Worth Keeping (19 page)

“Morning.” He moved over to the counter to make himself coffee. “Have you any plans for the day or do you fancy taking a walk down the beach with me? I could do with blowing some cobwebs away.”

“I have no plans. But I’m not in the mood for walking. You go. I’m going to work on that leak in the lighthouse.”

Owen looked at Nick. “I thought you fixed it yesterday.”

Nick scowled. “There’s another one in the lantern room, coming in from the ceiling.”

“Oh. Do you need any help with that? From what I remember it’s pretty high, you might need someone to hold the ladder—”

“Christ, Owen, no. I don’t need any bloody help. I managed fine before you got here and I’ll continue to do so.” Nick stood up abruptly. “Enjoy your walk. I’ll see you later.” He stormed out, leaving Owen staring after him, the first stirrings of anger teasing his body with insidious fingers.

Hell, the man is in a foul bloody mood.

Owen bashed around the kitchen in a temper for a while then finally went to get dressed and start his walk to town. It was a pleasant Saturday morning and he’d decided to browse the shops and buy himself some new clothes. He spent a pleasant morning drinking coffee at the local watering hole and made himself some new purchases: two pairs of chinos, a pair of Levi jeans, a new polo shirt and a long-sleeved dress shirt. He also bought himself a new pair of steel-toed boots for working with Daniel. He’d borrowed a pair but they pinched his toes and he thought he may as well invest in his own. Daniel insisted on safety boots when they were out and about.

Owen avoided the hardware store lest he run into Mikey. He wanted no rumours that he’d been loitering down there getting back to Nick. In his current frame of mind the man was likely to tell him to move out again. Owen then took himself off to an afternoon film with popcorn and trimmings. He wanted to give Nick time alone, and if truth be told, there was a small part of him frustrated at just how damned attached he’d become to the man. Staying away was a small act of rebellion that he hoped might make Nick miss him.

He got back to the cottage about three p.m. Owen pushed open the door and stopped dead. The kitchen was a mess. Glass littered the floor, glistening shards that lay scattered like fallen icicles. There was broken crockery in the sink, pieces of what looked like plates and cups from that morning’s breakfast looking like relics from an archaeological dig. But the most alarming sight was the half bottle of whisky (which had been full that morning) and blood-stained fingerprints on the kitchen table.

Owen’s body went cold and he walked over to the stains, running his finger over them. They were dry and his gut clenched. It looked like a fair amount of blood to him. Socks was nowhere to be seen.

“Nick? Are you here?” Owen pushed open the bedroom door, heaving a sigh of relief at seeing it empty. His active mind had already conjured up an image of a deathly pale Nick, oozing blood from his wrists. He went to his bedroom only to find it empty. The guest toilet was too. The last place Nick could be was the en suite bathroom. Owen swallowed, his heart beating faster as he navigated his way across the clothing on the bedroom floor. Nick’s jeans and the shirt he’d been wearing that morning decorated the floor like carelessly tossed donations to a charity shop.

The bathroom door was closed. Owen took a deep breath and tried the bathroom door. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

Nick sat, shoulders hunched, in the corner, wearing just his boxers, his hands bloody, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His eyes were closed, his face white. His lips were bitten, rivulets of blood still running down his lower lip and chin. The slashes he’d made on his thighs, deep, horizontal cuts, about five or six in all on the top of each leg, glistened with leaking blood. Owen’s heart broke and he couldn’t hold back a sob as he rushed over and knelt down beside his lover.

“Nick, God, honey, what the hell have you done to yourself?” He looked around for a towel and swept one off the railing, wetting it in the sink and pressing it to Nick’s injuries. Nick didn’t move and Owen smelt the rancid smell of whisky in the enclosed space. Desperately he looked around for another towel for the other leg, finally hauling one out of the small washing hamper. He did the same with that, wetting it then kneeling beside Nick as he pressed the cool cloths against the bloodied skin in an effort to stop the bleeding. He didn’t even think about the fact he was getting Nick’s blood all over his hands.

“Nick, wake up, please.” Owen’s face was wet with tears. “Nick, I can’t go through this again. Please don’t fucking die on me.”

Memories of him holding a glassy-eyed Jules in his arms as blood spilled out of his chest like a never-ending flow came flooding back.

Owen turned from Nick and retched. Bile puddled on the tiled floor and he caught his breath, trying to stop the nausea. Pure guilt at sitting happily watching
Oblivion
and eating popcorn while his boyfriend was slashing himself swept through him.

He got a grip on his guilt and panic and turned back, lifting the towels, seeing the bleeding was less.

Owen realised if Nick had meant business he would have cut his femoral artery or his wrists. This was about the pain.

The razor blade glinted on the white tiles just beside Nick’s hand and Owen leaned forward, picking the item up and throwing it into the sink where it could do no further harm. He turned his attention to the man in front of him whose eyes were now open, fuzzy and unfocused, staring at him.

“Nick? Come on, let’s get you up. I need to get you to the bed so I can clean those cuts. Return the favour, what do you say? Take my arm, come on. You’re a right bloody mess, aren’t you,” he rambled on, desperate to do anything to make Nick hear his voice and realise he was there.

“Owen, I’m sorry,” The whisper from Nick’s chewed lips caught at Owen’s heart, the sheer desolation in those words making his chest ache and the knot in his stomach to tighten. Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them back, nodding as he hauled Nick to his feet, as Nick winced in pain at the pressure being put on the cuts that had begun to bleed again.

Owen draped the two wet towels across his arm like a waiter. “It’s okay, Nick. Just come along with me and let me take care of you. Come lie down so I can sort you out.”

He staggered with his heavy burden to the bed, pushing Nick back onto it on his back, laying the wet cloths across his wounds then dashing back into the bathroom for the medical kit.

Thank God Nick insisted on keeping it stocked. He was anal about having everything he needed on tap.

Nick watched him with bloodshot eyes so full of pain Owen wanted to reach out and close them so he didn’t see the fear and desolation in them. He caressed Nick’s face gently. “It’s all right. I’m here; I’ve got you. Just lie back and let me take care of you.”

Nick closed his eyes, leaning back on the pillow in exhaustion. “The room’s swimming,” he murmured. “Can’t see you properly.”

“That’s because you drank half a bottle of fucking whisky, you arsehole,” Owen’s voice trembled as he cleaned the cuts with antiseptic wipes, Nick wincing at the sting. “Not to mention the blood loss.” He carefully wiped the blood off, noticing with relief that the cuts had stopped bleeding. They weren’t shallow but not deep enough to need stitches, for which Owen was thankful. He saw the scars of old cuts on Nick’s skin, scars that looked like someone had been playing noughts and crosses on his legs and he shivered at the thought that someone could do this to himself.

Nick’s eyes watched him blearily. He reached out a hand to grasp Owen’s arm. “Owen, you should leave.”

Owen looked up at him, his eyes narrowing. “Leave? What do you mean, leave?” Owen cut off pieces of gauze, laying them over the fresh cuts and attaching micropore tape to hold it in place. He worked quickly and soon both Nick’s legs looked something out of a remake of the Mummy.

“I mean leave me. Go back home. Find someone who isn’t so messed up.” Nick’s voice was full of pain. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Too late for that,” Owen muttered as he finished up his nursing duties. “I’ve lost one man before, I’m not fucking losing another.”

He stood up, finding the blanket lying on the floor at the foot of the bed and dragged it over Nick’s shivering body. “You’re all patched up now. You need to sleep it off. I’m not giving you any painkillers for those cuts because you’re still damn drunk. I’m going to go and clean up the bathroom and the mess you made in the kitchen. Sleep, Nick. We’ll talk about this when you’re sober.”

He moved away and Nick reached out a cold hand, gripping his. “Stay with me, please,” he whispered, his eyes closing, long lashes lying against his cheeks like a little boy’s.

Owen heaved a deep sigh and lay down on the bed next to him, stroking his forehead. “I’m not going anywhere, Nick,” he murmured. “Go to sleep, hon. Things will be better when you wake up.” He knew it was simply a phrase a parent would use to a troubled child but Owen had to believe it was true.

Whatever had pushed Nick over the edge, and he suspected it was probably the story of the little dead child, they both needed to deal with it.

Owen leaned down and kissed Nick’s cheek and he sighed, turning his face toward him. Owen’s eyes filled with tears again and he brushed his lips against Nick’s. He listened as his lover’s breathing got deeper and slower in sleep as the afternoon got darker and the first spots of rain appeared on the windowpane.

Owen awoke to the sound of thunder and he grimaced as his neck ached. He’d gone to sleep against the wall, obviously at a very awkward angle. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at Nick, who still slept. Carefully, Owen got off the bed and left the room. He had a phone call to make and a kitchen to clean. He glanced at his watch. It was six p.m. and already dark outside from the storm. He listened to the sound of the phone ringing, heaving a sigh of relief when Don answered.

“Owen? Is everything okay?” The two men had swapped phone numbers before Don left.

There was no easy way to answer that question. “Not really, Don. Nick tried self-harming. Ripped his legs to pieces.”

Don swore. “Fuck. What happened?”

“You must have seen the news about that little boy that was murdered—Alan Parker? Nick was watching the news and I think it just got to him. Probably dredged up some bad memories. I went out and came back to find him in the bathroom with a razor blade.” Owen closed his eyes against the guilt. “I wasn’t here, Don, and he did this to himself. I should never have spent so much time away in town.”

“Owen, he’s an adult,” Don said quietly. “You are not his keeper, son. He did this to himself.”

“But I knew something was wrong. I wanted to teach him a lesson by staying away so long. I’m partly to blame for this.” Owen’s voice caught and he gripped his mobile tightly.

“Son, that’s enough,” Don growled. “You’ve done more as a partner for Nick in the past few weeks to help him than anyone I know. So stop the pity party and focus on what we have now. He’s slipped back but we can sort him out. Together.”

Owen nodded at his phone and heaved a deep, shuddering breath. “Understood, Don. It was just, seeing him like that, covered in blood, so damn broken—” He broke off and Don sighed.

“I’m going to come back down. I can’t let you deal with this on your own.”

Owen sighed. “We’ll manage. Honest.”

“I
want
to be there. But I don’t want to crowd the two of you. You’re too bloody noisy when you’re together anyway.” Don’s voice held a trace of a smile.

Owen felt himself blush.

Obviously the stone walls aren’t as sound proof as Nick thought.

“I’ll stay over at Heather’s for a while.” Don murmured. “She’ll put me up.”

Owen grinned despite the seriousness of the conversation. He was sure that wasn’t all Heather would be putting up.

“Owen? Stop that bloody smirking. I can feel it through the phone,” Don said fiercely and Owen smirked even more.

“Fine, Don. Come on down. Maybe between us we can make this damn man realise he does have people who love him.” Owen said the words idly and then realised what he’d said. There was silence on the other side.

“I’ll make some arrangements, get down there as soon as I can. In the meantime, please make sure my son doesn’t do anything more extreme.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Owen assured Don. “Even if it means I have to chain him to my side when I go to work. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks, son. I’ll be in touch soon. Thanks for calling me. See you, Owen.”

The phone went dead. Owen put his mobile on the kitchen table and started cleaning up the mess. He frowned. He hadn’t seen Socks yet either.

Owen went in search of the monkey, finding him curled up in a ball in the hall closet, amongst old sweatshirts and blankets. Socks was shivering and as Owen picked him up, he clung to him tightly. A surge of irritation at Nick coursed through Owen. Even his damn pet was traumatised by his actions. He murmured softly to the capuchin as he went into the kitchen and peeled a small banana, an item that Socks accepted with alacrity. But he still wouldn’t leave Owen’s shoulder and Owen resigned himself to the fact that his hair would probably reek of
eau de
banana by the time Socks finished with it.

He finished cleaning the kitchen, managed to pry Socks from his shoulder onto the couch and went to check on Nick, who was still sleeping. Owen sidled silently into the bathroom and cleaned up as best he could. Finally he stood up, his back aching, his hands chafed and sore from scrubbing the blood off the tiles.

The razor blade still sat in the basin and Owen picked it up with distaste and threw it in the corner bin. He washed his hands, thinking wryly that if Nick did have anything he should be worried about, it was too bloody late now.

He looked in the mirror, seeing the man who stared back, with his pale face, dark shadows under his eyes, and pale lips, black hair unruly and—

Christ, is that a bloody grey hair?

Owen anxiously parted the strands of his hair only to sigh with relief when he found it was only a thin strand of pale-skinned banana.