Page 1 of Cream & Sugar
1
Freddie
Therearen’tmanythingsthat can rouse me from a drunken snooze, but the sound of my brother’s footsteps thundering through the house is one of them. Partly because they have the ground-shaking resonance of a bass amp turned up full blast, but mostly because it usually means I’m about to get screamed at.
Mashing my face into my pillow, I brace for impact, clinging on to the tiny possibility that I’m still dreaming.
“Freddie, you bastard!” Rory bellows.
Ugh. Knew it.
My eyelids smear open. I’m lying on top of my duvet, stark naked with my arse to the ceiling. My throat hurts and my head is banging like a bag of spanners in a washing machine. Rory booms my name again and I wince, far too hungover for that level of volume.
He comes to a halt outside my bedroom and the doorknob rattles. My stomach lurches at the thought of Rory barging in and seeing a whole load of my butt but, mercifully, the door’s locked.Thanks, drunk Freddie. Saved the day again.
“Freddie isn’t here right now,” I croak, my tongue feeling like a slug dipped in sand.
Rory bangs on the door, the impact rattling my bones. “Either you open this door right now or I’ll break it down and make you pay for the damages! Your choice.”
I don’t know how much a broken door costs to fix, but I know it’s more than I’ve got. I groan and belch, the sour taste of Jack Daniels and coke lapping at my tonsils. There’s a good chance that if I stand up now, I’ll spew all over the carpet.
“Five more minutes?”
“Now!”
He sounds like he’s about to blow a gasket. Rory’s temper has different levels of explosiveness, from “I’m starting to lose my cool” all the way up to “Chernobyl on steroids.” Even from the other side of the door, I can tell he’s approaching nuclear. If he gets any more pissed off, no one in a five-mile radius will be safe.
“Alright, I’m coming.”
Shielding my eyes from the sunlight streaming through the curtains, I shamble to my feet, swaying slightly at the change in altitude. A wave of nausea comes over me, then thankfully ebbs away, bubbling just below the surface. I grab a pair of boxers from the pile of unfolded laundry on my dresser and wrestle them on. I’m still a bit pissed, so I can’t guarantee they’re the right way round, but I’m pretty sure Rory isn’t going to give a shit.
Ready to face the monster, I head to the door, release the lock, and pull it open.
There he is—my brother. He towers over me, teeth clenched, eyes wide. The snakelike veins in his neck bulge and strain against his too-tight tie, the crimson shade of which perfectly matches the colour of his face. He looks like he wants to rip me in half, and I have no doubt he’s capable of it. Rory’s six feet of muscle packed into a pinstripe suit. To look at us, you wouldn’t guess we’re related. I've often wondered if one of us got mixed up at the hospital.
I lean against the doorframe and yawn. “Good morning, brother dear.” I sniff the air, smelling something acrid. “I think your toast is burning.”
“No, it isn’t, you freeloading shitebag.” Rory bares his teeth, looking proper feral.Don’t poke the beast, warns a little voice inside me. As usual, I ignore it.
“Jeez! Who pissed in your protein shake?”
Rory seethes. Burst capillaries sketch a roadmap across his eyes. For a second, I think he might actually punch me and send me flying through the wall like a cartoon character. Somehow, he holds himself back. “Hopefully not the same prick who tried to burn the house down last night or I might actually have to murder him.”
He’s not shouting any more, but his venomous growl is far more menacing.
I try to paste an innocent look across my face which, since I haven’t got a clue what he’s talking about, comes pretty easily.
“What are you on about?”
It’s only when Rory raises one of his tree-trunk arms that I notice he’s holding something. He brandishes what looks like a lumpy black plate. I raise an eyebrow and he thrusts it right up to my face, so I can see what it really is: a pizza, burnt to a crisp.
“Where’d you get that?” I ask, fingering a charred disc of pepperoni.
“The oven,” says Rory, chewing his words. “You should know. You’re the one who left it there.”
“What? No, I didn’t—” My train of thought goes off its rails as hazy memories cloud the tracks. I vaguely recall shoving something in the oven late last night, waiting for it to cook, getting bored, and then…
Oh.
