Page 15 of Double or Nothing

I got a taster of the uncle side of Bryce from a photo by the TV. Quite a cute one of him beaming between a couple of blonde-haired girls. As for the rest of the place, I’ve seen no sign of Sylvia.

I have, however, had a sign of the precise, finance focused side of Bryce and a need for order. His mugs, his cutlery, plates – everything as organised as can be. Even his spice rack is in alphabetical order. Or it was. I couldn’t help but switch the basil for the oregano. I wonder how long it’ll take for him to notice.

I guess we’re opposites on plenty of scores, and that should be a thumbs down for hanging out with this guy, besides using his ass, of course, but it isn’t.

I don’t know why the fuck I’m still relaxing in his place, checking out his divorce papers and eating a toastie in his dressing gown while an upcycling show blares in the background, but I am.

Because of his dick, that’s what I tell myself with a smirk. I’ll put up with upcycling shows for another go with him.

But I know that’s bullshit when I hear a key in the lock. I’m slouched back in my seat as he steps into the living room, giving him a hey, with a grin, but my heart is thumping wild. Another fucking lurch in my guts.

“Hope you meant it about chilling here for a bit, because I’ve been smashing into your cheese and mushrooms like I own the place. You’ve got a cracking toastie maker.”

Bryce smiles as he puts his laptop case down and kicks his shoes off. He puts them on the rack. Neatly.

“I haven’t even seen the thing in months.”

“What the fuck? You don’t do toasties with cheese like that?” I hold up the last chunk, dripping with cheese, and shove it in my mouth.

He shrugs. “I’m more of a panini kind of guy.”

I’ve left some wreckage in his kitchen. I’m not sure I even the put the cheese away, but Bryce doesn’t notice that yet. He comes to sit beside me, and his eyes go straight to his divorce papers.

“Guess you’ve read those?”

I could lie easily. I’m a fantastic liar. But I don’t. I look him right in the eyes and say, “Sylvia.” I’m keen to see his reaction.

“Yeah, Sylvia,” he says, trying to hide the way he stiffens. “It’s only a formality. She left months ago.”

“Months?”

“A few weeks, technically, but it may as well have been months. Certainly felt like it.” His eyes widen. “We didn’t share a bedroom though, this place has two. We hadn’t shared a bed in years.”

He acts like I should be bothered, but why would I be? He’s a casual lay I met in a bar. Who gives a shit if he was fucking his ex-wife last week or not?

“Ok, Bryce Terrence. Should I call you Terry from now on?”

“Please don’t.” Bryce rolls his eyes. “It’s after my grandfather.”

“Grandad Terry?”

Bryce can’t hide his smirk. “Stop it. It’s Grandaddy T.”

“Jesus Christ! That’s worse! He sounds like an old rapper.”

Bryce Terry can’t help himself get drawn into my laughter, and it catches us both in a choke hold. One of those double laughs that gets its hooks in, and I have to put my toastie plate down, because BT’s laugh is contagious. The way he clutches his sides as he tries to fight it only makes me laugh even harder.

“That’s my grandad you’re laughing about, asshole,” he manages to say.

I think on my feet, or rather my comfortable ass, and slice the air with my hand to a rapper’s beat. “I’m Grandaddy T. I’ve got a dodgy knee, my hip’s shot to shit but my shit is still slick.”

Bryce howls, and it’s great to see.

“Fucking hell,” he says when he calms down, his hand on his heart. “You’re hilarious.” He wipes his teary eyes. “But…”

“But?”

He looks at me with a face of sadness. “Please don’t speak ill of the dead, Jack. He only went three months ago.”