After he’d finished his tea, Cal headed out. While Spencer washed the mugs, Nick walked Cal to the door.
“Remember what Spencer said.” Nick held Cal’s gaze. “You’re always welcome here. And if shit changes with James, and you need some advice or a place to vent, you know where to find us.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”
Nick smiled, and then startled the hell out of Cal: he hugged him. It was a platonic gesture, a friendly one, but that kind of affection in the wake of last night was overwhelming. Cal forced back his emotions and returned the embrace.
“Take care,” Nick said.
“I will.”
Nick let him go, and Cal left. It was just as well he had his bike today. He wasn’t sure how he’d manage to navigate the turns and traffic of London in that big car when his concentration was elsewhere. He was used to driving it of course, but a motorcycle was considerably more forgiving if he took a corner faster than he should have. As long as he didn’t take it too fast and wipe out, anyway.
He returned to the house and quickly slipped out of sight to his cottage. He didn’t bother trying to write. With as heavy as his mind and his heart felt right now, nothing would make it onto the page except navel-gazing emo drivel. His book deserved better than that.
And since he had to work tomorrow, he really couldn’t drink tonight, no matter how much he wanted to. Going out on the piss with the guys sounded like a great idea, except he knew damn well he’d be exhausted the moment he stepped into a room full of happy people. That, and drinking the night before work meant a miserable day.
Then again, tomorrow promised to be fucking miserable anyway, so what was a little throbbing behind the eyeballs?
He poured himself some whiskey, grabbed a book, kept the bottle nearby, and drank until he couldn’t make out the words on the page.
He’d left his sunglasses beside the sink in the bathroom next to the billiards room. Fuck. Fortunately he had another pair, but they weren’t nearly as dark. Good thing the day was overcast. What little sunlight there was stabbed him right through the eye sockets even with dark lenses.
Yep. Gonna be a fucking fabulous day.
Cal pulled the car up in front of the house at seven thirty. He left the engine idling, and stood beside the rear door while he waited for James to get his shit together and come outside. Not that Cal cared. He was early anyway, and even if they’d been running late, he couldn’t bring himself to give a fuck. If James was late to his meeting, it was his arse, not Cal’s. Cal just didn’t want to stand out here in the brutal daylight any longer than he had to.
Finally, the front door opened, and James appeared. Cal refused to let the sight of him in that tailored suit—the grey pinstripe today, the bastard—have any effect on him. At least the sunglasses gave him something to hide behind so he could not look at the man coming down the front walk.
When James was a few steps from the door, Cal met his eyes out of sheer habit.
“Good morning, Callum.”
“Good morning, sir.”
Cal didn’t emphasise “sir,” but as soon as the word came out, James stopped so abruptly he almost stumbled. Cal squared his shoulders. Fuck. That was just the kind of awkwardness they both needed at this hour.
He swallowed. “Your meeting is at Threadneedle Street, correct?”
“Uh, it’s . . .” James shook his head, flustered. “Yes. That’s right. Thank you, Callum.” And he got into the car.
Cal shut the door behind him. Once he was in the driver’s seat, he glanced in the rearview to make sure he’d put up the privacy screen. As if he hadn’t checked three times already. His uncle had always told him never to take it personally when a client put up the screen. He’d never mentioned anything about Cal putting it up himself.
Don’t take it personally, James.
Or, hell. Go ahead. I don’t fucking care.
He envied James the ability to concentrate. Somewhere in that business brain was a button that allowed James to switch things on and off. While Cal hadn’t had one productive hour in days, James just sat in the car and worked.
That’s how he switches everything on and off, me included.
Maybe that took a cynical motherfucker. Maybe it was a special skill, or a special kind of brain chemistry. Next step in human evolution: soulless technocrat.
Cal forced himself to focus on the traffic, keep his attention directed outside, in front of the car, focus on being nothing but a function.
If it drives . . .
He was nothing but the mechanism that moved the car towards where it had to go. Like any other part of it, he could be replaced if he couldn’t be repaired.
In this economy, be glad you have a job.
And with this job came a place to live, not to mention enough money to keep paying for his course.
And being made to feel like the lackey you are.