Men of London 06 - Flying Solo (24 page)

He’d been there and done it himself before, threatened someone with a sharpened skiv he’d made from a plastic knife taken from a McDonald’s. The well-meaning man had taken him by surprise after he’d had to fight off a john who hadn’t wanted to pay for the blowjob he’d given him in the alley. Maxwell had already suffered a black eye and a kick to the nuts as a result of that escapade and he hadn’t wanted any more abuse. Needless to say, the well-wisher had beat a hasty retreat, but he had left the sandwich he’d bought behind.

“Hey,” Maxwell said softly.

The figure stirred and muttered and Maxwell crinkled the pound notes in his hand. “I don’t want to leave this here. I’d like to make sure it gets put somewhere safe. Can I slip it under your sleeping bag cover?” Levi had hated anyone touching any of his stuff and had a tendency to become a little violent when he thought someone was trying to take something away from him.

The figure mumbled something and lifted the cover away from the face. Maxwell saw an old woman with pale, grey, stringy hair and dulled blue eyes. Her face was weathered, the familiar signs of crack and alcohol abuse staining her features.

Maxwell knew people looked at the homeless and thought all they’d do was go buy drugs and booze with the money they’d been given. But even drug addicts needed food and warm clothes, and when he and Levi had been together, the money had been spent in equal parts in putting food in their bellies and finding shelter. Maxwell had refused to use it to keep Levi in drugs. That had been money Levi had to find himself. It had been a catch-22, and one Maxwell had battled every day. Until the day he’d woken up and discovered he no longer had to worry about Levi.

“You can give it to me,” the woman said hoarsely and Maxwell pressed the money into her grimy hand. Her eyes squinted at him and he stood up, not expecting a thank you. He turned to go back to the shelter of the game venue.

“Mooch?”

His body went stiff, and it wasn’t with the cold air blowing down the street. His throat closed up and the blood rush to his head made him feel faint. He swung around slowly and faced the woman who had the gleam of recognition in her eyes and a slight smile on her face.

“It is you. I’d know those brown eyes and chin anywhere.” She shook off her blanket and stumbled to her feet. “Don’t you recognise me? It’s LouLou.”

Maxwell’s teenage past came flooding back in a cacophony of memories, both wanted and unwanted. LouLou had been one of Levi’s dealers. She and Levi had had a special bond that went beyond the simple supply and demand relationship. The pair had been like family, with Levi going to her when he’d had words with Maxwell, or wanted to be alone.

Three weeks before Levi had died, LouLou had disappeared and Levi had got agitated about it. She’d never shown up again, and Maxwell thought she’d simply moved on—or worse, died and been carted away. Levi had gone back to their old meeting place, a shop corner in the dregs of town, but he’d never found her again. Levi had been truly devastated by her loss. Until the day he died, when he’d come back from meeting another one of his dealers, and he’d appeared a little more upbeat. Maxwell had never found out why, despite his prodding and then—well, then it had been too late. Levi had died and Maxwell was left alone.

“LouLou. Of course I remember you.” Maxwell was shocked. Eleven years ago she’d been a woman who admittedly looked rough but a lot better than she did now. The years and no doubt the drug abuse had taken its toll on her body to the point he hadn’t recognised her.

She nodded eagerly. “You look so different, so grown up. You got off the streets then?”

Maxwell nodded. “Yes, I managed to move on when Levi died. You remember Levi?”

Her eyes slid away from his and she nodded jerkily as she stared at the ground. “Of course, he was a good lad. I was so sorry he died. I told him not to, but he still did.” The words made no sense.

Maxwell frowned. “Told him not to what?”

She looked at him then her gaze faltered again. “He found me. I’d been away, in a shelter. I’d been sick. But he came looking for me for his stuff, and I gave him some. But it wasn’t good.” Her drug-addled brain was no doubt confused but the chill down Maxwell’s spine grew colder.

“Wait—are you telling me you gave Levi the shit that killed him that night?” The freezing chill was no doubt melting now from the burning anger stabbing his gut.

When she opened her mouth and the words spewed forth it was as if she was unburdening her soul and Maxwell was her avenging angel.

“He’d always trusted me. And I told him it wasn’t good stuff, that I got it from someone I didn’t trust. But he said he needed it and I let him take it. I needed the money. He said he’d chance it.” She slumped against the wall, her face twisted in guilt. “I never meant to kill him. When I heard the news I knew I’d have to disappear for a while, in case the cops came looking for me.” She wailed in despair. “I’m sorry, Mooch. He was a good lad. I know you loved him. He loved you something fierce, he did.”

Maxwell could barely focus with the remembered grief and the heat of rage threatening to immolate him. “You fucking bitch.” His venomous tone made her shrink back in fear, clutching the wall. “He trusted you and you fucking murdered him.”

He heard his suppressed street roots growing like greedy grasping tendrils through his mind and body. “He vomited to death and I found him cold and lifeless. Because of you and your bad shit he put in his veins, I was left alone!”

LouLou shook her head in panic. “I’m sorry, lad. I didn’t mean to hurt him.” She cowered against the wall.

“Max.” Gibson’s voice echoed in the dull throbbing of Maxwell’s mind. “Baby, calm down. She’s an old lady, you’re scaring her.”

Maxwell snarled as he swung round. “I’d never hurt her, Gibson. That’s not who I am. You need to back off though. This is my business, not yours.”

Oh, God, listen to me. I’ve turned back into Mooch. I can’t be him. I can’t.

Gibson’s face was pale, his glasses speckled with rain, his slight form shivering in the cold. “Anything upsetting you is my business, Max.” His face was grim but determined and Maxwell had never loved him more. But this moment wasn’t about love. This moment was about hate and despair and rage at every shitty thing he’d ever been forced to do to survive, brought back by the sight of a woman on a pavement, the woman cowering before him.

“Leave this alone. She killed Levi, for God’s sake!” Maxwell spat.

Gibson stepped forward, his face filled with compassion and love. “I heard what she said. I didn’t want to interrupt, because I thought you needed this. To find out what happened all those years ago. But it’s not going to bring him back. Levi has gone, Max. But you still have me. I’ll help you through this.” He stepped forward, arms open as if to take Maxwell into them, and Maxwell lost it.

He shoved Gibson away violently, needing space, wanting nothing more than to run, to get away. Gibson cried out but Maxwell needed solitude, somewhere to lick old wounds suddenly torn open. He turned, feet pounding the wet pavement as he escaped. He wanted to be anywhere other than back there, in that moment.

Maxwell wasn’t as fit as he used to be, and his breath came in heaving gasps as he pushed and shoved his way through the people going places. It was only when he stopped for breath and spied an alleyway, with a large dumpster in it, and a plethora of cardboard boxes, that he finally stopped running and slumped down onto the cardboard, back against the wall, as he fingered the silver chain around his neck. Levi’s chain.

Gibson’s face swam in his vision and he clung to that loving visage as he sat in the cold alleyway until everything went dark and he remembered no more.

Chapter 14

I’m fine. Leave me alone for a bit. Don’t come over. I’ll call you soon. I’m sorry about everything. So damn sorry.

Gibson sat on his couch, curled into the corner as he huddled under his duvet. He’d stared at the text countless times in the last two days. It was the last message he’d had from Max since he’d ran off into the darkness, leaving Gibson with a scared, guilt-ridden homeless woman and a nasty, deep gash on his temple and a swollen right eye where he’d hit the wall after Max had shoved him.

Jack had been incandescent with rage when he came to his friend’s aid after his panicked phone call. Max had been called every name under the sun as Jack had taken Gibson to the first aid room to have his wound dressed. Jack had thought he needed stitches but Gibson had firmly disagreed. He hadn’t wanted any more fuss made.

His chest ached both from seeing his lover’s pain and at being rejected. He’d had to spill the beans on Max’s past to Jack to explain why he’d lost it, and while sympathetic to Max’s grief and past history, Jack had growled angrily there was no excuse. Gibson had agreed, but he’d quietly argued with Jack it had been accidental.

He knew deep in his bones that Max would never hurt him on purpose.

LouLou had packed up her bundle of meagre belongings and scarpered. Gibson had watched her go through blurry streams of blood running into his eyes and a headache of note. His glasses had also been damaged in the meeting with the wall, and they’d now been resigned to the bin.

Gibson had wallowed in his own misery the past few days. Jack and Beth had been there for him, insisting on staying every minute with him to ensure he didn’t have a concussion.

Gibson knew Jack had texted Max with a terse, uncomplimentary message about how he’d hurt Gibson and he was a complete dick. Max had replied then, as Gibson’s previous texts had gone unanswered.

He stared morosely into the depths of the couch, seeing nothing and wondering how things had gone so terribly wrong that night. He’d gone outside searching for Max only to find him shaking with temper and looking very un-Max like. The soft, sweet, funny man Gibson knew and loved had turned into a tough, feral ruffian intent on hurt. Mooch was back. Gibson had heard the conversation, and his stomach had gripped with dread. He’d had to intervene.

“Not that I helped the situation at all,” he murmured now to himself. He sighed and reached over for his sketchpad. He’d had little appetite to work on
Camp Queen
, which was nearly complete. He had a few minor touch-ups to do before they sent it their beta testers. Instead he’d started idly drawing his and Max’s story in graphic form as a means of staying close and reliving their relationship.

He smiled softly at the images before him in his white drawing pad. They were black and white pencil renderings of Max’s famous crane kick in the club; Gibson falling over the fence, hurting his hand and Max with his handkerchief, kissing it better. There was even the scene with the heaped clothes on the bed while Gibson sobbed in Max’s arms on the floor.

A soft touch on his shoulder made him look up. Beth stood there, holding out a cup of tea. “Here, drink this.” She handed the mug to him and he nodded his thanks. She sat down beside him and her eyes widened.

“Wow, these are incredible,” she breathed as she looked at the drawings. “You are so damn talented. I wish I could draw like you.”

“Yeah, well I might not have the real thing but I have this.” Gibson traced a picture of Max lightly with his finger. “I wish he’d come over so we can talk, you know? I don’t know what’s going on in his mind anymore.”

“Sweetie, he’s hurting too, I know he is. That man adores you. It’s on his face every time he looks at you. Yes, he’s being an arsehole, but he discovered something that threw him for a loop.” She sighed. “It didn’t give him the right to do what he did and not talk to you now, but I think he’ll come around. Be patient.”

She flipped the sketchpad and her face softened at the picture of Max sitting beneath a tree with Gibson seated between his legs, leaning back against his chest. “That’s beautiful,” she murmured. “You two look so good together. That’s how I know things are going to be okay.”

Gibson stared at the picture wistfully. “We went to Sherwood Forest for the weekend and pretended we were Robin Hood and his Merry Man. It was a great weekend.”

Beth sat up, her eyes brightening. “Gibson, why don’t you make this into a comic? If Maxwell sees these pictures, he’ll have to know you love him. It’ll remind him of all the good times. Maybe it will bring him to his stupid senses.”

Gibson raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

Beth smiled. “I’ll take it over and drop it off for you because I guess you don’t want to go to his place yet.” She grimaced. “Don’t ask Jack to do it. He’s so mad with Maxwell, he’ll probably punch him.”

Gibson considered the suggestion. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. Max couldn’t possibly ignore the fact they were important to each other if he saw these pictures. He grinned at Beth, feeling hopeful. “I’ll do it,” he said decisively. “I have all the software already to make the storyboard, and the right paper, and my hot shot printer-scanner. I’m sure I can make some sort of a graphic comic out of all this. Great idea, Beth.”

Half a day later he still hadn’t heard from Max, but Gibson had a beautiful colour comic ready to go, and he put it in an envelope with a brief note he hoped wasn’t too soppy.

Wanted you to have this to remind you of our time together. Please talk to me. I love you.

Beth left him with a soft kiss to his forehead and a promise to deliver it to Max’s door. And if he wasn’t in, then she’d leave it in his mailbox.