Incapable (Love Triumphs 3)

He stumbled around the rest of Sunday feeling almost normal, bar a scratchy throat. Too much rebel yell last night. He unpacked, checked email, talked to his folks, nuked the first thing he put his hand on from the freezer, which turned out to be chilli con carne, then in an attempt to keep up with the competition, he took Stephen King’s Black House on audio book to bed, knowing he’d likely fall asleep listening to Frank Muller read it.

Taylor was bang on time Monday morning. Shave and a haircut two bits sounded at exactly 9am. He had a 10.30am call, so that gave them plenty of time to get to the studio and ample time to fly the living arrangement idea, get shot down and crash-land with no survivors.

When he closed the car door she said, “You look better.”

No perfume. He hugged her across the handbrake. “How did I look?”

“Emo.”

He laughed. There was no way he could look wan, slender and delicately emo. If emo was a short-lived hothouse flower, he was lantana, a perennial weed you couldn’t kill.

“You were pale, babe. Gave me flipping heart failure when I thought you were going to go over the edge.”

“But I’m not pale now?”

She pinched both his cheeks. “You’ll do.”

She managed to find a park not far from the studio, outside a cafe. They sat in the sun and ordered. The spot was a little oasis in the back lanes of the city. You could hear the train pulling in to Central and the odd truck backing up, but otherwise it was sheltered from the bustle you’d find only a couple of streets over. Didn’t make for a peaceful landing though. Flaps up, here we go.

“I’ve been thinking about you and this doing it the hard way thing you’ve got going on,” he started.

“Have you now.”

“It’s very emo.”

She barked a laugh and some yappy dog down the street echoed her. “What do you mean?”

“There’s no need for you to do it so tough.”

“I don’t want to work in a job you’ve made up for me like I’m some charity case.”

“I know. I’ve got another idea.”

“Captain Zice Vox to the rescue.”

He mouthed the words fuck off at her and she laughed. There were people close by, not that he was recognisable, but his voice sure was if she was going to help people make the connection. He was cool with the guys screwing with him, God knows he deserved it, but otherwise the anonymity was one of the perks of being a voice actor, that and the obscene amounts of money he’d made.

“I don’t want to know, Damo, Dame. Damn.”

“Not even if it’s helping me out?”

She drummed her nails on the metal tabletop. He could feel the heat reflecting off it sharply on his face. That’d get rid of his recording studio tan.

“Trill?”

She groaned. “This is going to be some made up thing again. Because you think I’m pathetically holding on to a dream that’s long passed me by.”

He shook his head. “No, you brat.”

“Why wouldn’t you think that? Look at you—rich and famous.”

He made a downward gesture with his hand, hoping she’d lower her voice. “Lucky. I got lucky, and I preferred it when you called me emo.”

“Lucky!”

So much for hand gestures. That set the dog off again.

“What did you earn this year? It’s got to have an amazing amount of zeroes behind a big fat honking prime.” More fingernail drumming. “It’s like an insult for you to say you were lucky.”