Brix bounded off the last step and strode through the open-plan ground floor. Calum was nowhere to be seen, and his shoes were gone from the door. Movement in the garden drew Brix outside, barefoot and shivering against the early-morning chill, and he found Calum by the nearest hen house, holding Bongo to his chest and gazing out at the sea.
“I didn’t notice yesterday that you can see the ocean from here,” Calum said without turning round. “Didn’t notice much of anything.”
Brix closed the distance between them and followed Calum’s stare. “The seafront is a five-minute walk away. I’ll take you there later, if you want?”
“Is it near your studio?”
“They’re pretty much one and the same.”
Calum nodded and gently petted Bongo.
“How is she?” Brix asked. “Sometimes the upheaval of being rescued does ’em more harm than good.”
“I don’t know jack about chickens, but she’s doing the same shit she was yesterday. The others seem okay too.”
Brix glanced down at the bald hens pecking around their run, gobbling up seeds and worms, and looking for all the world like they’d lived like this their whole lives instead of being crammed thirty to a cage and fed on the remains of their siblings. “Bet they’ve laid too. Never known a battery chook not give me an egg a day. They’re good girls.”
“I’ll take your word for that. I fed your tiny devil cat this morning, by the way. She kept licking my ear and biting my face.”
Brix winced. “Er, yeah . . . she does that. Zelda don’t mean no harm, though. She’s lovely really.”
“That right?” Calum shot Brix a disbelieving stare before the barest hint of a smile brightened his features. “I didn’t mind it, actually. At least you know what you’re getting.”
The loaded sentence did odd things to Brix’s heart. Calum’s dark eyes, though clouded with the beginnings of a dangerous apathy, were soulful and deep, and Brix was in danger of getting lost in them, and in Calum’s inky hair, chiselled cheekbones, and strong, corded forearms.
And the dark beard that hadn’t been there four years ago—
Behave yourself, twat. Calum had always been beautiful, but he’d had a girlfriend when they’d first met, and then later, when he’d confessed his bisexuality, Brix had been tied to someone else. Someone who’d left a darker mark on his soul than any ink ever could.
“I used your phone again.”
Brix blinked to find Calum staring at him, like he’d spoken already and got no response. “No worries. Who’d you call? Your sister?”
“Fuck no.” Calum shook his head. “She’s more useless than I am. I called the bank. They gave me an overdraft on an old account that I can live on until I sort myself out. It’s gonna cost me a kidney or two in fees, but it’s a lower price than before.”
Brix wondered if that meant Calum was staying, and was surprised by how much he hoped he was. Arsehole. Do you really want his whole life to fall apart? But even as Brix berated himself, he knew whatever was wrong with Calum’s life had already happened. Why else would he be here? And why else would fate have taken Brix past that bench yesterday?
Everything happened for a reason, right?
Brix gave in and laid his hand on Calum’s warm forearm. “Do you want a cuppa?”
“Please.” Calum didn’t seem to notice Brix’s hand. “After that, I better get myself some clothes and a job to pay for the fuckers.”
Jesus Christ. Calum took in the urban grunge of Blood Rush’s inner workings and could hardly believe his eyes. With its black fixtures and fittings, colourful Day of the Dead skulls on the walls, and huge gothic mirrors, the place was about the most awesome studio Calum had ever seen. Wow.
Calum gazed at the sleek leather chairs and the latest-model guns, all interspersed with vintage machines that made his soul weep once more for Dottie. “I like this.”
It was the understatement of the year, but it seemed to please Brix as he shut the shop door. “I work over there. Lee works here. Jory and Kim share the back when Kim’s here, which ain’t that often these days.”
“What’s the other one for? Piercing?”
“Fuck no. We don’t do that here. If you want your bellend skewered, you’ll have to go to the scratcher down the road.”
That was something else Calum remembered about Brix: his aversion to body piercing, to the point where he’d often had to turn his back on the piercing chair in the studio they’d both worked at in Camden. “You sure? I can do piercing for you if there’s a demand—”
“Why would I want you to punch holes in people when you can ink? The spare station is for guest artists. We had Chips Brown in last month. I was going to leave it for a while because I can’t be arsed with the hassle of finding someone else, but I’d love you to do some days . . . if you want to? You can set your own hours and rates. Just pay for the space? Ten per cent?”
It was a ridiculously fair offer. “Twenty per cent.”
