Free Waiting for a Prince by K. C. Wells Page A

Something in Sam’s voice tore at him. “Don’t turn me away. I need to
    speak to you.” There was a pause. “Please, mate. ’S important.”
    Mark hesitated, his hand hovering over the intercom. He was in no fit state to have a
    conversation. But a tiny part of him remained stupidly hopeful. Sighing heavily, he pushed the
    door release button. “Come on up. Second floor. It’s the flat on the right.”
    “Oh, thank God.” Mark couldn’t miss the note of relief in Sam’s voice. Mark staggered
    into his bedroom and snatched his robe from its hook on the back of the door. He slipped into it, tugging it around him and tying it tightly. He went to the door, unbolted it and pulled it open.
    Sam had just reached the top stair. He held onto the rail, panting.
    “Get in here, quickly.” Mark grabbed hold of Sam’s arm and hauled him into the flat. He
    pushed the door closed as quietly as he could. Ron across the hall worked on the rubbish bins
    and always got up at the crack of dawn. It wouldn’t do to piss off his neighbors. Once Sam was
    inside, Mark shut and bolted the door as silently as possible. Sam leaned against the wall of the small hallway, as if the wall was propping him up.
    “Come into the living room,” Mark told him and led him into the long room which
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    “Come into the living room,” Mark told him and led him into the long room which
    contained his living room at one end and kitchen at the other. He pointed toward the long sofa.
    “Sit.” He switched on the small table lamp which stood next to the sofa.
    Sam flopped down onto the sofa, his head lolling back against the seat cushions. His
    eyes closed.
    Mark shook him by the arm. When Sam opened his eyes, Mark fixed him with an
    intense look. “What do you want, Sam?”
    Sam stared up at him with such a look of abject misery that Mark caught his breath.
    “Need to talk to you,” he slurred.
    Mark was puzzled. “Did you find somewhere else to drink after you left the pub?” Sam
    hadn’t been this drunk. Sam’s head bobbed once. “Sam, how did you find me?”
    “Waited in a doorway ’til you left,” he confessed. “I hid when you came out so’s you
    wouldn’t see me. Followed you home. Thought ’bout ringing the bell, but didn’t have the
    nerve.” He gulped. “Then I went to the off license and bought a bottle o’ Scotch.” Sam closed
    his eyes. “I sat on the beach at the end of your road, drinkin’, ’til I couldn’t stand it anymore.”
    He choked out the words.
    Mark could see Sam was hurting. He longed to touch him, to comfort him, but the
    memory of Sam’s coldly delivered speech was still too raw. “You’re in no state to talk,” Mark
    said gently. “I think you should go.” He winced as his head throbbed.
    “Please!” The word burst from Sam’s lips. “Don’ make me go!” To Mark’s dismay, two
    fat tears slid from beneath Sam’s eyelids, rolling down his cheeks. “I don’ wanna go home.”
    The words tugged at Mark’s heart. “Oh, Sam.” Those piercing blue eyes regarded him
    anxiously, shiny with imminent tears. There was no trace of the man who had left him alone in
    the pub. He came to a decision. “Look, why don’t I make us some coffee, and then you can
    crash on my sofa for what’s left of the night. We can talk in the morning when we’re both a
    little less worse for wear.”
    To his relief, Sam nodded and Mark went to make some coffee, looking around every
    now and then to keep an eye on his guest. Sam rested his head back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, the rise and fall of his chest now more even. Mark left the coffee black and
    brought the two mugs over to the coffee table. He handed one to Sam and then sat down beside
    him, gazing at his own mug in silence. There were no sounds at all from the building.
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    “’M sorry.”
    Mark gave a slight start. He turned to Sam to find him gazing at him, eyes large and
    round. Mark didn’t know what to say. He struggled to