He slid out of the passenger seat and opened the sliding door, holding out his hands to help Rhys to his feet, crutches ready to slip onto his arms. “I’d help you to the bungalow, but something tells me that won’t be necessary.”
Rhys didn’t even look up. All he wanted was a shower, a bed for the night, and a plan to fix the mess his life had become in the last twenty-four hours. Avoiding the news usually helped when he’d been on a clusterfuck call. Perhaps a stint in Newquay would do him good after all, of course, he’d found a way to—
“Rhys?”
“What?”
But when Rhys snapped his gaze up, it wasn’t Harry in front of him. It wasn’t Joe and it wasn’t Angelo, who Rhys could somehow sense nearby. Harry’s big hands were replaced by warm, elegant fingers carrying a current that travelled straight to Rhys’s heart, straight to his soul, eclipsing every hurt in its path. Rhys blinked in wonder and lost himself in liquid brown eyes and a gentle smile. “Jevon?”
Nineteen
“I don’t understand.” Rhys sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes hooded and bloodshot and his face so pale Jevon could see bone. “How are youhereof all places?”
Jevon knelt in front of Rhys and eased his shoe off his good foot. “I made tracks to come home as soon as I got news of the attack in London and I couldn’t get hold of you. I was at the airport when Angelo called this morning and told me Harry was bringing you home, so I switched my flight. Some crazy old dude picked me up in a horse box, and I got here ten minutes before you.”
Rhys blinked, shaking his head. “This is mad.”
“I’ll say.” Jevon brushed Rhys’s hair back from his forehead, his fingers lingering on the tender bruise on Rhys’s temple. “You have amazing family and friends, but I’m sorry you had to go through something so awful for me to meet them.”
“Awful?” Rhys stared with dead eyes Jevon had seen in hundreds of traumatised refugees.
“Yes. Awful,” Jevon said. “I know you’re hardened to some pretty terrible things, but that doesn’t make them okay.”
Rhys said nothing. Just stared around the feminine bedroom that apparently belonged to his brother’s boyfriend’s sister. “Where are we?”
“Joe’s mum’s bungalow. She’s gone to stay with a friend, and Emma—Joe’s sister—is staying with Angelo. They said you can use this place as long as you need.”
“Oh.”
“Uh-huh. Emma seemed pretty nice.”
“She is.”
Jevon squeezed Rhys’s hands. “Help me out here, man. What do you need?”
“Need?”
“Yeah. Need. You hungry? Wanna shower? I can help you?”
Rhys shook his head slowly. “Nah, Jevon. I just need you.”
* * *
For all that, it turned out Rhys did want a shower. Jevon held him up, then eased him into the bed Joe had slipped in and made up with fresh sheets.
Jevon saw him out. “Thanks, man.”
“No worries,” Joe said. “There’s food in the fridge and cupboards, and everything the hospital gave us is on the counter. Harry will probably come by to check you’re not dead, but no one else will bother you. Call me if you need anything—my number’s on the side.”
He left, and Jevon drifted back to the bedroom. Rhys was sitting on the bed, looking every bit as lost as he’d seemed since Jevon had practically shoved Harry out of the way at the van door. Flashes of the news reports Jevon had seen invaded his mind—blood, blue lights, horror, and death... things that were Rhys’s constant companion when he was at work, but knowing they’d stemmed from hate this time made it all seem so much worse.
Jevon ran a towel over Rhys’s wet hair. “Does your ankle hurt?”
“Hmm?” Rhys tilted his head sideways and studied his purple-black foot. “Um, not really, no. I can’t feel it, to be honest.”
“Numb, huh?”
“Yeah.”