Laura shrugged, clearly half-engrossed in her cooking. “He mentioned wicker, but you’d have to ask him. I’m just the kitchen skivvy.”
“As if. We’d all perish without you, Ma, but seriously? Wicker? What the fuck is he thinking?”
“Language, Jasper.” Laura heaved a huge pie out of the oven and set it on the kitchen table. “And what’s wrong with wicker? I thought it sounded nice.”
“Yeah, if you’re eighty-seven and have a conservatory built from curtain poles and PVA glue.” Bloody wicker. I didn’t take much interest in the family business—most days, there was no need—but left unsupervised, the rest of them would have the whole enterprise dressed up in polyester and Formica tablecloths.
“It’s easily fixed,” Laura said lightly. “Talk to your brother if you have ideas. You know he’d love to have you work with him.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
I left my vague answer hanging, but later, over dinner, my irritation with wicker-gate got the better of me, and I found myself beside Gaz, grilling him on his plans for organic interior design.
“Piss off, mate.” Gaz shovelled mashed potato into his mouth and pointed his fork at me. “This ain’t London. Folk round here don’t want tiny candles and fancy bollocks.”
“Who said anything about tea lights? I just think you should incorporate the décor into the whole project. What’s the point of marketing the food as organic and wholesome, then serving it up on a load of plastic crap?”
“What do you care?”
He had a point, but with Kim still fresh in my mind, I had an idea percolating. “What about some of that recycled stuff from the crusty-fest last weekend?”
Gaz eyed me like I was off my rocker. “Recycled stuff? Like what? Tables made from bog roll?”
“Stop being a twat. No, I mean like the stall in the back field. The one with all the stuff made from pallets.”
“Didn’t see it. I worked all day and didn’t get the chance to swan around browsing.”
I wanted to clobber him. There were four years between Gaz, Nicky, and me, which meant we knew just how to wind each other up. “Fine. You’re right. I don’t care. Have it your way and dress the whole thing up like an eighties jumble sale.”
Gaz sniggered and went back to his pie. I glowered at him, then spent the rest of the evening ignoring him. Childish? Probably, but being at the farm had that effect on me. Crammed around the kitchen table, stuffing my face, and up to my ears in the family business, it felt like I’d never been away.
I made my excuses around ten and headed out to my car. It wasn’t that late and it would be the wee hours before I crawled into my bed, but I’d had enough for one night. Nicky called me a miserable bastard, but I didn’t care. So what if I preferred my own company? At home, there was no one to piss me off, save my downstairs neighbours, who liked to have makeup sex as loudly as they tore lumps out of each other. Besides, I needed a fucking fag.
“Jas! Wait up.”
I turned, cigarette in hand. Gaz jogged out of the gloom, a conciliatory grin warming his face.
“Don’t let Ma catch you with that.”
“Piss off.” I rolled my eyes and lit up anyway. “What do you want?”
“Erm, I was thinking about apologising for winding you up about Kim, but I wouldn’t mean it, so I’m not going to bother.”
The casual mention of Kim caught me off guard. “You know Kim?”
“Only in passing. He works at that tattoo place, Blood Rush. Brix Lusmoore gave me his card when I told him we were scouting for furniture.” Gaz pulled a small wooden disc from his back pocket. “Though Kim’s stuff looks more like junk to me.”
And that was the beauty of it. I held the disc up to the faint moonlight. Both sides had a simple logo carved into it, but the details I’d been ruminating on all week were inscribed around the edge: a name, an address, and eleven magic numbers.
“Thought you might like it.”
I glanced back at Gaz. Somehow, I’d forgotten he was here. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I saw you chatting him up in the beer tent. That why you want me to use his furniture in the barn?
“I never said you should use it. Just that your ideas were shite.”
“Yeah, yeah. Listen, from what little I know of him, he seems like a nice bloke, and I was only joking about his work being junk. How about you give him a call, see if he can do us a quote? Might get yourself a reason to paint a smile on that ugly mug.”
A facetious retort played on my tongue, but I bit it back as I considered Gaz’s proposal. The address on the wooden disc was in town, not far from my flat. What was to stop me passing by, sticking my head in the door, and pretending I gave enough of a shit about the barn project to seek out his work?
Nothing and everything was the simple answer. Kim had been an awesome fuck, but that was about all I was good for these days. All I wanted to be good for. Getting close to people, close enough to bang them more than once, was overrated. Despite angsting over not grabbing Kim’s details when I’d seen him, now that I had them, reality kicked in. No good ever came from returning to the scene of the crime—not even one as hot as my encounter with Kim.
I passed the disc back. “No, thanks, mate. Just stick to the wicker, eh? What’s the worst that can happen?”
A week later, I found myself loitering outside the address I’d memorised from Kim’s calling card. The exterior of the building was nondescript, but wood scented the cool breeze and, though it was daft, I sensed Kim’s presence. Felt it tickling my skin and warming my bones.
Idiot. I shook myself and braved a few steps forward. Outside the workshop, odd and sods of materials were stacked in haphazard piles. Pallets, obviously, and some old crates, and by the door was a stack of battered sheets of aluminium. I studied them and tried to imagine what Kim might use them for. Nothing came to mind, but why would it? My creativity was limited to Photoshop and pissing around on Illustrator. I couldn’t build a bloody sandcastle.
I left them behind and wandered into the workshop. There appeared to be no one about, until a teenaged lad popped up from behind a pile of corrugated iron.
“All right, mate?”
“I’m looking for Kim,” I said. “He around?”
The boy inclined his head to the left. “He’s upstairs. Go on up.”
“Cheers.” I headed for the stairs at the back of the open-plan workshop. They led to a corridor, at the end of which I found an office, and Kim, who was on the phone.
If he was surprised to see me, he hid it well. He muttered a hasty goodbye to whoever he was talking to and treated me to a grin that set off every facet of his devilishly handsome face. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes? Wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”
“It’s a small town,” I said. “You’d have run into me eventually.”
“That’s what I’ve been hoping. Been kicking myself for not getting your number.”
My heart skipped a beat. I hadn’t allowed myself to wonder if I’d been in Kim’s thoughts as much as he’d been in mine. “Erm, anyway. I’m here on business, as it goes.”
“That right? Well, if you’re after that pool table you were eying up at the festival, you’re too late. I delivered it to some crazy Ukrainian bird in Newquay last night.”
A very real pang of disappointment rippled through me. There was nowhere to put Kim’s boat creation at home—the flat was rather minimalist by design—but I mourned its loss. The photos I’d taken on my phone had done the piece little justice. “Actually, I was hoping to scope you out for a bigger project. Have you got time for a coffee?”
“Coffee?” Kim pulled a face and my stomach sank. I’d sought him out because I wanted to see him again, see if the heady encounter I’d replayed in my mind—and the crazy-hot spark—had been real, but after a long, largely sleepless week, ruminating over Gaz’s harebrained barn plans, I’d set my heart on persuading Kim to come on board. His work was amazing, and I couldn’t envisage the barn without it
.
My mind raced. In all the ways I’d pictured this scene playing out, it hadn’t occurred to me that Kim might refuse to hear my pitch. “Or . . . I could just quickly explain now, and—”
Kim cut me off with a deep chuckle. “Fuck that. Let’s go for an ice cream.”
Well, okay then. It was barely lunchtime, but who cared? Not me.
We left the workshop and shuffled across the road to the best ice cream shack in town. I bought the cones, and we found a quiet bench. We made small talk for a little while, skirting around the fact that he’d had me bent double with my arse in the air. Then Kim ditched our rubbish and pulled me back to the reason I’d given for tracking him down.
I filled him in, showing him photos of the barn, and then the new plans I’d sketched out to replace Gaz’s wicker fiasco.
Kim studied them, apparently thoughtful. “It’s a beautiful building.”
I snorted. “You should’ve seen it six months ago: it was falling down. Had been for years until Gaz got a bee up his arse about it.”
“Still, look at these beams. They’re gorgeous.” Kim swiped through a few more snaps. “You’re right about the wicker, though. It’s proper naff.”
“Finally, a voice of reason.”
“Yeah?” Kim grinned. “Are you the lone wolf in this?”
“Black sheep, actually. They wanted my input. Now I reckon they’re sorry they asked.”
Kim laughed and put his hand on my arm. “Families are like that. You’ll never win. Now when are we going to fuck again?”
The day after our impromptu ice-cream date, as it turned out, was when we could fuck again, though it wasn’t exactly how Kim sold his invitation for dinner at his place. Instead, he agreed to draw up some plans for the dining/lounge area of the barn, and feed me homemade curry while I looked them over. And when he asked me, with the tingle of his hand on my arm making my toes curl, it was the best offer I’d had in years.
Didn’t stop me winding myself up, though. The little time I’d spent in Kim’s company, naked and otherwise, had proved exhilarating. Hours passed in the blink of an eye, and every grin and gentle gesture—a brush of knees, a bump of shoulders—felt amazing, but alone in my flat, pacing the living room, none of it seemed real. I’d been wrong about this shit before, really fucking wrong, why not now?
And as I walked up the dirt track that led to the address he’d given me, I was so nervous I wanted to puke.
Dickhead.
Kim met me at the gate, and I took in the hand-painted sign with a raised eyebrow. “‘Blackbeard’s Junkyard’? That sounds like the weirdest jumble sale ever.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I didn’t name the place, one of the others did.”
“Others?”
“Yep.” Kim opened the gate. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
I followed him onto what at first glance looked a little like a farm. There were chickens pottering around, and a few veg patches my dad would be happy to call his own. To the left was a weathered shed, and a tatty motorbike outside a beat-up garage. All normal stuff, right? It took me a moment to realise what was missing.
“Where’s your house?”
Kim grinned. “You’ll see.”
I took his word for it as he showed me around the land he called home, and yet amongst the random sheds, greenhouses, and workshops, I didn’t spot anything that appeared remotely inhabitable. What I did see, though, was every contraption under the sun designed for eco-hippie-style living. Mini wind turbines and recycling bins. There was even a compost toilet. In fact, there were three of them, complete with solar-powered showers.
“How many people live here?” I asked.
“Permanently?” Kim closed the shed that housed a small generator. “About six, but others come and go. Since I’ve been here, the most we’ve had is twenty-one.”
“Twenty-one? Where the fuck do you all sleep? Outside?”
Kim shrugged. “Sometimes, least we did over the summer. These days I sleep with the apples.”
“Eh?”
“We sleep in the trees, Jas. Look.”
I felt like a right knob when I finally saw the stunning gypsy trailers nestled in the vast orchard at the back of what I was beginning to realise was some kind of commune. There were four of them in total, spaced far enough apart to ensure pretty good privacy, and they were just about the most wonderful things I’d ever seen.
“Wow. Those caravans are gorgeous. Which one’s yours?”
“That one.” Kim pointed to the most secluded trailer, beautifully painted and named—if the hand-carved sign nailed to the door was accurate—Kingfisher Cabin. “It’s got its own shower and toilet, a log burner, and a little bit of lekky when I need it. Wanna see inside? There’s an extension and a deck out the back.”
“Fuck yeah.” I followed Kim through the orchard and up the wooden steps of the decking that surrounded his trailer. He opened the door and my pulse quickened. We hadn’t made it out of the gig—a public space—without screwing each other’s brains out, and the current still simmering between us was so strong I was slightly terrified.
But it was impossible to feel anything but utterly at home as I stepped into the cosy trailer. Rustic and warmed by the deeply coloured rugs and throws that covered every surface, it was exactly as I’d expected it to be. I could see him everywhere—on the low squishy couch, at the beautiful wooden table. Stretched out in front of the log burner, naked, and—
“Jas?”
Kim touched my arm. I jumped. “Sorry, what?”
“I said, ‘Are you hungry?’ I’ve got curry and some random veg bits from the garden.”
My stomach answered for me, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since a bowl of cereal at arse o’clock the previous night . . . well, this morning, technically. As Kim moved to the trailer’s tiny kitchen area and took the lid off a couple of pans, the idea of not eating whatever he was cooking seemed preposterous.
“Curry and some random veg bits” turned out to be lamb madras, and an amazing cauliflower dhanzak I couldn’t stop eating. “Wow. This is amazing.”
Kim shrugged. “Not too hot, is it? I’m a bit of a spice freak.”
“It’s perfect. I spent my gap year travelling around India, and I’ve not had a curry as good as this since.”
“Really?” Kim’s eyes lit up in a way that made him appear suddenly younger. “I’d love to go to India . . . Thailand too. Can’t see it happening, though. Too old for that shit now.”
“Bollocks. You can’t be that much older than me.”
“Who says I’m older than you?” Kim’s lips turned up in a grin.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and regarded him in the twinkly light of the lantern-lit trailer, but his face revealed little certainty about his age. His eyes held a wisdom that led me to believe he’d a few years on me, but I wasn’t so sure now. “I’m thirty-one.”
“So am I.”
Awkward. “Sorry. You just seem so chilled and sensible against the shambles of my own life.”
Kim snorted. “Trust me, mate—me and shambles are old friends. But you’ve got me curious now. What’s so shambolic about you?”
“Everything.” I scraped my plate clean and then pushed it away. “I was trouble from the day I was born.”
“How so?”
I shrugged. “I told you the swingers’ party story, right?”
“Aye. Didn’t sound like it defined you, though.”
“It doesn’t, but I guess it set the tone for the rest of my life. I’ve always been a pain in the arse. I reckon my dad knows he dodged a bullet when my mum took me back to London.”
Kim said nothing, apparently engrossed in the task of tipping the last of the rice onto his plate. When he looked at me again, his gaze was measured. “What did your brother tell you about me?”
“Gaz? Erm . . . nothing, really. Just that you work at the cool tattoo place on the seafront. I got the impression he didn’t know you very well.”
&nbs
p; “He doesn’t, but you know what this town is like . . . People talk.”
I didn’t know Porthkennack all that well anymore, but I remembered enough to know that Kim was right. “What do people say about you?”
“The truth, I’d imagine. That I’m a pisshead . . . an alcoholic. It ain’t no secret.”
“Oh.” For the first time since I’d spotted my boyfriend and his wife across a crowded room, I was truly lost for words. “I thought you were going to say you were a freegan or some shit.”
Kim laughed. “Would that have been worse?”
I considered it and nodded dazedly, still processing Kim’s revelation and trying to match it with the composed man sitting beside me. “I fell asleep to a documentary on freegans once. Dreamt about Biffa bins for weeks.”
“Fair enough. I’ll take that as an assumption that raiding wheelie bins for my dinner would have been exponentially worse than drinking myself into a coma for most of my twenties.”
I took a long sip of the lemon-laced water Kim had put on the table with the curry. It was fairly obvious he was testing me—laying it all out to be sure I could handle it—before this, whatever it was, became something neither one of us wanted to give up. Did he do this with every new person he met? I hoped not. Whatever his past, he deserved better than that.
“I drink,” I said. “Sometimes I drink a lot and get drunk. Is that going to be a problem for you?”
The roll of Kim’s eyes was so minute there was every chance I’d imagined it. “Abstinence isn’t avoidance.”
Fair enough. I took my cue to shut the fuck up in the hope that Kim would elaborate. In return, Kim leaned forward and brushed the pad of his thumb along my cheekbone. The touch was gentle, and unexpected, and so subtly erotic that a lump formed in my throat. I swallowed, my fingers itching to wrap around his wrist and tug him closer, so I could fuse my lips to his and put to bed any fear that our previous encounter had been a fluke. But he dropped his hand before I could break the thrall he had over me, and the moment passed. “How long have you been abstaining for?”
Junkyard Heart (Porthkennack Book 7) Page 3