Trust (London Love #5)

“Gray.”

“What?” he squeaked out.

Okay. Good grief. These pop star celebs were hard work. The Dieter more than most.

“I should go,” I said. “Because you’re here for peace and quiet, and not for having social get-togethers with the doorman downstairs. So, I apologise.” Gathering up the paper bags and empty containers, I cleaned a smear of ketchup off the table then wiped my hands, slowly, waiting for him to react. To say something.

“Yeah,” he said. Good.

“You’ve got a lot on. I understand.” I actually did. I lived with my dad.

“I live with my dad.” Hello, brain. Talking for me again? “I can’t even take a piss in peace and quiet. Don’t even mention having a sneaky wank.”

That made him snort. He was calm again. Or calmer at least.

“Also,” I continued, “my dad likes to hoover at six in the morning. It’s his thing. The neighbours write petitions sometimes. Try to ban hoovering before ten in the morning.”

He laughed. It was a good sound.

“I just want…some kind of normality, Reubs. Be able to breathe. And I can’t remember the last time I jerked off because, you know…”

“Yeah.” Trust me to steer the conversation onto…weirdness.

“I’m gonna go,” I said quietly. “Leave you to enjoy the fact that there won’t be anyone outside that door unless you call for them. You have my number, and there’s a phone right there. Dial one for anything you fancy. We’re like a twenty-four-hour-a-day problem-solving machine, we are.”

That wasn’t the official hotel tagline, but whatever. It felt like it should be.

“You are,” he said. I think there was a smile still there. “Thanks for the food. I, uh, don’t have any cash on me to pay you.”

Not even an apology. A statement, like he was so used to everyone else paying.

“Least I can do,” I said, and I meant it. How many people in the world got to have dinner with The Dieter?

But it wasn’t The Dieter sitting there looking small and scared and like someone who needed a hug. Maybe that was an act. Maybe he was still in character from that film job or whatever. Or doing research.

“Dude, call me if you need me.”

Professionalism. That was me. And I even took the rubbish with me as I closed the door behind me.

He was not my friend, and I was just the bleeding doorman. A skanky kid. Yet I’d bought him a burger and invited myself in to share grub. Not my place. Not my job. It had just seemed…natural. What a decent person would do.

What did I know?

Bah.

I took the lift down and let myself out through the staff door. Found my car where I’d left it, in one piece. A good result, as always. This was central London, after all, and even though I knew all the little nooks I could tuck my small rust bucket into, it wasn’t always safe or a good idea.

But it was my car. My decisions. My risks and my life. And my life was good, just like this, so I switched on my tunes and tried to forget about things that really didn’t matter. I drove, the wind from the open window in my hair. It was spring and I should have been cold, but I wasn’t. I was good. Life was okay.

I wondered if The Dieter was okay. The Dieter. I couldn’t even make myself think of him as anything else. Calling him that kept the distance. A shield.

He wasn’t my mate. Never would be.

What’s the plan?

GRAHAM

I woke up on the floor, and that in itself was a little terrifying.