Page 7 of Edge

Jory’s coffee spilt intothe saucer. He levelled a glare at the stranger. “Do you mind? I’mtrying to work here. You’re messing with my coffee.”

Startled, the guy lookedup at him from where he was bent down rummaging. “Oh God. I’msorry. I’m so clumsy, everyone tells me. Hang on, I have a napkinhere somewhere. You can use it to mop up the spill.” He delveddeeper into his bag and then held up a grubby serviette. “Ta da. Iknew it was there somewhere. Here you go.”

He handed it over andJory gave a long-suffering sigh then picked up his cup off thesaucer. Using the napkin to clean the mess, he dumped it on thetable and returned to his lyrics.

His unsolicited tablematewent quiet and Jory relaxed. Perhaps he could finish working inpeace. He picked up his coffee and took a sip.

“So are you?”The words from across the table were muffled. Jory looked up inexasperation. His tablemate was stuffing a piece of croissantbetween soft, pink lips and there were crumbs on his mouth andchin.

Jory was miffed atfinding the scene endearing and sexy. “Am I what? And I thought yousaid you weren’t going to disturb me?”

“I was curiousabout the autograph thing. I meant, are you famous then?” The otherman grinned. “By the way, my name’s Damian.”

Jory raised his eyesheavenward. “I have a certain public presence, yes. I sing in arock band.” He was damned if he was telling Damian who he was, sohe didn’t return the name-giving favour. He was, however,unprepared for the curl of the other man’s lips and the huff thatescaped them.

“Oh. Isee.”

Jory’s skin prickled.“What do you mean, you see?” If people didn’t recognise him first,they normally got all excited and fan-boy when Jory told them aboutthe band, wanting to know which band, and had he sung anything theymight have heard. He wasn’t used to being dismissed with disdainthe way Damian had done.

The other man shrugged.“I’m not a fan of rock music myself. It’s become so same old sameold. Seems like no one has a new sound anymore.”

For once inhis life, Jory was speechless. “You’re damned rude,” he snapped.“You sit down uninvited at my table and then insult mymusic?” Who does this tosser think he is?Stone Edge’s sound is way different to other rock bands.Wanker.

Damian’s eyes widened andhe shook his head vigorously. “Oh my God, no. I promise you itwasn’t meant as an insult, only my personal opinion.” His wordsspluttered away as Jory stood, shoved his notebook into hisbackpack, and began to walk away. He knew he was overreacting, andwas still irritated by his encounter with Roger. Having a totalstranger discount what he did for a living hurt in a way itshouldn’t’ve bothered him.

He walked out of the caféand down the street towards the recording studio. Perhaps he couldbash away this dark mood and the tightness in his chest on hiskeyboards.

“Mr Rock Man,please wait.” Behind him, someone panted as they caught up. “I’m sosorry, I didn’t realise I’d offend you. Please let me apologise andyou can finish your coffee. Here, I brought it with me.”

A paper cup, stillhalf-full of his Americano, was pushed at him and Jory had nooption but to take it before it fell to the ground. Damian’s facewas flushed, his expression of guilt making Jory feel marginallybetter.

“I’m sosorry,” Damian garbled. “Sometimes my mouth runs away with me. Myex used to tell me the same thing.” He stood a few inches shorterthan Jory, was slimly built but toned. His skinny jeans clung towell-shaped, long, coltish legs and his t-shirt showed off greatmuscle definition in his biceps.

Despite his pleasingappearance, it was the expression of misery on his handsome facethat mollified Jory. He wondered about Damian’s ex, debating whatgender they’d been. He had a feeling Damian batted for his team,but you never could tell. The campest man Jory had ever known backin Uni had been as straight as they come. Look at LawrenceLlewellyn Bowen.

“Well, maybeyou should be more careful what you say,” Jory muttered. “I mean, Iam a stranger after all.”

“I know, Iknow.” Damian rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I couldn’t go to workknowing you were mad with me.” He smiled bashfully and Jory’s heartde-iced a little. He couldn’t stay mad with such a vision of anadorable man, even if Damian were straight. He’d be writing aboutthis little encounter in his hidden journal tonight.

“Where do youwork?” Jory asked. He looked at his watch. “It’s past nine. Aren’tyou late already?”

Damian laughed. “I workin the old cinema on Oxford Street. The Animus? Do you know it? Myuncle Dave owns it and I help him run it. I’m able to come and goas I please as long as the work gets done.”

Jory nodded.He knew the theatre intimately. It had kept him sane and providedone of the few pleasures he’d had as a child. He’d seen some of hisfavourite films there, classics like GoneWith the Wind and Hitchcock’sThe Birds, which hadscared the shit out of him.

“I know it, Ispent lots of time there. I love old films.”

Damian’s eyes brightened.“So do I. My dad loved them too and he used to take me to thecinema. He and Dave used to spend loads of time at The Animus whenthey were kids. When it came up for sale, they boughtit.”

“So he andyour dad own it then?”

Damian’s face shadowed.“No, my uncle is the sole owner now. My parents are abroad.” Hedidn’t elaborate and Jory didn’t push. He knew the value of keepingfamily drama to yourself. He’d lived through tragedy when he was akid and he didn’t want to remember any of it.

“What aboutyour folks? Did they take you to see the films?”

Jory hitched a breath andtried to smile through the pain in his gut. “Sometimes.”

Visions of him and Larksneaking into the old cinema via the side entrance, giggling, eachtrying to shush the other, flooded his memory bank like an unwantedshower of icy water. Memories of huddling together in the backrows, using the threadbare school jerseys, which never saw sight ofthe school, rose unbidden in his mind.