Trust (London Love #5)

“I trust you,” he said. I could hear the laughter in his voice.

“I’m not sure I trust you back,” I muttered. But yeah, I was laughing too. It was nice having a friend. Someone who laughed with me instead of making fun of me.

“I’m keeping Mr Snuggles, by the way. Might take him with me to the studio next week. I can hang on to him while I write some more pathetic love songs.”

“Mr Snuggles, The Love Song,” I teased. He retaliated with a slap on my thigh. Oh, so we were doing this now. Touching.

I gave him a shove. “Budge over.” I was tired. It was my day off and I hadn’t had my obligatory lie-in.

I put my back to him and kicked off my shoes, let them drop to the floor. Grabbing the blanket from the bottom of the bed, I tucked it around us both. Then he rolled over, pushed Mr Snuggles up my back and wrapped his arm around me.

“Chaperoned by Mr Snuggles,” he said.

“Sounds like a romance novel. A really dodgy one.”

“Oh, have you read many of those?” He held me tighter, his warm breath on my neck.

“I don’t read, mate. And this isn’t even spooning. This is full-on cuddling.”

“Do you mind?” He yawned. I felt the softness of his lips against my skin.

Fucking hell.

“I do, actually, but I’ll let it slide for now.”

I was comfortable, and the next thing I knew…

…was my dad laughing his head off in the doorway, telling us to get our arses in the kitchen for lunch.

Fuck my life.

Dark Words

GRAHAM

I felt surprisingly comfortable in this place, like there was nothing wrong with the mismatched furniture or the nice chicken dinner that was plated up on the table with not a vegetable in sight. No macrobiotic grain salad topped with something that would inevitably get stuck between my teeth. This felt like home. Like my mother’s Sunday dinners. All we needed was her overcooked broccoli and I would be swished straight back to my childhood kitchen table.

So, here I was, managing small talk with a guy who carried cases for a living and his wayward son.

I laughed in the right places and put comments in where needed, but mostly I was quiet. Calm. Relaxed. I hadn’t felt like that for a long time. I’d sought solitude for a couple of days so I could get my head back on straight; now I was shoving chicken in my gob and discussing the latest football player who’d transferred to some team in Saudi Arabia and whether his game would suffer for the heat.

It was something I had no clue about—the football part, at least. I’d played stadiums in Far-Eastern heat that would have made both of them pass out from hypovolemic shock within minutes. I’d fulfilled contracts, even if it meant that I’d spent the hours afterwards on a drip. Cork had ended up in hospital twice with heat exhaustion. We’d not even complained. Just waved and smiled and then done it again the following night.

I was starting to wonder if I was making it all up in my head, or if I really was insane for going along with it. I was an adult, a professional, and I needed to get someone to talk me through the legalities before the whole Blitz circus kicked off again.

“New album then?” Reuben’s dad asked, grabbing himself another roast potato off the tray then smothering it in gravy. His name was Stewart, and he’d asked me to call him that. I couldn’t make myself call him anything, so I laughed and followed his lead, stuffing a roast potato in my mouth. If I’d been working…well, I wouldn’t have been allowed roast potatoes, that was for sure. Prisons probably served better food than we were fed on tour. Better food than I fed myself. Management ordered whatever they decided we should eat, which was usually inedible, but at least they weren’t hounding me about my weight gain, unlike poor Musa, who was on a constant calorie-controlled diet. He always looked grey. Thin. Exhausted.

“You know,” I said. I had no idea why. “Blitz is on its death bed, and everyone knows it. There are so many new bands. New acts. Better singers and dancers. Younger kids. We should do the decent thing and pack it in with dignity. Release the obligatory greatest hits album and bow out. I think we’ve all had enough, but unfortunately…”

“Your management is still trying to squeeze that one last penny out of you.” I knew I liked Reuben’s dad. Stewart. Whatever.

“Would you, though? Quit?” Reuben asked with a smile. He was always smiling, and it made me smile too.

I nodded. “In a heartbeat. It’s not great, not anymore. We’re all tired, and yeah.” I dragged my finger through the gravy left on my plate and licked the tip. I knew it was disgusting. If I’d been at home, my mum would’ve told me off, while my dad would have laughed. Just like Reuben’s dad did.

“Grab another potato, son. Mop up all that goodness.”

I was tempted, but…