“You never look happy.”
Lenny fought to keep his gaze from Nero’s. “What does that mean?”
Nero stepped into Lenny’s space, claiming what was left of it as his own. “It means, you’ve got the best smile, but you don’t let me see it enough.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Uh-huh. Who gives a fuck?”
Nero had a point. Perhaps Lenny’s sudden black mood was down to his sobriety. He downed lurid pink vodka until both glasses were dry and held them out to Nero. “I’m gonna dance. Who knows? Might cheer myself up.”
He wriggled from Nero’s loose embrace and stomped away without waiting for a response, if there had been one. Nero habitually left conversations unfinished, his only answer a dull stare that drove Lenny insane. Still, dancing was the best cure for all kinds of frustration, and for the first time in months, a packed dancefloor and a kicking beat were right in front of him.
Lenny lost himself to the sea of sweaty bodies and throbbing bass. He closed his eyes and raised his arms above his head, let his body move of its own accord, and ignored every shout and grasping hand that came his way, even the ones he knew, not that there were many. His ex-coworkers from Misfits had barely acknowledged him, and Pippa’s crew had migrated to the bar, apparently intent on catching the last of Tom’s generosity. Lenny didn’t look long enough to see if Nero was among them. He danced to the other side of the floor and stayed there, hugging the speaker, until his mind was devoid of everything except the pounding beat.
He could’ve stayed there all night. Perhaps he did. It felt like hours and hours had passed by the time strong arms hauled him away.
“Come on,” Nero growled. “I wanna go home.”
Dazed, Lenny let Nero hustle him outside. Took the bottle of gin he offered and swallowed a healthy swig. “Where’s everyone else?”
“Don’t give a fuck.”
Fair enough. Lenny drank more gin and gazed at Nero through eyes that felt brand-new. His ears were ringing, but his mind was clear. Dancing. Yeah, baby. Worked every time. “Do I look happy now?”
Nero lit a cigarette. “Wouldn’t know.”
“Liar.”
“Am I?”
“Yup. You know me better than you think.”
“How’d you know what I think?”
Lenny stepped closer and plucked Nero’s smoke from his fingers. “I’m guessing, ’cause that’s all I’ve got. Humour me?”
Nero cupped Lenny’s face in his heated palm. “Okay . . . so, I think I know you, but then you change, and I have to start again. I can’t figure out if you’re the cleverest person I’ve ever known, or a brat who just won’t let me be.”
“Maybe I’m both.”
“Maybe.” Nero dragged his thumb under Lenny’s eyes, smearing the makeup that was bound to have smudged by now. “I love this, though. You’re beautiful without it, but I couldn’t stop staring at you tonight. You ain’t no wallflower, mate. You’re like . . . a pink dandelion.”
“Are you comparing me to a weed?”
“It’s an East End thing. My nana said dandelions were healing and they meant happiness. Good job really, ’cause we could never afford to buy her posh flowers.”
“My dad bought my mum flowers from Harrods every Friday—expensive ones to make up for the fact that he’d spent all week with his mistress in Hampstead. Frankly, I’d rather have the dandelions.”
“Me too, but that’s a cockney thing.”
Lenny stared at Nero, but too soon, a commotion up the road broke the loaded moment—a fight, by the sound of it. Nero took Lenny’s arm and guided him in the opposite direction. Lenny let his pensive silence hang and drank more gin. By the time they reached the underground, he could hardly put one foot in front of the other.
Nero lifted him onto a train and deposited him on an empty seat.
“How can you be so gentle when you’re as drunk as me?” Lenny asked crossly.
“Imagine how gentle I’d be if I was sober.” Nero dropped into the neighbouring seat and tipped his head back, stretching his long, elegant neck. “Besides, I’ll never be drunk enough to hurt you. I’d kill myself first.”
