Page 14 of Seen
NEIL
Drowning my sorrows in drink is a waste of time. I know this. Everyone who has ever tried knows this. More often than not, it only creates more problems. The crick in my neck from spending the night on my stubby sofa is the least of them. Nothing more than awhat the fuckcherry on the top of an entire holy shit cake.
A quiet, slight man is in my kitchen, toasting bread. I smell coffee, too, and recognise the dark green hoodie. Angular and straight-backed, Luke’s a nice shape from the rear, unless my eyes deceive me. Let’s face it; I wouldn’t put it past them. But fuck knows what he’s doing here. Regardless, I carry on admiring his long, lean legs and neat, rounded arse.
Shit, did I?No, I’m still fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Anyhow, all that ground to halt a couple of weeks ago after an embarrassing encounter with an anonymous (thank fuck) Grindr hookup. Or rather,nothookup. No grinding occurred either and I’ve not ground anything since. My overwrought mind is transmitting its fretfulness to my dick, which is refusing to play ball.
“Hi,” Luke says cautiously, bringing a plate and two mugs over to the sofa.
“You don’t have to do this.” I lick my lips, mouth as dry as sand. “Why are you… why are you here?”
“I came up last night. Alaric wanted someone to get you out of the bar and make sure you were safe.”
Okay, so slightly embarrassing. Vague memories of having my arm held behind my back and my cheek smooshed against an upside-down bottle of rum drop into my consciousness. “So why did you stay?”
“You asked me to.”
Mortifying. “Oh. Sorry. I was…I drank a lot.”
“I noticed.”
Eyes shifting from mine, Luke sinks into the chair opposite. My spare duvet is neatly folded over the back. That can’t have been a comfortable bed. He looks as ropey as I feel; positioned straight in front of me, I’ve got a clear view of his small, pinched features. I’ve always thought him pretty. Not standout, begging for attention pretty like some guys, but the kind you notice after the second or third take. The tufts of hair poking from his hood are a rich, coppery colour. I think his eyes are a hazelly-green; right now, they’re ringed in dark circles.
“Nice coffee,” I say, taking a scalding sip. “Thank you.” I force down a mouthful of toast. “Decent toast too. A lot of butter on it.”
“Toast is basically a butter delivery system.” He smiles cautiously, though he looks nervous as hell.
As the warmth from the coffee jolts my brain into gear, more bits and pieces of yesterday’s shitshow nudge at my memory. “I’m going to have to apologise to Jess, aren’t I?”
“Yeah. And maybe Gerald and Alaric too. He texted me not long after you crashed out to say he’d managed to entice her backbehind the bar. It sounds as if they coped without you for a night. Fortunately, it was quiet.”
I sip some more, praying Jess won’t blab to Ezra. I’m not her favourite right now. Luke studies the floor. “I should apologise to you too, for being pathetic and asking you to stay. I don’t suppose the peace lily needs a friend, does it?”
“You weren’t pathetic. We all get a little low sometimes, when life gets on top of us.”
Fuck, what did I say? Did I cry? I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.
“Nah,” I scoff, like it’s a fucking reflex. “Low? It wasn’t anything like that. Just fancied a drink at lunchtime and had one too many. You know how it is.”
Luke wraps both hands around his coffee, gulping at it every few seconds as if he can’t swallow it down quick enough and leave. Who can blame him? When he’s gone, I’ll grab a quick shower, then get hold of Alaric and Jess, come up with some bullshit story about misjudging my tolerance or something. Maybe I can blame it on the painkillers I took for my banged-up head. They don’t need to know most of them are unopened at the back of my bathroom cupboard.
When Luke finishes his coffee and puts the mug down on the table, I’m surprised he doesn’t leap up. Instead, as if he’s gearing up to say something, he fiddles with the bead bracelet at his wrist. He does that a lot, like back at his flat when he helped me with the spreadsheet. I bet he’s going to gently query whether I have a drink problem. And then give an equally gentle lecture on how I’m storing up future health issues for myself. He is a doctor, after all. Maybe I’ll admit to it, but say I’m dealing with it, to get him off my back.
“Listen. Neil,” he begins.
Here we go. He’s a reserved chap. I can see why he’d go for a career in one of the less pacy branches of medicine. He’sabsolutely shitting himself being put on the spot like this, which is bravery, of sorts. I adopt what I hope is a receptive expression and prepare my responses accordingly.
“I’m just going to ask you this once.”
Luke’s throat clicks as he drily swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. Yep, I was right, some responsible doctoring coming right up. When he’s done, I’ll brush him off, thank him again for staying, then send him on his way.
He forces his hazelly-green gaze to lock onto mine. His cheeks pinken; he licks his full, pouty lips. I bet he’s even prettier when he removes his hood. I wonder why he never does?
“Do you have a serious problem with your eyesight, Neil?”
I freeze, a triangle of toast caught half way between the plate and my open mouth. My voice comes out too tight. “My what?”
“Your eyesight.”
