Private

Chapter 1 Luke Devereux was like a magnet, and Shane’s eyes were paperclips. Or something. So Shane was no good at English, shut the f**k up. Missing the point. The point was that the minute Shane left the maths block, his eyes were drawn to Luke bloody Devereux, like he’d known he was there. “Stop gawking, perv,” Sophie said, smacking him on the back of the shoulder. “Move! I want chocolate.” Shane obediently headed for the canteen, tearing his eyes away from Luke and that brilliantly blond hair. He was laughing at something someone had told him, and the way he smiled made Shane’s stomach clench. “Pervert,” Sophie said again, like she could read his thoughts, and Shane casually drew back a fist and punched her in the shoulder. “Ow! Abusive pervert! You can’t hit girls.” “You’re not a girl, you’re a toerag,” Shane said, holding the canteen door for her. It was almost empty, and Sophie swung her bag heavily into his stomach before dumping it on her favourite table. “See?” Shane grunted. “Bitch.” “Shut your face, Kershaw,” she sniped, rummaging in her bag for her purse. “And give me money.” “At least you’ve stopped pretending it’s a loan,” Shane grumbled, but rummaged in his pocket for spare change anyway. She closed her fist around the money the moment he produced it, and bounded away to the vending machine. Shane rolled his eyes at her back, and dropped into the nearest chair. “Is she taking advantage?” Whereas Sophie Moore was more like a boy than a girl—except for the knockout boobs and the ponytail—Rebecca Walsh was a soft voice, soft curls, and a soft hug as she squeezed Shane from behind, that flaming red hair tickling his scalp. “Hey, Bex,” he said, squeezing her arm. “She’s stealing my money.” “You do hand it over,” Rebecca admonished, sliding into the seat next to him. Rebecca was a tiny girl, a skinny wraith topped with lively hair and tempered by a gentle smile. She’d been the first to attach herself to Shane when he’d moved to Wheatley, and had been the first to know about his secrets. “How was your day?” “Eh,” Shane shrugged. He always felt a bit clumsy and uncouth next to gentle Rebecca, but she never seemed to mind. “So-so. Yours?” She opened her mouth—but the canteen door clanged, and Shane twisted his head to look. The magnet had arrived. Luke Devereux, a tall and broad-shouldered seventeen-year-old, had caught Shane’s attention the minute they’d met. He was graceful, sharp, and ridiculously good-looking. Every time those quick blue eyes landed on Shane—even for a second—it was like the heat coming off a branding iron. Pleasant, but less than an inch from dangerous. If Rebecca made Shane feel rough around the edges, Luke made Shane feel completely and utterly inadequate. But Shane’s brain and Shane’s face did not often communicate, so his, “Hey man,” and raised hand to clap Luke’s was the epitome of casual. “Hey,” Luke said, and his fingers slid away. “Soph, come on!” he called across the cavernous, linoleum-tiled room. “The bus is in ten, and I want to get home!” “So go, Mr. My-Bus-Is-Way-More-Important-Than-Chocolate!” she shouted back, still messing with the coins. Luke huffed, and perched on the edge of the table, not even bothering to remove his backpack. His black trousers stretched tight for a moment around his upper thigh, and Shane’s gaze momentarily flicked down before he blinked and reached for his bag. Rebecca’s arms squeezed a little tighter around his shoulders, but he ignored her and retrieved his apple, biting into it almost savagely. But his face apparently betrayed nothing, for Luke simply said, “Jesus, Shane, you skip lunch or what?” Shane shrugged in Rebecca’s hold. “Had to finish my chemistry project.” “What’d you f**k up?” Sophie asked, returning with her chocolate. Generously, she broke off a tiny piece and offered it to Shane. He waved it off, so Luke gleefully nicked it. “I didn’t f**k up s**t…” “Yeah you did.” “Did not.” She stuck her tongue out. “I’ll kiss you,” Shane threatened, and she put it away. “As if,” Rebecca said in that soft tone, and let go. “We do have to go. Or I do. Dad wants me home early.” “You slags go early,” Sophie said easily. “I’m gonna walk.” Sophie only lived on the edge of the town, and—”Catch me some boys in Tesco.”—had a crush on the security guard in Tesco. Which was a bit disgusting, in Shane’s opinion. The guy was, like, forty. “Like you can talk. w***e,” Luke challenged, and leaped away from her savage punch. Shane rolled his eyes and let Rebecca pull him up out of his chair. If she wanted to slide her fingers into his on the walk through the reception area and towards the bus stop, then she could. She had tiny hands, warm and dry, and there was a silent understanding between them. She was the first person that he’d ever told. In turn, he was the first boy she’d ever trusted. In a way, they were each other’s protection. Sophie left the three of them at the bus stop when the bus itself arrived in a clattering cloud of stinking smoke. Rebecca perched in the seat in front of the boys and turned around to chatter to Luke about her choice of music for her upcoming dance exam. Shane, trapped in the safety of the window seat, wedged his backpack between them and stared out at the passing, still slightly unfamiliar countryside, where town roads potholed and narrowed and became country lanes. The bus wove out of town towards the village of Wells on the main and larger one of two roads, then carried on up the hill through Hinckley Rise, over the ridge, and dropped down towards Little Hinckley. They all got off at the ridge, Rebecca hugging them both—her hair tickling the underside of Shane’s jaw—before jumping over the private gate and heading up the track to her father’s farm. It was winter and getting dark already, so they lingered at the bus stop until they heard the clang of the yard gate in the distance and knew she was home. “You okay?” Luke asked as they climbed over the stile. There were three fields going to pasture between the ridge and the back of Little Hinckley’s churchyard, and if it was dry, they crossed it rather than go via the village green and past the clutch of gossiping old ladies. “Mm.” “You sure?” Luke squinted at him. “You’ve been kind of…quiet.” Shane shrugged, hefting his bag higher on a shoulder. “I dunno. Bored in classes. Bit…pent up.” “Pent up how? Like…” Luke mimed shooting something, and grinned that beautiful smile that twisted Shane’s stomach. “You want to go be all military and shoot stuff at the base pent up, or…” “Or,” Shane said significantly. Luke laughed, and stopped. In the lonely privacy of a darkening field, the distance could finally be closed, and Luke’s fingers locked around Shane’s wrist to pull him back. That smile was wide and heart-stopping, and the kiss that Luke offered slow and gentle and chaste, yet full of promise. “We could barricade the door,” he said, his fingers curling around the nape of Shane’s neck. Shane smiled against a pale cheek, his eyes closing. Here, where it was just them and nobody else could know, things were simple. Easy. “Anna’s had the day off work, she’ll be clattering around in the kitchen by now. Long as we’re quiet…why not?” Alone in the field, Shane couldn’t think of why not. He slid his hands around Luke’s waist, under the blazer but over the shirt, and felt the warmth of him. It was chilly out. Too cold, really, without coats. But Luke was warm—Luke was always warm, despite the icy blue eyes and sharp tongue—and Shane felt idly content, as though he could stand here forever. “Long as we’re quiet,” he echoed vaguely, and Luke stroked long fingers through his hair and kissed him again, a little more open. A little more coaxing, or enticing. He bit down gently on Shane’s bottom lip, and tugged in a motion so fleeting it was almost a nip. “We do actually have to go home if we’re going to barricade that door,” Luke teased quietly, and Shane fluttered his fingers at those lean, dance-formed sides. “In a minute.” “Now?” Luke asked, in a wheedling tone. “It’s cold. And you’re making that face.” Shane blinked, and collected his scattering thoughts. “What face?” “That lazy, pretty face thing you do. Usually after,” Luke added in a significant tone, “but your proper happy one.” “Pretty?” Shane echoed, slightly affronted. “It’s a pretty expression!” Luke defended himself, stepping away. He clutched at Shane’s hand again briefly, then twisted their fingers together and began to pull Shane down the hill towards the village. The treeline at the back of the church meant they wouldn’t be seen. Yet. “Pretty?” Shane repeated, now definitely affronted. “Oh shut up,” Luke huffed, squeezing his hand. “I love you best with that face on. You’re always so…so cool and collected everywhere else, so distant, and I like seeing you look properly relaxed and happy for once when it’s just us.” “In bed.” “Or the hay that one time.” “Yeah but that itched, I wasn’t happy for long.” “True,” Luke said, then dropped his hand as they climbed over the stile, crossed the narrow paddock, and over the churchyard wall. The graves leaned at wonky angles; Reverend Morris, opening the doors ready for the evening service, waved to them. Or rather, to Luke. Shane lived in Wheatley, five miles over nearer to the army base. “Evening, boys,” he called. Luke waved back; Shane stuck his hands in his pockets and nodded. “Shy,” Luke teased. “Social slut,” Shane parried, and Luke snorted. “It’s called being polite.” “It’s called, you are ridiculously extroverted and will end up crazy and talking to dead people if you’re ever single for more than five minutes,” Shane said. Luke snorted again, opening the gate to Rose Cottage, Church Lane—neither a cottage, nor bestowed with roses—and showing Shane ahead of him with a flourish. “Freak.” “Ungrateful s**t,” Luke sniped. They headed around the side of the house in the gloom. The kitchen window was steamed up and glowing yellow; Luke tried the back door, and it popped open easily. “There you are!” Mrs. Devereux called. She was up to her wrists in dough. “I was just about to start calling you. Hello, Shane, dear.” “Hi, Mrs. Devereux.” “Anna! How many times?” “Sorry, Mrs. Devereux.” Luke laughed, rescuing Coke cans out of the fridge. Shane toed off his shoes and caught the can flung at his head. The kitchen was warm, both physically and emotionally. Shane liked Rose Cottage. It was always bright and felt busy, even though it was actually very quiet. Maybe it was the mess, and the five different cats. “How was school, boys?” “It was,” Luke said, catching Shane’s hand. “We’re going upstairs.” “Are you staying for dinner, Shane?” “No,” Shane called over his shoulder. Luke kept towing him, and maybe this was why the Devereux house was warm and welcoming: it was closed, a safe little space from the world outside, but it was also open. Nobody in Shane’s world knew about this, about Luke’s fingers wrapped around Shane’s—but everyone in Luke’s did. Luke’s room was first at the top of the stairs, and the first things Luke did were to slam the door and turn on his stereo. And the third thing was to seize Shane’s tie and kiss him, harder than before, a very slight edge of brutal want in his touch. “Still pent up?” he whispered, pushing Shane towards his bed, and Shane laughed. “Yeah,” Shane said, but chewed on his lip and hooked his fingers into Luke’s belt. Luke raised his eyebrows. “Barricade your door.” “I was kidding.” “I’m not,” Shane said. “I’ve been itching to touch you all day. I got nothing done. It’s been a waste, and now I’m going to get rid of the urge for a bit. Proper like.” “Oh, proper like,” Luke said mockingly, then laughed and took Shane’s face in both hands to kiss him shortly before pushing him onto the bed and stepping away. “I’ll deal with the door, you deal with your clothes.” Shane laughed and for all that he, typically, took control in bed, it was largely because he was told to. And Shane was an army brat: he was very, very good at obeying orders.