Page 31 of Flare

You’re a beautiful man Rhys Hellier.

Fuck. Me. What the hell did I say to that?Nothing. That’s what. Because nothing serious could happen between us. Once he knew, all that interest would disappear. Been there, done that, got the scars to prove it.

I threw the phone onto the passenger seat and headed home.

CHAPTERSIX

Beck

I watchedas a group of hormone-driven teenage boys ogled an equally hormone-addled group of girls and willed my temper to cool. If I’d followed Jack to get his gym bag after the meeting with his principal, I might’ve been tempted to tie his arse to the rugby posts and just walk away.

Of course, I could always distract myself from Jack’s latest exploits and focus instead on door number two, Rhys Hellier. Or rather, the notable absence of the man. It was Wednesday and I’d only caught sight of him once—heading out the door of Flare as I parked the car in front, and I wasn’t buying that he hadn’t seen me.

I tried not to take it personally, but fuck that.Rhyskissedme. Not the other way around. And not dicky bird since.

Did he answer my text? Not a chance.

See you Monday? Yeah right.

Coward.

He could simply have told me he’d fucked up—that he didn’t mean for the kiss to happen. I was a big boy, after all. I could take it, and we could all mosey along and get on with life because I could do without Rhys Hellier messing with my head when I needed to concentrate on what really mattered. Jack. And the pressure from my job.

A weekend email from my boss had ramped up the pressure to accept the additional doctoral student, and my prickly mood hadn’t been helped by a snotty sixteen-year-old who’d managed to fray the last of my jangling nerves by refusing to talk for most of the weekend except to complain about his grounding, his mother, and my obvious lack of quasi-parental skills.

Apparently, any halfway decent uncle would allow his nephew to game online until four on a Sunday morning and not unplug the router after he’d been warned for the third time. Go figure. Enough to say that by Sunday night I’d been ready to lock Jack in his bedroom, hoping against hope he wouldn’t carry his pissy attitude into school or Flare the next day.

Which brought me back to Rhys. The enigmatic designer had got under my skin, and I couldn’t seem to get the motherfucker out. The spill that painted my shower wall every morning with his name attached paid uncomfortable witness to that. I couldn’t decide whether I was more pissed at Rhys for ignoring me or at myself for giving a shit. Mostly the latter.

My gaze jerked to where Jack was sauntering toward the car with his bag slung over his shoulder like he had all the time in the world. The group of boys tracked his path with matching smirks, and I wondered if any of them had been involved.

Jack slid into the passenger seat and avoided my gaze, his pissy attitude filling the car like a nasty smell. Well, join the club, kiddo. I was so livid I could barely speak, although exactly who most of that anger was directed at, I couldn’t say. Jack, for being idiot enough to get involved in a fight and with a guy twice his size? The other kid, for the painful insults he’d shouted about Jack and his mother, enough to earn Jack’s fists. Or the principal, for putting thembothon equivalent detention with little regard for the circumstances. And lastly there was me, for fucking up my job as stand-in parent, again.

Take your pick.

Jack had been a powder keg since Friday and all I’d done was withdraw from his anger, hoping he’d simmer down instead of trying to get him to talk. I was so fucking clueless how to do this shit. Maybe it was me who needed the therapy?

Dammit.That was probably a good idea. Oh goody.

“You can’t just lay into someone like that.” I twisted in my seat to face him. “You’re damn lucky the principal is letting you do your detention in lunch breaks.”

He said nothing, unless an exasperated huff counted as an answer, and I supposed it did. The worst thing was I got it. I really fucking did. I’d been there on more than one occasion myself.

“Look at me, please.”

He rolled his eyes and fired me that look perfected by teenagers over the millennia that screamed,‘Are you fucking kidding me?’

“What was I supposed to do?” he snapped. “Just stand back and let him trash Mum like that? You weren’t there. You don’t know what it was like.” He slumped in his seat and glared.

“Right.” I stared him down. “And you figure I just breezed through school with a thick scar running down my lip? Do you think the cool kids wanted to be seen with me? Do you think I was slapped on the back and told to come to their parties or join their teams? Do you think the young kids just ignored it?”

He frowned, his gaze dipping down. “It’s not the same. You can hardly see your scar.”

I bristled. Fucking teenagers.“Maybe now that it’s flattened and pale. But when I was your age, it was dark red and lumpy, and I wasn’t allowed to grow facial hair. And then I was outed at fourteen by some arsehole who caught me kissing Ryan Gold and thought it would be fun to broadcast it at the next party. Double whammy. So don’t tell me I don’t understand bullying. It was bloody tough sometimes.”

Jack went quiet, studying the group of boys still loitering outside. They fired an occasional look his way and I almost felt him jerk with each one. “Did you ever get in a fight?”

“Yes,” I answered honestly. “And I took a solid beating in return for my efforts.”

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