Read Online Driftwood by Harper Fox - Free Book Online Page B

a brief, startled cheer from the watching crowd? He wasn’t sure. Didn’t care. He felt as if he’d punched the face of every army bigot who had ever called him queer, every supercilious public-school major-general who thought that doctors had an easy berth on the front line. Better still, every fear of his own that had been twisting up his life since his return. His heart was pounding. Drawing deep breaths, he wound down the window to gasp the night air, which was cool now, smelling of sea salt and freedom, and pulled out onto the road.
    Movement in his rearview mirror. For an instant he thought that Tremaine might have followed him, and shuddered at the inward roar of anticipation the prospect caused. Easing off the gas, he let the Rover’s engine idle.
    Flynn appeared at the window, his hair disordered, breath coming ragged. “Thomas. Wait a second. Please.”
    Thomas pulled up the handbrake. He watched as Flynn laid a hand on the window to steady himself, opened his mouth as if to explain. Then he visibly gave up and lowered his head so that his brow was resting on the back of his hand. “Oh God.”
    Thomas looked at him. Whatever Tremaine’s power over him, it could throw him into utter disarray. His breath was coming far harder and more ragged than his run from the pub could account for, and the knuckles of the hand Thomas could see were clenched white. “Are you okay?”
    â€œYes. Yes, but…that was the worst social occasion of my entire bloody life.”
    Thomas considered. He would have liked to say something to make him feel better, and cast back over his own bloody life to see if he could remember anything worse. He came up dry. “Yeah,” he agreed, after a few seconds. “Mine too. What’s his problem, Flynn?”
    â€œWhatever it is, will you at least believe that it’s my fault as much as his?”
    The street was quiet. Its single light caught shades of bronze in Flynn’s hair. His bowed head was eloquent of something approaching desperation, surrender. Thomas resisted, and then did not resist, the urge to caress it, and Flynn looked up in surprise. “Whatever you say. Is he all right?”
    â€œYes, he… He’s fine.”
    â€œGood. Do you want me to run you back to the base? Give him some time to cool off on his own?”
    Flynn laughed tiredly. “My address is bunk two, room six of the west barrack. His is bunk one. Will you just drop me off at the B&B in Boskenna? It’s on your way home.”
    Thomas thought, with fear and repulsion, of Flynn encountering Tremaine again tonight. Boskenna didn’t seem far enough—and, as the only accommodation for miles around, not much of a secret bolthole. “Get in,” he said, and when Flynn had clambered up into the passenger seat beside him, he gave the wheel a thoughtful tap and turned to him. “Would it cause a diplomatic incident if you came home with me?”
    â€œWhat, another one?” Flynn grinned. “Thanks, but you’ve had enough mud slung at you for one night because of me. If I end up spending the night in Sankerris…”
    â€œI don’t live in Sankerris,” Thomas told him. “I live in a half-derelict watchtower on the cliffs near Morvah. It’s got a comfortable sofa and all-round views. It’s peaceful. You’ll be safe for tonight.”
    â€œI… Thomas, Robert’s not dangerous, you know.”
    You could’ve fooled me . Thomas bit it back. If he was, the only person who could find out and have it mean anything useful would be Flynn himself. Probably the hard way. “Whatever you say,” he said again quietly. “So, where to, sir? Bunk two, or Zillah Treen’s B&B—which I believe has garden gnomes—or…”
    Flynn laughed. “The derelict tower sounds good, if you’re sure. Thank you.”

    The Land Rover’s headlights sturdily probed the night