“That’s because he’s Cass’s long-lost twin. It’s these East End boys. They think no one will ever love them like their nanas did, so they throw everything back in your face like you don’t love them to the moon and back. You just gotta keep on keeping on, mate. He’ll fall when he’s ready.”
Lenny wondered if Jake had meant to be so poetic with his advice, but the lump in his throat kept him quiet as Jake said good-bye and hung up, and after a protracted staring contest with the city below, Lenny ditched the flat and went shopping.
At the quirky art shop on the high street he bought paint and some new brushes, and across the road, a New Age shop caught his eye. He went inside and was immediately drawn to a pendant at the back. It was brushed silver, hanging on dark-brown leather, and a clever mix of a sugar skull and a grungy butterfly. Lenny didn’t know if Nero would wear it, but he bought it anyway, and the matching bracelet, and carried them home in a paper bag clutched close to his chest.
The rest of the day was spent painting, locked in the shed. The sign was more complex than the murals, intricately layered, and wrapped around the bespoke typography that had seemed so simple when he’d drawn it in pencil—typography that definitely wasn’t based on Nero’s handwriting. Yeah right. Lenny lost himself in a cloud of denial, and only stopped working when the fading light forced his hand.
He checked the time—9:45 p.m. Service had just finished, but Nero wouldn’t be done for a while. Still, Lenny couldn’t stop the invisible cord between them drawing him past the rusty bus that was parked in the yard, and into the kitchen. Eight hours without Nero was long enough, damn it.
But Nero wasn’t in the kitchen. Steph was in his place, cleaning down the worktops.
“I sent him up,” she said by way of explanation. “He’s ready to drop, and I don’t think it’s a hangover.”
Lenny didn’t need to hear any more. He hurried upstairs and let himself into the flat to find Nero on the bathroom floor, pale and sweating. Lenny dropped down beside him and felt his forehead. “Whoa. You’re burning up.”
“Chucking up, actually, though I don’t think I can puke again without losing my appendix.”
Lenny grinned, though worry gnawed at his heart. “How long have you been feeling ill?”
Nero shrugged. “All day. Thought it was the rum, but I ain’t never had a hangover like this.”
“It’s not a hangover.” Lenny felt Nero’s swollen glands and counted his rapid heart rate. “It might be an infection—maybe viral. Got a headache?”
“Like a bitch.”
“Anything else? Joints? Bones?”
“Yeah.” Nero tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “I’m all right, though. Don’t go frowning that old-lady frown of yours. I just need some kip.”
Lenny wasn’t anywhere close to being convinced, but there was little he could do but wait until Nero was ready to move, then help him up and into bed.
Nero fell asleep almost immediately, face down and still dressed in last night’s clothes, minus the jeans that he’d dumped by the door. Lenny wrangled his T-shirt over his head, then pushed the duvet aside, searching for his socks. Nero’s heated skin scorched his palms, but there was something undeniably sensual about the idea of curving his hands around Nero’s strong calf muscles, tangling his fingers in the silky dusting of dark hair. And Nero’s feet were gorgeous—clean and perfectly shaped. How have I not noticed them before?
Lenny had no idea, and the urge to kiss them, and suck Nero’s elegant toes into his mouth, was strong. Only worry for Nero’s fast-rising temperature reined him in. That, and the first good look he’d ever had of the pale scars lining the backs of Nero’s thighs.
Jesus. Up close, they ran far deeper than Lenny had imagined, and there was no hiding from the fact that they’d been put there by deliberate force. The white lines carved into Nero’s flesh were clearly old, and it was heartbreakingly obvious that they were the mark of a belt—or worse.
Lenny swallowed thickly. Nero had made no effort to hide the scars—why would he when his missing finger was there for all to see?—but it had gone unsaid that Nero wouldn’t talk about. Won’t or can’t? All this time Lenny had been so sure it was Nero’s choice to keep himself so hidden, but with the certainty the marks on Nero’s body hadn’t been caused by accident, came the possibility that Nero couldn’t articulate what had happened to him. That it was so awful he didn’t know how.
And that Lenny’s insistence that they had no future without forcing Nero to try was so fucking selfish Lenny could hardly breathe.
Horrified, he covered Nero’s legs with the thin summer duvet and left the room, guilt and shame prickling his skin with the worst kind of heat. Nero was running on empty after months spent looking after everyone else—Lenny, Cass, the business—and now he was sick in his bed after a sleepless night that was all Lenny’s fault. Add in the strain that had lined Nero’s chiselled features even before he’d fallen ill, and Lenny pretty much wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
He paced the living room, periodically checking on Nero, but when it became clear that he wasn’t waking up anytime soon, he gave in and lay down beside him. Rest, baby. I’ve got you.
A low groan woke Lenny sometime later. He sat up like he’d been burned, then realised he pretty much had been, if the blazing heat from Nero’s arm was anything to go by.
Lenny leaned over Nero and felt the back of his neck. Damn. “Nero? Can you wake up a sec?”
Nero grunted, his face in the pillow. “Piss off.”
The words were muffled, but the sentiment clear. Lenny supressed a sigh and shook him anyway. “Just wake up, will you? I want to check something.”
With a sigh of his own, Nero raised his head, squinting in the dark. He sat up slowly, like every muscle was torn, every joint broken, and fixed Lenny with a tired, long-suffering glare. “I’m up. What do you want?”
“To check you’re not dying.” Lenny took Nero’s pulse and examined him as best he could remember from his days as a half-arsed medical student. “Does your neck hurt?”
“Nope.”
