Olly’s head cleared in an instant. “Where is he?”
Teague gestured toward the bar and dashed off. Olly hurried after. They found Dylan listing dangerously on top of a barstool and giggling like a schoolgirl. The only thing keeping him from falling off was the meaty paw of a meaty guy. Olly had an instant dislike for the man—fake tan, fake smile, fake teeth.
Olly reached for his friend’s arm. “C’mon, Dylan, it’s time to go.”
Mr. Fake tightened his manicured fingers on Dylan’s shoulder. “We were just having a conversation. Dylan’s an adult. He can make his own decisions. Right, Dylan?”
Dylan grinned and nodded, but Teag pushed himself between them and glared at the guy. “Not after you drugged him, you fucking rapist!” Teag was the oldest and the brawniest of the three of them, but nothing like Dylan’s so-called date.
Mr. Fake puffed up his chest and flexed his pecs—they looked real enough—but didn’t release Dylan. Olly stepped next to Teag in a show of force.
The arrival of Hunter broke the standoff. He swept in and looped his arm around Dylan’s waist with flawless familiarity. “There you are, luv, sorry I took so long.” He spoke with a British accent for some inexplicable reason. However, it seemed to have succeeded in confounding Mr. Fake, who looked on, lost for words, his grip on Dylan’s shoulder loosening up. Hunter smiled jovially at the man. “Thanks for looking after my boyfriend, mate. Come, luv.” He tugged at Dylan, who obediently slid off the stool to be escorted outside.
Olly shot Mr. Fake one last unkind glare before he and Teague marched after the others. As they stepped through the doors, they saw Hunter standing at the curb, holding Dylan with one hand and waving the other at an approaching taxi.
After stuffing Dylan into the cab but before getting in himself, Olly turned to Hunter. “Thanks for the help.”
Hunter smiled and shrugged. “My pleasure. Maybe I can call you sometime?”
Olly rattled off his number and slid into the backseat. Dylan was prattling a mile a minute at Teague, who was alternately making soothing noises and looking exasperated. Olly slid into the backseat too, but ignored the one-sided conversation. His mind was too busy taking account of the night. He was surprised at his own self—he’d been so swept in the moment with Hunter. It had come on kind of sudden, as if he’d been the one roofied. Playing with his charm, he remembered Mme. Layla’s warning not to accept drinks from strange men. But he hadn’t, and he felt clearheaded. Even the drinks he’d drunk had only made him slightly sleepy. Odd, he thought, and chalked the whole thing up to the mix of tiredness and aftereffects of paint fumes.
Olly went to bed thinking about Hunter, but strangely he awoke the next morning with tatters of dreams about red-haired men. He interpreted this as a subconscious anxiety about the day ahead. Checking his phone as he did every morning, he discovered he’d missed Sandy’s call the night before. She’d left a message of apology, going on about how sorry Rich had been. Olly was skeptical about the latter, but hearing Sandy say it helped him relax.
His return call went straight to voice mail. He took it as a sign she wasn’t up yet, so he picked up coffee and breakfast on his way to her house. He arrived at a quarter after ten but had to lean on the doorbell a few times before the door opened.
Rich stood there, bleary-eyed and wearing the same paint-splattered clothes as he had the day before. The ginger stubble covering his face glinted in the morning sun. “Hey,” he said, and for once he sounded almost friendly. Or just too worn out to be an ass.
So Olly decided to make an effort too. “Hangover?”
“I must look like the dog’s dinner.” Rich’s covetous gaze strayed to the drink tray in Olly’s hands.
Olly nodded. “You said it. I brought coffee and breakfast,” he added, pointing out the obvious. The cups in the tray and the plastic bag dangling from his hand spoke for themselves. “I didn’t know how you like your coffee, so I got it black, but there’s sugar and creamer in the bag.”
“Uhm…” Rich shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Look, about yesterday—I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“And for being a dick to me all day?” Olly snipped back.
“Especially for being a dick.”
Olly was wary but happy to agree to a ceasefire. “Apology accepted. Can I come in?”
“Please do. Let me help.” Rich took the tray from Olly and walked off with it.
One hand free at last, Olly grabbed the mail from the box and followed Rich through the house and out into the backyard. Seeing an empty sleeping bag on the grass and a pop-up tent next to it, he realized Rich and Sandy must’ve spent the night there. But of course, the house had probably smelled of paint. Even the water-based stuff lingered for a while. An empty liquor bottle lay on its side in the grass.