Page 77 of The Bright and Hungry Future of Hawks

Philipa studied his expression, her own inscrutable, his apparently not so, for she put the voice to her ear and replied, “I don’t think Ben wants to continue this conversation.”

“Give him the fucking phone.”

Ben turned on his heel and left.

He couldn’t hear any more commands—lies—barked at him like that. How could he? He had that name tapping in his head now, the sound like the demented pecking of a bird desperately drilling into an irresistible truth.

This is about Nate Nate Nate Nate Nate.

He returned swiftly to the sterile bedroom and stood by the bed, considering the stripped, smooth surface.

He should have left at that first painful revelation: Philipa and Nikolas—togetherin their past.

But now… Tap, tap, tap…

The great lie had begun to unravel. Nikolas’s own fucking word:unravel.

Ben registered little of his retreat from the house. He must have been lucky, he reflected, as he retrieved his bike from its hiding place—he could have been taken by a half-asleep rookie and known nothing of it until planted face first into the dirt of Barton Combe.

He didn’t know where to go.

Things hadunravelled.

Tap, tap, tap…

He pulled out his phone, turned it back on. Ten missed calls already.

He clicked it off once more.

Astride the bike, he lowered his forehead onto his folded arms, his hands gripping the handlebars so tight his wrists began to hurt.

It was very quiet.

Except for the tapping, of course.

He’d been right. The angry shift of a thigh had been so much more than a tiny gap created between his flesh and Nikolas’s.

He’d thought he could hold it all at bay.

He’d thought if he kept telling himself how perfect everything was, everything would remain perfect.

Wearily, for the first time in his life feeling every one of his thirty-eight years, Ben started his bike and headed west.

It was a bit early in the morning to wake friends, but, when all was said and done, wasn’t that what friends were for?

* * *

Caravans in the middle of Dartmoor didn’t need locking, apparently, so Ben was able to enter easily enough. He hadn’t even flung himself into one of the narrow bench seats before Squeezy appeared, naked. He immediately lowered the handgun he’d been gripping with a heartfelt, “Fucking hell, Diesel!” of relief or fury—Ben couldn’t tell which.

Tim appeared anxiously behind him. He was also naked, but had apparently taken the time to wrap the sheet around himself. “It’s four…” He trailed off at Ben’s expression, and with a sigh, shuffled into the tiny kitchen. Ben heard the sound of the kettle going on.

It was too domestic, too familiar, too…ironic. He shattered under the relentless assault of that tortuous tap, tap, tap…

* * *

Ben didn’t drink his tea, something he was sure Tim was more concerned about than the situation. TheNateSituationas it was now being called between the three of them.

Squeezy didn’t seem bothered about the cold liquid sitting untouched in the chipped mug. But he was unusually quiet. Ben didn’t like it. It was ominous, like the familiar hum of a generator suddenly stopping.

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