Page 11 of Dirty Rotten Love

The silence is not neutral. The silence is the opposite of neutral. The silence is the sound of a man whose patience was already extremely limited being pushed into territory he did not anticipate on a Tuesday evening.

One dark eyebrow lifts.

“You’re gay, Gallacher.”

It is not a question. Nothing MacLeod says is ever a question.

“I’m not. Technically. I mean.” I can hear myself talking and I cannot stop. “It’s more of a. As the lads say. Options. Limited options. Out here. Horizons.” I swallow. “Broadening them.”

MacLeod stares at me.

I think about the canal. The supermarket trolley. The forty minutes of sitting in cold water while my mates lost their minds on the bank. I have survived worse than this. This is fine. I am fine. I am not going to wet myself. Almost certainly.

“You’re offering me your virgin ass,” says MacLeod slowly, “because you’re out of options.”

I open my mouth. I close it again. The virgin comment lands somewhere that I need to absolutely not examine right now, and I gulp and nod instead because words have left me entirely and nodding is the best I can do.

MacLeod looks at me for a long moment. His expression is completely unreadable. His hair is still dripping. There is a drop of water making its way down his collarbone and I am not watching it, I am looking at his face, I am a professional.

Then he breathes. A long, slow exhale through his nose, the sound of a man making a decision.

“No privileges,” he says. His voice has dropped even quieter, which I did not think was possible. “No special treatment. No skipped shifts.” A pause. “I’ll make you fall apart several times, but that’s the only benefit you get.”

I lose approximately three seconds of my life.

Several times.

He said several times. That is a number greater than one. That is a number greater than two. That is a number that implies a level of. That implies he intends to. That means he is actually considering.

Several.

“But there are no other benefits,” MacLeod repeats and clarifies. He can clearly tell I’m having a little difficulty processing right now.

His eyes are very dark and very steady and giving absolutely nothing away. “Deal?”

My mouth is open. I am aware of this and I cannot fix it. The word several is bouncing around my skull like it is looking for somewhere to land and not finding anywhere that makes sense.

MacLeod’s eyes narrow slightly. “Gallacher.”

“Deal,” I hear myself say.

MacLeod’s hand closes around my arm and I am yanked through the door with a decisive efficiency that suggests this is a man who has made up his mind and is not interested in further discussion.

The door slams shut behind me.

The corridor is now abruptly empty.

Somewhere in the mess hall, eight lads are staring at a laptop screen showing nothing but a closed gray door.

And I’m all alone with MacLeod.

Chapter five

Rory

MacLeod’s cabin is the same size as the one I share with Tam. But MacLeod doesn’t share with anyone. There is a double bed instead of a bunk bed. A neatly made double bed, that for some reason I can’t stop staring at.

The air pressure in here feels different. So does the gravity. In fact, I’m pretty sure the light from the overhead bulb has an unusual quality to it.