Mark Means Tested (Deff Book 3)

by Danni Fall

  "Sad about my mate who?"

  "Your mate Ry." Simon watches as Mark casually glances at the come on the grass again.

  Simon gets to his feet and aims a kick at him. Mark dodges, winding up sat in his come.

  "You off? What happened to you babysitting me? What if I run off again?" Mark calls after him, laughing as Simon stumbles away.

  "Babysit yourself!"

  "See you in the morning then! Bring your make up with you so I can cover up my bruises too."

  Simon flicks a V sign over his shoulder. "Walk home, crackhead!"

  "Fat chance, pretty boy! I'm gonna use the tube and the train without paying!" Mark goads. "If they don't arrest me, that is!"

  Simon speeds up, half expecting Mark to follow him but only hearing his own laboured breaths. When he reaches the fence, he ignores the panic brewing inside him and flings himself over. His eyes light on the abandoned beer can again and he boots it down the pavement, wincing when his knee twinges. Staggering back to the Audi, he lets himself in after several shaky attempts. With a bracing breath, he sets off, only to pull over in the first deserted side street he finds and fumble with his pill bottle.

  Chapter 20

  Mark

  "Hello? You alright?"

  Mark squints up at the baffled groundskeeper standing over him.

  "Hello," he slurs. "Lovely weather."

  "What're you doing in here?"

  "I could ask you the same."

  "How did you get in?" The man's voice slows. "Aren't you Mark Means?"

  "I'm Mike Means," Mark yawns. "Mark's my twin brother, he's a right cunt."

  "That's not what the paper said this morning," the man says, sounding oddly amused. "You better go before my boss shows up."

  "Want me to sign anything before I go? As a thank you."

  "Simon isn't lurking too, is he?"

  Mark knows the groundskeeper is joking but the question still makes him feel sick. "Not that I know of. Last I heard, he was neck deep in supermodels."

  The man chuckles. "I'll bet."

  Mark clambers to his feet and brushes grass and dried come from his clothes. He heads for the gates and is unsurprised to see the Audi is gone. In its place is a little van with a half open window and a trailer full of gardening gear. He considers borrowing it to get to Southend, only to hear his name on the radio.

  "Looks like Mark is running late," a female DJ is saying. "Maybe he's lying low because of... well, we'll get to that. First let's play Deff's hit single, Who Are Ya."

  "Shit, oh shit," Mark mutters as he starts running.

  He thinks about flagging down a cab but can't bear the prospect of chatter and questions so makes for the tube instead. When he gets above ground, he checks his phone and sees countless missed calls and texts. He spots the time and sprints the rest of the way to Radio A.

  Will is waiting in the reception, obviously livid. Mark lets Will drag him through the building by his arm.

  "I can explain," he offers.

  "They're going to ask you about it, so I hope you're ready," Will snaps. "God knows I haven't come up with a way for you to save face."

  "What're you-"

  Will hushes him as they walk through a door topped with a glowing On Air sign.

  "Ah, the man of the hour," the DJ says wryly as Mark slips into a spare seat. "Welcome Mark, thanks for joining us."

  Mark smiles rather than question the name. He ignores the Oes' glares and turns to Simon. His smile grows when he sees Simon's black eye.

  "Morning all. Sorry I'm late, I overslept. How's everyone?" Mark doesn't wait for an answer. "I wish this was telly, you lot at home are missing out, not seeing Sharp's corker of a black eye. Have you asked him how he got it?"

  "Not yet," the DJ says. "Simon, what happened?"

  Simon clearly resists the urge to scowl. "Couple of supermodels were fighting over me. I got caught in the crossfire."

  The DJ laughs appreciatively. "Is that true?"

  "What d'you think?" Simon smiles smoothly.

  The DJ looks tempted to flirt back. "Do you want someone to get you a bag of frozen peas?"

  "That'd be great. Maybe a can of Stella too."

  "Not sure we can have that in the studio at nine in the morning."

  "Then I'll have a can of Tango. Cherry, preferably."

  There's more laughter. An eager looking bloke zips outside before Mark can put in a request.

  "Now we've got your orders in, let me get back to congratulating you for getting to number three," the DJ says.

  "Should've got Tangos for everyone," Mark chimes in. "We could toast our success."

  The comment doesn't produce any laughter.

  "I'm surprised you're in such a good mood, Mark," the DJ says.

  "We're at number three, why wouldn't I be happy about that?"

  "Have you seen today's papers?"

  "I'm not much of a reader. What'm I missing? Is there a good Page Three girl?"

  The DJ unfolds a red top newspaper and flicks through its pages. "There's a whole article about you."

  "About me how?" Mark glances at Simon again and sees how washed out he looks.

  "About the things you get up to."

  Mark trembles as he stands up. He stumbles through the thicket of chairs and bodies to a chorus of questions.

  "Scuse me, think I left the oven on," he garbles. Ignoring everyone's protests, he shoves the studio door open and follows the signs for the fire exit. He covers his ears against the piercing shriek of the fire alarm, charges into Soho and makes a beeline for The Sun. The doors are locked but the lights are on so he bangs on the wood until heavy footsteps march over.

  "We open at noon!" Alex bellows.

  "You'll open now!"

  The lock clicks and Alex ushers him in. "You were just on the radio, how the fuck did you get here so quick?"

  "Oh, so you were expecting me?" Mark hisses as he slams the door.

  "What're you doing here? Rushed over to rejoin AB?"

  "How much did they pay you?"

  "What the fuck're you on about?" Alex asks.

  "That fucking paper. How much did they pay you to spill your guts?"

  Mark looks around for something sharp or heavy.

  Alex's lip curls. "Think about starting something and I'll break your fucking neck, Means."

  "Why did you do it?"

  "Do what? Spit it out, you fucking moron!"

  "Why did you tell the press what we do? What's in it for you?"

  "You fucking moron." Alex stalks over to the bar. He rifles through a pile of papers and throws The Mirror at Mark. "Get your fucking facts straight before you go accusing people. All makes sense now, though."

  "What does?" Mark rifles through the paper.

  "How stupid you are, given the grades you got at school. Or didn't get."

  Mark's hands shake. "Little hint what page this is all on wouldn't go amiss."

  "I don't fucking know, I haven't got it memorised. It's towards the middle. There's a photo of your fucking face, that'll stop you in your tracks. If you'd just stuck around at the fucking radio station, that DJ practically read the whole thing."

  He finds the spread and looks at the old photograph of himself, visibly tweaking with lank hair hanging in his face.

  "I need a triple vodka," he says hoarsely as he starts reading.

  Alex pours three generous measures. "Only cause I feel sorry for you."

  Mark necks the drink and starts poring over the article. The vodka threatens to come back up when he realises who the source must be.

  "You've gone white as a sheet," Alex says.

  Mark keeps reading. He makes sure to read every single word, every single secret from his friendless schooldays to his petty crime filled twenties. When he's gotten to the end, he reads it again, grimacing in anticipation of each anecdote.

  "This isn't you," he says as he closes the paper.

  "No fucking shit. You thought it was about you being gay, didn't you?"


  It's jarring to hear Alex say the word. "It doesn't say that."

  "It doesn't not say it, either. Who told them all this? It must be someone you've known for ages, they talk about you as a kid and everything."

  "Doesn't matter, we've established it wasn't you."

  "Does whoever it is know you're gay?" Mark's expression must betray him. "Better hope they don't get offered more money for another interview, eh?"

  "Give us another drink."

  Alex pours him another. Mark avoids his pitying look as he necks it.

  "Not planning a cover of I'm Coming Out?" Alex asks.

  "You know I'm not into Diana's disco years."

  "Against my fucking will I do, yeah. You're not planning to be out and proud then?"

  "Don't let me keep you if you've got stuff to be doing."

  "I'm not fucking joking," Alex says. "I'm asking. I don't want to find out you've told the Gay fucking Times what we got up to."

  "I'm amazed you're even bringing it up."

  "I'm bringing it up to make sure that you don't. Promise?"

  "If you give me another drink for the road."

  Alex complies. Mark downs it, nabs the paper and heads outside. He makes for the nearest phone box, sticks some shrapnel in the coin slot and jabs in the area code for Chesterfield. His throat tightens as he tries to remember the number for the house in Newbold. The phone drones with a dead line as he hesitates. He shoves it back on the cradle.

  Mark staggers out and sways down the street. He feels eyes on him but keeps focusing directly ahead as he tries to formulate a plan. It takes a tap on the shoulder to jolt him to his senses and recognise Andy's smug face.

  "Are you alright? You're looking dazed Mike," Andy says drily, giving the newspaper under his arm a pointed glance.

  "Don't pretend like you're not loving this."

  "You think I care one way or the other?"

  "Seeing as how you want Chris's cock in your rotten arse, yeah, I'd say so."

  Andy's expression chills. "I'll tell him you said that."

  "Go on then, but tell him Mark said it. I'm Mark Means now and if I see you again, they'll have to write another article, saying how I'm back in jail for bashing your head in."

  "I knew you were filth," Andy sneers. "One look at your rotten smile while you were playing nice for Chris and I knew you were utter filth. I'm so glad to be rid of you."

  "Get going. I'm gonna count to ten."

  "I'd be impressed if you knew how," Andy mutters as he strides away.

  Mark's hand shakes as he pulls out his phone to call Chris and head Andy off. He puts it away and marches to the nearest corner shop instead. He grabs a bottle of cider and makes for the till. When a familiar inner voice reminds him that Mark is filth, he about turns and legs it outside without paying.

  ***

  Simon

  "Is your coffee alright, Simon?" Simeon asks.

  Simon comes to his senses when Zoe leans close and murmurs in his ear.

  "You can ask to have it milkier if you want."

  "It's good, thanks." He takes a thin-lipped sip.

  "Have you heard anything more from Mike?" Simeon asks. "If he needs a ride, we can send someone to collect him."

  "He needs time to cool down," Zoe says. "Heavy morning."

  "No kidding. Exes do crazy shit."

  "I doubt it was his ex," Joe says quietly.

  "Either way, we shouldn't wait for him," Zoe says. "We should talk about what Maiden's proposing."

  Simeon gives Deff a gleaming smile. "I think you guys will keep us on our toes. You've got a great sound but you're savvy too."

  "I've got some brain cells to rub together, yes," Zoe agrees. "Can we see the draft contract?"

  Simon sets his coffee down and fidgets with his mobile. He thinks about texting Ryan but sees he's already tried to call. A silent horror washes over him as he instinctively connects the article about Mark to Ryan wanting to talk. He remembers the shared room in Luton and the sound of Mark fucking some girl in the darkness, followed by the sound of Mark moaning around his cock the next morning.

  He visualises the room and tries to remember how drawn the curtains were and whether the windows faced the car park. When he threatens to think about Regent's Park, he picks up his coffee again and takes another jittery sip.

  "Not a contracts guy?" Simeon jokes.

  Simon joins him in watching Zoe and Will pore over the agreement, deep in conversation with another bloke from Maiden.

  "Not really," Simon says.

  "I don't blame you. The fun part's what comes after you sign with us. If you sign with us, of course," Simeon says with a confident smile.

  Simon smiles back but feels like he's stepped outside of himself. He checks to see if there's a text or voicemail from Ryan, finds none and wonders whether he should call or wait for Ryan to try again. He's no closer to deciding when he finishes his coffee and texts Mark instead.

  Where r u? he asks. Ur missing maiden, theyve got a contract out n everythin

  There's no answer.

  "Worrying about Mike?" Simeon guesses. "He's probably just celebrating prematurely. Sounds like he gets up to some stuff."

  Zoe scoffs. "You could say that again. Enough about him, though. Let's talk numbers."

  Chapter 21

  Mark

  "Should we call 999?"

  Mark squints against the blazing sunshine.

  "You alright? D'you want us to call 999?"

  He shades his eyes and looks at the plain brunette and gormless blond stood over him. The wooden arms of a bench dig into his calves and neck so he sits up. As he circles his head to regain feeling, he sees a familiar Soho church and gets his bearings.

  "I'm fine, just sunbathing."

  "You're from that band, aren't you?" the blond asks.

  "Dunno, am I?" Mark is convinced he sees their lips twitch at his expense.

  "Is Simon here too?" the brunette asks.

  He presses his palms against his eyelids until he sees stars. "No, he's not. Just me."

  "When's your album come out?"

  "Not sure. Soon."

  "How can you not know?"

  "Stop pissing around asking daft questions, I know you read the bloody article."

  They back away when he makes to stand.

  "It was a load of bollocks, by the way," he slurs. "Shouldn't believe everything you read. Now, if you'll excuse me."

  He ignores their murmurs of confusion as he stumbles away. While he walks, he looks for his cigarettes but finds his phone. He scrolls through the tens of missed calls and messages, mostly from Chris, and grimaces. He heads for the tube station, vaults the barrier and races downstairs to the platform.

  Chris isn't home so he snorts speed and sits bolt upright on the settee, eyes on the door while he waits. When he finally appears, Chris rapidly goes from relieved to alarmed.

  "What've you taken?"

  "Nothing, just had a little drink."

  Chris heads to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water. Mark drains it.

  "I heard you on the radio," Chris says. "I'm sorry, that was shit."

  "It wasn't my finest hour."

  "I mean them springing that article on you. It was crap of them."

  Mark shrugs. "Will tried to warn me. Ah well, shit happens."

  "Was it true?"

  "What d'you reckon?"

  There's a pitying quality to Chris's expression that makes Mark's teeth clench.

  "It seemed real. Was it an old school friend?" Chris asks.

  "I thought they said I was Billy No Mates? Weren't you paying attention?"

  "Then who was it?"

  "What makes you think it's any of your business?"

  "Perhaps it's a good thing."

  Mark gets up and puts more space between them. "How the hell is this a good thing?"

  "Whoever they are, they're forcing your hand. Maybe now's the time to-"

  "Throw a pissing parade?"

  "
To be yourself."

  A cruel sneer grips Mark's lips. "Like you'd know who that is."

  "Mark, no amount of stage name has stopped me getting to know you. You're not a closed book."

  "That's where you're wrong. I'm an entertainer, me. I'm anything you want me to be."

  "What are you saying?"

  "It's just convenient, isn't it?" Mark says. "That here I am, a guitarist with no cash who needs some artwork doing and oh, there's you to cosy up to. But now we're actually making money, I'm suddenly not around so much."

  "What have you taken?"

  "Nothing, just a bit of speed. Nowt to get excited about."

  "And you're drunk, clearly."

  "I had one or two, hours ago now. Well? Weird coincidence isn't it?"

  "It's bollocks," Chris says coolly.

  "Yeah, I bet you wish it were."

  "It is bollocks. You didn't know I was an artist when we met. I didn't mention it until we'd-" Chris spots Mark's pre-emptive grimace. "It was weeks before I mentioned it. You're going off the deep end."

  "Have you been waiting till now to tell me you're an undercover therapist too? You shouldn't hide all these lights under your bushel."

  "I think you should leave."

  "Have you been talking to Andy?"

  "No, why? What have you said to Andy?" Chris asks.

  "Nothing, whatever he tells you is bollocks, he's a right slimy sod."

  "I don't think we should see each other anymore."

  It's far from a shocking suggestion but Mark is still wrong-footed. "What's that?"

  "I don't want to do this anymore."

  He forces a laugh. "See, you saying that shows how confused you are about this situation. We can't stop seeing each other. You have to be seeing someone to be able to stop."

  "Why are you so determined to deny it? Is this about Simon?"

  He grudgingly meets Chris's eye. "Why would it be?"

  "Just leave. Please."

  Mark fumbles with the door handle until Chris opens it for him.

  "Give me your keys, too," Chris says.

  He unearths them and drops them in Chris's waiting hand.

  "Do you still want the album artwork?" Chris asks as he's halfway down the corridor. "I can send it to you."

  "Forget it," Mark says. "I'll figure something out, I always figure something out."