In the two days since Floyd fractured my wrist, I haven’t left my room except to make the odd meal and visit my doctor, who gave me a splint for my wrist. I told him I fell off my bike while cycling and thankfully he believed me. Now, I’m standing in front of my mirror, awkwardly adjusting the buttons on my blue silk shirt with one hand, to ensure it covers the bruises across my collarbone.
I know I shouldn’t accept what Floyd did to me – it’s not okay. If I saw the same happen to any of my friends, I’d be encouraging them to leave, and in normal circumstances, I wouldn’t hesitate, but the situation I’m in isn’t normal. The best I can do is steer clear of him as much as possible.
There’s a knock on my door. I unlock it and swing it open.
“Ready?” Floyd stands, arms crossed over his expensive black suit.
No.
We’re meeting my father and Floyd’s grandmother and mother for drinks at Bar La Vella. It wasn’t my suggestion – itwas my father’s – and though I offered an alternative; he ignored it. What was I going to say? No, we can’t go to Bar La Vella because the love of my life may be working there?
“Sure.” I lift my hand. “Can’t wait to explain this.”
He scowls and I know I shouldn’t push him, given how volatile he’s proven to be. “I’m sure I can trust you not to run your mouth,” he retorts, turning and heading to the lounge.
I follow behind, putting on a coat and scarf to ward against the cold night air. We take a cab and ride in silence, our ruse only needing to start when we walk into Bar La Vella. When we arrive, he stands on my left, sliding his hand into my uninjured one. My immediate instinct is to pull away, which he must feel because he tightens his grip.
“Smile, sweet boy. People are watching.” I look at him and then towards the entry of the bar, where I see his mum and my father talking. When they spot us, his mother beams, coming to greet us both with a warm hug. My father merely nods in our direction.
“What happened to your hand?” His mother remarks, reaching out to carefully touch the hand covered by the neoprene splint.
“Fell off my bicycle,” I say, looking at my father, who is watching me with a furrowed brow. “It was silly. It was raining and I could barely see where I was going.” The lie rolls off my tongue like maybe even I believe it’s the truth.
“Where’s Grandmother?” Floyd asks, a hand on his mother’s lower back as he guides us inside. It’s quiet tonight, with only a few of the tall bar stools occupied. My eyes immediately drift to the bar, relief and disappointment warring for space inside me when I don’t see Oliver.
“Leonard is bringing her later. They were going over some documents from Grandad’s estate.”
From what I’ve gathered from the few times I’ve met his family, Floyd’s grandfather was a well loved and respected man. A family man who put his wife and children first. Sadly, his only son – Floyd’s father – passed away shortly after Floyd was born. They welcomed Floyd’s mother in as part of the family and though she was left out of the will, she doesn’t seem to be bothered about it. Unlike my father, who amassed his wealth through business – and unscrupulous dealings – the Hastings family is old money rich.
“Great,” Floyd mumbles under his breath.
When we take our seats at an empty table, Floyd grabs my hand before I can sit down. “We’ll get the drinks,” he says.
“They have table service,” my father offers.
Floyd brushes him off. “No need. Darius and I will get them.” His grip on my hand tightens and then he’s dragging me towards the bar. A sensation passes over my spine, the hairs on the back of my neck rising and I know before my eyes even meet his across the bar that Oliverisin fact here this evening. Floyd pauses a few steps from the bar, smiling as he leans into me, his lips touching the shell of my ear.
“I don’t think I need to tell you what happens if you fuck up tonight, Darius. My grandmother is spending far too much time with Leonard for my liking. I’m certain she’s on to us. So prove her wrong and play the doting husband. Got it?”
My eyes are still locked on Oliver’s and I swallow thickly, my throat suddenly dry. I manage a nod, which seems to satisfy Floyd. He kisses my cheek, an act for anyone watching us, then heads to the bar.
Oliver barely reacts as we approach him, until his eyes settle on my wrist. Then his features cloud, a brief flash of anger that you wouldn’t notice unless you were really looking at him. And I am, because he is so beautiful and I miss him so bloody much.
“What can I get for you this evening?” he asks, tone neutral.
“Have we met before?” Floyd asks. I don’t know what Oliver’s going to say and I’m both hurt and surprised when he shakes his head, acting like we’re complete strangers to him.
I guess I deserve that. It’s probably for the best, anyway.
“I don’t think so. Unless you’ve been in here before?”
Floyd hums under his breath. “Maybe.” He pulls me closer and wraps an arm around my waist. “We’ll have four gin and tonics, please.” He looks at me, knowing full well I fucking hate gin. I get this sense he’s trying to fuck with me, so I don’t react. “Have them brought to the table.” Floyd hands over his credit card and Oliver takes the payment. He doesn’t look at me again and we head back to the table.
A few moments later, Oliver brings over the tray and places a drink in front of each of us. I’m surprised because I know, as the barman, he rarely handles table service.
He walks away, and as I take a sip of my drink, expecting the sharp, dry taste of gin, I know why.
Because he knows me.
