Still, he had no one to blame but himself. Couldn’t just have a couple of beers, could you?
Brix silenced the nagging wench on his shoulder and got up, reaching for the washbag before it slipped his mind, as it was apt to do when he’d been on the sauce. He swallowed the two gigantic pills—one red, one blue—and stumbled to the bathroom, searching out water to chase them down.
With that done, he jammed a toothbrush in his mouth and stared at himself in the mirror, wearily horrified by the zombie who stared back at him, red eyed and unshaven, wavy hair an unspeakable riot. Fuck that. It was definitely a bandana day. Just had to find one.
Brix took a shower, turning the water as hot as he dared in a futile attempt to wake himself up. When he’d finished in the bathroom, he drifted almost unconsciously to Calum’s open bedroom door and peered inside, hoping to find him safely asleep in bed. But as ever Calum’s bed was empty, though the wrinkled pillows told Brix that he’d been there at some point.
But where was he now? Out with the chickens? Brix backed away from Calum’s door and glanced out of the landing window. The yard was empty, and so he stood at the top of the stairs, listening for any signs of life from below. But he heard none, and there was a distinct lack of feline activity too. Puzzled, Brix retreated to his bedroom and threw on the closest set of clean clothes—skinny black jeans and a grungy, tie-dyed T-shirt. A black bandana came next, holding back his wet hair until he found the time and inclination to tame it.
As ready for the world as he was likely to get, he went downstairs, knowing he needed to eat something before he hit the road. On the couch both cats were curled up in and around one of the blankets from the armchair. Apart from telling him that the cats had been fed, the scene stirred something in Brix’s tired mind—the couch, the blanket . . . scrumpy, Calum, and . . . fuck. The hazy events between coming home from the pub and waking up in his bed hit Brix like a train. The confusion in Calum’s dark eyes as he’d looked at pictures of himself. The bewilderment when Brix had told him why there were so many.
The sensation of Calum’s stubbled cheeks against Brix’s palms, and his lips . . . fuck, his lips.
Jesus. Brix’s legs felt suddenly weak. In the cold light of the early morning, he couldn’t recall how Calum had responded to their clumsy kiss, if he’d let Brix feel the warmth of his broad chest as they’d fallen against each other, or if he’d humoured him and then let him pass out like the drunken idiot he was. The kiss itself was hazy and shadowed, and all Brix truly knew was that the cats had been fed, but Calum was gone.
“You’re looking a little pale today. That pesky winter flu caught up with you already?”
“Hmm?” Brix absently turned away from the window as nurse Sally stuck a needle in his arm. “Nah, I’m hungover, is all. Went out on the lash last night.”
Sally twisted the cap onto the vial of Brix’s blood and popped it into a plastic envelope. “Out on the piss? That’s not like you. Given up the clean living?”
“No, just felt like a blowout. Bloody stupid, really, ’cause I feel like death now.”
“Most people do after a heavy night. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“Howdya know I’m being hard on myself?”
“Because I know you, mister, and you always are.”
Sally was right on both counts. She’d been his key nurse for the last four years, and he couldn’t deny that he was prone to bouts of self-loathing, though they’d become sporadic as the years had gone by.
“I shouldn’t drink. It doesn’t agree with me and it fucks my medication up.”
“As far as I remember, it only interferes with your treatment when you drink your dad’s scrumpy. There’s nothing wrong with having a few pints with your mates, Ben.”
Ben. Brix rolled his eyes. Sally was the only person on earth who called him by his given name. For some reason, he’d never told her anyone he’d met more than once called him Brix. “It was the scrumpy. I don’t know what possessed me. I usually give it away when Dad brings it round, but I have a . . . friend staying with me at the moment, and introducing him to it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“A friend, eh?” Sally’s faint smirk let Brix know she hadn’t missed his stumble. “How’s he this morning?”
“Dunno. He was gone when I woke up.”
Sally let it drop. “How are you otherwise? Your bloods were good last time, as always, so you must be doing something right.”
“I do what I’m told.” Brix found a distant grin and plastered it on his face. “I’m okay, though. Got some new chickens and my dad’s behaving himself. Can’t ask for more than that.”
“No fights in the Sea Bell?”
Brix’s grin became genuine as he recalled his father’s last fracas in the pub. “It wasn’t a real fight. Just a fisherman thing, fighting over the hurling ball.”
Sally was from Birmingham, and it often showed when Brix talked about Cornish ways like they weren’t unique to this unparalleled part of the world. Today was no different. “What’s a hurling ball?”
“The ball they throw from the sea wall on Shrove Tuesday every year. It’s basically a mob game for fishermen, ’cause whoever has the ball when the clock strikes noon gets free beer for a year at the Sea Bell. That shit’s kinda important to my dad.”
“Do you play?”
“Fuck no. I’m not Cornish enough for that.”
Sally frowned. “Not Cornish enough? You were born here.”