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records, no arrests
for child molestation or domestic violence, no psychopathic family
members. A blameless, innocent life. Which is the only reason
Heller lets me see him, I suppose.
    I had grabbed that dossier,
marched straight up to Heller’s flat on the floor above and pounded
loudly on his door until he opened it. He hadn’t been surprised to
see me. He knows that I have a temper and would have been expecting
some fireworks from me once I returned home and saw his handiwork.
He stood there, leaning on the doorway, a sexy but arrogant smile
on his face, one hand on his lithe hips, one eyebrow raised
quizzically. I had glared at him and thrown the dossier on the
floor at his feet, where it skidded on the polished timber, papers
and photos spilling out everywhere.
    “Stay away from Will,” I had
angrily demanded.
    “You read it though, didn’t
you?” he had smiled, with a confidence that pushed my buttons.
    “Piss off, Heller.”
    The second it was out of my
mouth, I’d wished I hadn’t said it. He hates it when I swear at
him. Despite his amorality about almost everything that I
considered important in life – like murder and arson – he never
swore, didn’t smoke and was virtually a complete teetotaller.
    Before I could even turn to
stomp away, his hand had shot out and grabbed me cruelly by my
upper arm. He had pulled me up close to him and stared me down with
his glacial eyes, face stony, until I’d had to blink and look away.
I had shaken off his arm furiously and pushed past him into his
flat to pick up the papers strewn across his floor. I had shoved
them carelessly back in the folder and dumped it ungraciously on
his side table, before pushing past him again, glaring at him all
the while. I had walked away without saying another word to
him.
    He hates it even more when I’m
angry with him.
     
    ~~~~~~
     
    Everyone was still awake when
Heller and I arrived back at the Warehouse. We climbed the stairs
up six flights to the rooftop, the building’s antique lift still
not repaired after months of being out of action. When I’d first
started working for Heller, a trek upstairs like that would have
left me red-faced and breathless, but I was a lot fitter these days
and climbed with little effort. Of course Heller himself was
exceptionally buff and probably could have carried me up the stairs
without even breaking a sweat.
    The rooftop offered an
unspectacular view of the surrounding semi-industrial buildings and
grungy neighbourhood, but was a pleasant place to laze away a
couple of hours. Heller had generously fitted it out as a leisure
centre for those of us who lived with him, complete with a barbeque
and hot tub.
    There was a general cheer of
greeting for me at my entrance. I waved vaguely at everyone in
return as I kicked off my boots and pulled off my socks.
    Daniel immediately went to the
small bar fridge located in the barbeque area and poured me a glass
of pinot grigio. I was delighted to notice that he was wearing a
short-sleeved t-shirt, attire appropriate for the late autumn heat
we were currently experiencing. It was something he’d refused to do
when I first met him, being incredibly self-conscious of the ugly,
self-inflicted scars slashed across both his wrists. He had many
other scars as well, physical and emotional, the legacy of an
horrendous childhood. Not the least was a conspicuous, jagged scar
that traversed in a semi-circle from the edge of his left eye down
to the corner of his mouth, marring his otherwise attractive face.
We all celebrated each small step he took towards building his
self-confidence.
    “You always seem to know when I
need some wine, my lovely Danny-boy,” I smiled, taking the glass
from him and giving him a quick peck on the lips. I hadn’t seen him
all day and I’d missed him. We were the same age and had grown very
close over the last five months.
    “That’s because you always need some wine,” Heller commented dryly, before
joining Niq and the twins,