Page 103 of Pretty Mess

I rub my eyes. “I’m not sure I even want to know any more,” I confess. “Each time I think we’ve got clear of owing money, another debt pops up.”

“Well, I wouldn’t bother asking him for a final figure. I doubt he even knows it himself, and even if he did, he wouldn’t tell you. He lies all the time now.”

“How do you know?”

“He opens his mouth, and sound comes out.” She sighs. It’s loud and sad down the line. “Sorry. He’s still your brother.”

“Why areyousorry? You’re allowed to be angry, Cath.”

“He can’t help it, Wes. I know that. Gambling is an addiction.”

“It doesn’t stop me from being fucking furious with him.” I sigh, feeling like I’m carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, and I’m now facing toting it up a long flight of stairs too. “And I still love him, and I’m still worried.”

“Me too.”

I bite my lip, thinking hard. “I’ll come over your way tomorrow. I’ll see if I can find and talk to him.”

Her voice sounds relieved when she speaks. “Really?”

“Yeah.” I look at my watch and come to a decision. “Fuck it. I’ll go now. I have an appointment, but I’ll cancel it and go to Tyler’s room tonight. Send me the address, babe.”

“There’s no point. I’ve been round twice, and he hasn’t been there. I went tonight and the landlady said he’d been in earlier but told her he was out for the night and not to expect him back.”

“So, he’s been there? That’s a relief, at least.” I feel a wave of guilt. “I should have done something about this sooner. I justthought it was sorted and he was safe. So I was allowed to give him the cold shoulder for a bit.”

“You and me both, babe. Will you let me know what happens tomorrow?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll ring you as soon as I know anything.”

I click to end the call and throw the phone onto the sofa. Then I scrub my hands down my face, trying to get rid of the worry clouding my head. I knew something was up, and still, I left it alone.

“Fuck,” I say out loud and kick the sofa. The pain in my foot clears my brain a little.

I look at my watch and frown at the time. Mac was supposed to have been here fifteen minutes ago. He’s never late, so that’s piling more worry on me. It’s good he wasn’t here to witness that call with Cath, though, because that might have been too personal for him.

I haven’t seen him since we got back from Paris a week ago. He’s obviously taking evasive manoeuvres since I pushed him to talk about his past, refused his money, and then compounded the offences by buying him a fucking present.

I glance at my watch again. Maybe he’s decided he has something better to do? Oh god, what if the Paris trip made him decide it was time to end our arrangement?

I stop pacing and rub my chest when breathing becomes suddenly difficult. The idea of never seeing him again is …dreadful. It makes me feel sick. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and I fall into a chair. I don’t trust my legs.

What is actually happening? And do I actually want to know? My body is trying to tell me that seeing Mac is vital. But my brain is too scared to address what that means.

Obviously, I should steer my thoughts toward my future. Be cool. Think about the inevitable—moving on from Mac, moving out of this flat.

Julian ends his arrangements with cool practicality every time. If he saw me now, he’d shake his head in concern at me. Fuck, I’m concerned with me too. Because when I close my eyes, I see Mac’s face. His raised eyebrows, his reluctant smile, his incredible eyes. And I hear his rusty laugh and feel his skin and the way his body tangles with mine after an amazing bout of sex. Is all of that gone now? My heart aches, and I rub at my chest again.

The sound of the lift doors opening makes me jump, and just like that, all my doubts fly away. He’s here.

I race towards the door and then freeze when he steps into the room. “What thefuck?” I exclaim.

He sways slightly and braces his hand on the wall. His suit jacket is draped over his shoulders, dusty and stained in places. His left arm is in a sling, and the dark-blue nylon fabric is stark against his shirt.

I race towards him. His face is battered and bruised with the beginning of a black eye, and his lip is swollen. I come to a stop in front of him and hesitate, my hands fluttering around him, not daring to touch. “What happened?”

He grunts. “I’m building a block of flats, and I visited the site this afternoon and fell down some fucking stairs.”

“Oh my god.”