“Yup. Keeps me in groceries, though, remember? I’d say that was worth her peeping down the hill at me.”
The mention of groceries reminded Jamie that he’d brought with him the wherewithal to cook Marc dinner and left it all downstairs in his bag. Which meant leaving the cocoon of Marc’s embrace when he could’ve quite happily stayed there forever.
Like he’d heard the conflict raging in Jamie’s cuddle-clouded brain, Marc loosened his hold and leaned back, gazing down at Jamie with thatdamn-fucking-doctorfrown on his chiselled face. “Anyway, if you’ve been here since the arse crack of dawn, and you’ve blitzed this whole wall, I’m willing to bet the leg I’ve got left that you haven’t stopped for breath, let alone lunch, am I right?”
“Maybe. What didyouhave for lunch?”
“Erm...” A fleeting shadow crossed Marc’s face. “Let’s just say I didn’t get time and leave it at that, eh?”
“Suits me. Let’s go downstairs. I brought noodles.”
The spell around them broke. Jamie grabbed Marc’s hand and towed him carefully to the top of the stairs, then took his cue and jogged ahead, leaving Marc to negotiate the stairs at his own pace.
It didn’t surprise him that Marc appeared at the bottom much faster than he had the first time he’d shown Jamie the library. Jamie had spoken the truth when he’d said he could hardly detect Marc’s injuries now, and Marc was moving like an athlete—poised and strong.
Strong. That word had never meant so much. Jamie reclaimed Marc’s hand, even though there was no need. “Can we use your chilli plant again?”
“Sure. What are you making?”
“Singapore noodles. I bought a mega pack of rice vermicelli at that Morrisons by the petrol station when I was out roaming the other night. You like prawns?”
“There isn’t much I won’t put in my gob, mate. You all right if I grab a shower?”
“Um... sure.” Jamie turned towards the kitchen to hide the heat in his cheeks. Marc didn’t seem like a man who threw innuendo around for fun, but Jamie’s heart had skipped a beat anyway.
Jamie retreated to the stove and found a large frying pan that he could use in place of a wok. After briefly soaking the rice noodles, he tossed them in the pan with a bunch of vegetables and some prawns. He’d just chucked the spicy sauce in when Marc reappeared wearing a faded T-shirt and a pair of tatty cargo shorts, his metal prosthesis on show in all its glory.
Jamie’s breath caught in his throat, and he dropped the oversized wooden fork he’d been using to stir the noodles. Marc’s missing leg often slipped his mind, and it had been so long since he’d seen it that he’d pretty much forgotten all about it.Wow.Jamie hadn’t had time to study it when Marc had rolled his trouser leg up in this very kitchen all those weeks ago, but the prosthesis was strangely beautiful—and, as Jamie caught sight of the wild colours painted onto the curved plastic calf muscle, fucking awesome. “Oh my God, you have a tattoo on your prosthesis? That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You think?” Marc glanced at his leg. “My mate Glenn worked with a nurse in Chicago whose fella is an amazing tattooist, and he offered to get it painted for me to cheer me up when I was feeling sorry for myself. I never met the bloke who actually did it, but he nailed my state of mind at the time.”
Curious, Jamie shoved the pan off the heat and went to Marc’s side, dropping down low to examine the intricate artwork in more detail. It was a serpent—no, a dragon, and its fire came from deep within, smouldering in the pit of its stomach. There was anger there, and pain, but the underlying message was the warm, subtly fierce strength that personified Marc so well.
At least, the Marc that Jamie dreamed of when he was home alone in his empty flat—hiding from the dank cloud of addiction. “It’s perfect. How far does the leg go up?”
“See for yourself.”
“What?”
“It’s right in front of you. Take a look.”
Humour danced among Marc’s words, but not enough for Jamie to assume that he was joking. And once again, the desperate desire to know as much about Marc as he could possibly squeeze into his tiny brain overwhelmed any hesitancy he might’ve had.
With trembling fingers, Jamie pushed the fabric of Marc’s shorts away, chasing the trail of Marc’s warm skin. The prosthesic leg stretched on and on, but finally gave way to flesh and bone just below Marc’s knee. What he could see of the stump was spookily smooth, but then higher, a clutch of scars slashed Marc’s thighs, some neat and pink, and clearly from the surgery he’d recently had in Chicago, and then some that were older—angrier—and clearly a legacy of the catastrophic explosion that had claimed Marc’s leg in the first place.
Jamie took a shaky breath and traced a particularly raised mark with his fingertip. It looked like the burns he had on his own back—skin melted by fire—and not for the first time, his imagination treated him to the image of Marc on the ground, blown to bits... bloodied, broken, and burning. He shuddered and felt Marc falter too, his legs twitching and jerking, as though he was caught in the same nightmare as Jamie. Except it wasn’t a nightmare for Marc—it was reality, and one he’d never escape.
Marc’s hands closed around Jamie’s shoulders, and he steadied himself before gently tugging Jamie to his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
“You didn’t. You don’t. I just hate the thought of you being in pain.”
Marc hummed lowly. “I feel the same way when I think of you strung out on heroin. It hurts my bitter old heart.”
“Why?”
“Why do I care?”
Jamie nodded, glad that Marc had interpreted his question without the need for him to explain himself like a thirsty bitch, but conversely no longer needing the answer. “Icare aboutyoubecause you’re the first person in years to look at me and really see me. I’ve had good people in my life recently, but I know they don’t get me. They can’t fix me, you know?”