It was a while before the van returned to my consciousness. Joe was still wrecked, so I cleaned us both up and tucked the condom in an old plastic bag, and then I lay down beside him, playing absently with his hair until he seemed to come back into himself.
His grin was sleepy and wonderful. I drank it in, but reality bit down hard. “You never told me what happened with your dad.”
Joe’s sigh was barely audible. “There isn’t much to tell. I rounded him up, yelled at him for being a pathetic human being, then felt bad about it because he slapped me with a guilt horse.”
“A what?”
Joe’s hand drifted to his abdomen. I covered it with my own. “Does it still hurt?”
“Nah. Just feels a bit, uh, jumpy, sometimes. It’s hard to explain.”
“Tell me about the guilt horse instead then.”
Joe sat up, wincing a little. “He reckons he took the gun from Dicky McGee to stop him shooting some other twat’s thoroughbred. And he’s probably telling the truth; it’s the kind of arsehole thing Dicky would do.”
“Why does that make you feel guilty?”
“Because I’d probably have taken the gun too.”
I thought back to the random details Joe had let slip about his father over the past few months, usually after some whisky. “But you wouldn’t have driven drunk and crashed the caravan. Or stashed the gun on the farm.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve made plenty of mistakes that have hurt people.”
“Haven’t we all? Being hurt is part of being human.”
Joe rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so fucking reasonable.”
“Sorry.”
“Liar.”
He had me there. We got dressed and Joe drove us back to the farm. I kept my hand on his leg the whole way and wondered what it would be like to lie back on the wide bed upstairs in the farmhouse and let him climb all over me—ride me, fuck me... own me.
“What are you smirking about?”
I glanced at Joe and then out of the window in surprise. I hadn’t noticed the van pulling up in the yard. “Nothing in particular. What are you doing now? Fancy a nap?”
Joe’s grin was weary. “And then some, but I’ve got shit to do. George is off this afternoon, and Toby’s gone back to school.”
“Already? Damn.” The weeks were flying by.
“What about you?” Joe asked. “Are you going to bed?”
How could I with him out working? Though I knew he’d never let me help him after I’d spent a night in the cells. “I’ve got stuff to do too. Find me later?”
Joe nodded. “Sure.”
“What’s up?”
“Hmm? Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about your book.”
“My book? What about it?”
“Are you nearly finished?”
The question was left field and totally out of the blue. Joe had always seemed bewildered when I talked about my writing work, and so I hadn’t much. “I suppose so. It’s a bit ragged at the moment, but I guess it’s coming together.”
Joe stared hard at something behind me. “What will you do when it’s done?”
