Page 9 of Leather and Longing (Island Tales #3)

Chapter Seven

“I might not have spent too much time with your sister,” Paul began, “but enough to know she’s no fool.”

Adam remained silent, prepared to grant Paul a little leeway until he found out more of his so-called idea.

“And if I figured out what you’ve been doing, then she’ll have no problems coming to the same conclusions.”

Okay, that was unexpected. “And what exactly have I been doing? Enlighten me.”

“You want a list? You’re sleeping in the library, you’re washing in the cloakroom… need I go on?”

Adam couldn’t blame Paul for the cool way he was speaking.

After the manner in which Adam had treated him these last few days, he was surprised Paul hadn’t quit.

And unlike his predecessors, Adam didn’t want this one to quit, though he was at a loss to understand why.

Then he reflected on Paul’s words, and he knew.

This one had balls.

Paul’s words struck home. Fuck .

“Have you been spying on me?” Adam straightened, his heart pounding.

“No,” Paul said impatiently, “I’ve been doing my job. Remember? I’m supposed to be looking after you.”

“And I told you I didn’t need looking after,” Adam ground out, letting go of the chair arms and clenching his hands into fists. He felt the slight movement in the floorboards as Paul shifted position.

“Look, we can argue about this until we’re both blue in the face. So instead of wasting my time and yours, why don’t we call a truce and work out what we’re going to do to make your sister happy?”

“We?” Adam echoed. “What ‘ we’re ’ going to do?”

A heavy sigh rolled out of Paul. “Like it or not, you need me. We can cease hostilities until after she’s been tomorrow, and then you can go back to being your usual sweet self.” Sarcasm dripped off every word.

Adam opened his mouth to say what he’d wanted to say that Friday, to tell Paul he was fired, but… he couldn’t. Because damn it, the boy had a point.

Can’t think of him as a boy anymore. His words, his attitude, were that of a man, one whom Adam couldn’t help but grudgingly respect.

“Go on,” he said, weariness settling on him. He sagged into the armchair.

“Okay.” Adam heard the scrape of furniture across the floor.

Paul’s voice was nearer, Paul close enough that Adam could smell him, a scent of soap and male.

“I figure, if she comes here and finds nothing to worry about, she’ll think I’m doing my job and she’ll be less inclined to visit you as frequently. ”

“And how do you propose putting her mind at rest?”

Silence, then Paul cleared his throat. “First off, you’re going to take a shower, not a spit-wash in a cloakroom.”

Shit .

“D’you want to tell me why you’ve been doing that, by the way?”

He could dismiss the question, but the possibility of keeping Caro at bay was too big a carrot to ignore. And if they could accomplish that…

Adam leaned forward, slowly reached down to the hem of his sweatpants and pulled up the fabric covering his right ankle. Paul’s hiss was loud. Adam let go and sagged. “How bad is it?”

“It’s pretty bruised and swollen. What happened?”

“I tried going upstairs to take a shower Tuesday night, that’s what happened.” The memory of falling was still sharp. It hadn’t been that big a fall, but the shame Adam had felt at ending up in a heap at the foot of the stairs, his ankle on fire, was worse than the pain.

More movement of the floor and Adam could feel Paul’s body heat, his scent intensifying. “I’m just going to have a closer look, okay? And a quick feel, so don’t jump.”

Adam braced himself. “Go for it.”

Paul lifted the fabric out of the way, and suddenly, cool fingers were on his skin, probing gently.

Adam winced when Paul manipulated his ankle, albeit with care, his hands soft.

He handled Adam’s ankle as if it were made of glass, his touch light.

Adam held his breath, waiting for the inspection to end.

His foot was rotated slowly, and the pain wasn’t as intense as it had been two nights ago.

When Paul lowered his foot back to the floor, Adam shuddered out a sigh of relief.

“Okay, well, the good news is, you haven’t broken anything, but you already knew that. If you had, you wouldn’t have been able to get to and fro between here and the cloakroom. It’s a bad sprain, but once you’ve showered, I can bandage it up nice and tight, so it’ll be easier to get around.”

“Get around?” Adam frowned. “Exactly why will I need to get around?” More silence. “Well, go on, out with it. You’ve got this far. What’s the rest of your plan?”

“I’m going to shave you, and then we’re going to get your hair cut. Unless you’re really attached to the beard?” Paul let out a wry chuckle. “Metaphorically speaking.”

He’d hit on a sore point. Adam had tried to shave a few months ago.

He hated electric razors, much preferring to use a disposable one, but his first efforts had been painful and downright embarrassing.

Not knowing how he looked when he’d nicked his skin in half a dozen places only fuelled his shame.

After that, it had been easier to put up with the beard, but God, he loathed it.

He liked being clean-shaven: a five o’clock shadow made him look sexy, so he’d been told, but that was as far as he was prepared to go.

“You ever shaved with a blade?” he asked Paul.

“Yes, but I’ll be starting with the electric hair trimmer to trim it down to a more reasonable length first.”

Adam nodded. “I have disposable razors and a straight blade. Somewhere,” he added, unable to contain the groan. Where had Caro put all his things?

He fucking hated this.

Then the rest of Paul’s words finally sank in. “Cut my hair?”

What the fuck is wrong with my hair?

“I’m trying to help here.” There was that note of impatience again. “If Mrs. Lambton sees you neat, tidy, obviously taking care of your appearance, she might get the impression I’m actually doing my job—that you’re coping better. And then she might decide to leave me to it.”

Now he had Adam’s attention. Fewer visits. Fewer conversations about him going to live in a community with a warden.

The possibility of being left the fuck alone.

Still, he was no fool. “This isn’t about helping me, is it? It’s about making sure you keep your job.”

“For God’s sake!” A sound of sheer exasperation exploded from Paul. “Sure, I want to keep my job, but you want to keep your sister out of your hair.” A pause. “Pun intended.” Paul sighed heavily. “If we work together, we can both get what we want. It’s a means to an end.”

“Can you even cut hair?” Not that Adam was going to see the results, but he had no desire to be a laughingstock if, God forbid, someone came to visit.

Not that anyone had yet.

Adam’s emotions were a mess, relief and misery at war within him. He was thankful he’d been left alone since moving back to the island, and yet there was this ache deep inside him, that only one person from his former life had seen fit to get in touch.

I can’t have it both ways, he reasoned with himself.

“Oh, God, no.” He could hear the amusement in Paul’s voice. “I have a friend who has a hairdressing salon in Ryde. I was going to take you there.”

Take him….

“No.” He forced the word out through gritted teeth. That much was not going to change. There was no way in hell he was about to cross his own threshold. The world could go fuck itself. If he couldn’t get someplace under his own steam, then he’d stay the fuck where he was.

“I’m trying to help you here!” Paul yelled. “What do you want?”

“I want my fucking life back!” he shouted, his voice rebounding off the walls. He caught the hitch in Paul’s breathing and for some reason that put the brakes on his rage. Adam was shaking, his fingernails cutting into his palms, his hands were clenched so tightly.

“Okay, okay.” Paul’s voice was quiet, soothing.

“And that’s what I’m trying to do. Get you to a point where you don’t need anyone.

But in order to reach that point, you’ve got a few hurdles to climb over, yeah?

” He fell silent, until all Adam could hear was the rhythmic sound of his breathing and the waves crashing onto the shore below.

Adam took a few long breaths, striving to regain his composure. He knew, deep down, that Paul was right.

“So, do I call my friend and see if he can fit us in this afternoon?” A pause. “I can park the car right outside the front of the salon, so you won’t have far to walk.” Another pause. “Adam?”

It was the first time Paul had used his name, and for some reason it calmed him.

“Okay,” he said at last. “Make your call.” Fatigue settled on him, as heavy as the satin-covered bedspread he remembered had always been on his grandparents’ bed when he’d spent summers here as a child.

Adam would crawl under it, hiding from Caro while they played—when she was forced to play with him, by their parents.

Simpler times, when he knew every hiding place the house afforded, and spent his days playing down on the beach, or sitting on the library veranda, reading and listening to the waves pound the rocks below.

Paul shifted away from him, and Adam finally unclenched his fists, his palms sore.

“Mark? Have you got an empty slot this afternoon?” Paul laughed. “No, it’s not for me. You only cut my hair last week, remember? It’s for Mr. Kent. Yes, that’s right.”

Adam tried not to listen in, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“That’s great. See you then. Oh, hang on.

You still got those traffic cones? Could you put them outside the salon?

I know Union Street shouldn’t be that busy at that time of the day, but it’ll make things easier if I don’t have to go hunting for a parking space.

” Silence. “Thanks, mate. I’ll see you soon. ”

“Traffic cones?” Adam remarked.

Paul chuckled. “Yeah, Mark liberated them last year, I forget where from. He keeps them for when some of his older customers want to park close to the salon, to save them walking too great a distance.”