Page 4 of Edge

“Seatbelt.”

Jory scowled but pulledthe belt tight across himself then settled back with closedeyes.

“So where to?”Dumont glanced at him in the rearview mirror with narrowed eyes.“Studio or home?” Dumont was no fan of Roger and didn’t understandwhy Jory stayed with him.

That’s astory for another day, he thought tiredly.No one would understand his reasons. “Home, please. I need a showerand these damn jeans are dissecting my balls.”

Maybe Rogerwill be out and I won’t have to deal with him.

Jory rubbed his forehead,hoping to dull the pain from the sledgehammer trying to smash itsway out of his skull.

I need to dosomething about this situation.

But I don’tknow what the fuck to do

CHAPTER TWO

Jory

Nolan Manningwas epic. Great fuck, huge dick, and born to be a top, he ploughedmy ass like a pro, definite nine and a half. Pity about his poorwife. Maybe it’s a marriage of convenience. Huh. Maybe not. 13 July2018

Jory slid his key intothe locked door and opened it. He lived on the top floor in afancy, concierge-managed building. Roger called it The Penthouse asif he were talking in capitals, the pretentious git, but there werewankers out there who’d think nothing of doing a home invasion tosteal the telly.

Dumont had driven the caralongside the building so Jory could clamber out, mostly unseen.There were always a few arsehole paparazzi who lingered around theblock, hoping to get a glimpse of him.

“You goanywhere, you make sure you let me know,” Dumont growled beforedriving off to the underground lot to park the car. He lived in anapartment in the same block, on the sixth floor, and was always oncall for the band or Jory. “Don’t fucking sneak out and whateveryou do, don’t forget you have a recording sesh later tonight. Sootyand Katie will have my balls if you go off half-cocked and we don’tmake it. Not to mention Alice will likely stuff both our heads downthe crapper.”

Jory rolledhis eyes and promised his friend yes, heremembered and yes, he’d be on time whenDumont came to pick him up. The music studio, Music Vine, wasacross the city, through packed Manchester traffic, and Dumontinsisted on leaving half an hour earlier. He had a bit of a thingabout time.

As Jory walked into hisapartment, the fragrance of something spicy, like tomato sauce,drifted into his nostrils. It seemed Roger was making spaghetti andmeatballs, one of his “chef” specialities. He fancied himself agood cook, something Jory had no interest in. That’s whatmicrowaves and ready-made meals were for.

All Jory wanted to do wasshower and sit in his home studio to practice his chords and lyricsto a new batch of songs he’d written. Then he’d have a beer orsomething harder, and an afternoon nap when the time wasright.

He attempted to bestealthy as he made his way up the stairs to the bathroom, butRoger had ears like a fucking lynx. His roommate—he refused tothink of the man as anything else—came out of the kitchen wearing awhite, burgundy-speckled apron while brandishing a wooden spoon,from which dropped small splodges of red. Either it was blood, ortomato sauce. Jory wouldn’t have been surprised if it were theformer given Roger’s former profession as a soldier. That fact hadseriously fucked up Jory’s childhood: living with a drill sergeantwho’d run everything with precision to the point ofmania.

He thought wearily bloodwould be preferred because if he’d murdered someone in the kitchen,then maybe Roger could be arrested and get the fuck out of Jory’slife.

“Edge. Wherethe hell have you been? You didn’t come home last night. I wasbloody worried about you.” Roger advanced on him, grey eyes flinty,mouth set in a grim line.

“Our agreementmeans I don’t have to tell you shit about where I am or who I’mwith,” Jory shot back as he ascended the winding steel staircase.“And my fucking name is Jory, not Edge.” He knew it wasn’t a fightworth having because he’d never win. Roger preferred his stagepersona to the real man.

“Do you wantanything to eat? I’m doing Italian.” Roger ran a hand over hishair, then reached down to tug at his clipped beard. “Yourfavourite.”

Jory shook his head. “Nothanks. Gotta be at the studio at eight. I doubt I’ll be eatinghere.” He turned. “I’m going for a shower.”

Roger’s face darkened. “Iknow you have an album to produce, but it would be nice to have youaround. This week you’ve not spent any time at home.”

Jory turned to Roger ashe reached the landing and gave him a twisted smile. “This isn’thome, Roger. Not for me.”

He opened the door to thebathroom and went inside, shutting the door loudly behind him. Hislast glance was of Roger’s angry face, the same face he made everytime Jory told him home was not 24 Griffin Place in the NorthernQuarter. This palatial place belonged to Roger, and Jory wanted nopart of it.

He’d been in the showerfor fifteen minutes, enjoying the steam and the jets of hot water,when there was a rapid knocking on the door.

“Edge, whenyou’re done in there, we need to talk. I’ll see you downstairs.”Roger sounded pissed off and Jory felt a prickle of panic. Had hecrossed a line Roger wouldn’t accept? Was this going to be thefinal limit, and was Jory’s life—and others—about to become a shitstorm?

He basked a little morein the heat, making sure his hair was free of product, then steppedout of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. Thebathroom mirror was steamed up and he wiped it with a washcloth.Staring into his reflection, he saw a young man in hismid-twenties, with artfully styled coal-black hair, blue eyes, anda pointy chin. His cheekbones were defined and more than one womanhad drooled over them. He’d been told women paid thousands to havea bone structure like his. Jory had never seen anything in his faceto justify any excitement.

He gazed critically atthe tattoos layered across his body, not understanding why everylover he’d enjoyed seemed to get off on them. Often literally. ToJory, his tattoos were symbolic of the path his life had taken. Thelark impressed on his heart in memory of his little brother.Winding roses strewn up a crumbled tower up both arms in memory ofhis parents, and the blood-red wine and musical notes winding uphis back between his shoulder blades reminded him of his time atLondon South Bank University studying for his music degree. They’dbeen some of the best times of his life.