Page 12 of A Cold Hard Truth

“Keys?” Remington finally asked.

“Oh.” Sebastian smiled. “They’re in my pocket.”

Remington studied him for a passing second, then pursed his lips and shoved his hand into Sebastian’s front pocket. Sebastian leaned against the wall, feeling those long fingers he’d just been admiring root around, grazing against parts of him that appreciated the attention.

“Other pocket,” he rasped.

Remington made a frustrated noise and reached into Sebastian’s other pocket, producing his keys and shoving one into the lock.

His front door opened, and he rolled along the wall, sliding inside, past Remington. He toed off his shoes in the entryway, managing to not fall on his face, and he turned to grin proudly at Remington, who wasn’t even paying attention.

“Jesus,” Remington muttered, closing the door behind him and taking off his shoes. “You live here?”

“Every day.”

“It doesn’t look like it.”

Sebastian looked around his apartment. He had a TV and a couch, and all the things someone who lived in a place was meant to have.

“What does that mean?” He shuffled to his couch and thought about sitting, wavering in place. He veered a little too far to the left, but before he crashed onto the coffee table, Remington was there again with those long fingers of his, grabbing Sebastian around the arms and righting him.

“You’re a mess,” Remington answered. “Your house isn’t.”

“I pay someone,” he said.

“Of course you do.”

Sebastian closed his eyes in a long and slow blink that sent the room spinning.“What does that mean?” he asked again.

“Where’s your bathroom?” Remington ignored his question and asked his own.

Sebastian jerked his chin toward his bedroom, then gagged, covering his mouth with both hands. He had drank a little more than he’d meant to, or maybe he’d meant to drink as much as he did and had just planned poorly for the fallout. He’d never thought Callahan would abandon him at brunch, fucking off to play with his boyfriend instead of helping Sebastian get home.

Remington guided him into the bathroom and set him on the edge of the tub. He swayed a little and reached out to grab the towel bar to steady himself.

“Who has a copper sink?” Remington muttered under his breath.

“Me, obviously.”

“On purpose?” Remington turned the taps on and bent down, opening a cabinet and reaching inside. He produced a fluffy white washcloth, which he threw into the copper basin.

“It’s arty.”

“It’s something.”

“I get the feeling you don’t like me very much.” Sebastian frowned, watching Remington wring the cloth in his hands before turning to face him. Remington dropped into a squat, steadying himself with one hand against Sebastian’s thigh. “Is this all right?”

“What part?”

Remington’s eyes traced over Sebastian’s face, his fingers flexing against Sebastian’s leg.

“All of it,” he answered.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” he drawled.

Lots of things in his life weren’t okay. His divorce wasn’t okay, his brother wasn’t okay, his mental state and drinking habit were probably not okay either, but there wasn’t much to do about those last two now.

“Do you want me to go or do you want me to stay and get you settled?”