“She might not have yours. She deletes your calls so my brother doesn’t see them.”
“He goes through her phone?”
“No. Never. But she’s convinced herself he does, even though he doesn’t come in the flat anymore.”
“Why doesn’t he come inside?”
The girl shrugged. “I don’t know. They kind of hate each other. It’s complicated.”
“Families usually are.” Mickey pointed behind the girl. “I’m going to get my card from the car. Take it home and give it to your mum, and tell her I’m dropping off a letter in the morning. But she hasn’t got much time to respond; I need you to understand that. Between us, we need to figure something out by the end of the week, or we’re all in trouble.”
He spoke lightly but held the girl’s gaze. He didn’t want to scare her, but bullshitting wasn’t going to help.
She nodded.
Mickey fetched his card from the car and took it back to her. She shoved it in her pocket. Then she stepped around him and disappeared into the night.
Anxiety scraped Mickey’s conscience as she vanished into the shadows. He couldn’t remember how old Rosetta De Luca’s daughter was, and it wasn’t as if he could put her in his car and give her a lift, but letting her walk home alone felt wrong enough to leave a bad taste in his mouth.
He returned to his car and slid into the seat, starting the engine and glowering at his empty cigarette packet. His chest already hurt from the two he’d sucked down in quick succession, but the need to dampen his nervous energy trumped his health. Always did, and he had the scars on his soul to prove it. Still, there were better ways of tying his feet to the ground than giving himself lung cancer. There are worse ways too. Like—
Shaking his head, Mickey dug his phone from his pocket and opened WhatsApp again. Benito had gone offline a while ago, perhaps reading into the fact Mickey had read his last message and not replied. Fuck that. Mickey’s fingers flew over the screen, typing and deleting until he was almost sure what he’d written made sense.
Mickey: can do tonight but not till late and not at the club. too far. can accom. it’s safe
He hit Send, then dropped his phone on the passenger seat. Every selfish instinct he possessed screamed at him to wait on Benito’s reply, but he’d worked hard not to be a selfish motherfucker anymore.
Before he got his dick wet again, he had a letter to write.
The knock on Mickey’s door came at ten at night. By then, he’d dictated a letter into his laptop, run it through a dyslexia app, and sent it to the office for a final check before he would print and deliver it the next morning.
He’d showered too but missed dinner, and the only clean clothes he had were the black drawstring pyjama bottoms he answered the door in.
No shirt.
Benito lounged on Mickey’s porch, shoulder propped against the brick, dressed in designer sweatpants and a long-sleeve tee that clung to his muscles. Casual and cool. Only his eyes gave him away as something more, glinting in the darkness and sweeping over Mickey with such intensity, Mickey shivered. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Benito didn’t move.
Caught in his stare for a thudding heartbeat, Mickey didn’t either. Then a cold breeze rattled him, and he stepped aside, waving Benito forward into his small terraced house.
Benito slipped inside, closing the door behind him. He leant against it like he had at the club, still watching Mickey, dissecting him.
Mickey didn’t mind. He’d done the same on the rare occasions he’d hooked up outside of the club. He pointed at the kitchen. “Back door is through there. It’s unlocked.”
“Why are you telling me that?”
“So you know where the exits are.”
“In case we crash?”
Mickey grinned. “If you like. Just letting you know you’re safe.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“No?”
Benito straightened, though he didn’t step forward. “I wouldn’t have come if I thought you were a weirdo.”
You’re gonna come.
Smirking, Mickey swallowed the crude joke and considered his options. Throwing Benito back against the door was one. Taking him straight upstairs was another, but Benito’s set jaw gave him pause. He’s nervous. “You want a drink, mate?”
“Hmm?” Despite his sharp gaze, Benito startled.
It was endearing as fuck. Mickey took a chance and held out his hand. “Come on. Let’s get a beer.”
Benito stared hard at Mickey’s outstretched hand, as if he didn’t believe it was real. Then he took it, and his cool, dry fingers wrapped around Mickey’s palm.
Mickey brought his other hand to the game and rubbed warmth into Benito’s fingers. “Cold out?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got the cure for that.”
“Have you?”
“I reckon so. Let’s get that drink first.” Mickey let go of Benito’s hand and padded barefoot to the kitchen, trusting that Benito would follow. He opened the fridge and retrieved two beer bottles with twist caps as Benito filled the space behind him. “Here. You can open it yourself.”
So you know it’s safe.
Benito took the bottle. He uncapped it and took a long swig, throat working and leaving his lips wet when he was done.
Captivated, Mickey took it all in, pondering if they’d kiss again. If he could even handle it. Fucking Benito was one thing. His kiss had been something else. In the frequent moments he’d thought of it since that night, his lips had tingled, and he’d shivered, a craving he didn’t recognise igniting inside, one that distracted him from even his darkest thoughts.
Like now. Mickey opened his own bottle with undue care but abandoned it on the counter without drinking. He didn’t need the ice breaker, just for Benito to feel comfortable enough to relax. “Did you have to come far?”
Benito raised an inky brow. “You wanna talk about the weather too?”
“We already did that.” Mickey suppressed a grin. “Just making conversation. Let me know when you’re ready for something else.”
“I was ready when I got here.”
“Were you?”
Benito drank more beer. “You think I drove all this way to have a chat?”
“I don’t know how far you drove. You never answered my question.”
Benito’s lips twitched, and fleeting humour danced in his brown eyes. “I don’t remember you being so chatty.”
“No? What do you remember?”
“That you wanted to fight me before you fucked me. You want to do that again?”
Fuck yeah. But there was one problem: this wasn’t the club. Mickey had neighbours who’d call the police if they heard two men brawling through the walls. “We can do it, but we’ll have to be quiet about it. Like, proper silent.”
“Roommate?”
“Nah, the old bird next door.”
Benito nodded slowly. “I like the idea of silence. It’s . . . hot.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Mickey pointed to the ceiling. “We can fuck on my bed or down here if you’re more comfortable.”
“Stop trying to make me comfortable.”