Trust (London Love #5)

“Yep. One of my many best-selling creations.”

“And now you think you’re having a breakdown? I mean, what the hell does that lyric mean anyway?”

“You mean, the bit about twisting my brain into submission? Holding my heart with the claws of your tongue?” His singing voice felt too close to the bone. I didn’t like it.

“Shut the fuck up, mate.”

He just laughed.

I pulled up outside our house and did a perfect reverse into the conveniently empty parking space. Weekdays, people were at work. On the weekends, I sometimes had to park a twenty-minute walk away. Dad had a posh car and paid for a private space around the back of our building. I couldn’t afford that. Besides, I didn’t need it. I could walk. I liked driving. Driving was good for me, kept all my neurons firing nicely. I could concentrate now. When I’d bought my first car…well. My first two cars were written off when I lost the little concentration I’d had back then. I could be scatty AF. The third one got stolen. I didn’t blame whoever had nicked it because no doubt I’d forgotten to lock it, seeing as that was when I was into driving off and sitting in the car smoking until I barely knew my own name. Then I’d tried to drive home again.

I could smile about it now, and apparently I was doing, as he looked at me over the top of the car as we got out and asked, “What’s funny?”

“Old me. The tricks I used to get up to. The stupidity of youth.”

“You sound like your dad.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m barely twenty-six and already speak like a mature silver fox.”

“He’s handsome, your old man.”

“Stop,” I said sternly. “If you’re into an older man, fine, but this is not how we’re going to play this. I’m not going to push you into my very straight father’s loving arms, and there will be no happily ever after.” I wasn’t even laughing. Trust? Fuck that.

“Dude!” He shook his head at me. “You have the gay bit right, but God. No. Nope. Please don’t ever mention that again.”

“Mention what?” I laughed as I stuck my key in the door and hollered for my dad.

We lived in a ground-floor flat—the bottom storey of a house. There was a single mum upstairs with a bunch of kids and some wannabe gangsters in the house next door. The neighbours three doors down sold every drug under the sun. This was no idyllic existence, but it was where Dad and I lived. Where we slept and ate and laughed and actually got on. I hadn’t been an easy kid, but my dad was no bloody saint either. We’d both fought our battles. Neither of us had won.

We’d compromised. A very adult thing to do, I’d learned. And it worked. Like I’d given up the weed and he’d given up the booze. We were both better off now. We coexisted, supported each other. Held the fort.

My dad needed a girlfriend, someone who would take over so I could move out because I didn’t want to leave him here alone. I couldn’t afford to move out either, but that was a completely different story.

“Hey!” Dad appeared in the hallway, in his apron. Like always. My dad was rather prim and proper and wore slacks and a shirt at all times, even on days off, while I tended to mope around in my boxers. Not that either of us cared.

“And hello…Mr Dieter…Graham?” He looked a little perplexed, to be honest, as I dragged our guest through the door.

“Graham,” I said. “We’re going to feed him and let him stay the night, and then…?”

I looked questioningly at Gray. That was what I was calling him now in my head.

“Thanks for having me,” he said like he was a seven-year-old having been invited for a playdate.

“You’re very welcome here,” my dad replied, doing that caring voice. One of the many reasons why I loved my dad. He cared. His home was his castle, but if someone needed something, he was always there with open arms and a plate of food.

“The chicken needs another hour, so go relax.” Dad waved his arm to dismiss us. “I assume you’ll need tea?”

“Yes, please.” I grinned. I was polite. Told you. “How do you take your tea, G?”

He shrugged. He couldn’t have looked more confused if I’d asked him something about advanced chemistry.

“Just milk for G here,” I answered for him. He drank lattes. A bit of milk would do.

“G,” Dad muttered. “What kind of name is that? I thought The Dieter was bad enough.”

“It sounds like something an Austrian graphic designer would be called,” Gray said.

“It’s a name.” The last thing I wanted was for my dad to offend Gray and have him retreat back into the state he’d been in earlier.