Page 38 of The Making of Jonty Bloom
Not my type, but maybe what I need. For now, at least. A rebound fuck.
Devan wasn’t looking for happiness. Not anymore. He’d done that, thought he’d found it, only to learn in the most painful way that he hadn’t. He didn’t like being miserable, but was so deep in the hole he’d dug for himself that he worried he’d lost the ability to claw his way out. He was currently in danger of the sides caving in and burying him forever.
Jonty was right about broken promises hurting worse than broken bones. The safest thing to do was to not get attached to anyone for a while and lick his wounds until they stopped bleeding. Something he’d been doing for five months except he was still bleeding, still hurting because the slightest thing reopened his cuts. He could imagine Jonty’s response to that. He’d offer to lick hisouchiesfor him.
Then let him.What was he so afraid of? That Jonty would make him forget? That he wouldn’t want to let the guy go?ThatI’llhurthim?He should take the fucking risk.Hadn’t almost dying shown him that life was too short to always play it safe? But he didn’t want to hurt Jonty. He was doing the right thing. He was. If he kept telling himself that then maybe he’d come to believe it.
The beach run didn’t improve his temper—he set off too fast and ran out of steam—physically and mentally. Nor did the short session in the gym—he picked an impossible weight. Nor did the way Jonty had fled not long after he’d arrived. Nor did the realisation that on Saturday there’d be a wedding in the hotel and the place would be full of happiness. Staying here was bad for his health. Which was why he’d decided to stop dicking about and speak to Hamish McAllister. If the guy wasn’t interested in selling, Devan was wasting his time.
He was halfway through breakfast when the hotel manager came to his table.
“Mr McAllister will see you here tomorrow morning at ten.”
“Thanks.”Shit.
Another night then. He tried not to be annoyed at McAllister’s assumption that he’d be available at that time. But he was.
After breakfast, he went out to his car. The kite lines were in a hideous tangle and it took him a while to get them sorted. He repacked everything along with his wetsuit that had dried overnight in the vehicle. He was glad he’d had the chance to wash it in Mike’s shower. The wind was onshore today, better for kiteboarding, but he wasn’t in the mood. Besides, he had something more important to do.
Saying thanks for being rescued wasn’t enough. The RNLI, the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, received no government funding for its lifeboat service and relied on donations to keep operating. The crew were mostly unpaid volunteers, living or working close enough to the station to get out to sea minutes after being paged. If Devan lived by the sea, he thought he might have trained to join them.
He looked up Seahouses RNLI online. They were open until five. Once he’d collected his waterproof jacket from his room, he went back to his car. Driving in Northumberland was a world away from driving around London. Drivers up here were more courteous and there weren’t speed cameras every few yards, but best of all was what he was driving through: beautiful countryside, wide open spaces and amazing views, whichever way he looked, and he was sure there were hidden treasures too.
There was a half-empty car park beside the lifeboat station—something else that was rare in London—a place to park. Devan paid to stay all day for the price he’d have paid for an hour in the city. Once he’d done what he’d come to do, he’d go for a walk, or maybe a boat ride. He passed numerous signs offering trips to the Farne Islands, to view sea birds and grey seal colonies.
Brian spotted him as he walked into the building. “Devan! How are you doing?”
“Still breathing, thanks to you.”
Devan didn’t recognise the other man, but apparently, Jake had been at the helm last night. He shook both guys’ hands.
“I wanted to make a donation,” Devan said. “Is there any way to make it specifically for this station or does it all go into a general pot?”
“Come into the office and we’ll have a talk,” Brian said. “I think you can do what you want via a trust, but I’m not entirely sure how it works.”
Brian nudged a chair towards Devan, then sat behind the desk. “How much are you thinking of donating?”
“Twenty thousand pounds.”
Brian gulped and his eyes widened. “Bloody… That’s…incredibly generous.”
“I’m incredibly grateful.”
“I’m not trying to be greedy, but if you’re a UK tax payer, would you consider filling in a Gift Aid form and we could turn that into even more?”
“That’s fine.”
Brian made a call to see if Devan could donate just to that station and wasn’t surprised to hear he could. They wouldn’t want to turn money down.
“Wow.” Brian smiled at him. “This doesn’t happen very often. Like never. Want a cup of coffee? Tea? A biscuit? I’m ashamed that they’re not chocolate.”
Devan laughed. “A black coffee, one sugar, would be great. Thanks.”
“Come into the kitchen.”
Devan followed him and found himself being introduced to a couple of men and a woman. All crew members.
“This is one of the guys from the shout yesterday,” Brian said. “The kiteboarder.”
