“You don’t want me in your place?”
“Angelo, I want you everywhere, and that’s the problem. We’ve been fucking all this time and not paying attention to stuff that actually matters. We’ve got to change it up if we want to live better.”
Live better. It was the exact phrase Harry the friendly physio had tossed out when he’d visited Angelo at home that morning. And Dylan thought he didn’t know jack about what Angelo needed?
“Listen,” Dylan said when Angelo failed to respond again. “Leave it with me, okay? I’ve got a mental week coming up, but I’ll think of something. I want—I need to see you. I’ll figure it out, I promise.”
It was on the tip of Angelo’s tongue to remind Dylan that figuring everything out wasn’t his responsibility, but he let it go. He’d do whatever Dylan asked, be anywhere if it brought them together anytime soon.
They said goodnight and hung up. Angelo plugged his phone in and swallowed the palm full of vitamins and supplements Harry had recommended. It would be months before he saw any meaningful results, but as they slid down his throat, he felt better already. Tacit complicity in his own recovery was apparently the greatest tool of all.
* * *
Angelo turned the small white box over in his hands. “You bought an iPhone?”
Theresa shuffled some paperwork. “If that’s what it’s called. It looked the same as that broken thing you spend your days staring at, so I got you a new one.”
There were three things about those two sentences. First, that his mother had noticed his newfound preoccupation with his phone; second, that she cared; and third, that she’d done something about it. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d given him anything that wasn’t a bowl of pasta.
Not that he was complaining about that.
The phone, though . . . “Thanks, but I can’t afford to put credit on a phone right now. I only use the one I’ve got because it’s logged into next door’s Wi-Fi.”
“The one I bought has a contract.”
“What?”
“That’s what they called it in the shop. Data things and minutes.”
“Mum, I can’t have a contract either. My finances are all tied up in the DRO I told you about this morning.”
That had been a fun conversation. To an outsider, Theresa’s reaction would’ve seemed cold, but Angelo was beginning to know her better than that again. Naively, he’d thought that she’d listened.
Theresa tucked the folder of papers relating to the house sale into an envelope. She labelled it in neat block capitals and set it aside.
Then she folded her hands in front of her and fixed Angelo with a look he didn’t quite understand. “While you were in hospital, I went to see the business advisor.”
“In Dagenham?”
“Yes.”
“The one you called a puttana?”
“Don’t pick at me, Angelo. I’m trying to talk to you.”
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Angelo sat back in his seat at the kitchen table and pushed his half-eaten lunch away. “Sorry. Go on.”
“So, I went to see the advisor and discussed with her the sale of all our assets.”
“Your assets.”
“Angelo! Let me speak, child.” Fire flashed in Theresa’s dark eyes. “That was precisely why I went to this woman when you weren’t here. I’ve had enough of you men thinking you can talk for me.”
Angelo said nothing; merely gestured for Theresa to continue while he fought to keep his own temper in check. How could she accuse him of talking for her when she’d been intent on saying nothing at all for so long?
“The house will be sold,” Theresa said. “And the business too. Our debts are vast, but there’ll be money leftover for me, for you, for your sister—”
“Mum—”
Theresa held up her hand. “I know that you can’t accept it right now, Angelo. Despite what you think, I do listen to you, but I want you to know that I will put your share aside until you are able to use it. Also, there is an investment fund that your father paid into for a while when you were younger. I think he had forgotten about it—though I’m sure Gino knew it was there—and I’d like you to have it.”
“Have it?”
“Yes, to live on while you recover and to pay you back for your work and the money you’ve been sending to your father all these years. I had no idea about that until the advisor went through the accounts with me.”
Of course she hadn’t. Silvio Giordano had been much better at keeping secrets than he was at anything else. “Mum, that’s amazing of you to offer me money, but it’s the same as the leftover money from the house and business sales. I can’t accept it unless I use it to pay my creditors.”
“I know, Angelo. And I’ve thought of that. I’ve set up a monthly payment into a cash account in my name. It has a debit card”—Theresa slid a VISA debit card across the table—“and a chequebook, and the monthly payments should be enough to feed and house you for a year if you want to stay in Romford when I move.”
Angelo opened his mouth. Shut it again. Of everything Theresa had done for him in the last fortnight, this was the most unexpected. Damn, a month ago, she didn’t know how to put petrol in her own car. There were snags in her plan—he’d have to pay his rent in cash and live somewhere where utilities and furnishings were included—but it was still a lifeline, and the permanent knot of tension in his chest eased a touch.
“The phone is in my name,” Theresa said when Angelo failed to respond. “I got your sister one too so she calls home more than once a year.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Then perhaps we’ve done enough talking for one day.” Theresa stood and gathered her paperwork. “You are a stubborn boy, and for that I blame myself and your father both, but I also know that we failed you. I told that poor business advisor far more than she wanted to know, and she asked me only one thing. Do you know what that was?”
“Um, no?”
“She asked me why you were as ill and alone here as you had been on the other side of the world, and I was so ashamed of the answer that I left.” Theresa laid her hand briefly on Angelo’s shoulder. “Take the phone, Angelo, and the money. And perhaps we’ll all sleep a little better tonight.”
Theresa swept out of the kitchen, leaving Angelo alone with a debit card and a brand new iPhone. He stared at both for a long moment, and then reached for the phone. Chewing on his lip, he inserted the new SIM card and powered up the phone. While it was booting, he retrieved Dylan’s number from his old phone, along with Harry’s contact details, and entered it all into the new phone. Then he dropped the battered handset in the bin, torn between the long-forgotten excitement of playing with a new gadget and the guilt of enjoying it while his creditors went without their payment.
Get a grip. It’s not like you owe a little old lady for her bread. Those insurance companies ripped you off in the first place. Thousands of dollars for a simple blood test? Angelo’s hands shook. Back then, he’d been so desperate to get better that he’d have paid a million dollars for whatever those quacks had suggested. Now? Fuck. Now he was happy to wake up with the ability to walk to the bathroom.
Stop fucking wallowing.
He picked up the new iPhone and scrolled through the app store, installing Instagram and Facebook and logging into his long-dormant profiles. Facebook was as vacuous as ever, but he’d always enjoyed Instagram—seeing people’s lives, however staged, through the tiny lens of a phone camera. Most of the profiles he followed were dancers and performers. He ignored them and clicked on the search icon, typing in Dylan’s name in various forms until he scored a hit.
Damn. Angelo scrolled through Dylan’s feed, taking in the black-and-white catalogue of what was clearly a colourful life. Parties, concerts, friends . . . and maybe lovers. Was that the Dylan that Angelo knew? As he took it all in, he wasn’t quite sure.
Dylan’s infamous BFF—Sam—was impossible
to miss, though. Tall, dark, and handsome, he had the air of a brooding rock star, and even if he turned out to have the personality of a dead fish—unlikely, but it made Angelo feel better—it was easy to see why Dylan had fallen for him.
Christ, I’d let him fuck me.
The thought warmed Angelo’s blood. He tapped out of staring at Sam and followed Dylan’s profile, hoping that Dylan would return the favour and take a much-needed glimpse at the life Angelo had left behind. Somehow, it seemed easier than explaining it a thousand times over.
He didn’t have to wait long. His phone chimed with a flurry of notifications a few minutes later. Dylan had followed his profile and sent him a private message.
D: Tell me it’s really you
A: Who would pretend to be me???
D: Good point. But still. Caught me off guard
A: Sorry
D: Nah. It’s awesome. I’m drooling over how bendy you are
A: Was
D: Are
A: Whatevs. I’m still wearing your hoodie btw . . . and I’m drooling over your BFF
D: IKR?
A: Yup
D: You make me hotter, tho
A: For real?
D: You know it
A: I want to see you
D: When?
Angelo paused. Up till now, Dylan had been coy about meeting up and Angelo hadn’t had the energy to push, but this felt different. The buzz in Angelo’s veins was tangible, pleasurable, and he knew they’d been right to wait.
And that he couldn’t wait any longer.
A: Whenever ur free
D: I’m free tonight
* * *
Angelo stood on the front steps of the smart semi-detached house, his hand hovering over the heavy doorknocker. What the fuck am I doing? But for once, no answer was forthcoming from his usually vocal subconscious.
He took a deep breath and knocked on the door, half-expecting it to be instantly wrenched open by a stern giant version of Dylan. But, of course, it wasn’t. Dylan had invited Angelo to his father’s house, but he hadn’t given any indication that his father would actually be there.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. A fair-haired shadow appeared in the glass of the door, and then it opened, and Dylan was right there.
Angelo drank in every inch of him, from his messy hair to the fair stubble that made him such a perfect combination of delicate masculinity. His long legs in the skinny jeans that matched Angelo’s. His Metallica T-shirt. And his eyes. His perfect fucking eyes.
It took Angelo a moment to realise that Dylan had opened his arms.
“Come here.” Dylan grabbed Angelo’s hand and yanked him forward, enveloping him in the kind of embrace he’d dreamed of since they’d last been together. “God, I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too,” Angelo mumbled against Dylan’s chest. “You smell so good.”
Dylan laughed. “I shouldn’t. I’ve been to the gym and I haven’t had time to shower.”
“You go to the gym?” That was news to Angelo and a reminder that they still had much to learn about each other.
Dylan released him and stepped back, coaxing Angelo over the threshold. “I don’t go often because it’s full of wankers, but a bit of half-hearted exercise sometimes helps me sleep.”
“What’s been keeping you awake?”
“The usual.” Dylan shrugged. “Missing you and fretting about the mountain of work waiting for me each morning. It’s still tax credit season, so the office is nuts.”
“Tax credits?”
“Long story. Come through and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Darting his gaze around, Angelo followed Dylan through the house to a large kitchen that was strategically lit by spotlights built into the low wooden beams. “Wow. This is cool.”
“My dad’s a sparky.”
“An electrician?”
“Yeah, so he did most of the house himself.”
“Nice.”
“Tell him that. He rips it all out every couple of years and starts again. Drove me up the wall when I lived here.”
Angelo glanced around again. “Is your dad here?”
“Not yet. He’ll be in the pub till dinnertime.”
The mention of dinner made Angelo’s stomach growl—a new phenomenon since Theresa had become obsessed with feeding him. The more he ate, the more he wanted to eat, and it felt good.
“You look well, by the way,” Dylan said. “Better than when I last saw you.”
Angelo winced. “That can’t have been pretty. I was off my tits on morphine.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Liar.”
“It’s true. Hey, do you eat curry?”
“Huh?”
Dylan chuckled. “My dad would live on fish and chips if I didn’t cook for him every once in a while. I’m making a ruby. You game?”
It was the best offer Angelo had heard since the last time Dylan had asked him if he was game for something. “Can I help you cook?”
“If you want,” Dylan said with a shrug. “There’s not much to it.”
Still, the motions of moving through a kitchen felt natural—right—even if the kitchen was unfamiliar. They worked side-by-side, grinding spices and browning chicken pieces in a huge pot. The air around them was warm, soothing, and Angelo slipped into a contented daze.
A little while later, Dylan slid his arms around him from behind. Angelo leaned back and arched his neck to look at him. Their lips were millimetres apart and Angelo longed for one of those kisses that set his world on fire, but Dylan simply smiled and knocked their heads gently together. “It’s got to simmer for a while now. Let me stick the rice cooker on and we can go chill.”
Chilling turned out to be a cold beer and lounging on the most comfortable sofa in the world.
“It’s the same as the one in my flat,” Dylan said.
“Is it?” Angelo tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “I’ve never been in your living room.”
“No, I suppose you haven’t.” Dylan sniggered.
Angelo cracked an eye open to meet his smirk. “I don’t know what you’re giving me that look for. We haven’t fucked at your place.”
“I’m sure we will.”
“Are you?”
Dylan shrugged. “Yeah. I know we’re keeping things cool at the moment, but we’ll get back to the mad sex at some point.”
“So why aren’t we having mad sex right now?” Though Angelo couldn’t deny that it would take a crane to move him off the marshmallow-like couch.
“Because.” Dylan sat up and swung a leg over Angelo’s waist, straddling him with his sinfully long legs. “There’s a lot going on, and I want whatever happens between us to be more than a co-dependent horn-fest. That’s why we’re here and not at my place.”
Angelo gripped Dylan’s hips, trying not to picture what had happened the last time they’d struck this particular pose. “Codependent hornfest? Does that mean you’ve been using me for sex?”
“No!” Dylan swatted Angelo gently upside his head. “It means that we got the screwing bit down early and messed everything else up.”
“Hmm. I think you spend too much time trying to figure things out.”
Dylan shrugged. “You’re probably right, but I really want to get to know you better, and I can’t concentrate on that when you’ve got your dick in me.”
It made sense, even if Angelo didn’t like it. Not that he had the energy to keep up with Dylan right now. “I get it. We need to find our feet in the real world before we go out to play.”
“I’m not talking about the club.”
“I know.” Angelo ghosted his hands up Dylan’s sides, noting that he didn’t seem to be the least bit ticklish. “I meant in every sense. You know me for who I am now, but I’m still getting used to it. The club gave me a way to go back in time—to block out my reality—and I need to let that go, at least for a while.”
Dylan nodded slowly. “I love p
laying with you in the club, and I’d never want to give it up, but I want to fuck the real you.”
“The real me, eh?” Angelo’s hips flexed of their own accord, and heat pooled in his groin. “What about the real you? Are you gonna surprise me?”
Dylan smirked and leaned in close, but the front door banged an agonising millisecond before his kiss reached Angelo. “Shit. That’s my dad.”
He sprang lithely from Angelo’s lap and landed like a cat. Angelo was too jealous of his easy agility to consider the heavy footsteps in the hallway, and so the startlingly good-looking man who appeared in the doorway a few seconds later caught him off guard.
Angelo scrambled to his feet as the bearded silver fox clapped Dylan on the back and sniffed the air.
“Jalfrezi?” the man Angelo assumed to be Dylan’s father asked.
Dylan nodded.
“Good.” Dylan’s father grunted, nodded at Angelo, and then he was gone, his boots on the wooden stairs the only reassurance Angelo had that he hadn’t imagined the whole thing.
“Wow.” Angelo sat back down. “He didn’t say much.”
“He never does. Trust me, he’ll scarf his dinner in two seconds flat, check that I’m still using condoms, and then lock himself in the cellar with his model airplanes until it’s time for bed.”
“Model airplanes?”
“Yeah. Dad’s not good at doing nothing.”
“Sounds familiar.” Angelo cast Dylan a pointed look.
Dylan stuck his tongue out. “I’d rather be like him than a flake like my mum.”
“You think your mum’s a flake?”
“I don’t care if she’s a flake anymore.” Dylan tilted his head towards the kitchen, gesturing for Angelo to follow him. “My dad’s not exactly tactile, but he was a good parent—and he wanted to be a good parent, which is half the battle won, right?”
“I suppose. My dad was a selfish prick.”
They moved into the kitchen. Dylan took the lid off the pot of curry and gave it a poke. “Let’s forget about the both of them then. Hey, do you think this is done? I can never tell with chicken.”
Angelo peered into the pot. “It’s done.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the thigh bones are loose. My parents didn’t teach me much, but I can cook pretty well.”
Dream: A Skins Novel Page 15
