Soul to keep, p.7
Soul to Keep, page 7
Jamie stared at their entwined hands, and then at Marc, losing himself in a desperate desire to kiss him, until he saw that Marc looked suddenly and profoundly tired.
“I should go,” he said reluctantly. “You need to get to bed.”
Marc snorted. “Fat chance. I crash on the couch most days.”
“Is your bed upstairs?”
“No, I just can’t be arsed with it. When you’re used to sleeping on bunks, a big empty bed feels weird. I sleep better in here.”
With the warmth of the AGA warming Jamie’s back, he could well imagine why; he didn’t relish the idea of a windy walk home. And it felt entirely wrong to leave Marc, even though Marc’s enduring grip on Jamie’s hand was the only sign that Marc wanted him to stay.
With herculean effort, Jamie detangled himself and stood. Marc’s cat appeared like a disapproving ghost and used his shoulder as a bridge to the windowsill. Her claws digging into his flesh brought some much-needed perspective, and Jamie turned away from Marc and drifted to the front door. He was dimly aware of Marc following, but he didn’t look back.
“Jamie.”
I don’t want to go.
Jamie glanced over his shoulder. “Thanks for breakfast. Sorry it got a little heavy at the end.”
“Jamie.”
“What?”
Silence.
Jamie turned to find Marc behind him, strong arms folded across his chest, his expression similar to the one he’d worn on the plane all those weeks ago. Damn. Had that only been weeks ago? Right now, it seemed like a year.
“Jamie,” Marc said again. “You don’t have to run away every time you’ve had enough of me for one day.”
“It’s not you I’ve had enough of. It’s me. Besides, you’ve been up all night. You might not want to go to bed, but you still need to sleep.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
Jamie shrugged. “I think so. I’m not usually this morbid, I swear. I guess I’m just bored. Maybe I’ll be better when I find a job.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.”
“Why?”
It was Marc’s turn to shrug. “Why not? We’re, uh, friends, aren’t we?”
Were they? Jamie had no idea, but he wasn’t going to shoot Marc down if he was offering. “What’s that got to do with me being terminally unemployed?”
“I’ve got something you can help me with if you want to earn some cash while you keep looking.”
“Like what?”
Marc gestured all around them. “This house. It needs clearing out, and I don’t have the time or the legs to do it myself. I’ve been meaning to put an ad in the local rag for weeks now, but if you’re willing you, could save me the trouble.”
“You want me to work for you?”
“Not particularly. I want to spend time with you—get to know you better, but I also want to help you. And I need some help myself. What do you say?”
“Um.” Jamie chewed his lip. The notion of spending his days in Marc’s house, rooting through the contents of all the mystery rooms, was the best offer he’d had in years, but did he want to take Marc’s money when, if they were friends after all, it was something he could do out of the simple desire to help a mate out?
“Don’t answer me now,” Marc said when Jamie didn’t respond with a sensible answer. “Think about it. You know where I am when you decide. And come over anyway, even if you don’t want to do it. If I’m not at the hospital, I’m usually here.”
“You don’t go anywhere else?”
“Not around here. I shoot off to see friends when I get itchy feet, but I’m trying to stop that at the moment. Face my life for what it is so I can make it better.”
“It’s not easy to face yourself?”
“You tell me.”
Jamie grinned a little. “Touché. I’d better go. I’ll see you soon?”
“With any luck. Take care, Jamie.”
“You too.”
Seven
It was a week or so before Jamie reappeared on Marc’s doorstep, and by then, Marc was as back on his feet as he’d ever be. He was also working a week of day shifts, so it was dark when he pulled up outside the house, and Jamie’s slender form caught him off guard when it loomed out of the darkness.
“Sorry.” Jamie’s smirk said he was anything but. “Did I scare you?”
“Not really. I just wasn’t expecting you.”
“I can come back another time—”
“Shut it.” Marc jammed his key in the front door. “I wasn’t expecting you because I figured you’d have stopped by already if you wanted to see me.”
“Oh. Um, yeah. Sorry about that. I’ve been going to meetings in Derby to keep myself busy. It’s a three-hour round trip and talking about junk with other junkies wears me out. I know it’s good for me, but it scares me too.”
After decades with men who’d divulged as few of their real emotions as possible, Marc was slowly growing used to how much Jamie could reveal about himself in just a couple of words. He let them into the house and headed straight for the kitchen, since Jamie had seemed to like it so much last time.
Sure enough, Jamie’s delight at the AGA’s blanketing heat was soul food. Marc couldn’t help a low chuckle and a light squeeze of Jamie’s shoulder as he passed him to habitually put the kettle on the stove. “Shall I get a bigger laundry basket so you can join the cat?”
“She does seem pretty content.” Jamie crouched beside Natalie and tickled her belly as she rolled over for him in the nest she’d made in Marc’s clean clothes. “You’d never get rid of me, though. I don’t sleep much, but I hate getting up, especially when it’s cold.”
“You didn’t seem to mind the cold the other night.”
“Yeah, I don’t so much when I’m twitchy. It’s a good distraction.”
“Are you twitchy today?”
Jamie glanced up with a self-conscious grimace. “Not especially. And I’m embarrassed about the other night. I’ve been clean for a year. I shouldn’t still be getting so fucked up over it.”
“Why not? Being clean isn’t a cure for whatever pushed you to drugs in the first place.”
Jamie’s eyes darkened, and he glanced back at Natalie. “They told me it was genetic in California. That it wouldn’t have mattered what my life was like, I’d have been an addict anyway.”
“That might be true.” Marc searched out the rooibos tea he liked to drink at the end of a long day. “But you might not have found your way to heroin if you hadn’t needed it to survive.”
“You think I needed junk to stay alive? That’s a new one. I thought you didn’t know much about addiction?”
“I don’t—medically speaking. But, um—” Marc faltered. Was he really about to confess that he’d sat up all day after their last encounter, reading every addiction article he could find, and that, of all things, it had been a comedian’s Guardian column that had finally made sense? “Look, you might be physically clean, and that’s an amazing achievement, but you miss the drugs because they’ve left a void in your life—and it’s obviously a void that whatever you were doing in America didn’t fill. Or you’d still be there.”
“Going to America saved me. I was so far gone that I wouldn’t be here if Liam hadn’t made me go.”
“Who’s Liam?”
“Zac’s boyfriend.” Jamie gave Natalie a last tickle and then stood. “He owns Sea Rave. Didn’t I tell you that already?”
“Maybe,” Marc said with a shrug. “I’ve been so knackered this last month or so I can barely remember my name.”
“You’re better now, though. I can see it.” Jamie came closer and peered into Marc’s face in a way that would’ve had him shoving any other man halfway across the kitchen. “You’re walking different too. I wouldn’t know about your leg now if you hadn’t told me.”
Part of Marc wished that he hadn’t told Jamie. Because the sympathy in Jamie’s eyes was hard to take when all Marc wanted to do was push him up against the wall and kiss him again. Unbidden, his mind recalled the first time he’d shown his ruined body to a man who wasn’t a doctor or a friend as hardened by war as he was. The shock of a random Grindr hookup had been tough enough to swallow. He couldn’t handle it from Jamie.
Not that it mattered. Jamie hadn’t mentioned the kiss in the car, and the moment had passed for it to drop into casual conversation. Yeah, ’cause conversations with Jamie are always casual . . . not.
“Are you okay? You look miles away.”
Marc blinked. Jamie was right in front of him, even closer than before. His warmth seeped into Marc, and the wooziness that often came with being near Jamie made his head swim before he got a tenuous hold on himself. “Are you hungry?”
“What?”
“Hungry,” Marc repeated. “My neighbour feeds Natalie when I’m at work and does a bit of shopping for me. She’s goes a bit maverick sometimes, but there’s probably something around here we can have for dinner.”
“You don’t have to feed me every time you see me.”
Marc begged to differ. Jamie’s slender bones were built to carry his slight frame, but the hollowness in his cheeks seemed more pronounced than ever, and while Marc could do nothing to chase his addiction away, a hot dinner he could manage.
A dinner of what, though, he had no idea. He opened the fridge and scrutinised the contents, trying not to overreact as Jamie came up behind him and peered over his shoulder.
“I’m not much of a cook,” Marc admitted. “I’m a chuck-it-in-a-pot-and-hope-for-the-best kinda guy.”
“Nothing wrong with that. I don’t have a huge repertoire, but my mate Marvin taught me how to make his dad’s groundnut chicken. It’s Ghanaian. Have you got any peanut butter?”
“Erm, maybe. What else do you need?”
Jamie reached around Marc and grabbed the bag of chicken pieces Mrs. Valentino had left in the fridge. “Onions, garlic . . . some chillies, if you have them?”
“I’ve definitely got chillies. They’re in the sun room.”
“The what?”
“Come see.” Marc straightened up and took Jamie’s arm almost absently, struck once again by how normal such intimate interactions had fast become. How easy. He towed Jamie to the neglected conservatory at the end of the hall, a bright open space that had, in effect, become a greenhouse. “My mate Nat is a bit of a Charlie Dimmock. He sent me a chilli plant for Christmas.”
Of all that Marc had shared with Jamie, apparently the fact that he had a stash of fresh chillies in amongst a collection of neglected herbs and houseplants was the most enlightening. Jamie pushed past Marc and picked up the ever-growing chilli bush—damn thing was three times the size it had been when it arrived from sunny Hereford.
“These are Scotch bonnets,” Jamie said with the widest grin he’d treated Marc to so far. “They’re just what we need. Can I take a bay leaf too?”
“A what?”
“One of those.” Jamie pointed to another of Nat’s attempts to make Marc’s existence less utilitarian.
“Sure. Have at it.”
Jamie squeezed his way to the dusty pot in the corner and plucked a few leaves from a small tree that looked like it needed a holiday from Marc’s indifference, and a handful of bright-orange chillies. When he came back, he had a colour in his cheeks that hadn’t been there when he’d arrived.
“I’d feed you six times a day if it meant you smiled like that,” Marc blurted.
Jamie’s grin turned shy and his slight flush deepened. “Um, thanks, but you’re not going to feed me. I’m going to feed you, if you don’t mind me using your kitchen?”
Marc wasn’t about to object to anyone rescuing him from a solitary night of tea and toast, especially if that someone was Jamie. They went back to the kitchen and unearthed the final few things Jamie needed for his chicken dinner. Then Marc leaned against the counter and watched Jamie cook, and wondered if he’d been dropped into an alternative reality of blessed domestication—a reality that felt damn good. “That smells amazing.”
The shyness returned to Jamie’s smile. “It’s nice, isn’t it? I used to make a vegan version with tofu for the canteen, but I like the chicken better. It was the first real food I ate when I came out of rehab.”
“So it’s your comfort food?”
“Maybe, but all food is like that for me, ’cause I still remember what it was like to not have any.”
“Ah, see I went the opposite way. I got so used to eating sachets of bangers and beans that I forgot how much I liked fresh food. I had to train myself not to live the rest of my life on tinned ravioli.”
“Is Army food that bad?”
“Worse, but we ate every meal with a tube of extra-hot mustard, so we didn’t taste anything anyway.”
Jamie grinned wickedly and chucked another chilli in the pot—whole, seeds and all. “I like spicy food. It gives me a buzz, a healthy one, you know?”
“I get that from the treadmill when I get round to using it.”
“I can’t picture you as a gym bunny.”
Marc chuckled. “I’m not. I have a treadmill downstairs for when I’m not feeling up to pounding the streets, and the rest of the time I use the house to keep me fit.”
“Eh?”
Marc pushed off the counter and retreated to the kitchen doorway. He reached up to the bar he’d fixed in the doorframe and pulled himself up with one arm. “The benefits of super high doors and ceilings.”
Jamie opened his mouth. Shut it again. “Wow. You’re strong.”
“Not really. I can’t do shit with my legs.”
“But you can run?”
“Jog a bit. I’ve got a special blade that fits to my prosthesis in place of the foot. It’s weird and bouncy, but I go nuts when I don’t get out.”
“I can’t imagine you a bit nuts either. You’re so together.”
“Am I?” Marc lowered himself back to the ground and returned to loitering at Jamie’s side. “I don’t feel it some days, but my mental health is better now all the surgery is behind me.”
Jamie turned the chicken over in the pan and added the dubious tin of coconut milk Marc had dug out of the pantry. “You don’t need any more?”
“Nope. I was on the fence about the nerve graft, but it should help with the phantom limb pain, so I’m glad I had it. Anyway, enough about me—what have you been doing with yourself since I last saw you?”
“I already told you. Going to meetings and job hunting.”
“Did you have any luck? With the job hunting, I mean.”
“No.”
Jamie didn’t elaborate, and he turned his back on Marc to open the oven and slide his bubbling pan inside. Marc took the hint and searched for a change of subject, but other than the crazy-good smell already coming from the stove, came up blank. “How’s your flat? Is it warm enough?” Smooth, man. Smooth.
But Jamie didn’t seem to mind. He carefully shut the AGA door and wiped his hands on a tea towel. “It’s not cold, but it’s bare. Just the furniture and me. I’ve thought about keeping the telly on all the time, but that crap drives me mad.”
“You don’t have any books?”
“A couple, but they’re self-help bullshit that my sponsor gave me before I left Cali. I only read them when I’m desperate.”
Marc couldn’t ignore the elephant in the room any longer. “Remember you can take as many as you like from upstairs. I’m sure you’d find plenty if you went through them.”
“Is that your way of asking me if I’m on my arse enough to accept your charity?”
There was no bitterness lacing Jamie’s words, but they stung all the same. “It’s not charity. You’d be doing me a favour. And if you don’t want to do it, I’ll pay someone else. How is that charity?”
“You didn’t make it up because you felt sorry for me?”
“I don’t feel sorry for you. You’re young, clever, and gorgeous, and you’ve got your whole life to look forward to. Why the fuck would I feel sorry for you?” It wasn’t much of a lie. Marc’s heart ached for all that Jamie had been through, but he’d been around the block enough to know that such things shaped a man like Jamie. He’s so much stronger than he realises. “I didn’t make it up, mate. Think what you want about yourself, but I haven’t got time for games.”
The urge to walk away festered in Marc’s gut, but Jamie stayed him with a featherlight brush of his fingers over Marc’s forearm.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m just rubbish at interacting with anyone who isn’t trying to fuck me. It’s like I’m conditioned to fight everyone in case they screw me over.”
Marc stared at where Jamie’s fingers had come to rest on his skin, marvelling at how sweetly they burned. “That’s pretty admirable, really—that you still want to fight.”
“Fight other people, not fight for myself. There’s nothing admirable about that.”
“Suit yourself. But whatever you think, I didn’t make that job up for you. It’s yours if you want it, someone else’s if you don’t.”
“I never said I didn’t want it.” Jamie’s hand remained on Marc’s arm.
Marc licked his lips and sucked in a shaky breath. “If you want it, take it.”
“That theory hasn’t worked out so well for me in the past.”
“You don’t live in the past.”
Jamie was silent, apparently transfixed by where they were joined as much as Marc was. Recklessness struck Marc. He took Jamie’s other hand and tugged gently until Jamie was in front of him, so close their knees touched, and Marc felt him everywhere, even in his missing leg. “You’ve got to give yourself a chance.”
The stern words he’d intended came out as barely a whisper, and Jamie didn’t blink when a tiny tear escaped his chaotic eyes and slid down his haunted face.
Marc broke Jamie’s hold on his wrist and wiped the tear away with the pad of his thumb. “Life was forced on you last year by someone who cared when you didn’t. I know you care now, and so do I—about both of us. So let’s help each other, eh? At least until you find something else?”
