Hunger brought me to the fridge. I opened it and surveyed the shelf that was apparently mine. Sal had left a covered plate that I considered removing and scraping into the bin, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. Perhaps I’d eat it later.
Right.
Another plate caught my eye. It had a Post-it stuck to the foil.Joe.I’d forgotten that he’d missed dinner too and, somehow, the reason why.
I grabbed both plates and stuck them in the warming oven—the farm didn’t own a microwave—and then drifted back to the front door, scanning the fields for any sign of Joe.
There was none, and darkness had begun to fall while I’d dithered at the fridge.Has he come in already? I hadn’t heard him, but I didn’t always. Joe had a way of slipping undetected into his living room lair, and I’d noticed that people rarely disturbed him in there, and even then, it was only Sal and Emma.
Fuck it.I followed one of the cats into the hallway and took the open living room door as permission to peer inside.
Joe was sitting on the couch, an open bottle of whisky on the table, his T-shirt still missing-in-action. Sweat glistened on his beautiful chest, and his eyes gleamed like a wolf in the murky light of dusk.
He held up an empty glass and nodded to the space beside him. I hesitated for the briefest moment before I took the glass and sat down.
Chapter Seven
Joe
Harry drank whisky like he did everything else—artfully... thoughtfully, swirling it around in his glass before he tipped it down his elegant throat. Not that I was watching or anything.
“So,” he said when we were three shots deep. “Did you find your dad?”
“Aye.”
“And?”
“He’s a bigger idiot than he was the last time I saw him.”
“That’s all you’re going to give me?” Harry reached for the bottle. “I’ve been trying to figure out what he’s done to owe that bloke money, but I can’t think of anything sensible.”
“There isn’t anything sensible about Jonah, trust me.” I scooped up my refilled glass, ignoring the devil on my shoulder who told me I’d probably had enough. “And the truth isn’t particularly exciting. He bought a caravan on tick and then crashed it—and one of Dicky’s dodgy cars—into the central reservation on the A30.”
“Wow. What happened? Was he drunk?”
“’Course he was. My pa ain’t often sober. He left everything there and walked home, so Dicky’s boy got nicked for it too ’cause the car was in his name.”
“He couldn’t just say it was your dad driving?”
I shook my head. “That’s not how it works around here. It’s one thing to let me get done when the coppers turn up anyway, but we don’t grass in our world.”
“The gypsy world?”
“We aren’t real gypsies anymore—and my ma is Welsh—but it’s more than that. It’s a local thing. We don’t rat. We sort things out ourselves.”
“Right.” Harry necked his whisky. “By threatening your mothers and burning things down?”
“Something like that.”
Harry scowled, but I kind of liked the sneer on him. After weeks of shy smiles and friendly grins, it was refreshing to know he wasn’t perfect, even if his derision was probably justified.
I drank my whisky and eyed the bottle, contemplating a refill. My father’s demons were never far from my mind when I got drunk, but some days I was able to push it aside, kick back, and forget that the end of the world was in my blood.
Today turned out to be one of those days.
I topped up my glass, Harry’s too, reaching across him, my shoulder bumping his chest. His soft intake of breath made me shiver. I wanted to kiss him.
Whoa.
