Page 140 of Pretty Mess

His voice is serious when he speaks again. “It’s his love language.”

“Pardon?”

“Mr Reilly isn’t one for fancy words and romantic gestures.”

“Tell me about it.”

“But hedoescare.” His voice is firm, and I stare at the back of his head. “If you mean something to Mr Reilly, he will move heaven and earth to ensure you’re looked after. It might not be jewellery and a trip to the opera, but sometimes a hot cup of tea after a long night and a safe ride home is better than all of that.”

“I don’t think I mean that much,” I say in a small voice.

“Well, I think you might be wrong. When he put me on this duty, he told me this was the most important job he would ever have for me.”

“He saidthat?”

He nods, flicks the indicator, and takes a right. He seems to hesitate, and then he says quickly, “You might want to check out Zagreus.”

The name tugs out a memory of a history lesson. “Like the Greek god of rebirth?”

“Exactly.”

“Why?”

“Shall we have some music on, Wes? I like a bit of Radio Two, but it’s very dreary at this time of the night.”

I subside into the backseat, knowing he’s not going to say more. Then I fumble with my phone and type Zagreus into Google. It comes up with a lot of results about Greek myths, but one result stands out, and my heart begins to beat faster. It’s a link to a rehab centre. I click on it and watch as a fancy website loads with a bold logo of a phoenix rising upwards.

“Oh mygod,” I whisper. I bring up my messages and type one to Cath.

What was that rehab centre called? You never said.

Bubbles immediately pop up, and I remember she starts work early, so she’s obviously up.

Zagreus. Why?

I blow out a breath.

No reason

I cradle my phone in my lap, staring sightlessly out the window as London flows past me in a jumble of lights and shadows.

My heart is beating so fast it seems to echo through my body. I can’t believe he did this for Tyler. On the one hand, I feel apassionate gratitude towards him, because if Mac’s dealing with this then I know it will be alright.

I shake my head in despair. But the truth is that he’s had to step in and help meagain. I sold my body to him, my brother is a gambling addict, and Mac’s had to ride in on a white horse to save us both. I neveraskedhim to do that. I’m trying so hard to get over him and this isn’t helping. I think fleetingly of Brandon and feel hot with embarrassment. I bet Mac didn’t have to bail outhisfamily members.

I tap a restless rhythm on my thigh. I’m starting to get angry and it’s almost a refreshing change from sorrow. My brother ismybusiness. Mac didn’t even deign to tell me he was doing this. So, was it pity that governed his actions? I’d rather he cut me out of his life completely than make me his charity project.

I look down at my phone. If I contact him now, I’ll be starting something I might not be able to handle, opening up a line of communication when I’m trying to get over the pain of his absence.

I tap my fingers on my thigh and then before I can second-guess myself, I pull up his contact. The picture is one I took in Paris without him knowing. We were sitting at a café, and he had an espresso in front of him. He was looking at something in the distance. I’d snapped the picture because his expression was uncharacteristically serene and almost happy. I tap my message before I can stop myself, my fingers moving quickly.

We need to talk.

Almost immediately, his reply comes back.

When and where?

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