Chapter 91
There was much more to Trevor than he’d first thought. Before he’d stayed with him, he’d pegged him as a gossipy, limp-wristed shirt-lifter. Now…Paul sat heavily on his new sofa and stared unseeing at the freshly wall-papered walls. Now I miss the hell out of him.
“Fuck!” Paul said, getting to his feet and moving toward his drinks cabinet.
* * * *
Although falling asleep Friday night wasn’t a problem, thanks to the distillers of Glen Fiddich whisky, Paul woke in the small hours and couldn’t get back to sleep.
Saturday was spent getting his house in shape, a task made easier by help from Pete, but made more difficult by the presence of Thommo.
“Jesus, don’t just drop them!” Paul shouted from the kitchen as he heard Thommo put down a box of LPs.
“They were heavy.”
Fortunately none of the discs had suffered damage. “Uh, why don’t you go down the supermarket and get some beers in.”