Page 82 of Cream & Sugar

I stand in silence for a few seconds, or a few minutes, it’s hard to tell. I don’t know what to do. It feels like my guts have beenripped out by a giant meat hook. A microscopic part of me still hopes this is all an elaborate prank, and that someone’s about to leap out of the cupboard with a video camera and reveal the big joke. Unfortunately, the rest of me knows better.

My phone buzzes in my pocket but I ignore it.

I want to call my mum. I can’t. I want to go home. I’m already here. But it doesn’t feel like it now, and not just because half our stuff is missing, because I know, after this, I’m not wanted here. This doesn’t feel like home anymore.

There’s nowhere else to go, but I can’t be here.

Sobbing, I take off, hurtling out the front door, only stopping to lock it behind me, before running back down the street.

It’s fully dark now and the cold is searing my skin, but I keep running, ricocheting between the golden pools of streetlamps, until the burning in my lungs forces me to slow down. Panting, I scan my surroundings. I recognise the houses. I’m on the corner of Walpole Avenue and…

Amber Lane.

Fuck.

I didn’t even mean to come here, a stone's throw from our old house. I’d forgotten how close it was. Never a reason to come past it anymore. Rory avoids it deliberately when he’s driving and I… I can’t be here. Not now.

I want a drink. Or a joint. Something to take the edge off.

Sabre isn’t far. A few streets away in the other direction. It’ll be open by now.

My legs move on their own, carrying me towards the bar.

A familiar neon glow greets me. It’s still early: no queue outside. The stocky bouncer on the door recognises me right away.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, pretty boy.”

“Yeah,” I say, numbly as she steps aside to let me pass.

There’s a smattering of people inside—a couple eating burgers in a booth, a few people in business attire, and some older queens ruling over an otherwise deserted dance floor. A few glances shoot my way, but I ignore them and make a beeline for the bar.

Destiny’s on shift, wearing one of her sparkliest corsets, bright pink against her deep brown skin. Her shoulders and arms are bare, showing off lean muscle. A pair of feathery wings sprout from her back.

“Hey, blondie,” she croons, spotting me. “Why the long face?”

“Bad day,” I explain.

“Aw, honey. Sorry, but don’t tell me, okay? People always think the bar bitch wants to hear all about their shitty life. Well, not me. This isn’t the movies.” Destiny flutters her long eyelashes. “But a drink, I can help with. Usual?”

“Times two, please.”

“I’ve got you, blondie.”

Destiny makes me two whiskey and cokes with lemon and slides them across the bar. I dig out a tenner from my pocket and wait for my change.

Destiny sucks her teeth. “Sorry, blondie. New prices. Don’t blame me, I just work here.”

“Awesome.” I take a sip of drink number one. “Is Andre in?”

“He’s in the back. Why, you looking for a little something-something?”

“Sure. Whatever, um,” I dig around in my pocket for the last of my tips, “twenty quid will get me?”

“Two grams and a blow job?”

I grimace. “Just the weed, thanks.”

She takes the money and tosses her weave over her shoulders. “Sure, blondie. Leave it with Destiny. I’ve got you.”