Mal woke up with the mother of all hangovers and a desperate need to piss. It wasn’t till he’d staggered out from under the duvet, yelped in sudden pain, and promptly fallen back on the bed that he remembered he also had a dodgy ankle and a shedload of bruises over a large proportion of his skin.
Trouble was, once he’d remembered all that, he couldn’t seem to stop remembering stuff he really wasn’t feeling up to coping with. Crap. Shitting, sodding, bollocking crap.
He sat on the bed, rubbing his ankle and wishing he could rub his life better. He’d made a right arse of himself.
Christ. Jory.
What the hell must he think of Mal after last night’s little shit-show?
Oh God. Mal didn’t want to think about it. With his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to meet his own gaze in the mirror, he hobbled into the bathroom, where he bashed his elbow on the doorframe and almost fell in the bath.
And then, because clearly he wasn’t suffering enough yet, he walked out of the bathroom to find Tasha waiting for him with the least sympathetic look ever on her face. “Wanna make a bit more noise? Cos I think there’s still people back in London who didn’t quite hear you crashing around up here.”
Mal winced. “Keep your voice down, yeah?”
“Aw, we not feeling so good?” Tasha’s voice got even louder, because she was an evil witch who hated him.
“Not so much, no.” Mal leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes again. “Was it as bad as I think it was?”
“Depends. Do you think you got shit-faced, snogged Jory’s missus, then nearly killed yourself and had to be rescued by the bloke you cheated on?”
“Crap.” Mal’s eyes flew open of their own accord as another memory hit and jolted him from humiliation to hope. “But he kissed me, yeah? When you and him found me? That happened, right?” Because that kiss . . . He could have dreamed that, easy.
It was way too good to be in Mal’s fucked-up life. Just like the bloke who’d given it to him.
Tasha paused. “Look, we were all dead worried about you, you know. Me and him and even her, from what Jory said.”
“‘Her’?”
“The missus. She went up to see him after you bogged off. Told him you was upset and all.”
“Did she tell him it was an accident?” Mal asked hopefully.
“What, you mean like your tongue accidentally falling in her mouth? I dunno, do I? We were a bit more worried about finding you last night.” Tasha folded her arms. “He thought you might’ve walked off a cliff like his old man.”
“Oh fuck, no.” Mal screwed up his eyes, then stopped when he realised how much worse it made his headache. “Wait, he told you about that?”
“Weren’t you listening? We were out of our bloody minds. So . . . look, the snogging? You and him, I mean. Not her—and fuck, babe, what were you even thinking? You gotta not read too much into it. I’m just saying, there’s a difference between Thank fuck you’re alive and Come back, all is forgiven.”
“I know, all right? I know.” But Jory had kissed him like he’d meant it. Like he didn’t care about all the shit Mal had pulled.
“Thought you didn’t think you and him should be together, anyway?”
“I didn’t, but . . . Last night, yeah, when he walked in on me and Kirsty? It was like . . . And then when he came to help me when I called him and he was so fucking happy to see me . . . I dunno, babe. It’s totally doing my head in.”
Tasha put her arm round his shoulders. “You really like him, don’t you?”
Mal nodded miserably.
“Then why don’t you go for it? Tell him you’re sorry you snogged his missus, do a bit of grovelling, and see what happens. I know you’re worried about making stuff awkward for Dev, but after last night, how much worse can it get?”
“What if he doesn’t like me? Like I like him?”
“Babe. He likes you.”
“But how am I supposed to know if he likes me enough? Enough to want me back?”
“Well, duh. You ask him?”
“Yeah, but . . . What if it’s the wrong answer?”
“Then you deal with it.”
“What, man up and keep a stiff upper lip?”
“No, you wanker, you come back, have a good cry, and we’ll binge-watch The Walking Dead, cos there’s nothing like zombies for getting over a broken heart.”
“Will you make me hot chocolate?”
“For you, babe, I’ll even put real sugar in it. So pull up your big-boy knickers, take a headache pill, and go get him, tiger.” She paused. “But maybe get dressed first. And brush your teeth cos, seriously, your breath is rank.”
All right for Tasha to talk, Mal thought moodily half an hour later as he shut the pub door behind him and blinked in the sudden brightness.
She wasn’t the one putting her heart on the line. And she didn’t know as much as she thought she did.
The day, once he got used to it, wasn’t actually all that bright. The weather had well and truly turned. The sky was the colour of a garage floor, mucky grey with blacker splodges like the clouds had been leaking oil. They looked like they were only a rat’s whisker from leaking water too. Mal hunched in his hoody and hoped he wasn’t going to get another drenching. It was going to be a long walk up to Roscarrock House with a duff ankle. Although the William Morris–patterned walking stick he’d borrowed from Mrs. Jago’s hall cupboard (her knees gave her gyp in the winter) was pretty cool. Mal had always liked his pre-Raphaelites, especially the ones with all the knights and the big flowsy ladies falling asleep all over the shop.
A car horn beeped loudly just behind him. Mal winced—paracetamol and codeine could only do so much—and turned to see Jago in his battered old Land Rover, scowling through the side window at him. “You going up to Big Guns?”
“Uh . . .” Right. Big Guns Cove was the name of the cliffs Roscarrock House sat on. “Yeah?”
Jago nodded. “Well, get in, then. I ain’t got all day.”
Huh. “Thought you didn’t approve of them?” Mal got in quick before Jago could change his mind and drive off.
“Think I’m letting you walk up there on a sprained ankle? I’d never hear the last of it from Tasha.”
Mal grinned. “Hang about, people are gonna start thinking you care.”
“Slander and lies. You going to manage, me driving you?”
Sod it. “One little flashback and everyone thinks I’m gonna flip my shit every time I get in a car. Who told you about that, anyhow?” Not that he couldn’t guess.
“Eyes everywhere. And just you remember that.”
Pervy old sod. Keeping shtum for reasons of self-preservation, Mal focussed on not actually flipping his shit as Jago pulled out and drove along the lane.
Seeing as (a) the old bloke slowed to a crawl every time they got within fifty feet of any pedestrians and (b) Mal’s insides were tied up so tight about Jory he could barely think about anything else, it wasn’t as hard as he’d worried it might be. “Cheers, mate,” he said as Jago dropped him off at the gates of Roscarrock House.
Jago nodded. “Call me if you need a lift back.”
And then he was gone. Mal trudged up the drive, stick in hand and his heart in his mouth.
Roscarrock House was a lot grimmer close up than Mal remembered. Or maybe it was just the weather—the grey stone pretty much blended in with the sky.
Funny to think, if things had been different, Dev could have grown up in this place. Mal would never have met him, or Tasha.
Or Jory.
He swallowed and knocked.
The door was opened by a dark-haired bloke who was shorter than Mal and apparently none too happy about it. Or, well, about anything at all, by the face on him. “Yes?”
“Um. Jory?” Mal wondered where the rest of his words had gone.
Short, dark and grumpy gave him a thorough once-over. He seemed to pay particular attention to Mal’s hands which, yeah, were definitely the worse for wear after last night, scratched up and with half the skin off his knuckles. He hadn’t managed to get all the dirt out from under his fingernails either. “You’re the boyfriend,” the bloke—Jory’s brother, Bran, had to be—spat out at last.
Was he? Mal wished he was half as sure about it. Shit, how much did Bran know about last night? “Can I just—”
“I’ll tell him you’re here.” Bran turned and stomped down the hall, leaving Mal hovering uneasily on the doorstep.
What if Jory didn’t want to see him? He had every right to be pissed off at Mal.
But Bran had called him Jory’s boyfriend. Not—and Mal reckoned this was a key point and he was going to hang on to it with both hands if it bloody well killed him—his ex.
Catching sight of Jory coming down the hall sent a wash of pure relief flooding over him. Particularly when he saw how nervous Jory looked. That had to be good, right?
Or bad. Maybe it was bad.
“Hi,” Mal said, his voice coming out in a squeak.
“Hi.”
They stood there for about three thousand years, just staring at each other. Jory looked, well, rough—there were dark circles under his eyes, his beard was due a trim, and his hair had forgotten what a comb was for. And his hands . . . “Shit, your hands are worse than mine. You okay?”
Jory glanced down at his hands, spreading them out in front of him like he hadn’t noticed that they were all scratched up, his knuckles skinned and nails broken. Cleaner than Mal’s, though. “Oh, yes. Fine. Thanks. You?”
Mal shrugged. “Better than I deserve. So, uh, that was your brother, yeah?”
“Bran. Yes. Um. Do you want to come in?”
Mal nodded, relieved, and stepped over the threshold.
Jory seemed to see the walking stick for the first time, and his face fell. “You didn’t walk all this way on an injured leg?”
“Nah, Jago gave me a lift. It ain’t so bad. Just twisted me ankle a bit, falling.” It was sort of true. It’d definitely loosened up since he’d got up this morning. “Got a bruise the size of Ireland on me thigh, though.”
“Come in properly and sit down.” Jory still seemed jumpy.
“You sure I’m gonna be welcome?”
Jory nodded. “It’s fine. Bran and I had something of a heart-to-heart this morning.”
Mal laughed nervously. “Yeah? He’s got one, then?”
“You’d be surprised. I was.” Jory took a deep breath. “Kirsty and I are getting divorced.”
“What? Shit. Is that cos of—”
“Only indirectly.” Jory half smiled. “But please do come in.”
Mal followed him down the hall to a kitchen he hadn’t seen on the tour. It was bigger than most kitchens he’d been in—even had room for a proper old-fashioned kitchen table that could seat a family of six easily, though it’d probably been years since it actually had. Jory pulled out a chair for him.
“Tea? Coffee?”
Mal shook his head. “Nah, I’m good.” Then he wished he’d accepted, cos it would’ve given him something to do with his hands.
At least they were in the kitchen. Jory wouldn’t bring him to the kitchen to dump his arse, would he? He’d use the front room for that. Keep it formal, shove Mal out the door as quick as he could.
Probably.
Jory sat down in the next chair. And waited.
Shit. Mal swallowed. “Look, I wanted to say I’m sorry. About . . . uh, about last night, obviously, but for fucking you around before too.”
“It’s . . . okay,” Jory said, his tone saying it wasn’t really okay, but he thought it ought to be. “Kirsty told me it was her fault, not yours.”
There was the hint of a question there at the end. And Mal wanted to say, Yeah, totally her, what a slapper, but he just couldn’t, all right? It wouldn’t be fair. What happened last night had all been down to him not explaining stuff properly, and if things got fucked up between Jory and her, it’d be hard on Gawen. Plus, well, he liked Kirsty, so long as she wasn’t trying to stick her tongue down his throat.
“I was missing you,” Mal blurted out. “I mean I . . . But I never wanted her. She got the wrong end of the stick, that’s all.”
Jory gazed at him for a long moment, then looked away. “I wish I knew where I stood with you,” he said, apparently more to the kitchen wall than to Mal.
It made Mal’s heart hurt.
What the hell was he going to say to that? The whole reason he’d come up here was . . . to apologise, yeah, but mainly, if he was gut-wrenchingly honest, to find out where he stood with Jory.
Could he do it? Tell Jory how he felt? And risk Jory saying Sorry mate, last night was the deal breaker?
Then again, after last night, didn’t Jory deserve the truth?
Christ. Mal clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. Did he really have the balls to go through with it?