My stomach did a lurch as I stared up at her. “Darren was here? Actually in here?”
The anger from earlier bubbled up again. Selfish prick, not giving a toss for anything, causing so much shit for us all.
She nodded. “Brought the girls home nice and early with some chips for tea.” She smiled. “He fixed the washing machine for you.”
For me. She always adds pointed little extras like that.
I looked over at the pile of washing I’d abandoned on the kitchen floor, and the stack of whites was definitely smaller. Sure enough, the little green light was flashing on the machine, load finished. My cheeks burned at the thought of him going through the underwear pile. I’d had my tatty grey-white apple-catchers piled up in there, probably even some period-bloody ones…
The blonde bitch from the garage came into my mind. Her stupid tanned legs, so fucking perfect.
Nanna’s smile was sly. “Took him an age, it did. Had the whole thing apart. He cleaned up after, though.” I waited for it. “He’s a good one, your Darren.”
“He’s not my Darren,” I said for the millionth time. And he’s not a good one. He’s a fucking arsehole. I bit my tongue.
She put a hand on my shoulder. “You know what I mean, love. Figure of speech.”
I sighed. “I only mentioned the washing machine to him in passing.” Right before I told him I couldn’t count on him.
I got up and pulled the washing from the drum, and it was perfect, not a chewed-up sock in sight. Sure enough, there were my granny pants. The sight made me cringe.
“He must have come straight round, then. As soon as he could,” Nanna pointed out. Like it was needed.
Yes. Yes, he must have.
Our altercation came back into my mind. The way Porsche-bitch had looked at me, the way he’d looked at me, worried about the girls and without a toss to give for her or her goodbye.
The way he’d opened the shutters and turfed her out.
And I had so many questions. Not least why? Besides the obvious, of course. Why gangbangs? Why for money?
And how? How the fuck did this even start? How long has it been going on for?
My brain fizzed.
Who with? Who else?
Nanna knew me well. She winked and smiled. “Why don’t you pop out for a bit, love? Get some fresh air? I’ll watch Question King with the girls… they can keep me company awhile…”
I got my coat.
Darren’s place is right in the middle of the village — a stuffy little two-bedroom flat above the fish and chip shop. It used to be our place, back in the day, before things went tits up and I moved me and the girls in with Nanna.
I always thought he’d leave when the garage started doing well. Get somewhere bigger, somewhere where everything wouldn’t stink of fish and chip fat… But no.
I walked over slowly, my mind whirring with questions and how I’d phrase them. Maybe he’d tell me to fuck off and mind my own business before I’d even asked.
Maybe it would be easier if he did.
I took a breath before I climbed the stone staircase to his front door. It was littered with cigarette butts, and as usual the bucket ashtray at the top was filled to the brim.
The door was open. I rapped my knuckles on the glass before I stepped inside and into the sound of the TV playing loud in the living room. Question King, Nanna’s favourite, but it wasn’t Darren watching it, it was Buck.
And Buck was wearing a tuxedo.
I stared in shock, and he was oblivious at first, a beer in his hand as he called out answers to an empty room. He started when he saw me, his huge frame jolting in the armchair.
“Jesus, Jo! I nearly shit myself!”
Buck looked totally different away from the garage. His beard was tame, his hair slick and styled, and the tux highlighted just how toned he was underneath it. He was ripped, biceps like tree trunks. I’d known Buck a long time, as long as I’d known Darren, and yet I’d never noticed him like this before.
“Where is he?” I asked, and he gestured behind me as a door-handle sounded.
I stepped back into the hallway — and practically stepped into Trent — only to realise
the world had gone crazy — stark-raving mad, in fact — because the guy standing before me wasn’t the one I remembered like the back of my hand, and sure didn’t look like the one I’d shared a bed with for six years straight. This Trent was a different animal altogether.
He was wearing nothing but a towel, and that towel hung precariously low on his hips. Far too low for decency, and precarious enough that my heart thumped at the thought of it falling. That towel highlighted a deep muscular V that was definitely more prominent than it had ever been when we were together. His abs were like a washboard, rippling under his skin, and his chest looked sculpted from steel. He was dripping wet and smoking hot, and I couldn’t stop my jaw from dropping as I checked him out. My eyes shamelessly roved him, powerless to look away, checking out the similarities and the differences. Mainly the differences.