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“Ambrose’s,” Tristan said from next to him. “That’s where he’ll be. Let me just…” He pulled his phone out and sent a text. They sat in silence for a moment, then his phone buzzed with an answer. “Yup, Ambrose picked him up. He says if we come and get him, it’ll be a finder’s fee of hotcakes from Macca’s. Oh, and a chocolate thickshake.”
Jack was on his feet and fishing in his pocket for the ute keys before Tris had finished speaking.
They hit the road, detouring past the closest McDonald’s.
“Do you remember when breakfast at Macca’s wasn’t an all-day thing?” Tristan mused as they drove, his feet on the ute’s dash. “Dark times. Dark fucking times. If I want a Bacon and Egg McMuffin at four p.m., then who the fuck is Ronald McDonald to tell me I can’t have one?”
“Where are we going again?” Jack asked him.
“Evil fucking clown,” Tris said, stroking his fingers along the top of the takeaway bag. “Just take the M1 into the city. I’ll tell you when to turn off.”
Jack’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Had Harry bolted because he regretted the kiss? Or because he thought Jack regretted it? Why hadn’t he just gone with it and kissed Harry back, only better? Still, Ambrose hadn’t told them to stay away, so Harry probably didn’t hate him.
At least, he hoped not.
Sunday morning traffic on the M1 was pretty light, so it didn’t take long until they were approaching the city.
“Turn here,” Tristan said, and Jack followed his directions until he found himself in front of a stately looking building in Potts Point, a suburb that was so far out of his price range Jack half-expected to be pulled over and asked to leave for lowering the tone of the place by existing.
“You know someone who lives here?”
Tris shrugged. “Ambrose’s boyfriend’s family owns a winery.” He pulled out his phone and sent a text. “I’ve told him to buzz us up. I don’t like using those speaker things.” He slurped loudly on the thickshake that Jack was pretty sure they’d bought for Ambrose.
Now that they were here, Jack was reluctant to go inside. But after Tristan rattled the door impatiently, it clicked and opened, and he had no choice but to follow Tris inside to a lobby that looked like something out of Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries and smelled of beeswax polish.
The lift had a cage.
Jack’s stomach lurched as they stepped inside, and it wasn’t totally to do with how rickety it seemed.
Tris cut a glance at him, and the corners of his mouth curled into a smile. “It’ll be fine. Harry probably just found out his dick has more than one use and now he’s panicking about it.”
“That’s…” Jack shook his head. “Please don’t say that in front of him.”
Tris shrugged and sashayed out of the lift towards a door. He knocked on it, then hollered, “Open up, Ambrose, you whore!”
Jack tried to melt into the walls.
The door opened, and a guy stuck his head out. “This is a nice place, Tris!”
“Oh, please,” Tris said, shoving the McDonald’s bag and shake at him. “Like you don’t hear that ten times a night from Liam anyway. How is Liam? Is he here?”
“He’s at work,” Ambrose said. “Why is this shake empty?”
“I’m going to say hello to your cat,” Tris said. He waved a hand in Jack’s direction. “This is Jack, by the way. He’s Harry’s crisis. Jack, this is Ambrose. He’s Harry’s best friend.”
Ambrose—who was seriously hot, Tris had been right about that—looked him up and down. “Are you going to turn him down?” he asked bluntly.
Jack swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “Um. No?”
“Then you can come in,” Ambrose said, stepping to one side, only to duck without warning and scoop up a giant cat that had been trying to sidle past him. The cat gave Jack a malevolent glare. “Come in then, before Tobermory makes another break for it.”
Jack scuttled inside.
Harry was perched on the edge of an overstuffed couch, elbows resting on his knees, expression miserable. He looked like a little kid sitting there with his bare feet and bedhead, and Jack felt bad that he’d somehow caused this. He approached slowly. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Harry peeked up at him from behind his glasses, shoulders hunched.
Jack plopped on the sofa next to him and bumped their shoulders together, uncomfortably aware of their audience. He turned to Tris and Ambrose in a silent plea, and Ambrose got the hint and tugged on Tristan’s sleeve. “Come on, I’ll show you the view from the roof.”
