Page 215 of Men in Shorts

“I can’t wait until January, when we’re back in our single student-housing flats and we don’t have to have sex in furniture shops.”

“Are you whingeing about our emergency accommodation?”

“Not at all.” Brodie traced lazy shapes on his chest. “This was pretty hot, actually.”

He kissed Brodie’s hair. “Hotter than the time we did it just off the hiking trail in the Trossachs?”

“Dunno about hotter, but this was definitelywarmer. Also dryer.”

“Yeah, that sudden rainstorm didn’t help.”

“Didn’t stop us finishing, though.” Brodie tugged on the chain of Duncan’s necklace, making the sun pendant slide back and forth. “Shall we set an alarm for four a.m., in case we fall asleep?”

It was tempting. Duncan’s limbs were heavy with fatigue and bliss. “Nah, we should get up and go home,” he said without moving. “Then we can sleep late.”

“Come back to mine. You can meet Fergus and John’s new kitten.”

“Cool.”

They didn’t move.

“Can I ask you something important?”

Duncan tensed at Brodie’s solemn tone. Was there more to cover, another potential grenade to throw between them? “Go on.”

“Who do you think shot Lenny Murdoch?”

“Wh—Christ, Brodie, I thought it was something personal, not aboutRiver City.” Watching the Glasgow-based soap opera this year hadn’t been the same alone.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to alarm you.” Brodie looked well pleased with his fakeout. “I’ve tried to catch up on iPlayer, but I’ve still missed eighteen episodes this year. Do you think it was one of Lenny’s kids?”

“Probably some rival gangster.”

“Maybe it was Charlotte,” Brodie said with a snicker.

“She’s, like, five years old.”

“Old enough to hold a gun in that family.”

“One thing we do know: Nobody’s going down for it, now DI Donald’s on the case. Because he is the?—”

“Worst. Detective. Ever,” they said in unison.

God, it was good to laugh with Brodie again, to riff about complete nonsense, harkening back to their shared repertoire of inside jokes.

Brodie’s laughter cut short. “What was that noise?”

“What noi?—”

“Duncan? Is that you in”—Mum appeared around the corner with Dad on her heels—“here?” Her eyes went wide as dinner plates. “Wha…”

“Ah, for fuck’s sake, lad.” Dad shook his head. “When we said you should sort things with Brodie, we didnae meanhere.”

“I thought you were going back to the flat.” Duncan sat up, clutching the duvet to his chest. “Mum sent a text.” Very much beside the point, but it was his only defense.

Dad gestured in the direction of the street. “We were coming by in the taxi and saw there was a light on in the back of the shop after midnight. We came in to plug it into the timer.” He pointed at Duncan. “You’re the one always nipping our heads about saving electricity for the climate and all.”

Mum started stammering, her face set in what seemed a permanent wince. “Are you—did you—in adisplaybed?”

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