Page 59 of Love Thy Brother
I checked the window. Lowered my aching body into a plank to peek under the bed.
A hammer and a baseball bat greeted me. You could take the man from the Rebel Kings, but he’d always be an O’Brian.
I left his arms cache alone and dragged myself to the bathroom. The shower was over the bath and less claustrophobic than the tiny cubicle in the safe house. Also, there was real shampoo instead of Fairy liquid, so I made myself smell like bananas, and my teeth stop chattering before I climbed out again.
My clothes were in a wet heap on the floor. Déjà vu struck me, and the stress buzzing in my veins was horribly familiar too. I stole a towel and dried off, scrubbing it over my hair as a light knock sounded on the door.
It wasn’t shut. I nudged it open with my foot, but there was no one there. Just a neat stack of dry threads—faded sweats and a Valhalla T-shirt. As if I needed more proof that Oscar the Hot Fisherman was my long-lost fraternal twin.
I tugged the clothes on, gathered my dregs, and followed my instincts back downstairs to the kitchen. River was exactly where I’d left him. If not for Oscar’s clothes, I’d have thought he hadn’t moved. “You need out of those wet jeans.”
“I know. Give me yours, I’ll wash them.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Last club safehouse I frequented had no running water.”
“We’ve evolved since then. Got taps and everything.”
River turned and held out his hands. “Give me your clothes, boo.”
All right then. I handed them over, my filthy mind catching onto the possibility that he might strip the last of his with me standing right here. But River was way ahead of me. He took my clothes and pointed at the living room. “Piss off.”
I went for no other reason than I didn’t want him in sodden jeans any longer than necessary. I parked my arse on his couch and tried not to zero in on the clink of his belt buckle. “Mind my undercrackers,” I called. “Unless you want pink ones too.”
A low snort was River’s only answer, then I heard his stompy tread on the stairs and figured I was safe to migrate back to the kitchen and inspect the contents of his fridge.
Cheese. Milk. Butter. Some lonely rashers of smoked bacon and three tomatoes.
In the cupboards, among a surprising amount of actual food, I found pasta and flour.
I can work with that.Old school macaroni cheese was the only thing my ma had ever cooked without setting the kitchen on fire and I could make it with my eyes closed.
Which was lucky. As warmth settled in my cold bones, I could barely keep them open. Only the monotony of nostalgia and my outrageous imagination kept me awake.
I was draining three shapes of pasta when River snuck up on me.
“My phone’s fucked.”
I jumped, sloshing water over the draining board. “Jesus. Warn a dude, would ya?”
“You sound really Irish when you say that.”
“I am Irish.”
“An Irishman who swallowed a cockney.”
“More than once,” I deadpanned.
River pulled a face that left him more boyish than his scruffy jaw and fierce glare wanted him to be. He tossed my wet boxers at me. “I washed these in the shower. Maybe I’ll hang them off the chimney to dry.”
“Do what you like with them, mate.” I let them fall to the floor, content for them to stay there the rest of our lives if it meant leaving another piece of myself with River O’Brian. “I raided your fridge, by the way.”
“And you found something worth eating?”
“I found enough. Wasn’t expecting your cupboards to be as fucking fruitful.”
River peered over my shoulder, watching me mix pasta with bacon-spiked cheese sauce. “Don’t give me too much credit. Oscar’s diabetic. An empty kitchen could kill him. Are you putting tomatoes in that?”
