Page 41 of Full Tilt
I nod, and Kit peels off towards the kitchen like a man on autopilot.
“Right then,” Brent says gently, turning back to Briggs. “Let’s go, champ. One foot at a time.”
As we start the climb, Brent keeps up a calm, low stream of encouragement.
“That’s it. Another step. There we go. You’re nailing this, mate.”
I glance over. “You’ve done this before.”
He grins, not looking away from the stairs. “First time I’ve ever lived alone. Before this, I always shared a house. Usually with people who couldn’t hold their liquor. Or their dignity.”
We finally reach the top, and I nudge open the bedroom door with my foot. It’s surprisingly tidy in here. We steer Briggs to the bed and more or less pour him onto it. He groans and rolls over.
Kit appears with practiced timing, holding a glass of water, a blister pack of pills, and a plastic bin that’s seen better days.
“Thanks,” I say, stepping aside.
“I’ll take it from here,” Kit says with a sigh. “Again.” He doesn’t sound angry, just tired and used to it.
I nod towards Briggs. “Tell him I’ll call tomorrow.”
Kit gives me a tight smile. “Will do. Thanks for getting him home.”
Brent and I slip out quietly, shutting the door behind us. Down the stairs, out the front, back to the car. And everything’s heavy again. The pap flash replays in my mind like a warning siren. Briggs’s drunken confession sits uneasily in my chest. My own mood, already a minefield, just keeps dropping. I slide into the driver’s seat and grip the wheel, my knuckles going white.
Brent doesn’t speak at first. I think he knows better than to try. The drive is quiet.
Devon at night is low-lit and stretched out—long roads, soft glows from windows, hedges slipping by like silent sentinels. A few foxes dart out of view. The occasional porch light flickers in the misty air.
Brent glances at me a few times. I feel it. The question he wants to ask. The mood he wants to lift. He tries once. Says something—light, probably funny. I don’t even catch all of it. My head’s swimming too much.
I grunt some half-hearted reply, and he goes quiet again.
The silence thickens, and I hate that I’ve made it this way. What I should be doing is thanking him. He’s helped twice tonight without flinching. Because he’s been patient, and good, and exactly the kind of person you want at your side when things go sideways.
And yet here I am, gritting my teeth and shutting down. And all because the pap rattled me. Because Briggs might be struggling. Because I’m not just a captain or a prop or a public name—I’m a fuck-up when it comes to trusting people with my heart.
Because Brent… he’s not like the others.
He’s not a hook-up. He’s not a fling. He’s not even a harmless flirt. I’m interested. Big-time interested. And it’s been weeks—not even two—not months, which is barely any time at all. But already, there’s something about him—his steadiness, his wit, the way he sees me but doesn’t push.
I want more. And that is the scariest fucking thing of all.
The quiet in the car is too much. I’ve driven longer distances in worse moods with less sleep and more injuries. But this? This silence? It grates.
Brent’s beside me, watching the hedgerows blur past his window, lit by the rhythm of streetlamps and the warm glowof houses tucked behind stone walls and clipped hedges. We’re back in the city now. The streets are tighter, the air heavier, yet still we don’t speak.
I grip the wheel firmer. It doesn’t help. I finally say, “I’ll take you home.”
He nods but still doesn’t say anything. It shouldn’t bother me—hell, I spend half my life wishing people would stop talking—but something about his silence feels… off. Wary. Weighed.
I glance over once. He’s not brooding, exactly. But I can see him working through something. Lips pressed together, eyes distant, that little crease between his brows deeper than usual.
I know that look. He’s debating.
Something in me twitches and tightens. “Spit it out,” I mutter.
He turns, eyebrows raised. “What?”
