“Charming,” Tone said. Then he lowered his voice. “What did you say to him to get him to agree to move? We’ve been trying to get him to go see his mum for months, and he kept saying no.”

  “I didn’t really give him a choice.”

  “Did he talk to you?”

  Stan shook his head. “I went in there, and he just cried. When he was done, I told him we were going back to London and he didn’t say no, so I went and got you and….”

  “Here we are,” Tone finished for him.

  “Here we are.”

  Stan peeked out the window; the sun was just starting to rise over the horizon.

  “What are we going to do next?”

  “Honestly, Tone, I don’t have a fucking clue.”

  They managed to bustle Ben out of Heathrow airport without fans or paparazzi recognising them, which was a miracle, and one Stan was grateful for. He knew both Ben and Tone had property of their own in the capital, but the idea was to take Ben away from situations that had led to bad decisions, so Stan didn’t want to take him there. Instead he had their driver take them back to his own place. It was an unassuming two-bedroom flat overlooking Camden Lock that he occasionally rented out to other fashion industry people. It had been empty for a few months, and Stan had arranged for some of his own things to be transferred out of storage and moved into the flat.

  Ben still hadn’t spoken more than a few words, and even then only in response to direct questions. He was weak—Stan could tell that just by looking at him—and with his hoodie and sunglasses he looked like any other junkie on the street.

  “Jesus Christ, I’m jet-lagged,” Tone said as they all dumped bags in the hallway and stumbled for the kitchen.

  “There’s a bedroom there, and another opposite the bathroom. Feel free to crash.”

  Tone looked conflicted.

  “Go on,” Stan insisted. “The sofa pulls out into another bed. I can sleep there.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Tone squeezed Ben’s shoulder and loped off in the direction of a bed.

  “Do you want anything?” Stan asked.

  Ben made hell of a picture, with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black hoodie and his skinny jeans falling down on his too-skinny hips.

  “Mandy?”

  “I’m not giving you fucking drugs,” Stan snapped. On one hand, at least Ben had expressed a want for something. On the other….

  “Then I’ll go to bed,” Ben grumbled and took the other bedroom, then slammed the door shut.

  Stan pressed his fingertips to his eyes and counted to ten.

  He was tired too, beyond jet-lagged after flying from New York to Los Angeles, then back to London in the space of twenty-four hours. Which was ridiculous. He wasn’t sure what his body clock thought was happening. He had things to do before he could relax, though.

  First, he went to the bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as it would go. There was only one bathroom in the flat, and it wasn’t a big space, so sharing between the three of them was going to be interesting. For now, Stan wanted to wash off the feel of aeroplane from his skin and get his hair feeling soft and clean again.

  Just before Stan bought the flat, the bathroom had been redecorated in calm sandstone tiles that he much preferred to stark white. The shower had a rain-effect head that dumped water out at a truly blissful speed, and Stan took his time cleaning himself from head to toe.

  He couldn’t dry his hair when he was done, because the only hairdryer was in one of the bedrooms, so instead he towel-dried it as best he could, then carefully combed and braided it. Before leaving New York, he’d packed a change of clothes, and though it wasn’t the comfiest outfit in the world, it was clean. Stan changed into another loose pair of pants and a T-shirt and went to open some windows. The air in the flat felt stale; he needed fresh air to blow through.

  Though the cupboards still had some staples, the fridge was empty and turned off so it didn’t start to smell. Stan gave it a quick clean, then turned it back on and set up his laptop at the dining table so he could put together a grocery order to be delivered later in the day.

  While he was online, he took the time to quickly skim through a list of therapists in the city. He knew a few from his stay in hospital years ago, but it had been a long time, and they were mostly eating disorders specialists. He needed to get Ben to someone who was an expert in addiction. Not wanting to make any decisions on Ben’s behalf, and definitely not when he was this tired, Stan just made a list to present to Ben later.

  With that done and the sound of Tone’s snoring echoing down the hallway, Stan decided to give in to his body and curled up on the sofa to nap.

  Christ, what a day.

  The Lost Boy on Amazon: https://amzn.to/2Yp9IQs

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  About the author:

  Anna Martin is from a picturesque seaside village in the south west of England and now lives in Bristol. After spending most of her childhood making up stories, she studied English Literature at university before turning her hand as a professional writer.

  Apart from being physically dependent on her laptop, Anna is enthusiastic about writing and producing local grassroots theatre (especially at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, where she can be found every summer), visiting friends who live in other countries, Marvel Comics, learning new things, and Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk.

  Although her most recent work is in the LGBT Fiction genre, in the past Anna has worked on a variety of different projects including short stories, drabbles, flash fiction, fan fiction, plays for both children and adults, and poetry. She has written novels in the Teen/ Young Adult genre, Romance, and Fantasy novels.

  Anna is, by her own admission, almost unhealthily obsessed with books. The library she has amassed is both large and diverse; "My favourite books," she says, "are The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee and Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood." She also several well-read copies of Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park books and re-reads the Harry Potter novels with almost startling regularity.

  Anna claims her entire career is due to the love, support, pre-reading and creative ass-kicking provided by her closest friend Jennifer. Jennifer refuses to accept any responsibility for anything Anna has written.

  Anna’s website: www.annamartin-fiction.com

  Twitter and Instagram: @missannamartin

  Follow me on Bookbub for news about all my new books!

  www.bookbub.com/profile/anna-martin

 

 

  Anna Martin, The Impossible Boy

 

 

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