Marc thumbed through the scant few contacts he bothered to keep on his phone and stopped at the ninth name: Hack. The term still made him grin, even if Connor Regan had proved himself as anything but.

He was also far easier to have a conversation with than Nat, which meant firing off a short text message was less stressful than it might have been. Coming your way later. You around?

Connor’s reply was as quick as Marc had hoped. Course we are. I’m too gay for Army town and Nat hates the whole world. The first part was a fair assessment of Hereford, but before Marc could say as much, Connor sent another message. What time are you landing? Want feeding?

Marc’s thumbs hovered over his phone screen. Passing through unexpectedly for a dinner and couple of beers was pretty much the norm as far as his interactions with Nat and Connor went, but to bring Jamie along was something else entirely. They wouldn’t mind—but how on earth did Marc explain it?

He went with a loose version of the truth. Will be in the area around 4. Got a mate with me. That cool?

And Connor’s response was exactly as he expected: Always. Bring whoever. We’ll be here.

Which meant that all he had to do was drag Jamie out of bed and they could hit the road. Not that he had much desire to leave the warmth Jamie had cocooned him in for most of the morning. Marc had slept like a baby on Jamie’s chest, losing himself to four blissful hours of oblivion. And he’d woken at midday to find that despite his obvious disquiet, Jamie had grabbed a few hours shut-eye of his own, easing the prominent smudges beneath his eyes, and bringing some much-needed colour into his cheeks.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Hmm?” Marc set his phone on the bedside table. “Oh, you’re awake.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Jamie’s light sleeping would’ve made him a hell of a soldier. That and a will to survive that any trooper would’ve been proud of.

“So . . .” Jamie rolled onto his stomach, driving his elbows into the mattress to stretch out his back. “Who were you texting? Another fella?”

“Yeah, but not mine. I was talking to Connor. He lives with my mate Nat in Hereford, and I’m heading down there this afternoon if you still fancy a road trip?”

“You want me to meet your friends?”

Marc hadn’t thought about it like that, but he nodded anyway. “Nat and Connor are both cool. I served with Nat for a long time. He was my CO for a while.”

“You’re looking forward to seeing them.”

“I am. It’s been too long.”

“And they won’t mind me coming?”

“Nah, they’re sociable fuckers.”

“Yeah?”

“Not really, but they’re nice—well, Connor’s nice—and they’ll be relieved to see me with someone other than the terminally pissed-off cat they forced on me.”

That was apparently good enough for Jamie. They took a quick, teasing shower together, then left Derbyshire behind. The motorways were mostly clear, and they were past Birmingham when Marc remembered the question he’d gone to sleep on. “What was bugging you this morning, apart from my bag of doom?”

Jamie turned from where he’d been staring out of the window. “This morning?”

“When we were eating, before you told me about finding my bag. You said it was addiction related, but not what I was thinking. Which was nothing, by the way. I hadn’t noticed the bag in the kitchen.”

“Moved it now, though, haven’t you?”

“That a problem?”

“No.”

Marc changed lanes, noting that the pain that had plagued him for most of the previous day was all but gone. “I didn’t get rid of the drugs, if that’s what the face is for. I just put them somewhere else. I’m sure you could find them if you wanted to.”

“I’ll let you know if I feel the urge to look.”

“Will you?”

“If you’re around.”

And right there was Marc’s biggest fear: that Jamie would hit crisis point when he wasn’t there. Marc didn’t have a job where he could drop everything and come home, even if he truly believed that Jamie would reach out to him like that. But ditching the tramadol had seemed somehow daft, especially with Jamie’s chilling words echoing in his head: “I’d have gone down the pub by the lime quarry and scored a bag . . .”

“Anyway,” Marc said. “What was really on your mind if it wasn’t that?”

“Nothing quite so tragic. Billy found me a possible job.”

“Yeah? Doing what?”

“Cooking stew in an old lady kitchen in Derby.”

“That sounds like the worst euphemism.”

Jamie chuckled. “You’ve got the weirdest dirty mind if you think that. It’s actually a community project . . . a food bank, meal-delivery thing. It sends hot dinners out to vulnerable people who can’t get to the shops or cook for themselves. Billy set it up, but they need more hands in the kitchen. I spent a few hours there yesterday and I liked it.”

“But?”

Jamie shrugged. “They’re good people down there.”

“So? You’ve worked with good people before, surely?”

“Yeah, but that was on the other side of the world, so I could kid myself that I had somewhere else to run if I fucked it all up. It’s not like that here. I like it, and I want to stay.”

Jamie wasn’t even looking at Marc, but Marc took his words to heart anyway. He wasn’t naïve enough to believe that it was him that tied Jamie to Matlock Bath, but the fact that Jamie wanted to stick around felt good. Better than good. “What would you be doing at the project? Cooking?”

“Yeah, and helping the old dear that runs it diversify the menu a bit. There’s a big Asian community on the nearby estate, but Sheila only knows how to cook meat and two veg.”

“That’s one way of utilising your noodle skills.”

Jamie laughed. “Yeah, I’ll have to expand on them, though. That’s what I was doing last night when I fell asleep on the couch—studying your mum’s curry bibles.”

Marc’s brain belatedly registered the pile of cookery books he’d nearly tripped over in his hurry to reach Jamie. How had something so innocent turned into the most complicated conversation he’d ever had? “When do you start?”

“I haven’t been offered it yet. And I’m not sure I’d take it, even if I was.”

“Because you’re worried you’ll break it?”

“Yes.”

Jamie turned his face back to the window, and Marc let him be. Jamie’s logic didn’t always make sense to him, but it was obvious that Jamie wanted to take the job, and what faith Marc had left was firmly rooted in the hope that Jamie would think his way out of his flux.

An hour or so later, they arrived in Hereford. Jamie sat up in his seat. “This is where your Army friend lives?”

“A few of them, actually. But Nat’s the only one who’s ever around. He’s a trainer, so he stays on base.”

“The base here?”

“Yup.” Marc kept his eyes on the road, trying to ignore the familiar scenery. He hadn’t called Hereford home since he’d left half his body in the dusty desert, and each time he returned felt more and more like walking on the moon.

“Were you stationed here too?”

Marc glanced at Jamie. “For a while.”

Jamie’s eyes flashed with understanding, and it was his turn to let it go. No one had seen through Marc like Jamie did, but Jamie was clearly astute enough to realise that Marc couldn’t answer whatever question had been next in the queue. He had to be, or they wouldn’t have got this far.

Nat’s house was a mile away from the old RAF base the regiment had moved to in ’99. Marc pulled up outside, glad that the fading afternoon light would give the bright-yellow car some cover, and unsurprised to see Nat on the front steps, watching and waiting, his eyes as sharp as they’d ever been.

Marc turned the engine off and got out of the car without looking at Jamie. In recent years, he’d spent months at a time avoiding Nat, but whenever they came face-to-face, it was the same—they were the same—and for a brief moment, the age lines and greying hair disappeared, and they were back on their first team patrol in Basra. Never quite young and idealistic, perhaps they’d once been lighter.

Nat grasped Marc’s outstretched hand and pulled him in for a backslapping hug. He smelled like earth and rain, and the musty scent of gunpowder and sand, even though it had been a decade since Nat had deployed overseas.

Marc drew back and gave Nat the once-over. He was older, but weren’t they all? And his fair complexion and fearsome blue eyes were as alluring as they’d always been. But more than that, Nat looked well, and as happy as any man who’d seen the shit he’d seen could be. “All right, mate?”

Nat nodded, then his gaze drifted over Marc’s shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”

Marc turned in time to see Connor greeting Jamie with a handshake and the kind of warm smile that most people had to fight to draw from Nat. “Jamie. He’s helping me clear out the house.”

“’Bout fucking time.” Nat stepped around Marc and shook Jamie’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Come inside.”

Nat and Jamie went into the house, but Marc lingered to wrap his arms around Connor. “It’s good to see you, man.”

“You too.” Connor returned Marc’s embrace. “It’s been too long. Nat worries about you.”

“There’s no need. I’m doing just fine. How’s things around here?”

“Same as ever.” Connor shrugged. “The place never changes, but the faces do.”

Marc snorted. “Not yours.”

It was a long-running joke that Connor was the only member of their small group to never age. Though older than Marc, his face was free of lines, and his smile resonated, like he meant it more than the rest of them.

“Tell me about Jamie,” Connor said quietly. “He didn’t want to leave your side, even for the few moments we’ve been out here.”

Damn it. Marc had figured Nat to be the one who would see through him so fast. He hadn’t banked on Connor. “We’re friends. He takes care of me, and I try to return the favour . . . when he lets me.”

“Sounds like you’ve met your match.”

“Says you.”

Connor laughed. “I was never a match for Nat, and that hasn’t changed. Come on, let’s get indoors. I’ve got a curry on.”

Dinner was a quiet affair. Connor was a cracking cook and made valiant attempts to keep the conversation flowing, but Nat and Jamie had little in common, and there wasn’t much that Marc and Nat could talk about with an audience. Jamie’s fascination with Connor’s journalism was obvious, though, and after dinner, when Connor took him upstairs to show him his latest work, Marc and Nat decamped to the pub.

“Your friend doesn’t say much,” Nat said.

“So?” Marc took a deep swallow of the first alcohol he’d touched in months. “You’re not exactly big on small talk yourself.”

“Are you fucking him?”

Marc set his glass down with undue care. “What makes you say that?”

“You wouldn’t bring anyone else here. Why him?”

“You don’t like him?”

“Of course I like him. He’s quiet and he doesn’t give me shit. What’s not to like? But he’s a world away from you, and I don’t get how you became as close as you clearly are.”

Marc sat back in his seat, buying some time as he tried to articulate his relationship with Jamie. “He’s good for me . . . At least, I think he is. I feel more alive when he’s around, even if he is giving me gyp.”

“Do that often, does he?”

Nat’s suspicion was hard to miss, and Marc knew that it was highly likely that he’d spotted the track marks on Jamie’s arms, analysed his personality and behaviour, and added it all together to reach a number that couldn’t be further from the truth. Back in the day, Nat had been the regiment’s best profiler, but Jamie’s soul ran far deeper than his scars. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I reckon I do.” Marc swallowed another mouthful of beer. “But to tell you the truth, I don’t really give a shit. I lo—like him, and he takes good care of me, when I let him.”

The characteristic hardness in Nat’s pale eyes faded slightly. “He takes care of you, eh? That I’d like to see, ’cause I’ve been trying that for years.”

“Yeah, well. You can’t cook, so you’re no good to me.”

“Dick.”

“Uh-huh.”

It was Nat’s turn to take a drink, a long, slow one, and to clearly measure his words. “He’s pretty young.”

“Twenty-five.”

“And he’s been through a lot.”

It wasn’t a question, but Marc nodded anyway. Despite Nat’s probing questions, it felt good to talk about Jamie. For so long, it had been the two of them against the world. Even Mrs. Valentino hadn’t mentioned Marc’s near-constant houseguest. And Nat would come around. He was no fool, and he knew Marc better than anyone. Almost anyone. “He’s everything you probably think he is, but that doesn’t define him. You know it doesn’t work like that.”

“Does he live with you?”

“No. He lives in a flat in town, but he’s at the house a lot, sorting Mum’s shit out for me. I pay him, but he works much longer hours than we agreed.” And then some. Marc couldn’t remember the last time Jamie had worked a nine-to-five. “He cooks for me too, and keeps the place clean—too clean, if I’m honest, but that’s another story.”

“I’ve got time.”

“Not really, I’m only here for the night. Besides, you think I came to this shithole so you could rip my life apart? Piss off, mate.”

Nat grinned. “I’m not ripping it apart, I’m curious . . . like you were when I met Connor. Don’t tell me you didn’t think that was a bad idea, and look at us now.”

“I thought hooking up in a war zone was a bad idea, not building a life with a bloke who loves the bones off you.” A wave of envy hit Marc. His true feelings for Jamie were too terrifying to contemplate, and he couldn’t imagine that they would ever find the contented cadence that had kept Nat and Connor together for so many years.

Nat nudged Marc in the ribs. “It was a bad idea, but it worked out because it was meant to. Is that what you want with Jamie?”

Marc shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know what he wants, though, and I don’t think he does either. Life hasn’t been kind to him.”

“Has it to any of us?”

“It’s different for us,” Marc said. “We chose our path and accepted the risks. Nothing happened that we didn’t halfway expect.”

Nat was silent, and Marc imagined that any reply he might make would echo Jamie’s own harsh words about himself, but Marc would never believe that Jamie’s addiction was the result of poor choices. Jamie had taken a bullet the same as the rest of them, it was just from a different gun.

“Any word from Wedge?” Marc asked when it became clear that the conversation about Jamie had reached a dead end.

“Yesterday,” Nat replied. “Satellite call came in as I was leaving. Noisy as fuck, but he seemed happy enough. They had a bit of drama a few days ago, but they shut it down. Got the grunts squared away.”

To a civilian, Nat’s explanation would probably be little more than gibberish, but Marc absorbed it all, read between the lines, and grunted with a sharp nod. “It’s a daft fucking mission. What the hell are they thinking?”

“Fucked if I know, but that isn’t much anymore. I only know what I do because of Wedge’s call.”

“He all right?”

“Hard to tell. He’s been over there so long he’s only speaking Arabic these days, and I’m a bit rusty.”

“You didn’t ask Connor to translate?”

“Very funny. It’s been a while since he spoke any Arabic either. He covered the Jungle in Calais, but he doesn’t travel as much as he used to. Persuaded him to stick closer to home.”

“Seems to be working out for him.”

“You know Connor. There isn’t much he can’t do.”

The vague innuendo took Marc back to a drunken night in Dublin nine long years ago—memories that usually came with a bucket load of heat and longing. But Marc knew real heat now, and yearning too, and as much love as he had for Nat and Connor, his heart was Jamie’s whether Jamie wanted it or not.

* * *

Jamie washed the final plate and handed it to Connor. It had taken some persuading to get Connor to let him help, but they’d cleaned up in a companionable silence, and Jamie had decided that he liked Connor a lot more than his surly partner.

Surly? How old are you?

“Something funny?” Connor asked as he came back to the sink. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile all night.”

“Just laughing at myself. I think I’ve spent so long alone in Marc’s house that I’m starting to become one with it.”

Connor laughed. “I know that feeling. My last piece took me a month to put together, and I was a raving lunatic by the end of it.”

“What was it about?”

“The piece?”

Jamie nodded. Connor had already shown him some of his war-correspondent articles upstairs. Most were from conflicts that had passed Jamie by while he’d been lost to junk and hooking, but there’d been a few from the Guardian that he suspected he might’ve read before.

“It’s about austerity. I figured it would be an easy lefty rant, but I got a bit caught up in the research. Turns out the government cuts really have killed people.”

Jamie could believe it. He didn’t know much about politics, save what he’d read in day-old newspapers, but it was a rare day that cuts to welfare weren’t on the front pages.

“It’s not just that, though,” Connor replied when Jamie said as much. “It’s the little things that people going to work every day don’t notice straightaway—like the old folks’ bus into town. The council stop funding it, so little old Betty can’t get into town to buy gas for her metre. So she doesn’t, and she gets cold, and then she gets ill, so she can’t walk into the village to get food. Eventually, she dies a few years earlier than she should have. And that’s not considering the fact that she likely couldn’t get an appointment at her GP surgery either.” Connor took a breath. “Jesus. Sorry. Don’t get me started, or I won’t stop. Nat says I’m a keyboard anarchist, but words are all I have.”

“It’s okay,” Jamie said. “I know it’s bad. Before I went to America, there was a needle exchange by the train station where I lived. You could go in and clean yourself up, and get an appointment with the counsellor if you wanted one. Now, I have to wait twelve weeks before they’ll even put me on the list.”

“Do you need an appointment sooner? I’m sure Marc has contacts who can help you.”

“I’d never ask him to do that. Everyone else has to wait their turn, why not me?”

“That’s admirable, but I doubt Marc would see it that way. Helping his friends is who he is. I’d imagine it’s killing him that you won’t let him.”

Jamie shrugged. “He helps me loads. I think I’d go mad sometimes if he wasn’t in my life.”

Connor cracked a beer open and motioned for Jamie to follow him into the living room. Jamie eyed the soapsuds on the draining board—soggy dust to the twitch in his fingers. But today was a good day, despite the fact that he’d spent much of it worrying about Marc. He’d sworn to Jamie that he rarely used the tramadol from the upstairs cupboard, but with lines of pain etched on his face, he’d been less than convincing.

“Jamie?”

“Hmm?”

Connor smiled and handed him the water he’d left behind after dinner. “I was saying that it can be hard to be close to military blokes. Marc’s more laid-back than some, but you can’t take the soldier from a man.”

Curious, in spite of his wandering mind, Jamie leaned forward. “What’s Nat like?”

“Complicated.”

“He seems moody.”

“He is, but aren’t we all? It’s been a long time since I met someone perpetually cheerful.”

“There’s loads of them in California. Drove me mad.”

“I’ll bet. I’d take a grumpy soldier over them any day. Besides, it’s not so bad when you get the hang of figuring out what they’re trying to say when they don’t speak.”

“You mean like Army stuff?” Jamie glanced around the living room. The shelves were crammed full of books that he presumed to be Connor’s, but there was no sign of Nat’s military life, save a pair of battered combat boots by the door. And if Jamie’s suspicion about their Hereford location was correct, that shit made sense. SAS. Jesus. “Marc doesn’t talk much about that.”

“They don’t, generally, but I was actually talking more about real life—civilian life. There’s no room for emotions in combat—it’s a fight to survive—and Marc was in the field longer than Nat.”

Jamie couldn’t bear to think of Marc in danger, even though the worst had already happened, but Connor’s logic touched a nerve. He thought of the odd submissive hesitancy he’d seen in Marc every time they’d given in to the smouldering heat between them. The way he’d lain back and urged Jamie to take what he wanted. As hot as that was, it had always felt off—and it wasn’t just that Jamie so desperately desired Marc to throw him down and turn him inside out. Why does he want me to be in control? Jamie had no answer, but there was something there. He knew it.

He spent the rest of the evening with Connor, talking mostly about Nat and Marc, and only a little bit about themselves. Connor spoke like Marc and Jamie were as together as him and Nat, and the moment to correct him passed Jamie by. Or maybe he didn’t want to. He’d never had a boyfriend before—a lover, a partner. Did he want that? Did Marc? Who cares? Sitting in Connor and Nat’s cosy living room, drinking tea, and talking about Marc like there was no one else in the world was a balm to Jamie’s soul, though he knew it couldn’t last forever.

The bubble burst around ten o’clock when Marc and Nat came back from the pub. Connor offered Marc and Jamie a bed for the night, but Marc seemed eager to get home. “Trust me,” he said. “You don’t want to kip in a room next to these two. I’d rather swim home.”

Connor opened his mouth, but Nat nudged him and then stepped forward and enveloped Jamie in a brief hug that caught him off guard. “Nice to meet you, kid. Look after the good doctor, yeah? Motherfucker’s earned it.”

He backed off before Jamie could respond, and Connor’s goodbye was less intense, though warm enough to make Jamie feel like crying as he pressed a card into Jamie’s hand. “Call me, email, whatever. I’m always around.”

That probably wasn’t strictly true if what Connor had told him about his working habits was accurate, but the sentiment meant a lot. He pocketed Connor’s card and trailed Marc out to the car.

“I like your friends,” he said when they’d hit the road.

Marc smiled softly. “So do I. I should spend more time with them really, but— Shit, I don’t know.”

“You’re worried that they see you too well?”

“Something like that.”

“I haven’t seen Zac since I got clean. I don’t want him to look at me and see that I might still fuck his life up.”

“He might fuck his life up too. He’s as much an addict as you are.”

Jamie didn’t agree—how could he when Zac had turned his back on junk while Jamie had still been shoving it in his face every day?—but he said nothing, until Connor’s unspoken retort flashed into his mind and a vague suspicion suddenly clicked into place. “Have you fucked them?”

“Who?”

“Nat and Connor. There’s a vibe there, I know it.”

Marc covered his chuckle with a cough. “‘A vibe’? Are you taking the piss?”

“Nope. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Crickets. Marc kept his eyes on the road, though he made no effort to hide his growing smirk.

Jamie mock-gasped. “You did fuck them.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did—”

“No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“But something did happen?”

Marc shrugged. “A long time ago, when my marriage hit the skids. It wasn’t anything nearly as exciting as fucking . . . at least, not for me. I passed out drunk before the good stuff—story of my life when I get on the beers.”

“Lightweight?”

“Totally. I don’t do it often enough to have any resilience, though I get tempted when all my shit hits me at once. It’s probably the only time I halfway understand what it’s like for you.”

“That’s sweet, but don’t deflect from the good stuff by talking about junk. I want to know the jelly.”

Marc laughed. “Why?”

“Because you’re all smoking hot and the three of you together is a hell of a wet dream.”

“Well, dream it will have to stay, because it was over before it got started.”

“How so?”

Marc shrugged, and a vague hint of a flush crept up his neck. “We were smashed, and Nat got it into his head that I needed some practice with blokes. Him and me—he kinda knew I had a thing for him—and Connor is so fucking laid-back, you know? Anyway, it turned into a dare that I couldn’t refuse. Connor blew me while Nat fucked around with him, but I shot and passed out before they really got down to it.”

The comical disappointment on Marc’s face was hilarious, and Jamie felt his pain, even if it was a decade old. “That’s a real shame. I’d have paid to see that.”

“You’ll get it in stereo anytime you kip over there. Connor isn’t quiet.”

“Don’t reckon I’d be if I got fucked by Nat.”

“It’s not always Nat doing the fucking.”

“Wow. I’d never have thought that.”

“Why? ’Cause real men don’t get fucked?”

Jamie shook his head. “God no . . . of course not. It’s just Nat’s . . . I can’t imagine him giving up control like that, even to Connor.”

“You’d be surprised. If Nat had that much grip on himself, he wouldn’t have hooked up with Connor in the first place, but that’s another story. Besides, sometimes giving up—or losing—control is cathartic, especially when there’s no room for emotion elsewhere.”

The echo of Connor’s earlier words hit home. Jamie kicked his shoes off and drew his knees up to his chest. “So why don’t you do it, then?”

“What?”

“Lose control. I mean, I can see you giving it up, but it’d still be on your terms, right?”

The car stopped. Surprised, Jamie glanced out of the window, but they weren’t home—just parked up at the side of the road. Marc turned the engine off and twisted in his seat. “Why on earth would you think that?”

Jamie shrugged. “You give me the control when we’re together, but it doesn’t feel like it’s what you really want. It’s like you’re worried about hurting me, or something, which is fucking ridiculous, because you couldn’t hurt me if you tried.” Marc shot Jamie a dark look, but Jamie shook his head. “I know you could kill me with one hand behind your back, but that’s not what I mean, and you know it—” And suddenly, it clicked. “Oh God—please tell me you haven’t got some screwed-up notion that hooking has left me scared of getting railed?”

“What?”

“You know what I mean,” Jamie snapped. “You want to fuck me, but you think I can’t handle it. Fucking hell, you fucking bastard!”

Jamie punched the dashboard. The impact blasted through his hand and up to his shoulder, but he welcomed the pain. Compared to the realisation that Marc saw him as nothing more than a damaged junkie hooker, it didn’t mean much.

Fuck this.

Jamie got out of the car. The level of his rage shocked him, and seemed to come from nowhere, but he couldn’t control it. Control. Ha—the tiny little word that held so much power over him, and probably always would, but the bubble he’d imagined around him and Marc had become his sanctuary. Even the tramadol hadn’t broken through. He’d never imagined that Marc had only had one foot in the boat the whole time.

Jamie turned his back on the car, but strong hands gripped his arms, and Jamie realised that he’d somehow missed Marc getting out of the car too. Fucking ninja soldier bastard. Jamie struggled, but Marc’s grip was absolute, and defeat rolled through Jamie as fast as his temper had risen. Faster. “Get off me.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to go home.”

“Get in the car, then.”

“No.”

“Really?” Marc gently pushed Jamie against the car and caged him in his arms. “Is that how this is going down? Because I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter how angry you get with me, I’m never going to treat you like a piece of shit.”

“But you’ll make me feel like one?”

“How? Why? Because I don’t bend you over and take what I want?”

“Yes.”

Marc laughed, but there was no humour in him. “Did Zac do that?”

“Sometimes . . . when he needed to.”

“And I’m some kind of cunt because I don’t?”

“No. You’re a cunt because you’ve assumed that I can’t handle it . . . that I don’t want it. Don’t you see how fucked up that is?”

Marc shook his head, though it was hard to tell if he was disagreeing or simply had nothing to say. Or maybe he was horrified. Nausea washed over Jamie. Was he so fucking wrong? Had the few johns whose company he’d perversely enjoyed been monsters? Was Jamie, for every orgasm he’d ever had?

Because there weren’t many that hadn’t been paid for, in one way or another.

Jamie shivered. “I want to go home.”

Marc stepped away. “Then get in the car.”

The rest of the drive was silent, save the chaos in Jamie’s head, and the cold damp seeping through his socks. His chest ached too, and as his fury cooled, it occurred to him that perhaps his thought process wasn’t entirely rational. He’d been warned that addiction screwed up far more than the obvious, but was this part of that? Or did the idea of Marc looking at him and seeing a fragile ex-hooker just hurt too much to bear?

Either way, it seemed that Marc was done trying to find out. He pulled up outside Jamie’s flat and kept his eyes on the horizon. Taking his cue, Jamie stamped into his shoes, got out, kicked the door shut, and stormed inside without looking back.

He was on his kitchen floor, head on his knees, before he realised the strange gasping noises were his own sobs.