House of Cards, Page 3

  “Close, mate, close. Been a long time, eh?”

  “Yes.” Calum thought hard, searching his rum-riddled mind for any clue as to exactly how long it had been since he’d last seen Brix Lusmoore, but as he stared at the blue-grey eyes he’d often pictured in his dreams, he honestly had no idea. All he remembered was waking up in London one morning to the news that Brix had packed his stuff from the flat he’d shared with a mutual friend and disappeared into thin air. “Brix?”

  “It’s me, Cal.”

  Cal. Brix was the only soul on earth who’d ever been able to shorten Calum’s name without making his teeth itch. “Where’ve you been?”

  “I’ve been right here.”

  Brix’s textured gaze was off. Calum was missing something—years of something—but his brain and mouth didn’t feel connected, and his only response was a nonsensical grunt.

  Brix didn’t seem to notice, apparently too preoccupied with keeping Calum upright. The absurdity of the scene almost made Calum laugh again, but he didn’t. He stared at Brix, and as he absorbed that Brix wasn’t a hallucination born of too much rum and not enough sleep, his equilibrium deserted him. He lurched sideways, despite Brix’s hold on him, and for a terrifying moment believed he would fall.

  He braced himself for impact, perversely craving it, like the pain of his bones slamming into the concrete would erase the sting of Rob’s betrayal. But he didn’t fall. Brix held firm, and as he guided Calum away from the bench to a nearby van, Calum realised that this was what he remembered most about Brix—not his shaggy, dirty-blond hair, awesome ink, or hypnotic gaze, but the subtle strength in his lanky arms. Strength that had made Calum feel safe from the moment they’d met in London all those years ago.

  Brix deposited Calum in the passenger seat of the battered van. “Where’s your stuff?”

  “What stuff?”

  “Your things. You gotta bag?”

  Calum shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Okay. Are you with anyone? Someone you want me to call?”

  Calum couldn’t contain a humourless bark of laughter. “I ain’t gotta phone, Brixie, and even if I had, no fucker would care if you called.”

  “I don’t believe that.” Brix’s frown was troubled. “Listen, I can’t leave you by the side of the road in this state. How about you come back to mine for a shower and a kip?”

  The only place Calum could remember Brix living was the Camden flat he’d abandoned. He shook his head, reeling at the dizziness that came next. “I’m not going back to London. Fuck that. I’ll walk to my mum’s.”

  “In Reading?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Calum started to get out of the van, but Brix pushed him back with strong hands. “Don’t be a dick. Man, I’d forgotten what an arse you are when you’ve been on the juice. Just come back to mine for a bit, yeah? It’s half an hour away. I’ll make you some coffee, some grub, and we’ll figure out whatever’s got you in this mess.”

  “Mess?”

  “Yeah. Cal, it’s good to see you, but you look like hell.”

  Calum didn’t doubt it, and lacking any brighter ideas, he pulled his legs back inside the van and clumsily shut the door.

  Brix climbed in the other side and the van rumbled to life. Calum cast a lazy glance at his rescuer, absorbing his strong jaw, his elegant neck, and his beautiful coiled forearms. He’d always had a fetish for forearms, especially Brix’s. Again with the strength. How had Calum forgotten that? An odd urge to touch Brix swept over him, but it was eclipsed by an overwhelming need to close his eyes.

  He gave in and shut the world out. The darkness, combined with the gentle rolling of the van, and Brix’s silent presence beside him, was so soothing he almost moaned aloud. The noise in his brain quieted, but for one thing. “Brix?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Your van stinks of shit.”

  Consciousness returned to Calum slowly. Smells first—coffee and toast—and then sounds: a door opening and shutting, heavy metal music playing at a volume so low it was barely audible, and the gentle rumble of what sounded suspiciously like a smug cat.

  Calum opened his eyes to find himself under siege from a pair of moggies who couldn’t have contrasted more if they’d been cat and dog. The first, who seemed to be digging a hole in his chest, was tiny, not much bigger than a tabby squirrel. The second was massive—like a panther who’d eaten all the pies—and without its booming purr, Calum would’ve been pretty disconcerted by its hawkish, unblinking glare.

  Besides, a giant cat was the least of his worries. Calum gazed around at the unfamiliar room, the wooden floors, the low beams, and the open fire. The squishy brown leather couch, the guitars stacked up in the corner, and pirate-themed artwork dotted around. The only familiar thing was the empty bottle of rum on the coffee table, but its presence made as little sense as the rest of his surroundings. Last Calum knew, he’d dropped it on the floor of the train carriage.

  Oh shit, the train.

  Like a tidal wave, the events of the last twenty-four hours came rushing back. The power cut, heading home early . . . Rob. And then Calum’s flight from the city, jumping on the first train he saw, drinking himself into a stupor, and sleeping like a dead man until he woke up in fucking Cornwall. The rest of it was fairly sketchy, so much so Calum still had half a mind to believe he’d dreamed it, but on cue, the exterior door to what he was fast realising was a cosy cottage opened, and Brix appeared in Calum’s bleary line of sight. “Damn. You’re real.”

  “Damn, you’re awake,” Brix retorted. “I was beginning to think you’d drunk yourself into a coma.”

  The notion didn’t feel that far from the truth, judging by Calum’s headache, but as he swallowed the sour taste in his mouth, he was distracted by Brix wiping his feet on the doormat. “Are you wearing wellies?”

  Brix eyed Calum like he was the one who’d grown horns. “What of it?”

  Calum opened his mouth, shut it again. He would’ve pictured Brix in ballet shoes first. “Erm . . . this might seem a strange question, but where am I?”

  “It ain’t that strange if the state of you this morning was anything to go by.” Brix pulled his wellies off and left them outside, shutting the back door behind him. “Could hardly believe my eyes when I saw you huddled up on that bench. Woulda passed on by if I hadn’t seen matey boy on your hand.”

  Calum automatically twisted his hand to see the stag, so carefully etched by Brix himself all those years ago. He remembered it like it was yesterday, how excited he’d been to get his first tattoo, and by Brix Lusmoore, no less, an artist Calum had idolised since he’d first come to London. Even now, nearly a decade later, it was still Calum’s only ink.

  “You’re in Porthkennack, by the way.”

  “Hmm?” Calum glanced up to find Brix had ventured farther into the room and perched on the coffee table. “Porthkennack? Where the fuck’s that?”

  Brix chuckled. “Cornwall, obviously. I reckon you knew that already if your cursing this morning was anything to go by, but if you want the specifics, we’re slap bang between Booby’s Bay and Constantine Bay, and nowhere near Newquay.”

  It meant nothing to Calum; he’d spent his whole life bouncing from London to Reading, but as his rum-addled brain cleared, Porthkennack began to sound familiar. “Is this where you’re from? Where your family is?”

  “The very same.”

  “But . . .”

  Brix raised an eyebrow. “But what?”

  “Jordan came down here looking for you.”

  “And he found me.” Brix’s pale gaze was inscrutable. “I told him to go fuck himself.”

  “Why?”

  Brix shrugged. “That’s between me and him, and I reckon it’ll stay that way until one of us croaks.”

  Calum turned that over in his mind. Brix and Jordan had been on and off for as long as Calum had known them, when Brix disappeared. Calum had assumed they’d broken up, that Brix had taken off with his legendary temper, but when Jordan h
ad returned to London claiming Brix had vanished from the face of the earth, perhaps to pursue his family’s criminal path, Calum had believed him. He’d pondered Brix’s fate every day until he’d met Rob, and after that, well. After that, he’d become so obsessed with the spell Rob had cast on him, he’d fairly forgotten everyone else.

  “Still with me?” Brix briefly touched a sore spot on Calum’s cheek and nudged a mug of something hot into his hand. “I’ve got some eggs if you’re hungry?”

  Calum’s stomach growled, but the thought of eating anything made him heave. He shook his head. “No, thanks. I guess I should call my mum and try and figure a way of getting home. Can I use your phone?”

  “Where’s yours?”

  “In the bin at Paddington Station.”

  Brix said nothing. Just passed Calum a battered iPhone. “Pass code is one-eight-three-eight. Call whoever you want. I’ll be outside with the girls if you need me.”

  He stood and returned to the back door, stepping into his wellies before closing it behind him and leaving Calum to face his mother alone.

  Calum tapped Brix’s pass code into the phone and brought up the dial pad, keying in the number of his parents’ Reading home. As he raised the phone to his ear, the very real possibility that Rob had called there first made his head spin. He’d charmed Calum’s mother before, to the point where Calum had been sure that she’d quite happily trade him in and keep Rob for a son instead. If only she knew how scathing he’d been the moment his parents had boarded their train back to their simple home. “Seriously, who still wears Crocs? Your ’rents are so pathetic.”

  It broke Calum’s heart that he’d been weak enough to agree.

  He wasn’t sure he could face his ma’s voice, and as luck would have it, he didn’t have to. After three rings, the answer machine kicked in, reminding Calum that it was October—the time of year when his parents packed their bags and flew to Spain to spend much of the winter with Calum’s aunt. Great. So he couldn’t even borrow a score and run home with his tail between his legs.

  Calum set Brix’s phone gently on the coffee table, ignoring the urge to smash it against the wall. Unlike Brix’s, his own temper had always been gentle: a slow burn that even those who knew him well might miss. Not that there’d been many people around to notice recently—Rob had seen to that. And you just let him, didn’t you?

  Fuck this. Calum got up, though to do what, he wasn’t quite sure. Brix needed his phone back, but beyond that, Calum was lost. How the hell was he supposed to explain to Brix that he had nothing to his name except a bottle of rum that was as empty as his bank account?

  He had no idea, but found himself drawn to the back door anyway, and despite his preoccupation with the end of the world, his gaze zeroed in on Brix, who seemed to be scooping mud out of a large wooden box, surrounded by dozens of . . . chickens?

  It was probably the most bizarre scene Calum had ever witnessed, but the flock of hens stirred a memory in his tired mind.

  “Brix?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Your van stinks of shit.”

  “Not just any shit, mate. Chicken shit. Trust me. It’s good for the soul.”

  Calum didn’t know about that, but there was no denying the peaceful half smile lighting Brix’s face. He looks happy. Despite a wave of envy, Calum was so pleased for him his chest ached. The Brix he remembered had been a good man, kind and generous with his time. It felt right to see him so content.

  Right enough for Calum to brave venturing out of the cosy living room and into Brix’s back garden, if he could only find his shoes.

  After a few minutes scouring the small cottage, he discovered his shoes by the front door, sitting beside a pair of paint-splattered leather boots he’d recognise anywhere. He stared at them, for a moment transported back to his apprenticeship days in Camden, back when Brix had been more legend and mentor than friend. Those boots had seemed almost mythical, and Calum couldn’t count the hours he’d lost to obsessing over the way they hugged Brix’s mile-long slender legs. Legs that, Calum was fairly sure, had brought his bisexuality to life.

  The notion that he might never have considered men in a sexual way if he hadn’t met Brix was jarring. Calum stamped into his shoes and drifted to the back door, gaze once again drawn to Brix, who’d moved on from shovelling mud to scattering straw in a large, fenced-off pen. As tall as Calum, slender, and covered in ink, with his electric eyes and hair long enough to wrap around Calum’s fingers . . . yup, Brix Lusmoore was fucking beautiful, even if Calum couldn’t imagine being with anyone—bloke or bird—for the rest of his natural life.

  “You look like a zombie.”

  “Huh?” Calum pulled his mind from the gutter to find Brix eyeing him, his frown measured, like he had plenty to say but was waiting to see if Calum was coherent enough to hold a conversation. “Oh, nah. I’m all right, just hanging like a bitch. I’m so sorry you had to see me like that. I don’t know what happened.”

  “It’s okay, mate. Shit happens to all of us. Did you get hold of your ma?”

  Calum shook his head. “They’re in Spain. The contact details are in my phone.”

  “Which is in a bin at Paddington?”

  “Yup.”

  “Was it an iPhone?”

  “No, a Nokia.”

  “Ah, shame. You can usually find all your stuff again if you get a new iPhone.”

  Calum ran his hand through his hair, trying to tame it. “Couldn’t get a new one anyway. The contract isn’t in my name.”

  “Whose name is it in?”

  “My, uh, ex.”

  Brix raised an eyebrow as comprehension coloured his features. “Is that what’s happened here? You’ve busted up and split?”

  “Something like that.” Calum turned away from Brix’s searching gaze and focussed on the nearest thing, which happened to be a near-bald chicken. “What the hell is that?”

  “That, my friend, is an ex-battery hen. I think I’m going to call her Ginger.”

  “Ginger?”

  “Yeah, she might be a red one when she gets her feathers back. Did your ex leave that bruise on your face?”

  “Yes, but I don’t want to talk about it.” Calum glanced around again, noting that Ginger wasn’t the only bald chicken scratching around. “Are they all ex-battery?”

  Brix’s frown deepened, but after a fleeting standoff, he returned his attention to the chickens. “Every one. Started rescuing them a few years back. Got nearly twenty now. Too many, I suppose, but, hey, that’s life.”

  “Where do you get them?”

  “Factory farms, mostly. They get sent to slaughter when their egg production slows down, but they’ve got years left in ’em really, if you take care of them right.”

  “So you rescue them?”

  Brix shrugged. “I buy them, actually, the morning their number is up, then sell them on to soft idiots like me who want a few eggs for their breakie and a taste of the good life.”

  It was almost too romantic for Calum to bear. “What do you do with them when they stop laying?”

  “Depends.” Brix winced. “If they’re healthy enough, I’ll keep them going, but if they’re not doing so well, I get my dad to, um, you know.”

  Calum got the picture. “Your dad lives close?”

  “Close enough.” Brix treated Calum to a roguish grin. “He lives with my aunt up at the house.”

  The house. For some reason, that rang a bell, and then Calum recalled the rumours he’d heard about the underworld clan Brix had come from. He wondered how true they were—if Brix’s eldest brother really had killed a man with his bare hands—then he remembered this was real life, not Game of fucking Thrones and shit like that was never true . . . right?

  Calum had never quite had the balls to ask, and though his life had imploded since he’d seen Brix last, that much hadn’t changed. He pointed at the baldest chicken crouching quietly in the corner by herself. “What’s that one called?”

  “She hasn’t got
a name yet. I was going to take her and a couple of others to my dad, but I cleared some space, so I reckon I’m going to keep all of this morning’s leftovers with me.”

  “‘This morning’s’?”

  “That’s where I’d been when I found you at the station. I was on my way home.”

  “Oh.” Calum couldn’t think of anything else to say. Embarrassment warred with depression, and depression won out. While Brix had been doing his best for Cornwall’s poultry, Calum had been dribbling down his T-shirt on a rusty bench. What a tit. But a warm bundle of flesh being thrust at his chest distracted him before he could brood further. He stared at the bald hen Brix had dropped into his arms. “What the—”

  “She’s friendly. Think she’s gonna be a cuddler.”

  “A cuddling chicken?” The world had officially gone mad. “Is there such a thing?”

  “Not often. My lot are a bit unruly. My old man’s got a couple he keeps in his pockets, though.”

  Though he’d never seen Brix’s father, Calum couldn’t quite imagine him as the kind of bloke who got soft over pet chickens. He studied the hen in his arms. “She looks oven ready.”

  “Oi, none of that. She’ll hear you.”

  Brix’s horrified expression told Calum he was entirely serious. Calum tempered his amusement and stroked the chicken’s head. “You should call her Bongo.”

  “Bongo? Why?”

  Calum shrugged. “Why not?”

  Brix stood back and considered the hen. “I s’pose she could be a Bongo. I reckon she’s gonna be a good girl. She dropped an egg as soon as she came out of the crate, like she’d been walking around in the sun her whole life.”

  With the hen so warm and soft in his arms, Calum didn’t want to consider where she’d come from. “I’m sure she’ll be just fine with you looking after her.”

  “And what about you, eh? You gonna tell me what the fuck’s going on?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Brix ran a gentle hand over Bongo’s placid form. “Anything you need to tell me. I’m not going to force it out of you, but you need to give me something if you’re going to stay here.”