Page 69 of Indie

Indie scrubbed a hand over his jaw, the tiny scratch of stubble on his skin just audible.

“That wasn’t any of us. Your description of the car doesn’t sound like anything my boys would drive.”

My stomach tensed, acid swirling suddenly, and the burn of bile rising at the back of my throat.

“Don’t worry, Spuggy. Your house, your job, your ex. I’ll sort it all out. I promise.”

“How Indie? How can you sort any of it?”

I was growing fond of this man, of watching him with my kids, of spending time with him, of lying in his arms all night after we’d spent long hours of the night having sex. But he made big promises, promises he couldn’t possibly keep. I smiled, encouragingly, like the way you do to a child when they tell you they’re going to be a famous footballer when they grow up, or a princess.

He reached forward, pushing his palm against my face, the tips of his fingers in my hair.

“I will sort it, Spuggy. You’ll see. But for now, you’re just going to have to trust me. Do you trust me?”

“I trust you on a lot of things, Indie.”

“That wasn’t what I was asking. Do you trust me?”

“I trust you’ll try. And that’s all you can do.”

A floorboard creaked, and then the door banged against the wall again.

“Oh God,” a woman’s voice shouted.

“Tori! For fuck’s sake!” Indie barked, anger resurfacing. “What are you doing here?”

“What areyoudoing in bed with your dad’s nurse?”

“It’s got fuck all to do with you who I have in my bed. Now fuck off downstairs.”

His words leaked venom, their harshness even making me recoil. But the woman they were aimed at didn’t flinch, leaning a shoulder against the wooden flame.

“I’ve come to talk to you about your Da.”

“Then you can wait downstairs till I’m ready to talk to you about it.”

“And why are their kids in your kitchen?”

“Tori, I’m not going to tell you again. Downstairs. Now.”

Tori shrugged and turned, leaving the bedroom door gaping wide open. I clutched the duvet cover around my chest, staring at the space the woman had been.

“Fuck’s sake,” Indie muttered, swinging his legs out of bed and grabbing a pillow to cover his groin. He padded to the door,pushing it back into the wooden frame with a forceful thump. With his back to me, I admired him. The tattoos didn’t continue, his skin bare of ink. But as his arms moved, so did the muscles in his back, skin pulling tightly over the lumps of hardened flesh. And just above his pelvis were two little dimples leading the way to a pert bottom and to the right cheek, which had a star-shaped wound on it.

“Your bum, Indie. Is that another scar?”

“Checking my ass out, huh?”

“No. Yes. Maybe.”

“Fury shot me.”

“Fury did it? Like friendly fire?”

Indie chuckled, a release of tension, the smile lines reappearing at his eyes, and the dimple in his chin evident.

“No. He was messing about with a gun. We were both drunk. It was a long time ago.”