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The text from Grant came at quarter past nine. I’m outside, he said. Let me in.
Dare considered ignoring it—Grant might be a sexy bastard, but Dare wasn’t particularly in the mood for his kind of company right now. Talking about his failure to help Jase always made him want to hide away afterwards.
But then another text came through. I need to talk about STDs.
Well, that was blunt and to the point. Was this going to be one of those horribly awkward moments, like when an ex three-night stand had called by to give Dare a tearful confession? He’d just been diagnosed with HIV and wanted to come clean to everyone he’d had sex with over the past year. Luckily, despite having taken some stupid risks, Dare had tested negative, and he’d been extra-careful ever since. He reviewed what he’d done with Grant the other night. Nope, nothing to worry about there. But if Grant wanted to get something off his chest, Dare wasn’t going to turn him away.
He was way too soft at heart, that was his trouble.
So Dare traipsed out to the gate in the rain and let a morose-looking Grant through.
“Hey, mate,” Dare said, clasping Grant to him in a quick hug. He felt Grant’s body stiffen. “Come on. You look like a man who needs a drink.” It smelled like Grant had already had a couple of vinos, though. “A hot chocolate,” he clarified, remembering Grant’s taste in sugary, milky coffee. “I might even be able to do you a mocha. Come on.”
He didn’t look back to see if Grant was following him, but when they reached the caravan, Grant was right on his heels.
“So, mocha, then?” Dare threw his coat over the table and headed over to the kitchenette, but Grant stopped him with a hand to his arm. And it wasn’t a gentle touch either.
“I don’t want your bloody chocolate. Let me see your arms.”
“You what?” Dare puffed out his chest and used his extra inch to the full advantage. By the soft light inside, Dare could see the wounded anger lurking under Grant’s sorrow. He didn’t exactly want to bait a bloke who was this screwed up, but he wasn’t going to be shoved around in his own home.
“Show me your arms.” Grant started shoving Dare’s T-shirt sleeve up.
“Fuck off. If you want to see my tats, this isn’t the way to go about it.”
“I need to see them.”
“I thought you wanted to tell me something about STDs. Come on, fess up. What have you got? I’m guessing it’s not crabs, or I’d be itching already. Gonorrhoea? Or worse?”
“Show me your fucking arms!” This time Grant pulled on Dare’s sleeve, and he wasn’t prepared for that. The stitching gave at the shoulder, and before he knew what was happening, his whole arm was bare.
And Grant was staring at the octopus on Dare’s inner elbow. “There’s nothing there. What the hell?” He ran his fingers over Dare’s skin.
More like what the fuck? “I think you’ll find there’s a gert big octopus there. Only one of Ben Boston’s best bits of work—I had to queue for hours to book the appointment he’s so bleedin’ popular. And I’ll have you know that was my commemorative T-shirt from my very first Dead Kennedys gig. That’s a little bit of music history you just destroyed, you sod.”
Grant sagged back against the kitchen counter. “So you’re not a junkie?”
Dare stared in disbelief. “What the fuck would make you think a thing like that?”
“I saw you coming out of that place on Hope Street. And you wouldn’t show me your arms. And you know, you’re into that whole alternative-lifestyle thing.”
“Fuck’s sake. Just coz I like a bit of punk music doesn’t mean I want to go injecting poison into my veins. Yeah, I might smoke the occasional joint at a festie, and you already know I like a drink, but that’s hardly the same thing.”
“I just thought...” Grant faltered.
“No, you didn’t think. If you had, you’d have known that I don’t have any of the hallmarks of a drug addict. I hold down a full-time job, I’m healthy, I’m sane. I practise safe sex. Always use a rubber for anal, and I never let a bloke come in my mouth. You didn’t think at all. You just had a knee-jerk reaction to something you don’t understand.”
“So you don’t have HIV?” Grant asked.
“Bleedin’ hell! No, I don’t, and I think you should leave.”
But Grant just sagged back against the cabinet even more. His face was turning a nasty shade of green. “Oh, thank God. I was so worried. I think I... I think. Oh God, I’m going to be sick.”
Shit. “Try and hold it in for a minute.” Dare hustled Grant over to the sink, leaving him there while he crashed through the cupboards in search of a bucket. Caravan plumbing was a bitch to clean out if you got puke in it. He’d be smelling it for weeks. Eventually he found the mop bucket and pulled the top bit off it. “Here,” he said, shoving it under Grant’s head. The man wasn’t heaving just yet, but he was breathing heavily and he looked clammy. Dare stroked his hair back off his forehead.
“How are you feeling?”
“Rough. Shouldn’t have...shouldn’t have had that last vodka.”
“You’re telling me. You know, you don’t have to get plastered before you come round here. I’m not that scary.”
Grant wheezed a laugh. “You are. You’re not like anyone else I know. You look like a thug.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t exactly help that, can I? We can’t all have your film-star good looks.”
Grant turned his head then, and Dare was pleased to see a bit of a sparkle in his bloodshot eyes. “You don’t have to shave your head. You didn’t have to get all those tattoos.”
It was a fair point, but Dare wasn’t about to give in that easily. “I’m shaving my head coz I’ve inherited my dad’s baldness. He had a monk’s patch in his late twenties, and had pretty much lost all the hair on the top of his head by the time he was my age.”
Grant’s gaze roamed over Dare’s skull. “I don’t mind it. Kind of suits you. Just, it’s a bit threatening.”
“Yeah, well I can’t help the way you judge people based on their appearance.”
At least now Grant had the decency to look shamefaced. “I’m sorry about that. You know, what I said earlier. It’s just, well, I put two and two together...”
“And came up with a hundred? Yeah, we need to do something about that tendency of yours, don’t we? How about a nice normal chat over a cup of hot chocolate?”
“You don’t have any proper drink left?” Grant asked hopefully.
Dare crossed his arms. “I think you need something warm and sweet. A few minutes ago, you looked like you were about to go into shock. Come on, sit yourself down. No, take the bucket. Just in case. I’ll get the kettle on.” By all rights, he should be kicking the arrogant fucker out into the rain, but he didn’t have it in him after seeing Grant so vulnerable.
Solly was asleep on the diner seat, and Dare watched to see what Grant would do. It wasn’t too late to kick him out if he unceremoniously turfed her off the chair. But instead he fondled behind her ears, and when she woke, he gently encouraged her to move over so he could perch on the end of the seat.
Dare bent over the stove to hide his smile. Yeah, his instincts had been correct. The bloke wasn’t as much of an arsehole as he seemed. Maybe you just had to act that way in his line of work, but there was hope for him yet.
Grant looked fit to pass out when Dare set the mug of hot chocolate down in front of him, but he coaxed him awake again by chatting about trivial things. Music, art and camper vans. Turned out Grant had more eclectic tastes than he appeared to, and he confessed a love of country music—particularly Dolly Parton—and the work of the Impressionists. That made Dare smile. He wondered if Grant would have admitted as much if he hadn’t been steaming drunk. Dare certainly hadn’t spotted any reproduction Monets on his walls—the flat had had all the personality of a show home, with its fashionably framed landscape photographs. There was something endearingly low brow about the real Grant, and Dare mentioned the country music festival he went to down in Wiltshire every year.
“Have you ever been? I suppose it’s folk more than country, but that covers American stuff too. I’ve heard some cracking bluegrass bands play there.”
“A folk festival? I’ve never even been to Glastonbury.” Grant sounded rather melancholy about that.
“I wouldn’t bother. Place has no soul these days since the corporations took over. But I usually head down anyway, park up in the camper van field and hand out business cards. Sometimes I tune a few engines or give people advice on refits. It’s amazing how much trade I can drum up over a long weekend. And paying to go to a few festies definitely beats paying for ads in the local paper.”
“I wondered how you make a living here. It seems so quiet.”
“Yep, that’s the winter months for you. But come spring when people start thinking about the camping season, I’ll be getting a steady stream of customers. Some of them are after spare parts, and I get a lot of that custom over eBay, but I always get a fair few vans booked in for an overhaul, plus I sell the ones I’ve spend the winter months doing up. Could sell more, really, if I wanted to take on extra staff to cope with the workload.”
“Then why don’t you?” Grant screwed up his forehead.
“Always seems more hassle than it’s worth. I have enough to live comfortably. I don’t need anything more.”
“But you could buy yourself a nice house. Go on luxury holidays.”
Dare chuckled. “Can you really see me swanning around on a cruise ship with a bunch of rich folks? Nah, I’m happy with my working holidays. Get to see some great bands and make lots of new friends.”
“You’re crazy. You could have staff to do all the hard work for you. You wouldn’t have to spend your days breaking down old vans anymore.”
“Believe it or not, I actually like a bit of honest toil.”
“But you could make a fortune. Retire early.”
“And again, I like working.” Grant was staring at him with such disbelief, Dare realised the concept of liking working was something foreign to him. “Do you seriously hate what you do that much, you can’t understand anyone enjoying work? That’s sad. Really sad.”
“I don’t hate my work.” Grant didn’t sound at all sure of himself. “It’s challenging. And well paid.”
“Forget about the money for one minute. What about the rest? Would it be worth it if there wasn’t a big pay cheque at the end of the month? Your boss, your work mates. What are they all like? Are they people you want to hang out with when the day’s over? Or can you not wait to get away from the place?”
“It’s not like that,” Grant said, but he wouldn’t meet Dare’s eyes. “I mean, they’re all nice enough. I go to social events with them. They always have a box at the races every year. Things like that.”
“Uh-huh. And what about just a drink with friends after work? That something that happens much?”
Grant shuddered. “I did try going for a drink with my boss’s secretary earlier. I didn’t exactly want to, but she talked me into it. Complete bloody disaster.”
Dare raised his eyebrows and waited for Grant to elaborate.
“I think she might have a thing for me. But she just went on and on about her son and how it’s a terrible thing he’s gay, and I couldn’t say a word without her knowing.”
“Knowing what?” Watching Grant’s guilty expression deepen made Dare realise. “Oh. So you’re not out at work.”
“Not yet.” Grant’s grip tightened on his mug. “There hasn’t been a good moment.”
“Sounds like this drink with the homophobe would have been an ideal moment,” Dare observed, keeping his voice light.
“You don’t understand. It’s easy for you. You’re already alternative, and you hang around with hippies and weirdos. It’s easy to be out when you’re like you. I’ve been married for years. Everyone thinks I’m straight. They’re going to be shocked when I tell them how it really is.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“Of course, it’s a problem. How can it not be a problem?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always enjoyed shocking people. If they don’t like me the way I am, screw ’em. That’s what I say.”
“Yes, well, like I said, it’s easy for you.”
“And there you go, judging me again. Admit it, Grant, you don’t know shit about what goes on in my life. I could have been beaten to a pulp by my dad when I came out. You ever think of that?”
“God, were you?” Now Grant looked suitably horrified and even more guilty.
“Nah, but only because he was already ill, and I was twice the size of him. But I still had to put up with a load of shit from the bastard. But you know what? What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. My old man did me a favour in the long run. Now it’s all water off a duck’s back.”
“Yes, well, unlike you, I actually care what people think about me.”
“You have my commiserations.”
Grant looked like he was about to argue, but then he sagged. “I’m so tired. I should be going.”
“Don’t be a moron. It’s pissing it down out there, and you’re still three sheets to the wind. Come on, we can both kip here tonight. My bed’s big enough for two.”
Grant snorted. “Barely.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining last time.”
Eventually, Dare got Grant to change into an old T-shirt and pair of trackie bottoms and bundled him into the bedroom, after helping him make sure his phone alarm was set half an hour earlier than usual so he could get himself home to clean up and change before work. He’d assumed Grant would fall asleep the minute his head hit the pillow, but clearly he was having a second wind, as he began rubbing up against Dare in a suggestive manner.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Dare asked, after dodging a sloppy kiss.
“What does it look like? I’m trying to have sex with you.”
“We’re not having sex.”
“Why not?”
“Because for one, you’re too drunk, and for two, I’m just not in the mood right now.” It was only a partial lie. Dare really was tired, and drunken Grant might be cute, but he’d much rather the next time was with stone-cold sober Grant.
“I’ll let you fuck my arse,” Grant wheedled. “Come on. I know you want to.”
“Bleedin’ hell. Just go to sleep.” Dare held Grant tight, and after a few minutes, he felt the man’s breathing slow, then his body go limp in his arms.
It took longer for Dare to follow, plagued as he was by thoughts of what he’d just turned down, but eventually he fell into a dreamless sleep.