Hope steps forward and points at the cat. "What is that?"
"It's a pussy cat with no hair," Kyan says.
She gives Kyan an unimpressed expression. "It looks like it got into a fight with a lawnmower."
"Yeah, well, Madame Wrinkles got it on with one of the pikey cats out the back alley." He shrugs. "Poor little bastard is like a hairy, bald mix."
Brandon shakes his head. "I'm not keeping a cat." He places the kitten on the floor, and it backs up against his legs.
"Aw, it's well cute, what with its little patch of hair." Hope crouches down, clicking her tongue to call it over. The kitten unwarily makes its way over to her, and she scoops it up in her arms, then turns to me. "What are you going to name it?"
"It's not getting a name," Brandon says, grabbing his bottle of whiskey from the table.
She holds up the kitten, touching her nose to its face. "He who shall not be named. Ah, bless it."
Finn pats Brandon’s back as he walks past him, pulling a vape pen from his pocket as he takes a seat on the edge of the couch.
"Okay, now everyone's here, along with newcomer, Voldemort." Hope hugs the kitten to her cheek.
"Oh, good,” Brandon says with a clap. “She's attached to it. She can take it home."
"Get a drink; we're going to play a game." Hope grins, ignoring Brandon.
Brandon throws his head back against the sofa cushions. "We best have more whiskey in the house."
"Well, as always, he's a delight," Hope glares at Brandon and pulls out a long, black box from her purse.
I perch myself on Brandon's lap and run my fingers over the stubble on his jaw. "Be nice."
He scowls at me. "Fine. But we aren't keeping the cat."
"You know,” Kyan says, “People pay like two grand for those hairless cats. Larry said they sold the other kittens for eight-hundred quid each, and they're not even purebreds."
"Well, shit. Somebody hand the little bastard his balls and get him on it," Brandon mumbles.
Hope opens the box and glances at Brandon with a smile. "It's called the game for horrible people. Right up your alley.”
"Well, you are a soulless ginger. And you did bring it."
"You do realize if it's just pure fact, it's not an insult, you twat."
"The two of you are about to do my head in," I mumble. "Can we just play the game and have you two shut up?" I head to the kitchen and open the fridge while Hope explains the rules. I pop a few pizzas into the oven and pour myself another glass of champagne. By the time I get back into the living room, everyone is in a laughing fit.
"Okay.” Brandon holds up a card with a smile. "'And the Academy Award for firing a rifle into the air while balls deep in a squealing hog goes to Mr. Clean, right behind you.'" He tosses the cards onto the table. "That one has to be the winner."
"Thank you," Kyan says, feigning a bow.
Brandon pats Finn on the shoulder. "Finn, 'Being a motherfucking sorcerer and mouth herpes' was a close second."
"What kind of game is this? Jesus."
Brandon glances up, smiling with Voldemort in his lap. "The game for horrible people, poss."
47
Poppy
August 2015
"I'll see you tomorrow, Doris."
Doris glances over the top of a patient file, her gaze drifting to Mr. Brighton, who is sitting on the other side of the room.
"I'm walking him down on my way out, don't worry."
"Mr. Grumpy.”
"He's not that bad," I whisper, swatting her on the shoulder.
By the time I get on my coat, Mr. Brighton is holding the door open for me. "After you, love," he says with a smile before he glances at Doris. "Have a lovely weekend, you old winch."
"Same affection to you, you wanker."
He chuckles, and we head toward the front entrance.
"Any big plans for the weekend?" he asks.
"Not really."
"Ah, come on now. Lover boy's not got plans for you?"
I shrug. “Maybe.” I’m the only nurse Mr. Brighton will see, and I don’t mind.
Over the past few months, I’ve come to look forward to his appointments. He tells me about his ex-wife and estranged children, about the war, and I tell him about Brandon. Sometimes I think I just want to have someone tell me Brandon’s going to be okay.
Mr. Brighton pulls a cigarette from his coat pocket and lights it. “He’s still fighting?”
“He says it’s all he’s good at.”
He nods knowingly as he takes another drag from the cigarette. “You know, Poppy, Hollywood is a crock of shit.” Smoke billows from his lips. “They paint this picture of war where it's all black and white, it's not. There are a million shades of gray in there." Another swift drag. "I've not met many soldiers who actually wanted to kill someone."
He's no longer looking at me, more like through me. It’s the same fogged-over look Brandon gets when he talks about the war like it drags them right back to that desert and holds them hostage in their own head. So, I stand, waiting for Mr. Brighton to come back.
Squeezing his eyes closed, he lifts the cigarette to his lips, his hand shaking as he puffs away. "Killing a person, it screws with your head. It's not like in the movies, Poppy. Most of us aren't running out there in a battle cry with guns raised, bullets flying. Most of us, whether we’ll admit it or not, are scared shitless. And those horrors we live day in and day out, they don't ever go away. They haunt you. They whisper to you in your sleep." He hesitates for a moment. "Sometimes, I think the guys who died were the lucky ones because they have peace, and that's a damn sight more than I can say for myself."
The hum of traffic on the road swirls around me. I know I should say something, but I'm at a loss.
He frowns. “I think the fighting doesn't matter much because the fighting's not the root cause of it, you know? He stops fighting, that war, those horrors," he taps his forefinger over his temple, "They'll still be there. Until he can learn how to ignore those ghosts clinging to his back, well…"
It feels like a stone just sank to the bottom of my stomach because it all sounds so hopeless.
"Hey, poss."
Mr. Brighton glances over my shoulder, and I turn around to find Brandon a few steps behind me, his hands shoved in his pockets.
I introduce the two men, and they shake hands, followed by an awkward silence.
Mr. Brighton clears his throat, locking his gaze on Brandon as he nods toward me. "Your Poppy is the ray of sunshine around here, you know it?"
Brandon smiles, and a cab pulls over to the curb. Mr. Brighton tosses the cigarette down before he clasps a hand over Brandon’s shoulder. "You take care of her.” Then he turns to me. "You've got a good heart, love. And I thank you for that."
"See you next week, Mr. Brighton," I say.
He waves as he climbs into the cab.
"He's my favorite," I tell Brandon as we walk down the sidewalk. "He reminds me of you."
48
Brandon
We watch her patient take off in the cab, and then I take Poppy's hand and lead her down the steps to the subway.
"You know I can drive?" Poppy says.
I shake my head. "We're going into the city." London at rush hour...we'll be on the road for hours.
I can feel her eyes on me. The underground this time of day is a personal brand of hell for me, but I want to do this for her. I want to show her some kind of normalcy and be able to give her a life. That involves doing shit outside of the apartment. So, I grip her hand as we fight our way through the commuters and squeeze onto a packed tube.
I hate having people at my back, and tension grips my body as sweat trickles down my neck. Poppy subtly shifts, moving behind me and wrapping her arms around my waist. My gaze darts around at the people pressing in on us, and the second we reach our stop, I'm dragging her through the open doors. She never complains, simply jogs to keep up with me. When I reach the top of the steps, I take a deep breath as the tightness in my c
hest evaporates.
"Okay?" she asks.
I nod. "Yeah, come on. We'll be late."
"You still haven't told me what we're doing."
"That's generally what a surprise entails, you not knowing." I smirk at her.
We move through the crowded streets of central London until we're right by the river. The smell of silt, oil, and shit hang heavy in the air.
Poppy shoots me a funny look when I lead her toward the London Eye. "You, the guy who refuses to do, in your own words, touristy shit, are going to the London Eye?" She puts a palm to my forehead. "Have you fallen ill, babe?"
"Don't say I don't do romantic stuff for you.” I lead her into the small ticket building and hand the guy behind the desk a piece of paper.
He glances over it and smiles wide. “Mr. West, follow me."
"Mr. West. So…” She suspiciously arches her brow at me. “Now you're Finn?"
"If the credit card fits."
The guy lifts a little rope that I think is supposed to make this look a bit VIP. We wait a moment as pods pass us one at a time. An empty pod pulls up, and he opens the door, sweeping his arm to the side. "All yours."
We step inside, and Poppy's eyes dart to the ice bucket and box of chocolates resting on the wooden bench in the center.
"Okay, now I know you must be ill.”
I shrug. "You like this kind of shit."
"Well, aren't you romantic, Mr. West?"
"I'll be sure to pass that on to Finn." The pod starts to move, cruising at a snail’s pace. I kind of wish the thing would pick up some g-force. It would make it more interesting.
She lifts the bottle of champagne from the ice and reads the label. "Going overboard a bit?" she says under her breath. The top comes out with a pop, and instead of pouring it into a glass, Poppy shrugs and drinks straight from the bottle.
"You always were a classy chick."
She eyes me. "Says the pikey because he knows what class is?"
"Hey, my ma had scatter cushions in that caravan. That's like a luxury, I'll have you know. The dog that was chained to it had a proper collar and everything. No bailing twine for Sean."
"I did love that dog." She laughs. "And I think your dog was the only one who actually had a name. If that's not high-class pikey, I don't know what is."
"Yeah, Ma loved Sean Connery." I grin.
She smiles. "This was sweet of you." She pushes up on her tiptoes to give me a kiss. A short kiss—after I just dropped over three hundred quid on this pod—and then she walks over to the glass, looking out over the dirty city as the sun drops behind the horizon.
I'm not one for a view, but then again, I could push her up against that glass and make this date really memorable. I place my hands on her hips, pulling her back against me. When I brush my lips over her neck, she tilts her head to the side. And I smile against her skin. My hand slips beneath the material of her top.
And then, she yanks away from me. "Really? This thing is nothing but windows."
"You just look so pretty standing there in the sunset." I smirk. "You'd look better naked though…"
"No." She draws away from me, and I step after her. "Brandon," she warns.
She backs up to the glass, and I cage her in, pressing my hands on either side of her head. "Possum," I breathe against her lips, waiting.
“You’re an asshole."
"I'm just standing here, poss."
Her chin tips up a fraction, and she presses her lips against mine. I lift her onto the handrail that runs around the pod and step between her thighs.
She kisses me. "God, I hate you.”
"Nah, babe. You love me. I mean, I did get you champagne."
"I love you, but I still hate you."
"Oh, you're mean today." I kiss her again, and she moans into my mouth.
"I want you," she whispers. "That's why I hate you."
"Done." I grab the bottom of my shirt and yank it over my head in two seconds flat. Getting it on, on the London Eye. I’m down.
Her eyes pop wide. "Put your shirt back on!"
"You sure about that, poss?" I whisper in her ear.
Her teeth tear at her bottom lip. "We’ll go to jail."
"Or end up on PornHub..."
She buries her head in her hands, laughing. "We don't have enough time."
"You give me too much credit; you really do." I pull her off the railing and turn, laying her on the bench. I trail my fingers up her thigh, her breath hitching as I slowly lift the skirt of her dress.
"Brandon..."
So much for her “we don't have time.”
When we’re done, I check my watch. "Eight minutes to spare." I take the box of chocolates, remove the lid, and shovel a few truffles into my mouth. "You and chocolate make a good mix." I wink at her. "Want one?" I ask, holding out the box.
Sighing, she reaches in and grabs one, taking a small bite. "You're sweet, Brandon. Perverted, but sweet. I think I'll keep you."
"Is that your way of saying I'm good in the sack? Because you're welcome." I smirk and go to take another handful of chocolates, but they're all gone. "What the hell? Who puts only five chocolates in a box?"
"Dear God...it's not a box of Celebrations." She snatches the box away, staring inside before she chucks it to the floor. "I hope you throw up from that."
"That's not nice."
49
Poppy
Boats drift down the Thames, their lights shining from atop their mast. "I can't believe I let you do that to me on the London Eye." I tip back the bottle of cheap cider.
"Let?” He huffs a laugh. "I think you'll find my smooth moves were just too much for you." He takes a bite of his kebab, spreading garlic mayo and chili sauce all over his face.
"I can't believe you like those disgusting things. It's most likely some plague-riddled sewer rat they've skewered and fed to you for a few quid."
"It's man food."
"And it will give you man shits."
He bobs his head to the side. "Worth it. Anyway, that shit,” he points at the bottle in my hand, “will give you the hangover from hell in the morning. How about I shotgun the toilet, you can hurl in the bath."
"Wow, and people swear chivalry is dead."
"Keep telling you I'm a class act."
I sigh because, sometimes, with Brandon, that's all I can do. I shouldn't find his immaturity as endearing as I do, but I can't help myself.
He grabs a piece of meat and holds it up to my face. " Here. Try it."
I shrink away from the food he's dangling between his fingers. "I don't want any."
He shoves it in my face again. "Take a bite."
"Look, I don't want your nasty meat."
A slow grin works over his face. "Really?" he says, wiggling his eyebrows.
"Asshole."
"Seriously, though, you're missing out." He swipes the bottle of cider from me and takes a swig, shaking his head and squinting one eye like he's having a stroke. "Oh, God. That shit is like vinegar."
"Compliment the taste of rat, hmm?"
"No." He inhales and leans back on the bench. "You remember that time Connor drank a whole two-liter bottle of that on a dare?" He starts laughing, barely able to get the words out. "I thought he'd actually died. And you dared him."
"Look, I don't remember daring him..."
"If it had been anyone else, he would have said no, but he'd have walked on hot coals if you said it." He shakes his head, smiling.
"Bless him. Poor thing had to have his stomach pumped and everything."
"God did he bitch about it." Brandon rolls his eyes, but I can see the warm smile on his lips, the softness in his expression. I think he likes to remember the three of us growing up, the way we were before life became hard and cruel.
"Why were we all friends, anyway?” I ask. “All we ever did was harass each other and get each other drunk.”
"Eh, you were the half-breed, I was the pikey, and Connor was fat. Who else was going to hang out with us?"
"If there's one thing I've learned, poss, it's that no matter where you go in the world, the places don't mean shit. It's the people. I'm glad you found me. I'm just sorry you had to lose everything to do it." He closes the plastic kebab tub and gets up, tossing it in the trash. He turns to me and holds out his hand. "Ready to go home?"
I nod and take his hand.
Little things like tonight, they’re what make everything seem worth it. It's the way he makes me feel. The way he loves me, the “us” that has always swirled somewhere beneath the surface, that makes me know I would never let him walk away from me. No matter what.
When I wake the next morning, the sun is much brighter than it should be for—I glance at the clock and sit straight up, then jump out of bed. "Shit!"
Brandon bolts up. "What!” He swipes his hand over his face before holding it to his chest. "Shit. Don't do that."
"I'm going to be late."
"So? No need to give me a coronary over it."
I dig through the piles of clean laundry I've yet to put away while Brandon rolls out of bed and staggers into the living room.
Once I’ve managed to make myself look halfway put together, I go to the kitchen. Brandon's standing at the counter, staring down at the box of two-day-old pizza. "Okay, you've got two choices here. Pizza or Coco Pops."
"I'm fine. Thanks, though."
He steps around the counter with a cup of coffee in his hand. "Coffee. No whiskey." He flashes a smile, and I push up on my tiptoes to kiss him.
His hand snakes around my neck as he sweeps his tongue over my bottom lip. I fight the urge to part my lips, and I somehow manage to pull away from him. "I'm late."
"And I'm horny, babe. We all got our issues." He scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip in a way that just shouldn't be allowed.
The Beginning and End of Everything Page 21
