‘Huh?’ I say innocently.
Brayden pokes me in the ribs. ‘Oh, please, you drooled like a Doberman at the sight of Firetruck. I know a hungry bottom when I see one.’
I try to catch the barmaid’s attention. ‘Takes one to know one, Bray,’ I say.
‘Mason’s as dumb as two planks,’ Brayden says seriously. ‘He’s my housemate and he’s sweet. I’m protective of him. He gets into situations that end up hurting him.’
‘And you think I’d be a situation that hurts him?’
‘Would you?’ Brayden probes. ‘What are your intentions with my Firetruck?’
‘Uh, I’d lethimhurtme,’ I mutter. ‘In one place, very specifically. He’s hot. Lemme chat to him. If we vibe, we vibe. If we don’t, we don’t.’
Brayden peers at my black Billy Talent T-shirt and studded wristband, squinting. ‘Look, I don’t see it,’ he says. ‘It’s a mismatch. So, fine, shoot your shot. It won’t go anywhere. And if you hurt him, I will hunt you down and kill you.’
I am no brawler, but Brayden is a twig and even I could take him. ‘Deal.’
We get our drinks and head back to the table. I hand Mason his Great Northern and clink it against my Heineken.
‘Cheers, mate,’ Mason says. ‘Real good of you.’
‘So, how do you and Bray know each other?’ I ask them both, but with my eyes on Mason.
They exchange this knowing look, both smirking as if sharing some big secret.
‘We call it trauma-bonding,’ Brayden says. ‘I told you what happened at leavers years ago, right?’
Brayden is one of the unluckiest guys I’ve ever met, and he’s had a LIFE. Two years ago, he was bashed in the Perth Cultural Centre, needing stitches. Two years earlier, he was electrocuted by a frayed power cord at a Fringe event. And back when he finished high school, his mates ditched him when he came out and he ended up at a leavers party on Brink Island where two people died. It was this huge thing in the news. Brayden doesn’t talk about it much anymore, but the experience messed him up.
‘I remember, yeah,’ I say. ‘The Brink stuff.’
Mason flinches slightly at the mention of the island.
‘Well, Firetruck was there with me,’ Brayden says. ‘We’re survivors.’
‘That musta been hard,’ I say. If Brayden wasn’t watching, I’d rub Mason’s arm sympathetically.
Mason stares at his beer and takes a long swig. ‘It’s in the past,’ he says gruffly. ‘No point dwelling on it.’
I nod slowly, but it’s like looking at a distorted mirror reflection. Curtis and Ahmed have tried to get me to talk about Gero and why I left. I always fob them off with some version of Mason’s answer.It’s in the past. I’ve never told them about Matt. It would feel like a betrayal. And it would make me face stuff I buried, to survive.
I see the same survival strategy in Mason’s blank expression. Some things are so painful you can’t dive into them, no matter how much people want you to.
I get talking with Mason. He’s a truck driver at a quarry up at Neerabup. He works long hours and doesn’t party much, preferring quiet drinks at home or with his footy mates – he plays amateur footy for the ECU Jets. Outside that, he doesn’t have much to say. I tell him about my music and all he replies with is ‘That’s cool, man.’ A conversationalist, he isn’t.
The only moment of genuine connection is when I mention the Tool Shed.
‘Pool tables and sports on TV is way more my speed than here,’ Mason says keenly.
‘We have our opening next Friday,’ I say. ‘Want an invite? I can arrange it.’
‘Oh, and what am I, chopped liver?’ Brayden pipes up. ‘Where’s my invite, bitch?’
‘I’ll put youse both on the list,’ I say. ‘Easy done.’
I head to the toilets for a slash, feeling a radiator glow in my chest.
I piss like a racehorse at the urinals while two straight guys rack up cocaine in the cubicle. It’s been a long time since these dunnies were used for guys to hook up in.
