With little conscious thought, he drifted to the living room. Lenny’s eyes were closed, but he clearly wasn’t asleep—he was too still, his breathing too even. Besides, the slight frown pulling his groomed brows together gave him away. Nero slouched on the arm of the couch and shook Lenny’s foot. “Are you hungry?”
Lenny opened his eyes, his frown deepening to a scowl that made him look like a stroppy teenager. “No, I’m not bloody hungry. I’m sick of food. If I see one more roast potato today, I’ll fucking shoot myself.”
Nero laughed, even though Lenny’s obvious exhaustion troubled him. “Wait till you’ve worked every Sunday for a year, then tell me you’re sick of roast spuds.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just pass me a tabard and I’ll off myself right now.”
“A tabard?”
“And a hairnet. I’ve felt like a glorified dinner lady all day.”
“Not tomorrow, though, eh? Ain’t neither of us working.”
“Brilliant.” Lenny sat up and swiped his fags from the coffee table. Nero followed him to the fire escape, stepped around him, and lit his own smoke before regarding Lenny, who had stopped in the doorway to glance over the city in much the same way Nero had in the bedroom. I wish I knew who he was looking for . . .
Nero left the thought unfinished as Lenny finally stepped outside. No one was getting to Lenny through him, but Nero couldn’t always be around. Sooner or later, Lenny needed a new plan—a plan that didn’t involve counting on the fire escape for his vitamin D.
They smoked in silence. Lenny seemed lost in thought, and Nero was content to let him be. It had been a long day, and as much as it pained him to admit it, Steph had done him a favour by calling time on his working week. Distraction had its limits, and right now Nero could contemplate little more than guarding Lenny and stumbling into his bed. Shame he couldn’t think of a way to do both.
“You’re fucking impossible, you know that?”
Nero blinked. “Where did that come from?”
“Where do you think? You’re so bloody inscrutable I can’t think straight.” Lenny stubbed his cigarette out on the wall like it had killed his dog, and stormed back inside, slamming the door behind him.
Nero would’ve been less confused if Lenny had punched him in the face. He stared after him, piecing together the last few hours they’d spent together, searching for anything he might’ve done to piss Lenny off. But he found nothing in a day that had been spent mostly in a haze of Yorkshire puddings and fatigue. And what the fuck does inscrutable mean anyway?
Pride kept him from googling it. He finished his smoke and flicked the butt into the ashtray. Common sense told him to give Lenny some space to cool down, but the masochist in him opened the door and followed Lenny to the bathroom.
Lenny was perched on the edge of the bath, painting his toenails a startling shade of pink. He didn’t look up, even when Nero turned the light on.
“Can’t do that in the dark, eh?”
“Says who?” Lenny swapped feet. “Been doing it since I was twelve.”
Nero stored that snippet of information away for later. “Are you going to tell me what I’ve done to piss you off so much?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause you don’t get it.”
“Don’t mean you shouldn’t tell me. I might surprise you.”
Lenny snorted. “You do surprise me, every day. Doesn’t mean Clapham Junction exploding in my tiny brain will make any sense to you— Shit.”
Pink polish stained Lenny’s big toe. He swiped at it with cotton wool, hands trembling. Nero stepped forward and pried the brush from his stiff fingers. “You done with this foot?”
“It all needs a second coat.”
Nero sat on the closed toilet. “Give me your other foot.”
Lenny deposited his other foot into Nero’s lap with a heavy sigh. “Are you always this evasive?”
“You’re the one who won’t tell me what the problem is.”
“I did tell you what the problem was—a fucking week ago. You’ve hardly spoken to me since.”
