Mickey opened WhatsApp and started a new message thread. Then he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, itching for another smoke—or worse—while he considered his first words.
The truth seemed a good place to start.
Mickey: want to fuck you again
He fired it off, then wondered if he should’ve opened with something more benign. Small talk. Pleasantries. Benito didn’t seem the type for either, but it was hard to gauge a man’s personality when all you had to go on were the blood-pumping sounds he made when he came.
Sounds Mickey heard every time he closed his eyes.
The message delivered to Benito’s phone. Mickey tapped out of the messaging app without waiting to see if he read it and opened his email. There was one from Isha, and it wasn’t good news. The council had refused the rescheduled date DOSHA had offered them, and the planned meeting would go ahead on Friday. By then, Mickey needed a workable plan for the De Lucas or their days in the subsidised flat they called home were numbered.
Shit shit shit.
Mickey tossed his phone on the passenger seat and reached for his keys. It was too late to pay Mrs De Luca another fruitless visit, but if he could get home and compose a letter that didn’t make him sound like an illiterate idiot, he could come back first thing and slip it through her door.
You’re not an idiot. Or illiterate. You’re dyslexic.
Another true story, and the prospect of sweating over his laptop all evening made him want to throat punch the reasonable devil on his shoulder, but Mickey would do it a thousand times over if it stopped a family losing their home. “You haven’t terminated a tenancy.” A third truth, but if there was one thing life had taught Mickey, it was he never ran out of time to fuck everything up. There was always enough rope for a—
His phone buzzed, startling him with an incoming WhatsApp message. Heart jumping, he reached for it, expecting Isha, Dom, or a robot asking him if he’d been in a car accident. Anyone except the last person he’d contacted.
Anyone except Benito.
Benito: can relate. soon?
Mickey’s eyes widened, and his pulse kicked up a gear, blood rushing to his ears. Soon. Yeah. He could get on board with that.
Mickey: how soon?
Benito: depends
Mickey: on?
Benito: how bad u really want it
Mickey: want u. is that bad enough?
Benito: i think we’re both pretty bad at dirty texts, but u get the sentiment, right?
Mickey sniggered out loud, and it surprised him. The Benito he’d met at the club hadn’t struck him as a dude who’d make him laugh, and he hadn’t cared. He’d been too busy trying not to come in the first ten seconds, and even then, he’d broken one of the few rules he kept in place for hook-ups like that: condom or not, Mickey didn’t come inside random fucks. He pulled out and shot on their back or in their face. Wherever felt good at the time. Never inside.
But something about Benito had spun his head enough to forget the rules, and it was all he’d thought about since that night.
Liar. You’ve thought about everything, not just blowing your load.
Guilty as charged, Mickey let his mind wander, hoping it would help him find the words to text Benito something coherent. He lit another smoke, mind swimming with fragmented memories of their charged encounter—clashing limbs, wild hands, and then . . . another broken rule. Mickey had kissed Benito. A moment of fucking madness that had put the final nail in the coffin of his self-control. He could barely recall what had happened next, at least, not the details. Only the blinding heat. The unreal pleasure that he was still struggling to quite believe.
Mickey: i’m not sentimenal. just hot for u
He sent the message before he realised he’d spelt sentimental wrong.
Fucking hell.
His thumb hovered over the delete option, but Benito was already typing back.
B: that works. i’m free tonight
Mickey blinked, but whatever reply he may have made was cut off by a tap on the car window. Dazed, he swung his gaze. A teenage girl scowled back at him.
What the?
Mickey opened the car door and stood, pocketing his phone and scanning the vicinity for any little shits who wanted to come at him, road boys in training, too green to realise Mickey was the last person they wanted to fuck with. It wasn’t that late, but it was dark already, and he’d parked by an underpass—a prime spot for a mugging.
The girl, however, was alone. And unarmed, unless she had a shank up her sleeve. Mickey shut the car door and leaned against it, keeping space between them. “What are you banging on my car for? Do you need something?”
“Are you the man from the housing association?”
“I’m from DOSHA. We manage some of the properties around here, but not all of them. Why? Are you a tenant?”
The girl nodded. “You’re looking for my mum.”
“Who’s that?”
“Rosetta De Luca. She owes you money.”
Mickey frowned, taking in the girl’s raven curls and fierce gaze. “She doesn’t owe me money. It’s her rent. You’re the daughter that lives with her?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve always been at school when I’ve been there.” Mickey took another glance around. If the girl was who she said she was, she was on the wrong estate. Her block was visible on the horizon, but it was a half a mile away. “Do you think you could ask your mum to call me so we can set up a meeting? It’s really important that I speak with her.”
“Why? Are you kicking us out?”
“I really need to speak with her.”
The girl bit her lip, anxiety flaring in her dark eyes. “She won’t let you in. She can’t.”
“Why not?”
“She’s scared.”
“She doesn’t need to be. If I can just talk to her, we can set up—”
“You don’t understand!” the girl shouted. “It’s not the money, she just can’t.”
“Hey, hey.” Mickey held up his hands. “I want to help, okay? But I can’t do that if your mum won’t talk to me. Do you think she’d answer an email if I sent it to her?”
The girl shook her head. “No. She doesn’t do technology. It gives her migraines.”
“What about a phone call? I don’t have to come in the flat if she’s more comfortable talking over the phone?”
“No.”
“Why not? What is she afraid of?”
“Everything. Mostly my brother finding out what she did.”
“What did she do?”
The girl opened her mouth, then reality seemed to catch up with her and she snapped it shut, more panic clouding her gaze. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
She stepped back and whipped around, ten feet away before Mickey could blink.
Fuck. He could’ve reached her in two strides, but he knew better than to chase a young girl down and force her to speak to him. “Hey!” he called. “Wait up.”
The girl stopped but didn’t turn round.
Mickey pushed off his car and caught up with her, rounding her slender frame to stand in front of her, though he kept well back, leaving her space to flee if she wanted to. “Listen,” he said. “I need to speak to your mum. I can’t do anything for you unless that happens. I’m going to write her a letter and put it through your door, okay? It’s going to say everything she needs to do to put the brakes on the arrears and how to do it, but she has to contact me, even if it’s a just a text message. She can do that, right? I have her number, so I’ll know it’s her.”