s mind took a wrong turn, dragging him back to the dream Lenny’s touch had chased away. Shut it down. Nero tried, but it was no good. Some devils couldn’t be tamed.
With shaky hands, he made the last few notes on the kitchen plans, then moved on to the dining floor, an area that usually held little interest for him. But today wasn’t just about him. He pulled out his phone and snapped a few pictures for Lenny, being sure to include all the nooks and crannies that would say more about the building than any fancy design ever could. With the interior of the warehouse documented, he drifted outside and studied the tangled mess of rusting metal that was the patio garden. Eventually, it would become some kind of terrace showing off the best of the river, but for now it was a dumping ground for the builders and— What the fuck is that?
Nero stomped his way through the small patch of weeds to where a dilapidated vehicle had been abandoned. At first glance, it looked like a miniature bin lorry, but closer inspection revealed it to be a rusty minibus—a 1956 Albion Nimbus, the same model Nero’s long-dead maternal grandfather had driven in the sixties. The bus was battered, the interior utterly ruined, but it still had four wheels, which was a bonus as far as discarded vehicles in London went.
Pizzas forgotten, Nero forced the underfloor panel open, taking note that, albeit eroded as fuck, the engine was mostly intact. Some TLC would get it running, if anyone cared enough to bother. He checked underneath and found more rust, but instead of the lost cause a saner person would see, he saw potential, and a faint lick of excitement tickled his belly. He hadn’t had his hands on a good engine since he’d restored a few bits on the vintage fire engine that had pride of place in Misfits, and that had been a year ago.
Nero snapped a few pictures and then reluctantly tore himself away. Time was getting on and an itch in his soul he couldn’t quite describe was calling him back to Shepherd’s Bush.
He left the warehouse behind, noting that it had filled up with builders and tradesman while he’d been engrossed in the abandoned bus. Not that the workman seemed to be up to much. Most of them were eating bacon butties from the dodgy stall across the road. The sight—and smell—of it took Nero back to the conversation he’d had with Lenny about late-night street food. The Vauxhall project needed an extra layer, and if the minibus could be saved, the harebrained scheme percolating in Nero’s mind—
His phone rang in his hand. He looked at the screen. It was Cass’s number, but that meant nothing these days.
