Duncan took his mug, standing. “I’m happy to bring you coffee, but serve your poison yourself.”
Spencer’s eyes filled with a small hate. “I see…” He flung the duvet off and swung his legs to the floor. Standing, but he lost his balance, landing straight in Duncan’s arms. He stayed therea bit, on that broad chest, wedged against his abs, until Duncan’s scent started fucking with his brain and senses.
He pushed himself away, looking up into his eyes. “I’ll do it myself, then…”
“Suit yourself.”
Spencer swayed, but readjusted his silk pyjamas. “You think you’re so righteous? But drinking helps… it soothes all that fucking ache.”
“Is this your grand speech on how drinking is great? Don’t bother. There’s nothing on Earth that could convince me it’s not a shit addiction. But sure, go ahead and tell yourself how it helps.”
“Fuck you.” He stormed out, as best as he could, still hangover.
Fuck.Duncan went after him, and brought the mug to the kitchen. Turning to Spencer when he walked in with a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“Prepare the car, we’re leaving as soon as everybody’s ready.”
Duncan blinked at him. “Just like that?”
“I’m the fucking boss here. Just obey, you fuck.”
Eyes a bit wide when Duncan stepped close, jamming a finger in his sternum.
His voice, soft. “You might be the boss, but I’m not your fucking dog.”
Spencer smirked, mocking. “And what will you do? Whack my ass?”
“I might.” He left before he would do something that he would have regretted later.Shit.
Packing, he listened to Spencer argue with the others, a glass breaking against a wall, screaming morphing into laughter, more laughter and shouting.
Driving them back whilst they listened to music in the back, full blast, the whole car rocking. Probably none of them buckled up either,shit, fuck.Fuming, but he stayed focused, almost, so close to resigning, but then he realized he had nowhere to go. Not without a new assignment, and Sinclair sure as fuck wouldn’t give him one fast, not if he ditched this one too so close to the other one. He grabbed the wheel, feeling like howling again. Trying to imagine how Spencer would be without all that alcohol and weed flooding his veins, his brain… failing… because sure as fuck he was drenched in them, maybe all his cells filled with them to the brim.
Chuckling a bit, to quench that despair. He leant his elbow on the window and clamped his teeth on his index finger, that pain soothing. Keeping his hand wedged against his mouth, his teeth sunk into his skin, he drove, a bit more at ease, floating a bit as the road wound down the mountain.
Spencer only called him the next day, and he walked up to the mansion, up to his room. Empty. The window open. His stomach clenched as the adrenaline flooded him, but a voice stopped him from rushing to the window.
“I’m over here…”
Duncan hurried to the workshop, pushing the door open.
Spencer turned to him from his stool, an open white shirt with rolled up sleeves flung on his torso, black loose pants, barefoot. An empty canvas in front of him. That mocking smile. “I figured you shat yourself, but I opened the window out of courtesy and aired out before you arrived.”
Duncan blew a breath, the adrenaline bending into anger. “Fucking great!”
“People filled your head that I might throw myself out the window? There’s a French verb for that.”
“I know.”
His eyes took that peculiar light, roaming him. “I know you know… would you strip?”
“Excuse me?” Incredulous, his anger lapped at his throat.
“Not naked… although…”
“Forget the fuck it!”
“Just the top then? I could use a model.”
