Hi… I should p’raps add a note that this chapter contains heroin use…
“…I am not here to service you. This really isn’t flattering. C’mon, get your hungry arse into gear and show me around…”
Joe wasn’t trying to be flippin’ flattering, he was trying to find out which bloomin’ team the bad-ass batted for. He still hadn’t given Joe a straight answer…let alone a glad to be gay one.
In truth, Joe’s arse only got peckish when it specifically fancied what was on the menu. It was currently convinced it was seated at the top table and hoping there was an all-you-can-eat offer on. Despite being at pains to point out that Joe was a two-bit tart, Mac wasn’t so free ‘n’ easy when it came to his own proclivities. It was the not knowing that was doing Joe’s head in.
“By the way…you still haven’t said no. Just sayin,” he pointed out after another ping-pong session of back ’n’ forth beating around the bush. Joe had more chance of finding a vein that wasn’t shot to shit than a snippet of info about Mac. If the scoundrel would just say no-way-Joe-sé, that would be that, sorted.
“No.” Spat out like a pesky pip.
Or not. It sounded a lot like no…but sure didn’t feel that way, which was as daft as it was deluded. Mac was so far out of Joe’s league that he was more likely to cop off with the vicar’s wife than have designs on Joe’s person.
Chances were, he’d gone bloody barmy but the bee in Joe’s bonnet wouldn’t let him leave well alone. Not when Mac exuded a sexual frisson akin to standing next to an electric fence. All o’which left Joe beset by buzzing a lot like an incessant itch, impossible to scratch.
Perusing his own press for a few minutes would prove just how pathetic he was. If all their lurid headlines were legit, rather than fashioned from a grain of truth, or embellished beyond recognition, Joe wouldn’t touch himself with a bargepole. Let alone risk co-starring in the forthcoming feature article Junkie-Joe-Scores-Again.
Junkie Joe. What was the point? That’s all they’d ever let him be now. Pretty-Woman-Julia-Roberts would forever be just that. Until she wound up Not-So-Pretty-Woman-Julia-Roberts, which wasn’t much consolation on the ‘day to aspire to’ front. Former-Junkie-Joe-Fitzgerald was about the only headline he had a hope in hell of reaping ’til the Grim Reaper came-a-calling. P’raps his one shot at a future, full stop.
Thus, it was that Joe’s best intentions died a death as swift as a candle being snuffed out. Fuck. He needed a fix. Badly.
“Bathroom’s here, help yourself,” he told Mac, pulling up at its door on the first floor landing. “The rest of these rooms are just full o’my stuff, really.”
“Thanks,” Mac nodded, letting himself inside.
Joe shot off as fast a ferret up a trouser leg. His old bedroom was but a few feet away with a very handy on-suite, so he nipped in there sharpish and shut himself in said loo, locking the door behind him. Phew…thank fuck for that. His skin was prickling, as itchy as it was twitchy, his pores weeping sweat. Clammy, cold, sooo cold, as if he’d never feel warm again. Joe hurt. Muscles like clenched fists, guts knotted with need, gnawing on his bones.
Knowing he’d have to be bloody quick about it, Joe shook his shaving bag out into the sink, scrabbled for his stash and sprinkled a ragged line onto the cistern afore hoovering it up with a furled tenner. Thank gawd for that...what a waste, though. No comfy ritual and nary a shiver of anticipation t’boot…he would need more, far sooner, too. Ah well. Needs must when the devil drives and there’s a monkey on y’back…and a McBadass riding pillion.
Aaahh…Joe sank onto the loo seat with a sigh and a rush of relief almost as potent as the smack itself. Surety, as seductive as the surge of euphoria…and the shimmer of serenity that followed in its wake. A quick snifter was on a par with sipping a glass o’shandy when every sense screamed for a tequila slammer but it would have t’do for now. Joe let his head fall back, willing the world away. Wishing himself away to a world where everything made sense, and nothing…much mattered…at all…
“Jooore!” JoeJoeJoe! Fuckingjunkiesmackhead. “JOR?” Where was he? Scotland? Am I lost…or late? KNOCK KNOCK! Who’s there? Don’t care…just five…more minutes. “Joe, where the hell arya?” He knew that voice…Adam? “JOOORE! F’FUCKSAKES!” Uh-oh. Miffed…someone was always miffed. Oops. “Joe arya in there?” Slap-slappity-slap! “Let me in!”
“Come in…” Joe sighed. No doubt you’re goin’ too, anyhoo…
“Joe! What yer doin’ in there? Open this bloody door! NOW!” Bash-Bashety-Bash.
“I’m on the looo…” Joe was tooo. Not a fib. No fibbing. That rang a bell. Oh bugger. “Macass?”
“Who the fuck else? Open the goddamn door! Oh, f’chrissakes,” he huffed.
I’ll huff ‘n’ puff and blow your house down. Bangcrashwallop-what-a-picture… Hmm...was too. Delectable. Looks dishevilled…beeedevilled. Mmm…
“Oh Crap… C’mon, git up,” Giddyup…up up up. There he was…Joe’s knight in shiny…boots, stomping in…like the divil himself. Eyes like absinthe set ablaze. As hot as hell. Heaven.
“I’m…on the loo…” Joe noted.
“I hope yer not…” Mac—for ’twas he—growled, grasping Joe’s arm for a tug …tug tug…Joe didn’t seem to be moving much…tooo floppy. “You’ve got yer bloody jeans on.”
“Oh. So I have. How remissss…”
“Jor, put y’arms roond m’neck.” Mac ordered. Hmm. His Scottish was getting thicker ‘n’ thickeerrrrr. Ooh, t’see him in a wee kilty…
“Oookay.” A smile smeared itself across Joe’s mouth, dry…sooo dry. Bestir yerself laddie. Mac is miffy. Not whiffy, tho…mmm…whisky warm and woodsy fresh. Uh-oh. Gooin’ up…
Joe must’ve forgot to lift his arms cos his wrists were shackled by sunkissed cuffs, about a snatched-off breath before he found himself upside doon over strong, broadsword shoulders. The view was subliiime.
“‘Kay…let’s be ‘avin yer…”
“Y’need yer arse tanning, is what yer need.”
Mac had a one track mind. They’d sent him a sex obsessed deviant. Shockin’ ’twas. Left Joe aaall on his lonesome with the badest-ass mo-fo on earth for his sins. How many deadly ones left? Sloth…? Oops, better stay in bed, then. The sinewy arm clamped around Joe’s thighs sure wouldn’t persuade him otherwise, any time soon. Holding him tight… p’raps all Joe wanted in the whole world…t’be wrapped in strong, sure arms. As safe as safe can be…eternalleee…
“Throw up an’ I’ll kill yer,” Mac-the-knife grunted.
“Would not be a fitting tribute to…baddest ass I e’er did see…” Joe sighed as he watched it wiggle its way downstairs.
“NO.” The bad-ass barked.
“Sit there,” Mac instructed, bending to dump Joe in…his armchair. “Do not move. I’m gonnae fetch you a glass of water. Christ, I need a smoke,” he chuntered, stomping off to the kitchen. “Cannae even have a piss in peace…”
Ooh dear, unfortunate that…