Chapter 3

"Calum? Mate?"

"Huh?" Calum raised his head and blinked at the latest apparition to cross his path since he'd fallen off a train at the bottom of the world.

Great.

Now he was imagining the first bloke he'd ever got a hard-on over. Would this nightmare never end?

Not that imagining Brix Lusmoore was much of a nightmare. Even in the midst of the clusterfuck Calum's life had become, Brix was beautiful.

Shame he wasn't real.

Calum let his gaze drop back to the wet concrete he'd been staring at since he'd discovered that Rob had cleared out their joint bank accounts, rendering his debit card—his only card—totally fucking useless. With no phone and no money, and nowhere to run, Calum was stranded.

And drunk.

Very drunk.

"Calum."

Brix's ghost spoke again. Calum ignored it as a phantom hand, darkly inked with familiar pirate tattoos, closed around his, squeezing, shaking, and punctuating every utterance of his name.

"Calum. Dude. Anyone home?"

Nope.Even if Brix had been real, Calum definitely wasn't home, because home was where Rob was fucking someone else in his bed.

Bastard.

The ghost stood and disappeared. Calum mourned the loss of its warming touch. Then the world tilted and the phantom hand returned, grasping Calum's arm and hoisting it over a set of slim shoulders that were far too bony to be a dream. "Is it really you?"

"Depends who you think I am," Brix said. "If you call me Cunty-Bastard-Rob again, I'm gonna bloody deck you."

Cunty-Bastard-Rob. Calum let out a strangled laugh as the half litre of rum he'd drunk on the train threatened to make an abrupt reappearance. "Rob is a cunty bastard."

"I'm sure he is. Don't explain why you're all banged up and trashed on a broken bench, though, does it?"

Calum touched the bruise on his face and supposed it didn't, but though Brix had pointed out the wound, he didn't appear to be asking for an explanation. "What are you doing here? Thought you were dead or some shit."

"Close, mate, close. Been a long time, eh?"

"Yeah." Calum searched 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 seen in his dreams, he honestly had no idea. All he remembered was coming back to London one day to the news that Brix had packed his stuff from the flat he'd shared with a mutual friend and vanished. "Where've you been?"

"I've been right here, Cal."

Cal. Brix was the only soul on earth who'd ever been able to shorten Calum's name without making his teeth itch. "Here?"

"Yup."

Calum frowned, 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, too preoccupied keeping Calum upright. The absurdity of the scene almost made Calum laugh again, but he didn't laugh. He stared, and as he accepted that Brix wasn't a hallucination of too much rum and not enough sleep, his equilibrium deserted him.

He lurched sideways, despite Brix's hold on him, and braced 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, dark-blond hair, awesome ink, or hypnotic gaze, but the subtle strength in his slender 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 got a bag?"

"Nope."

"Okay." Brix tried again. "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. "Don't be a dick. Man, I'd forgotten what a riot 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 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 unshaven jaw, his elegant neck, and his beautiful coiled forearms. He'd always had a fetish for forearms, especially Brix Lusmoore's.

Again with the strength.

How had Calum forgotten that?

A years old 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, and the darkness, combined with the gentle rolling of the van, and Brix's silent presence beside him, was so fucking good 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 like a lullaby, and the gentle rumble of…a smug cat.

He 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.

One was tiny and digging a hole in his chest. The other was massive—like a panther who'd eaten all the pies—and without its booming purr, Calum would've been pretty disconcerted by its unblinking stare.

As it was, 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 canvases stacked up in the corner, and pirate-themed artwork dotted around. The only thing he recognised 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.

Damn.

The rest of it was sketchy, so much so Calum still half believed he'd dreamed it, but on cue, the exterior door to what he was fast realising was a cosy cottage opened, and Brix Lusmoore appeared in Calum's bleary line of sight. "Shit. You're real."

"Shit, 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 is 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 twisted his hand to see the stag, so carefully etched all those years ago. He remembered it like it was yesterday, how pumped he'd been to get his first ink—by Brix Lusmoore, an artist Calum had idolised since he'd first come to London. Nearly a decade later, it was still his only tattoo.

"You're in Porth Ewan, by the way."

"Hmm?" Calum glanced up. Brix had ventured further into the room and perched on the coffee table. "Porth Ewan? 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 bang between Porth Luck and Rock Down Bay."

Calum had spent his whole life bouncing from Reading to London and back again, but as his rum-addled brain cleared, Porth Ewan began to sound familiar. "Is this where you're from? Where your family is?"

"Yup."

"But . . ."

Brix cocked a brow. "But what?"

"Jordan came down here looking for you."

Brix's pale gaze was inscrutable.

Calum winced. "That bad?"

"That's between me and him." Brix's grin returned, but didn't reach his eyes. "I reckon it'll stay that way until one of us dies."

Calum turned that over in his mind. When Brix had disappeared, him and Jordan had been on and off for as long as Calum had known them. He'd assumed they'd broken up, and he'd pondered Brix's fate every day until he'd met Rob, and after that…

After that, he'd become so obsessed with the spell Rob had cast on him, he'd forgotten everyone else.

"Still with me?" Brix touched the sore spot on Calum's cheek and nudged a mug of something hot into his hand. "I've got eggs if you're hungry?"

Calum's stomach growled, but the thought of eating made him heave. "No, thanks. I should call my dad 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. "Passcode is one-eight-three-eight. I'll be outside if you need me."

He stood and returned to the back door, stepping into his wellies before leaving Calum to face the phone alone.

Calum tapped in the passcode and dialled his parents' place in Reading as the acidic notion that Rob might've called there first curdled his stomach. He'd charmed Calum's mum before—the last time they'd come to the city to see him. She'd liked him, for all the reasons that weren't fucking true.

I can't do this.

As luck would have it, he didn't have to. 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 the winter with Calum's aunt.

Shit.

Calum set Brix's phone on the coffee table, ignoring the urge to smash it against the wall. Unlike Brix, his own temper had always been gentle: a slow burn that even friends who knew him well often missed. Not that he had many friends—Rob had seen to that.

And you just let him, didn't you?

Calum got up and moved to the back door. Despite his preoccupation with the end of the world, his gaze zeroed in on Brix, who seemed to be scooping mud out of a 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. And it was good to see. Despite a wave of envy, Calum was so pleased for him that 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.

He found his shoes by the front door, beside a pair of paint-splattered leather boots he'd recognise anywhere. He stared at them, for a moment transported back in time to his apprenticeship days in Camden, when Brix had been more legend than friend. Back then, 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 legs. Legs that Calum was fairly sure had brought his bisexuality to life.

The idea that he might never have fucked men without meeting Brix jarred Calum. He 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 kind 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 right back, 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. Sorry you had to see me like that."

"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."

"The phone that's in a bin at Paddington?"

"Yup."

"Was it an iPhone?"

"No."

"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."

Comprehension coloured Brix's features. "Is that what's happened here? You've had a bust up and split?"

"Something like that." Calum turned away from Brix's searching gaze and focused 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?"

"She might be a red one when she gets her feathers back. Did your ex leave that bruise on your face?"

"No."

"Are you lying?"

"Yeah." 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 he returned his attention to the chickens. "Every single one. Started rescuing them a few years back. Got too many now, 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."

It was almost too cute for Calum to bear. "What do you do with them when they stop laying?"

"Depends." Brix winced. "If they're healthy and happy, I'll keep them going, but if they're not doing so well, I get my dad to, um, you know, so they don't suffer."

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. It rang a bell, and Calum recalled the rumours he'd heard about the dodgy clan Brix came 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 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 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?"

"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 despair, and despair won out. While Brix had been doing his best for Cornwall's poultry, Calum had been dribbling down his T-shirt on a wet bench.

What a tit.

But a warm bundle of flesh being thrust at his chest distracted him before he could fall down that rabbit hole again. He stared at the bald hen Brix had dropped in his arms. "What the?—"

"She's friendly. Think she's gonna be a cuddler."

"A cuddling chicken? That's a thing?"

Brix grinned. "Not often. My lot are bandits. My old man's got a couple he keeps in his pockets, though."

Calum studied the hen in his arms. "She looks oven ready."

"Oi, none of that. She'll hear you."

Brix's expression told Calum he was 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 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. "She'll be all right 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."

"Stay here?"

Brix fixed Calum with a look that felt parental. "It don't take a genius to work out you're up shit creek, and I reckon if you had any inclination to hop it home you'd have done it already. Am I right?"

"Maybe." Calum lost himself in Bongo's lizard-like gaze, hiding from Brix's piercing stare. "I guess if I wanted to go home, I wouldn't have wound up here in the first place. It's not like the train didn't stop before I fell asleep."

"So why didn't you get off?"

Calum slowly shook his head. "I didn't want to. I needed to be as far away from him—from there—as possible."

Brix raised his eyebrows, catching Calum's slip. "This is a long way to run. Are you in trouble?"

"What? No. It's nothing like that, I've just . . . lost myself, you know? And I don't know how to get it back."

Brix plucked Bongo from Calum's arms and set her down in the dusty run. "Know how that feels, mate."

Calum didn't doubt it. Brix had always possessed a wisdom that came from a life that had seen too much. "I might get a Wonga loan. It'll get me back to London, at least."

"Is that where you want to be?"

Calum thought of the shop in Rob's name and the barren flat in Paddington that had never felt like home. "I'd rather shoot myself."

"Then stay here, like I said. You don't have to explain yourself. Reckon I know all I need to."

"But I haven't told you anything."

"So?" Brix shrugged, like it was nothing. "I've got a spare room and some guest slots at the studio. It's not like you don't have a trade. You're still tattooing, aren't you?"

Calum snorted. "It's about all I'm doing, but I haven't got any kit. It's—" His voice fell away as his heart wept for Dottie. "Brix, I don't have anything."

Brix laid a hand on Calum's arm, his slender inked fingers wrapping around Calum's wrist like a blanket of heated vines. "Then you best stay right here until we figure this shit out."