“I meant in general. He only hits you up when he wants something.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Be nice.”
Sam huffed and stomped off, slender hips swinging. My hands balled into fists and I forced myself to avert my gaze and mentally prepare for the whirlwind that was Freddie Santos.
Ten minutes later, he breezed into the bar looking every inch the flash git that made footballers so popular and yet unpopular at the same time. Designer everything,Peaky Blindershair-don’t and a shit-eating grin that made even me, a by-product of his world, want to punch him in the face.
He dropped onto the bar stool next to me. “Duuuude, how’s tricks?”
“Same as ever.” I pocketed my phone, suppressing a sigh. “What brings you down these parts?”
“Looking for my wingman, aren’t I?”
“I’ve never been your wingman.”
“Course you have. What about those clubs in Rio? You were always by my side then.”
“Not on purpose. There was nowhere else to stand.”
Freddie rolled his eyes, but I was saved from further bullshit by Sam’s sullen appearance behind the bar.
He fixed Freddie with a bland stare. “What can I get you?”
Freddie scanned the shelves behind Sam. “Suppose it’s too much to ask for your champagne list?”
“Nope, but it’d be a short read, even for you.”
Too dense to realise Sam was already cutting him down, Freddie let out a theatrical sigh. “Whatever. I’ll have a vodka. Neat. And make it the good stuff; Micah’s paying.”
Sam turned away to fix the drink.
I thumped Freddie’s arm as hard as I dared, considering the insurance policies his club probably had on his body. “Why am I paying? You know I take home a couple of grand a month now. That’s amonth, dude. Not an hour.”
Freddie shrugged, rubbing his arm. “I was joking. Trying to get a rise out of your pretty roommate. You know he gets territorial over you.”
“I think it’s more he’s pegged you for a prize wanker.”
I’d never spoken truer words, but they didn’t sound the same in my flat London accent. Sam’s warm, northern brogue made everything magic. I heard it in my dreams, awake, asleep, always.
Freddie nudged me. “I don’t care what your dude thinks of me, man.”
“He’s not my dude.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, I really did come by to drag you out. A bunch of us are heading to that new joint by the river tonight, the one with the burlesque show and the titty bar. Come with me?”
I stared at him like he’d grown horns. Like he hadn’t been the one to hold my hand when the London Transport Police had scraped me off the Tube tracks. “Are you kidding me? Why the fuck would I want to go to a titty bar?”
“Dunno. Maybe to spend some time with your mates? People who haven’t seen you for months and months and months?”
There was a damn good reason for that: those arseholes hadn’t ever been my fucking friends. But I knew Freddie, and it was loaded conversations like this that kept me from icing him out of my life. As clumsy and offensive as he was, he really did care.
A shot of vodka appeared on the bar. I didn’t dare look up, but I felt Sam’s presence like a second skin.
Freddie didn’t spare Sam a glance either. He prodded me in the ribs. “So? What are you saying? You wanna come out?”
