by JL Merrow
“The bad breakup you spoke of?”
“Yeah. You remembered. So . . .” Sam swallowed, the workings of his throat mesmerising.
“I . . .” Bran took a deep breath. Today was his day for being reckless, wasn’t it? “I accept those terms.”
Sam gave a curt half laugh. “Wanna have your lawyer run up a contract? Shit, no, sorry, don’t get uptight. I’m a bit on edge.”
“But you do want to . . . be in a relationship. Openly. With me.” Sudden doubt made Bran queasy.
Sam dug his fingers into his hair again, but he was smiling, and the sight of that warm, honest expression made everything all right. “You drive me fucking crazy, you know. Yeah. Let’s give it a go. Christ knows how we’ll explain it to Jory and Mal—or even Jennifer, bloody hell—but yeah.”
Sam hadn’t got a lot of work done this afternoon. For a start, he’d been late back—very late. He and Bran went for a walk along the sea front after they’d eaten, and Bran shared stories of growing up in Porthkennack, plus a couple of anecdotes from his schooldays that made Sam fervently glad he’d been a state school lad. Sam told him about family holidays in Goa, feeling way more British than he ever did back home, and trying to remember which auntie was which when he only saw them once a year.
It was good. Really good. Bran was open, and clearly happy, in a way Sam had worried he might never see again. Some blokes were just like that: all over you for a night—and even for the morning after—but then they acted like they barely knew you the next time you met. Sam was glad they hadn’t gone for the wine at lunchtime. At least now he knew for sure it hadn’t just been the alcohol that’d got Bran going the previous night.
It was him. Sam got a warm feeling just thinking about it.
They parted with a kiss—right out in public—and a promise to have dinner together in a couple of nights’ time. Sam couldn’t wait. And later that afternoon, just before he was about to leave work for the day, he got an email from Bran. Sam wasn’t sure what to expect—would Bran be up for romantic can’t stop thinking about you type messages? Or would he be the sort to keep it strictly businesslike?
In the end it was neither. Or both, maybe: Bran had sent him a tactful couple of lines along with links to government debt advice and the Citizens Advice Bureau. Which . . . okay, Sam was still cringing a little from Bran knowing about the hole Sam had dug for himself, but on the other hand, what could say clearer that Bran was thinking about him? Sam had been on tenterhooks, telling Bran about that, but he’d felt he owed it to the bloke, wanted to show Bran he wasn’t the only one who cocked stuff up now and again. And after all his worry, all Bran wanted to do was help him out. It was just as well it was the end of the day. Sam wasn’t sure he could have concentrated on work if his life had depended on it.
Should he mention the new state of affairs to the people he was living with? Yeah, he really, really should, he decided as he let himself into Jory’s house that evening. Before they started coming up with their own explanations for him going around with a soppy grin on his face all the time.
Sam waited until they were eating that evening, plates on their laps in the living room, to bring up the subject of Bran. For one thing, it was the only time Mal didn’t have his nose in his laptop or his notes. And for another, it made it easier to naturally work the conversation round to it.
Well, that was the theory, anyhow.
What actually happened was every time they got even close, either Jory or Mal would veer off at a tangent. Sam was seriously starting to think the meal would be over, and Mal would be back to his books, before he got a chance to say anything.
He decided to make one last-ditch effort. “Listen, about Bran—”
“Yeah, why do we keep talking about that git?” Mal shoved a forkful of food in his mouth.
Sam cringed inside, and then went for it. “I’m, um, seeing him. Bran. We’re together.”
Mal choked.
Jory thumped Mal’s back, but it was Sam he stared at. “You . . . and Bran?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Is he even into blokes?” Mal’s face had gone an unattractive red, and his eyes were watering. “Or, like, people? At all?”
“I thought you hated him?” Jory’s voice had gone up about an octave.
“We just had a personality-clash thing going on.” Great, Sam. Way to convince them it’s a match made in heaven. “I mean, before we got to know each other.”
Jory’s eyebrows made a bid for flight. “So when did you get to know each other?”
“Uh, the other night.”
“Uh-huh.” Mal took a gulp of water. “So, we’re talking biblical sense here, are we?”
“That night you didn’t come home . . .” Jory looked horrified.
Sam was starting to get a bit pissed off with this. “Look, he’s a grown man, okay?”
“Trust me, mate, not the issue,” Mal muttered just as Jory came out with, “He’s Bran.”
Jory coughed. “Are you sure he feels the same way?” It was the same tone of voice he might have used to ask one of his schoolkids if they were sure the Empire State Building was on the planet Coruscant and not in, say, America.
“Yes. We had lunch today at that Italian place in town and, you know, talked. About being open about it, and all.”
Jory stood up abruptly and walked out of the living room. A clatter from the kitchen suggested he’d deposited his half-eaten dinner in the sink, and none too gently at that. Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Sam felt cold. Beside him, Mal stared down at his plate and sighed.
“What the hell?” Sam struggled to work out what was going on. “I thought he and Bran were getting on better these days? Why’s he being such a—”
“You don’t wanna finish that sentence, mate. Trust me.” Mal took a last regretful look at his dinner and put his plate on the floor. Then he stood up, rubbed the back of his neck, and grimaced. “Look, it’s just . . . Bran gave Jory all kinds of shit about being gay, that’s all. Telling him he should suck it up and stay married to Kirsty for the good of The Family.” Sam could hear the capital letters. “And now he’s gonna . . . Ah, fuck it. Don’t worry, mate. Not your fault.”
Mal disappeared up the stairs, presumably to go comfort Jory.
Fuck.
Sam ate another forkful, but his appetite had gone. He cleared up the plates—covering Mal’s in case he might want to finish it later—and washed up. It seemed like the least he could do.
Then he googled the nearest cinema and took himself out for the evening. That also seemed like the least he could do. And the latest action movie sequel was mindless enough.
It wasn’t until he’d snuck back into the house and was getting ready for bed that Sam noticed Mum had left a message on his phone for him to call her. Sam glanced at the time, but he already knew it’d be too late to call now. He’d have to leave it until tomorrow. It almost certainly wasn’t anything dire—when Uncle Alessandro, whom he’d been named for, had died, Sam had had messages from all three of his sisters as well as his mum and his auntie.
No, it was nothing to worry about. Sam got into bed and lay there, thinking about Bran. Christ, he was so different when you got to know him properly. Still had that fire, that passion—but he was a lot more sensitive than Sam reckoned anyone gave him credit for. Yeah, he made mistakes, but he owned them afterwards. He’d even taken Sam’s confession about the gambling debts totally in stride.
Should Sam tell him about the Joan of Arc paper, and how it’d got him fired? His stomach clenched. It felt dishonest not to—but then again, maybe it’d be better to hold off until the exhibition opened, and Sam had proved he could do a bloody good job? He wasn’t sure. If Bran was preparing to come out and be honest about them being together, shouldn’t Sam show the same honesty to him?
Sam yawned. Tomorrow. He’d sort everything out tomorrow.
After saying goodbye to Sam following their extended lunch, Bran made his way home in something of a
daze. He’d done it. He’d committed to a proper relationship—and to being open about it.
He should be terrified. In fact, judging by the feverish churning of his stomach, he was. But more than that, he felt wonderfully, joyfully free.
Why hadn’t he done this years ago? Bran snorted. For a start, he hadn’t met Sam then, had he? He couldn’t help thinking of Craig. They’d been together—for a given value of together—for nearly a year, and Bran had never, until very recently, seriously considered being open about their relationship. What was it about Sam Ferreira that had him agreeing to take that step after a single night?
Or did it say more about Craig—or rather, the way Bran had felt about him from the start? He’d been honest with the man, hadn’t he? Told him from day one that he wasn’t interested in romance. But the length of time they’d been together might easily have led Craig to assume Bran had changed his mind.
Bran hadn’t meant to lead him on. But the stab of guilt that pierced his bubble of happiness told him he’d probably done just that.
He should apologise, and the sooner the better—certainly before Craig heard about Sam from any other source. Bringing up Craig in his contact list, Bran sent a quick text. Can you meet me this evening?
The answer came within minutes. Dinner at Tinners Rest?
God, no. Not after his evening there with Sam, and all that had followed. Bran texted back with the name of a wine bar in Newquay they’d been to before and which was convenient for Craig to get to after work, and a time: 6 p.m. It was highly unlikely Craig would want to draw out the evening after he heard what Bran had to say, and Bran certainly didn’t intend to make a night of it.
He had a few hours in hand now. Plenty of time to start looking for possible help with Sam’s debt problem. Sam might not want to accept money from him—but hopefully he wouldn’t take offence at some advice. Bran smiled, and opened up his web browser.
Bran arrived in Newquay for his meeting with Craig a little early, which was how he liked it. The wine bar was brash, modern, and impersonal, with chrome fittings and a tiled floor that magnified the din of the after-work hubbub. Men and women in suits mingled with others in more casual business attire, most of them far closer to Craig’s age than Bran’s.
Bran took a stool up at the bar and ordered a bottle of sauvignon blanc. He’d barely taken more than a sip of it before Craig arrived.
“Bran. Lovely to see you.” Craig slid onto the stool next to Bran’s. He was wearing a pale-grey suit with an eggshell-blue shirt Bran had always liked. Strange, how it left him cold today. Craig’s carefully tousled hair was perfectly in place, a tribute to whatever expensive product he was using to excess, and didn’t move a millimetre as Craig took off his jacket, folded it carefully, and placed it on the bar. Having first, of course, checked to ensure there was nothing spilled there. His appearance was impeccable, but it only made Bran want Sam, with his easy smiles and casually pushed-up sleeves, all the more.
“Wine?” At Craig’s nod, Bran poured him a glass.
“Thank you.” Craig took a gulp, then put his glass down with a sigh. “You know, I’d almost given up hope of hearing from you again, let alone seeing you.”
“I thought I should speak to you in person,” Bran began.
“You thought you should? That doesn’t sound hopeful.”
Wishing he’d had the time to drink more of his wine already, Bran pushed on. “I owe you an apology. I . . . didn’t treat you very well.”
Craig’s gaze narrowed almost imperceptibly, but then his forehead smoothed. “All forgiven now, I assure you.”
“That’s decent of you.”
“So what brought this on?” Craig played with his glass, swirling the wine around to form arches.
“I’m seeing someone.” Bran forced himself to look at Craig as he spoke, and didn’t miss the little moue of hurt that formed for an instant, then vanished as if it had never been.
“A woman?”
“A man.” Bran gave a nervous laugh. “I’ve finally taken your advice to be more open about . . . that sort of thing.”
The expression that spread across Craig’s face could not have been more different from one of Sam’s spontaneous smiles. “Wonderful. And who is the lucky man?”
“His name’s Sam Ferreira. He’s a friend of Jory’s, from Edinburgh University. A historian, a very talented one.”
“Ferreira? Spanish?” Craig raised an eyebrow. “Dark and handsome, I presume? You always did have a thing for exotic beauties.”
Bran frowned. “He’s not exotic. He’s a British man of Goan descent. He’s curating my exhibition.”
“Your . . .?” Craig frowned as if puzzled.
“The Black Prince exhibition,” Bran said, keeping his voice even. He’d mentioned it to Craig often enough before. But he was supposed to be apologising here; he could allow Craig his petty digs.
“How lovely that you have a shared interest.” Craig tossed back his wine and stood. “Well, I mustn’t keep you. I’m sure you and Sam have plenty to do together.” He had his face under control now, and his voice was light and carefree.
Bran stood. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”
Craig laughed. “Oh, my goodness. Is that what you’re worried about? Don’t worry. You’re hardly the only fish in the sea.” His smile tightened as he put his jacket back on, paying attention to the lay of his cuffs. “You never were.”
That rankled, but Bran held his tongue and watched Craig leave. After a few minutes, he ordered some tapas to go with his wine. The food here was good; might as well make the most of what was likely to be his last visit for a very long while.
When Bran got back home an hour or so later, there was a message from Craig on his phone. Bran sighed, but clicked on it. Best to get it, whatever it was, over with.
The email was surprisingly short. A single line: I hope you’re aware of your curator’s public reputation, followed by a couple of links. Then another line: No doubt he’s entirely trustworthy in the personal sphere.
For God’s sake. Had Craig gone directly from the wine bar to his computer to try to dig up some dirt on Sam? Bran’s exasperation turned cold as he reread Craig’s words. What precisely did he mean about Sam’s reputation? His trustworthiness?
The first link was to a page from the Edinburgh University site. It took Bran to a university publication, showing a thumbnail picture of Sam and, underneath it, the name Dr. Alessandro Ferreira. His hair was shorter and he looked younger, but there was no mistaking that face. Bran couldn’t find anything noteworthy about the information, although it was disconcerting to realise he apparently hadn’t known Sam’s real first name. Bran frowned and clicked the second link.
What he found chilled him to the core.
Sam’s stomach roiled queasily as he parked his car at the castle. Breakfast this morning had been awkward as hell. Jory had clearly still been upset over Bran’s . . . hypocrisy, Sam supposed it must look like, but Christ, wasn’t a man allowed a change of heart? God knew Bran hadn’t found it easy to get to where he was now—couldn’t Jory see that?
But no, he probably couldn’t, could he, because Bran and Jory, they didn’t bloody talk, did they? Not about emotional stuff, anyhow. It seemed a shame, what with them being brothers and all—but then, when had Sam’s sisters ever come crying on his shoulder about their love lives? There wasn’t as big an age gap between Sam and Maria as there was between Bran and Jory, but even so, the thought was a mix of ridiculous and horrifying.
Mixed feelings were pretty much all Sam had right now. He felt bad about Jory—but he couldn’t help resenting him just a bit too. Then he felt guilty about that, because he owed Jory a lot.
So at any rate, while Sam was glad Bran had responded to his text of Can we talk? with a short and snappy Your office 9 a.m., he wasn’t sure how the conversation was going to go or even how it should go. He felt torn between wanting Bran to acknowledge how his actions had hurt Jory, and wanting to defend t
he bloke. Fuck it, maybe he should just lock them in a room together and let them talk it out.
Except he really wanted to see Bran himself, because, Christ, he’d got it bad and he’d been missing him already. Sam couldn’t help smiling when he saw Bran waiting for him outside the Portakabin. His expression faltered as Bran very much didn’t smile back.
“Is everything okay?” Sam asked as he unlocked the door. Shit, had Bran been thinking Sam had got him here to break up with him? “Look, when I said I wanted to talk, it’s nothing major, honest.”
“Isn’t it?” Bran’s voice was so frigid Sam turned to stare.
“Uh, what?”
“Inside.”
Shocked, Sam waved Bran ahead of him and followed him into the Portakabin. He shut the door behind them. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing major.” Bran’s tone dripped bitterness. “Simply that you’ve lied to me from day one. About your past, about your credentials—about your name, for Christ’s sake, Dr. Alessandro Ferreira, late of Edinburgh University. Late and, I might add, very much unlamented. As you’re doubtless aware. Well done; it made it harder to pick you up in an internet search. But not impossible.”
Oh. Oh Christ.
Bran knew everything.
His knees weak, Sam sank against his desk. Why hadn’t he told Bran all about it earlier? Jory knew, he wanted to say. But he couldn’t, because what kind of a shit would make relations between the brothers even worse? “I didn’t lie about my name,” he said shakily. “Sam’s just a nickname. My youngest sister, Nat, when I was born she couldn’t say Alessandro, and she just called me Sam, and it stuck.”
“But the rest?” Bran’s face was as cold as ever he’d seen it. It was like the shutters had come back down. As if the guy he’d laughed with on the beach had never existed.
And it was all Sam’s fault. His chest hollow, Sam hung his head. “It’s complicated, all right?”
“Not really. Or at least, not as I see it. Were you, or were you not, fired from your post at Edinburgh University when it came to light that you’d falsified the research behind one of your papers?”
