I woke up to vomit, surprised to see a bucket beside the bed.
Grateful.
I had no idea how the bucket came to be there or who had put it there. I had no recollection of going to bed. Everything was a blur, and my head felt like it had been hit with an axe.
I fell back into bed with a groan and closed my eyes, hoping the pain would kill me quicker. Please have mercy.
The suffering.
Christ, the suffering.
I woke up to vomit again, only realising after I lay back down that the bucket was clean.
I slept again, unable to do much else, and woke again. Not to vomit, thankfully. The bucket was clean again and I hadn’t imagined it. It meant someone was here.
Someone was looking after me?
I had flashbacks of Lleyton taking me home. I’d fallen out of his car. I remembered him helping me up, helping me walk.
God, I would owe him big time.
Especially if he’d cleaned up my puke buckets. Christ.
I managed to sit up on the side of the bed, wondering how it was possible to still be alive with such a blinding pain in my head. I had to walk out there, even though the bright sunlight would probably kill me.
I held the door frame and groaned. The brightness, being upright, walking . . . none of it was good.
“How’s your head?”
Not Lleyton’s voice.
Marshall?
“Not good,” I whispered, trying not to think about vomiting again. “Why are you . . . what are you doing here?”
“You don’t remember last night?”
I shook my head, regretting that immediately. I managed to get to the kitchen with my eyes half closed to shield the sunlight. “Curtains. Please.”
Marshall laughed but a moment later the curtains drew closed, and the room was blessedly darker. “Thank you.”
He was beside me then, a glass of water and some headache pills in his hand. “Take these.”
I took them, though my stomach was undecided on the offer.
“Christ.”
He snorted. “Well, now I’ve seen that you survived, I should get going.”
“Did you . . . the bucket?”
“Yes, I cleaned it.”
I closed my eyes at the horror. “Thank you. And I’m sorry. God.”
“You were incredibly drunk.”
I nodded, my eyes still closed. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine, but you might wanna give Lleyton a call. Let him know you’re still alive.”
I looked at Marshall then. “I don’t . . . I don’t remember much.”
“He knows about us,” Marshall said. “I was here when he brought you home.”
Oh god.
I closed my eyes and sighed. “Fuck.”
“He’s okay,” Marshall said quietly. “Probably more hurt that you didn’t tell him. I mean, he won’t be signing up to my fan club any time soon, but he’s not mad at you.”
I put my hands on the kitchen counter and let my head fall forward. I couldn’t even get my mind around any of that because of the throbbing in my skull. I’d have to deal with it later.
I couldn’t think about anything.
“I need a shower,” I said. “Thank you for staying. Thank you for cleaning up . . . after me. I can’t believe I . . .” Ugh. My stomach wasn’t happy. “I need to have a shower. Maybe sit on the floor and try not to die.”
Marshall laughed and all I could think about was getting to the bathroom.
I took a hot shower and let the water pummel the back of my neck, my face. I didn’t vomit again, thankfully. But god, it was not good. I did feel marginally better when I got dressed and I expected to find Marshall gone.
But no, there he sat on the couch with his feet on my coffee table, Enzo on his lap. “Figured I should stick around to see if you actually died in the shower. Someone would need to let the paramedics in.”
I walked to where he was, fell onto the couch beside him, folded myself up with my head on his shoulder. “Death would be merciful at this point,” I mumbled.
He laughed. “You know what you need?”
“A sniper.”
He laughed again. “You need a burger and fries and full-sugar Coke.”
I groaned. “Oh no, I really don’t.”
“It will fix you.”
“It will kill me.”
“Well, fix or kill, either way you win. Let’s go.”
“Now?” I groaned again, though it sounded like a wail. “Do you really hate me that much?”
He snorted. “Yep. Come on, let’s go.”
But, but . . . “I’m wearing tracksuit pants.”
“Where I’m taking you, no one will care.”
He got up, dumping Enzo and me on the couch, and he came back with a hoodie and my slides. Then, when he realised I couldn’t participate in getting dressed, he did it for me.
He shoved the hoodie over my head, shoved my feet into the slides, and pulled me up. “Come on. It’ll make you feel better.”
He grabbed my wallet and keys and dragged me out the door. I was in his ute and halfway along Lane Cove Road before I realised what was happening. “Where are we going?”
“To the best burgers in town. You’ll thank me.”
“Pretty sure I won’t.”
Never in my life had I left the house in my old trackpants and hoodie. I guessed it would help with going incognito, because no one I knew would ever look twice at me like this.
It also helped that no one I knew would ever be at the place he took me to. It was a small corner takeaway shop straight out of the 1960s. There was a newspaper stand by one side of the front door and a rack of fruit and vegetables on the other. The Coke sign on the drink fridge was faded, the floor was old linoleum, and the few tables were old cheap pine. The menu boards behind the old counter were blackboard and chalk, filled with messy handwriting.
It was nothing I was used to. No expensive anything. If I’d been with anyone else, I’d have turned around and walked out.
But a short, older woman took one look at Marshall and grinned at him. “Oh my, Marshall, look at you.”
“Mrs Younis,” he said. “How’ve you been?”
“Good, good, very good,” she said. “How’s your mother?”
“Fit as a fiddle.”
She beamed. “Good to hear. Tell her I said hello. I will have eggs for her this week.”
“I’ll let her know.”
“What can I get for you today?”
“A hangover cure.”
She then looked at me. “Oh. One works burger, yes?”
Christ. Did I look that bad?
Marshall laughed. “Make it two.”
She nodded and waved us off. “I’ll bring it to you.”
We sat at the far table and Marshall put a bottle of Coke in front of me. “Drink up.”
I had a vague recollection of Marshall putting food in front of me last night and telling me to eat. “Did you make me eat last night?”
“Yes. I cooked you some bacon and eggs. You ate some. It wasn’t pretty. I gave Enzo the leftovers.”
I squinted and shook my head. Horrified, embarrassed. “God.”
“You had a good night, huh?”
I looked up at him and went back to squinting my eyes shut. It hurt considerably less. “I did. Up until someone said everyone has to buy the MVP a shot, and then it went downhill considerably fast.”
“Were they trying to kill you?”
“I don’t think so. I was the one stupid enough to drink what they gave me.”
“It was kinda stupid, yeah.” He was quiet a long second. “So, MVP, huh?”
I shrugged one shoulder. “I played okay.”
He snorted. “Well, at least you scored yesterday.”
It took a second for my ache-splitting brain to catch on. I looked up at him. He was smiling, but yes, I’d defaulted on our agreement. “Ugh, yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t in any shape for anything last night, and to be honest, I don’t think anytime today is looking good either. I’ll owe you a catch up or—”
He barked out a laugh. “You don’t owe me anything. I’m not keeping score. Jesus. I was just joking.”
“I do owe you,” I replied. “For last night. For making me eat something and the bucket . . .”
He held up two fingers. “Twice.”
Oh dear god. “I’m so sorry. And thank you, and Christ almighty, I’m so embarrassed. I feel terrible.”
“You look terrible.”
I pulled my hood up and sank back into my chair. “I wonder if there’s a level of terribleness to succumb to before death.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re not one to be melodramatic or anything,” he said with a smirk. “Stop being pitiful.”
I whined. “Please be nice to me.”
“I have no sympathy for self-inflicted wounds.”
“But I’m suffering.”
“Tequila will do that to you.”
I almost gagged. “I will pay you to never say the T-word again.”
He laughed again just as Mrs Younis brought over two takeout trays. She sat them on the table and patted my shoulder. “Eat up, will help. Alcohol is no good.”
“Alcohol is very bad,” I said. At least she was being nice to me.
Marshall, on the other hand, seemed to relish my misery. He nodded to the mountain of food in front of me. “I’m telling ya, saturated fat, salt, sugar, and caffeine will fix any hangover. And these are the best burgers in Sydney.”
It didn’t look particularly appetising, but it smelled good. It was a tall burger with everything: a huge beef patty, fried onions, a fried egg, beetroot, tomato, and melted cheese. The fries were stacked at the side, covered in chicken salt. I wasn’t sure I could eat any of it.
Marshall picked his burger up and somehow managed to take a bite. He groaned and burger juice ran down his hand. “So good.”
He was right about one thing. It would either fix me, or kill me, and I didn’t care at this point which way it went. And I was kinda hungry.
I managed a small bite and washed it down with a sip of Coke.
“Oh, come on,” he said. “You can open your mouth wider than that. I know you can. I’ve seen it firsthand.”
I glared at him, opened my mouth like a python, and took a huge bite.
He laughed. “There you go.”
It was the best thing I’d ever eaten.
I’d smashed half of it and some fries before I’d even realised. I hated that he was right. I sat back in my seat and rubbed my belly. I didn’t dare to overdo it.
Marshall wiped his mouth and finished chewing. “Better?”
I nodded. “But I’m done.”
He looked at what was left but nodded. I don’t know what his fascination was with me and eating. As if he actually cared if I did or not . . .
I wasn’t in any state to be thinking about that. “You know the woman behind the counter?” I asked.
“I played rugby with her son in high school. We’ve been coming here since I was fifteen.” Then he shrugged. “My parents live a few streets over.”
“Oh.”
So someone could see us here . . .
But no one did. People came in and out of the takeaway shop and never looked twice at us. Not that anyone would recognise me in these old house clothes with the hood pulled up, though I thought they might recognise Marshall.
But no one cared.
If we’d driven my car, it’d have been a different story perhaps. Or if we’d actually cared to get dressed properly and hit up a nice café in Bondi or the northern beaches, then yes, maybe someone would have looked twice.
But here, wearing trackpants and driving a work ute? No one cared.
I liked it.
He drained the rest of his Coke. “Ready to go home?”
Not really. I didn’t want my time with him to end.
“Sure.”
He grabbed a sports drink from the fridge on the way out, I paid the tab, and we went back to the ute. And for some stupid reason, I didn’t want to say goodbye.
The thought of going home by myself made me uneasy.
It made me sad.
He drove for a few blocks and glanced my way. “You okay? Feeling any better?”
“Much, thank you,” I admitted. “You were one hundred percent correct. Now I just need to spend the day on the couch staring at the television and I’ll be right.”
He smiled but didn’t take the bait.
Christ, I was going to have to ask.
Would I?
God, what if he said no?
My stomach felt all tight and it had nothing to do with the burger or being hungover. This was nerves. I didn’t just have butterflies. I had the entire zoo.
It was ridiculous.
No, I could go home and clean everything, put a small grocery order in for some more coffee and some of that Turkish bread Marshall got the other day, and chill out for the rest of the afternoon by myself.
As I did every day. As I had done my whole life.
Except now I didn’t want to.
Marshall pulled up at my place and cut the engine, and I still hadn’t said anything.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, his eyes warm as honey.
I nodded. “I’m fine,” I replied automatically. My auto-pilot response.
“Bullshit.” My gaze shot to his and he sighed. “You can’t lie to me, Valentine. You’ve got that thinking line between your eyebrows and you squeeze your fingertips when you’re nervous.”
I stopped squeezing my fingertips. “I do not.”
He laughed. “Just say whatever it is you want to say.”
I opened my mouth, wanting to ask so badly, but I couldn’t push the air out to make the words.
“Valentine,” he said softly.
“Did you want to come up?” I asked in a rush. “You don’t have to. I know you’ve probably got things to do or places to go. But I . . .” Fucking hell. “I’m not sure I want to be alone today.” I let out a long breath, not believing I’d just admitted that out loud. To Marshall Wise, of all people.
Why him, of all people? You say that as if that’s a bad thing?
He’s the only person who understands you, Valentine. The only person who’s ever understood you. You have feelings for him and you know it.
I shook my head at the stupid voice of reason. “Never mind,” I said, opening the door and getting out.
“Wait up,” he said. “Christ, you’re impatient. Let me get out of the fucking car.” He got out and fell into step beside me. “Was it that difficult to ask me?”
God, if he only knew. I unlocked the foyer door. “Yes, it was, actually. And don’t think for one second it’s because I like you.”
He laughed and pulled the door open, holding it for me. “Yeah, of course not.” I didn’t make eye contact with his reflection in the elevator but I knew he was smiling. “I’m picking what we watch on Netflix.”
Arsehole.
Once inside, he pulled me onto the couch. Him on his back, lying down, me between his legs with my head on his chest. This seemed to be our thing. I sipped my sports drink every now and then, and he rubbed circles on my back and played with my hair. The warmth of his body, his touch, his huge dick pressed against my belly, was every bit the comfort I needed. I ignored the way my heart craved this, craved him, and the contentment made me more relaxed than I’d felt in a long time.
Then Enzo joined us, and I might have dozed off.
Until my phone beeped with a text. It was Lleyton.
Did you survive?
I sighed. I’d blissfully forgotten about him finding out about us, about him being here, and about him bringing me home.
“Don’t reply,” Marshall said.
I looked up at him. “What?”
“Don’t reply with a text. Call him. You need to speak to him, Valentine. He deserves that much.”
Ouch.
I sat up, still between his legs, and ignored the ever-present bulge in his jeans. “Whose side are you on?”
He chuckled. “There are no sides here. He’s your best mate and you kept something from him and he found out. Like me and Taka.”
“Exactly. I’m not the only bad guy here.”
“I apologised to Taka, face to face. And you’re not the bad guy . . . well, you will be if you reply by text. Call him.”
I glared at him.
He raised one eyebrow. “Want me to call him for you?”
I huffed. “I liked you better when you didn’t interfere.”
He laughed at that. “So you do like me?”
“No. I hate you.”
He grinned as if he’d won a prize. “I hate you more.”
I snarled at Marshall and hit Lleyton’s number, which clearly surprised him. I could tell by his voice when he answered. “Uh, hey, everything okay?”
“Yes,” I said, giving Marshall another glare because this was his fault. “Everything’s fine. I just wanted to call you to say thanks again for getting me home last night.” I cringed. “And that I’m sorry for not telling you about . . . Marshall.”
Marshall chuckled quietly and I shot a shut-up glare at him.
It sounded as if Lleyton scrubbed his hand over his face. “Gotta say, I was surprised.”
“So was I.”
Lleyton laughed and let out a sigh. “What surprised me more was the way he looked after you.”
“What?”
“He cooked you food. He fed Enzo. He told me to keep it a secret to protect you. He put a bucket beside your bed, and he slept on the couch in case you spewed in your sleep.”
I know.
I know he did these things.
I looked at Marshall, where he lay before me with Enzo now on his chest. He was staring at the TV, trying to ignore me having this conversation.
“So he’s not the jerk we always thought he was,” Lleyton added.
“No, he’s not,” I mumbled.
Marshall looked at me then and I rolled my eyes.
Lleyton snorted. “You might wanna watch yourself though,” he said. “I dunno what agreement you think you have—he mentioned something about just fucking—but from what I saw, it’s more than that. I know relationships aren’t your deal, Valentine, so I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re in one.”
I snorted out a laugh. “What?”
“In case you’re as oblivious as he is, he’s got it bad for you. That man is in deep.”
I shook my head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Lleyton laughed. “What time did he leave this morning? Did he cook you breakfast?”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fucking fuck.
“Oh my god,” Lleyton said. “He’s still there, isn’t he?” Then he roared, laughing. “Tell him I said hi.”
“No.”
He laughed some more. “My case in point. And for what it’s worth, I’m happy for you. So are the rumours true about his horse-dick?”
“I’m hanging up now.”
He laughed and I clicked off the call, tossing my phone onto the coffee table. I pouted, and Marshall snorted. “So that went well?”
“He said to say hi.”
Marshall smirked at the TV, still stroking Enzo behind the ear. Enzo looked very smug on Marshall’s chest.
“Hey, cat,” I mumbled. “You’re in my spot.”
Enzo didn’t move and Marshall chuckled but didn’t move him either. I pouted some more. “I liked it better when you were just here for sex. When you’d walk in and fuck me, and when I was Enzo’s favourite.”
Marshall laughed. “You’re cute when you’re hungover and sulking. But if you keep pouting like that, I’ll find a better use for that mouth.”
A jolt of warmth rushed through me. “Don’t tease me.” I looked down at his dick. “Though to be very honest with you, I don’t know how much I’d trust my gag reflex today, so you might need to shut me up another way.”
He sat up, dumped Enzo onto the couch, took my hand, and dragged me to my room. He took my face in his hands and kissed me, slow and sensual, tongues tasting. And Lleyton’s words came back to me.
In case you’re as oblivious as he is, he’s got it bad for you. That man is in deep.
Oh god.
The way he was kissing me, I thought Lleyton might have been right. And it struck me how I wasn’t horrified or even scared. Instead, it made my heart race and my belly warm. It made my skin prickle all over, in a good way. In a way that felt alive.
It struck me how happy it made me.
But then Marshall shoved me onto the bed, folded me in half and fucked me good and hard.
Like he loathed me.
Like he couldn’t get enough of me.
Like he loved me.
