He tells me things like this, he told me about things even before, so I have no doubts.

I walk in, this time keeping my eyes off my sulky bastard of a man and slide the tray down in the centre of the seating on one of the low tables. I have to avoid looking his way and get with the programme that we can barely stand each other. Jackson slides his beside mine neatly, an eerie silence of men staring at us, and as I go to follow him out, I’m halted by that snappy tone.

“Pour it … get your head out of your ass, Walters.” A harsh...