CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Life Before

Liam

I do not recall my mother. I couldn’t tell you whether I inherited her black hair or sociopathic tendencies. I don’t know where she lived or if her parents were alive.

I don’t even know her name.

By all accounts, my mother was an alcoholic, prostitute and drug addict. It was the social worker’s statement. I sat outside her office on one of those tattered blue chairs, listening to her explain my background to the Irish couple that wanted to adopt me. They will file a petition to reverse parental rights within two months. I guarantee it.

“Liam is a sweet but damaged little boy,” she said. “He only needs routine and love.”

The plump receptionist looked at me over the computer monitor, and I shot her an ugly face.

“Perhaps we can offer him temporary fostering,” the man responded. “Until you find him permanent care.”

I was six years old.

My impermanent family returned their unwanted and unsatisfying merchandise to Briar House seven weeks later.

“You didn’t tell us Liam was mute,” the woman whisper-shouts at the caseworker. “He hasn’t said one word since we kindly offered him a roof.”

The plump receptionist offered me a sympathetic smile over the computer monitor, and I pinned her with a determined glower.

“He is upsettin’ our children,” the husband intervened. “Having him in our home has been such a traumatic experience for them.”

They made me sleep on the sofa.

“He tried to kill the dog!”

Their Rottweiler tried to eat me.

“He opened the front door, knowin’ the dog has no road sense and left him out there all night.”

“And it was rainin’,” she added. “The poor animal had to visit the vet.”

“It is unhealthy for both us and Liam to take him home with us.”

They left without a sideward glance.

My legs dangled off the chair. I alternatively kicked them, wishing I was tall enough to touch the floor with my toes.

Three weeks later, the social worker sat with another couple. “Liam just needs routine.” Her recitation and emotional peroration never failed to make me smile. “His distress and anxiety caused selective mutism.”

The plump receptionist arched her eyebrow over the computer monitor, and I gave her a knowing grin.

“Why did Liam’s previous foster parents withdraw the application? Is it common for susceptible children to develop reactive attachment disorder?”

I am not vulnerable.

“Like any child who has suffered an ordeal, Liam is fearful, sad and moderately irritable. He fails to smile. He doesn’t seek consolation and shows little response when receiving comfort. He never seeks support or guidance. He has no interest in engaging or social interaction or participating in any interactive games.”

Loving couples that already had children claimed they wanted to help me. Easier said than done when their kids disliked strays. For some reason, they think I will steal their parents and cause problems, so they deliberately antagonise situations to ensure my departure.

This one time, I had to fight off two brothers. Apparently, I robbed the television controller. It’s not true. I don’t even like television all that much. It was their sister. She hid the remote and blamed me, which really upset the ugly twins. I got my butt whooped and two massive shiners to prove it. Yeah, it hurt. I might have cried that night.

Of course, it was my fault.

I am to blame for the missing objects.

I am to blame for their kids’ cracked knuckles.

I am the fundamental problem.

My foster parents never believed me.

My foster parents favoured their children.

My foster parents packed my suitcase.

My foster parents sent me back.

I am ten years old now.

Briar House was the closest place I had to home.

“There is great concern over Liam’s wellbeing. Institutionalisation harms his physical, emotional and psychological development. Enough is enough,” the caseworker addressed another co-worker. “We need to work towards a long-term process of deinstitutionalisation. Has there been any development? Does he communicate with other children on his wing?”

The plump receptionist tossed me a hard-boiled mint over the computer monitor, and I unwrapped it and mouthed, Thank you.

“Liam likes music,” the male social worker said, and I inwardly agreed. “He has shown an enthusiastic interest in cars, reading and fine motor skills.”

Yes, I liked to read nonfiction and autobiographies in the library. Both are knowledgeable and realistic. I learn more through reading than I do in the educational classes provided by Briar House. My current read is The Autobiography of Malcolm X. “I’ve had enough of someone else’s propaganda. I’m for truth, no matter who tells it,” I recited from the heart, the old, frayed book clasped in my hands. “I’m for justice, no matter who it is for or against. I’m a human being first and foremost, and as such, I’m for whoever and whatever benefits humanity as a whole.”

The plump receptionist raised a questioning eyebrow over the computer monitor, and I looked away in embarrassment.

“I have noticed how good Liam is with his hands,” the male caseworker continued from inside the office. “He is creatively pensive, and he most certainly sets high standards among his peers. From my standpoint, yes, he is dour, uncommunicative and patently unsettled from lack of love, but that young man is an academic prodigy in the making. If you came to me in ten years and said Liam is unsuccessful, I will sell my backside.”

Yes, I am bitter sometimes.

I don’t know why my mother never loved me or why my father was not around. I mean, I never asked to be here. Yet, I am here. I live in a huge building with other unwanted, unloved children. Still, I am lonely.

“We should be careful what we discuss while he’s sitting out there,” the female caseworker said. “He mightn’t understand, but it’s not worth risking.”

I understood every word.

It’s my birthday in two weeks; I am almost twelve years old.

Walking down the long-stretched hallway, I tossed my backpack on the floor and sat on the blue chair.

My feet touched the floor.

Pubescent commenced. I started growing hair under my armpits, on my jaw and across my groin. Speaking of groins—that muscle between my legs certainly got bigger over the last few months. One of the girls at the centre tapped my shoulder last week, and the deceitful asswipe inconveniently came to life.

Imagine my horror.

My shaft had a mind of its own. I wake up in the morning with a painful stick tenting my boxer briefs. It’s embarrassing. I share a room with eighteen other lads, which means I had to hide the evidence. I call it the “cup and duck” method. Basically, I wade between metal bunk beds with a cushion over my pyjama bottoms, duck into the bathroom and stare down at the dick determined to gain attention. I didn’t know a-stroke-here-and-a-stroke-there resulted in toe-curling euphoria. The white shit that flew out the other end disgusted me until I realised that I actually liked how good it felt.

Yes, I am getting older, but I had no father figure to explain adolescence. I researched in the library. Naturally, curiosity got the better of me. Once I studied physical development in boys, I learnt puberty for girls and regretted it almost instantly.

“Liam is twelve in two weeks,” the ageing social worker said. “I am sure a permanent residence will be the best birthday gift.”

I admired the watercolour canvases on the stark white walls and counted the green floor tiles. When potential foster parents ponder future potentialities in the office, I zoned into space. I stopped listening to their conversations years ago when I knew possible parents ended badly for me. Today, though, I sensed it was different. I glimpsed through the ajar door and studied the middle-aged couple facing the caseworker’s desk.

Gillian and Trevor.

They owned an old-fashioned farmhouse and longed for children.

“Trevor has always wanted a little boy,” Gillian explained, tenderly touching her husband’s shoulder. “Someone to assist with the animals and wheat fields.”

The plump receptionist offered me a reassuring smile over the computer monitor, and I gave her a disgruntled look.

“We’d love to offer Liam a forever loving home.” Trevor smiled fondly at his wife. “God knows he deserves a little light in his life.”

My caseworker smiled broadly. “I shall file the paperwork.”

I was leaving the system again.

The plump receptionist winked at me over the computer monitor, and I flashed her an excited smile.

I packed the backpack with minimal belongings and prayed never to see those precariously assembled bunk beds and fractured ceilings again.

Even if Trevor and Gillian changed their mind, I had no intention of returning to Briar House.

In the juxtaposition of eerie woodlands and scenic cornfields, an idyllic farmhouse hunkered down behind cobbled walls and tussocks of tawny grass. According to Gillian, her grandfather built the house back in the 1950s. Fighter jet pilots utilised the farm’s vast acres as a landing strip from time to time.

I had my own bedroom. It had furniture and fresh bedding. But I left my belongings in the bag on the desk. I had no urge to unpack or make myself comfortable. I had a permanent home, yet it felt impermanent like the others.

“You can use the bathroom down the hall,” Gillian said while drawing the curtains. “I am making supper soon. Do you like beef and dumplings?”

Having not tasted it before, I shrugged.

“Alright.” Her stare roved over me. “Well, if you need anything, don’t be shy. I am just in the kitchen.”

I did wish to shower and change, so I went to the bathroom, scrubbed my skin raw under the hot spray and towel-dried while strolling back to my private space. I loved the room. It is quirky. Random paintings exhibited on the floral-papered walls, oriental rugs patterned the floor and mismatched furniture provided storage space. Still, I liked the bed. It’s warm, and the duvet smelt like fresh linen.

Before I said goodbye to Briar House, I nabbed a book from the library: The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith.

Gillian called up the stairs to invite me to dinner.

I was not hungry, so I continued to read.

No society can surely be flourishing and happy, of which the far greater part of the members are poor and miserable.

A man must always live by his work, and his wages must at least be sufficient to maintain him. They must even, upon most occasions, be somewhat more; otherwise, it would be impossible for him to bring up a family, and the race of such workmen could not last beyond the first generation.

I liked that.

Tired, I placed the book under the pillow.

Tomorrow, I can explore.

Tonight, I will sleep.

Gillian baked cookies and homemade pies. She also deafened me with her inharmonious vocal cords when sprucing at six o’clock in the morning. I might be a grouch at sunrise, but where did she get the energy from?

“Morning,” she chimed, drawing back the curtains. “I trust you slept well.”

I groaned into the pillow.

“Up,” she ordered, and I reluctantly pulled myself out of bed. “You must shower and eat breakfast. Can you help Trevor collect chicken eggs?”

Me? Eggs? Chickens?

Nodding, I scratched the back of my neck.

Trevor kept the chickens in static sheds. Those cawing, flapping birds had free reign to roam across the grass to forage, but the majority never left their nest, and when an intruder came along to amass eggs, they used aggressiveness to peck the shit out of your hand.

I have the scars to prove it.

“Will you go to the village?” Gillian rolled pastry across the kitchen counter. “I could use some unsalted butter.”

I nodded.

“You can borrow Trevor’s bike,” she offered, but I didn’t know how to ride a bike. “It’s only down the road. Here.” Unzipping her purse, she handed over the money. “You can treat yourself to something. I am sure you will find fun toys in the gift shop.”

I bored Trevor’s rusty bike.

Gillian said it only takes fifteen minutes to ride into the village. It took me forty-five minutes because I spent most of the journey on the floor. I learnt to peddle pretty quickly, but I struggled to break, which resulted in some painful collisions. When I finally reached the village, I had grass stains on my white T-shirt, grazes on my cheek and a headache from hell.

I bought Gillian’s unsalted butter.

Rather than waste money in the gift shop, I paid for Charles Bukowski’s Ham on Rye.

Trevor disapproved. “What’s this garbage?” He snatched the second-hand book out of my hand. “Really? You’d rather read this shit than help me with the horses.”

In my defence, I tried to help him in the stables, but the man’s a perfectionist. I did everything wrong. He yelled. I stared mutely. He called me a waste of space.

“Oh, leave the boy to read his book,” Gillian cooed. “He is not harming anyone.”

Trevor slapped the book against my chest. He wanted to say so much more, but instead, he grunted, rammed his shoulder into me and exited the kitchen through the back door.

I laid in bed that night and marked my favourite passages.

The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you until there was nothing left.

I often stood in front of the mirror alone, wondering how ugly a person could get.

You have to die a few times before you can really live.

There is a place in the heart that will never be filled.

I recapped the pen, stuffed the book under the pillow and slept until sunrise.

Trevor told me to earn my keep. He provided a toolbox and demanded I fix the shed. I didn’t mind, though. It was a scorcher of a day, and the blazing sun guaranteed a tan. Listening to Trevor and Gillian argue in the kitchen, I hammered planks of wood to the weather-beaten storage shelter. Her painful screams shortly followed. I knew he’d beaten her before. I heard their fights when trying to sleep at night.

“Bitch.” Trevor fell through the back door, beer bottle in hand. “Fucking useless.” His knuckles were battered and bruised. Gillian’s blood bespattered his white vest. “What the fuck are you looking at? Get back to work, you lazy half-wit.”

Snarling at the old fool, I tossed the hammer into the rusted toolbox, wiped my hands with a damp cloth and headed to the kitchen. Gillian scraped potatoes in the sink. Tears leaked from her red-rimmed eyes. Her lips wobbled as she suppressed anguish.

I almost asked if she was okay, but then I remembered not to talk.

“Don’t judge me.” She doused carrots in cold tap water. “It’s none of your business, Liam.”

My head shook.

“It’s both a blessing and a hindrance.” Turning on the stove, she salted the pan of boiling potatoes. “Your mutism. I often wonder what you’d say in certain situations.”

I’d tell her to grow a backbone and divorce her abusive husband.

“He is a good man,” she said while gazing out the kitchen window. “Trevor, I mean. It’s the drink. It turns him into a monster. Oh, how I wish he’d seek help or guidance.”

I retrieved bottled water from the fridge.

“You must be so disappointed,” she whispered. “I imagine you expected so much more.”

I had a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and a warm bed to sleep in at night.

What more could I ask for in life?

“Well, run along.” Gillian opened the kitchen door. “I have to prepare supper.”

I returned to the fields to finish chores.

That night, I joined Trevor and Gillian around the dining table. I did not like Trevor, not one little bit. I preferred to stay out of his way, mainly when he consumed liquor. Only, I worried for Gillian. The woman is small, fragile and breakable. I figured if I sat with them often, it might keep Trevor in check. He’s calmer when I am around. Rather than insult his wife, he talked fishing, hunting and sports with me. “It’s the art of manliness,” he drawled. “Bacon-wrapped venison tenderloin.” He dramatised a chef’s kiss. “Gillian is a good cook, isn’t she? Tell him about the whitetail I shot last year. It weighed over four hundred pounds.”

Drunken fool, I thought.

Gillian poured gravy over the roast chicken on my plate. “Did you see the antlers in the foyer?”

I nodded.

“Big, huh?” Trevor boasted. “Ain’t no hunter like me. Well, I can teach you how to hunt. And fish. Let’s go deer hunting tomorrow, and then Gillian can make her famous tenderloin. What do you say?”

I nodded.

“If we get up early enough, we can fish, too,” Trevor prattled on. “What do you think? I like cod. Haddock, too. Maybe we can fish some salmon. Now that would be great, right?”

I nodded.

“Let him finish his meal, Trevor.”

Trevor’s fist slammed onto the table.

Before he could lambast his wife for insolence, I nodded vehemently, agreeing to fish with him in the morning.

“Why don’t you talk?” He side-eyed me. “It’s selective, right?”

I shook my head.

Trevor bought my lie.

We enjoyed dinner in silence. I helped Gillian clear the table and washed the dishes before heading upstairs. After a long shower, I climbed onto the bed and read passages from the book I kept under the pillow.

Trevor and Gillian argued downstairs.

I heard smashed objects.

Wishing I could shake some sense into Gillian, I shut the bedroom door. It’s cold tonight. I pulled on the tracksuit Gillian bought me the other day, dipped under the duvet and fell asleep to the sound of her shrieking voice.

Hours later, I heard the bedroom door creak open. Gillian checked on me before bed. It’s nice, actually. It meant she cared, I guess. Her hand touched my head. Okay, that’s new. She is nice to me but never touchy-feely or affectionate.

The bed dipped from her weight.

I frowned.

The duvet lifted as she climbed in behind me.

I opened my eyes.

No, it’s not Gillian. I can smell pungent sweat and strong alcohol. Trevor kissed the nape of my neck, and I laid still, staring at the dark sky through the window. “Shh,” he whispered in my ear as his hand smoothed down my stomach. “I know you are awake. I can hear you breathing. It’s okay, Liam. I know you can’t talk, but I can promise to make this good for the two of us. Just lie there and let me teach you.”

No, I am not an impressionable lad. I know the difference between right and wrong. I am more intelligent than I let on.

Trevor’s hand caressed my groin. The entire time, his hardness pressed into my lower back. I felt sick, violated. I had this intense urge to kill him with my bare hands.

I must have been pretty hench for a twelve-year-old because the second his filthy fingers dipped under the waistband of my jogging bottoms, I uncaged sleeping demons.

Elbowing him in the face, I staggered to my feet and dashed toward the door. Trevor groaned, but the blow to his face was not enough to keep him down. His chest slammed into my back. My cheek smashed into the door.

“It’s okay.” He ground against me. “It won’t hurt too much. You will like it.”

Thinking on my feet, I threw my head back and caught him straight in the nose. He bellowed, holding his busted nose between trembling fingers.

I could run, scream for help.

But I was stark raving mad.

How dare he get into my bed.

How dare he try to touch me.

He would take my innocence unmercifully, unregretfully, and I would have to live with those dark, disturbing memories for the rest of my life.

I spear tackled him to the ground. Winded from the counterattack, he gasped and endeavoured to stand. I was on him in a flash, straddling his waist, punching seven shades of shit out of him. Even when the door flew open, crashed into the wall, and the light turned on, blinding me, I continued to land fist after fist in his face.

“Liam!” Gillian’s hands tugged my shoulders. “Stop it! You are going to kill him!”

I saw red.

Red blood.

Red bodies.

Red ambience.

No other colour graced vision.

Evil replaced the humane voice inside my head.

“I said, stop!” Gillian’s hand cracked across my jaw, and I blinked into consciousness. “Leave him alone.”

Trevor vomited on the floor.

I stood then, studying the blood on my hands.

“I am calling your caseworker.” She assisted the wife-beating husband. “No wonder everybody sends you away. You disgusting animal. You could have killed him!”

My jaw ached from Trevor’s iron fist. Blinking back tears, I snatched the backpack on the floor, stuffed the books inside.

“What are you doing?” Gillion left her husband on the floor to follow me down the hall. “Liam, wait. Where are you going? It’s late. You cannot go outside.”

Ignoring her, I strode across the kitchen.

“Do not walk away from me, young man,” she berated, and I stopped walking. “We can deal with this matter in the morning. Now, return to your bed immediately.”

Practically hyperventilating, I stared at the back door.

“Please,” she sobbed. “Go back to bed. Everything will be okay. I will handle Trevor.”

I looked her in the eye. “Coward.”

“Liam.” She flinched. “You can talk. Why do you stay silent?”

“I am valued more in silence,” I rasped, and her lips parted. “Goodbye, Gillian.”

I unlocked the backdoor.

Gillian watched me leave from the porch, but she never followed this time. I went to the barn, stole Trevor’s pushbike and peddled for hours with only the moon as my witness.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Life Before

Liam

I guess the only time people think about injustice is when it happens to them – Charles Bukowski’s quote pinned at the forehead of my mind. The psychology of choice is down to the individual: racial inequality, stereotyping, segregation, child exploitation and neglect are unjustifiable actions exercised daily by unprincipled people.

Immortality comes in different shades and numerous faces.

Which living entity is worse?

Heartless perpetrators or the ignorant, uneducated person who defends their honour?

Gillian is no better than Trevor.

Gillian condoned Trevor’s wickedness.

Trevor, the drunken idiot.

Trevor, the wife-beater.

Trevor, the fucking kiddy fiddler.

People who disregard nefariousness are just as bad—if not worse—as the unhinged morons that commit crimes.

Enabler.

Facilitator.

Narcissistic malevolence.

Glaring at the computer screen, I browsed the internet in this squalid internet cafe to try and wrap my head around the last twenty-four hours.

Paedophile: someone who is sexually attracted to children.

Are teenagers still considered children?

I am twelve years old. Technically, I am not a teenager, but I did not feel like a child, either. I have aged quicker than most. I had to grow up, I guess.

What is the life of a typical teenager? I typed into the browser.

Troubled youngsters tend to be disillusioned, incandescent and subdued, which stem from nature and circumstances.

What does disillusioned mean?

According to the oxford dictionary, disillusioned means disappointed in someone or something that one discovers to be less good than one had believed.

I harrumphed.

Relatable. Except I cannot be disappointed in the people who brought me into this world because I have never met them. Plus, having high expectations for paid individuals that pretended to care is senseless. Life has proved time and time again that I cannot depend on anyone but myself. I am my own source of happiness. To be fearless and independent, I had to learn how to survive. Alone.

The dude to my right left his computer unattended for a bathroom break. His coat was draped on the back of the chair. Re-checking our surroundings, I pinched loose change from his pocket and inserted coins into the metre. Funds provided an extra thirty minutes on the net. I can continue to educate myself. I’d love snacks, though. Fuck, I am hungry. And thirsty. And I smelt like shit. I looked like shit. Hell, I felt like shit. I am also grouchy, tired.

Did I mention hungry?

My mind re-visited Gillian.

What if Trevor beat her because I left?

Gillian is guilty of delusion. Fool’s paradise aside, she was kind to me. I did not care enough to miss her, but I worried for the battered wife. Rather, I hoped her good-for-nothing husband kept his hands to himself.

I still do not understand why nice people like Gillian supported shameless scum. Even though I have read countless articles online, I fell to the sword of bafflement.

I typed, “What is considered sexual assault of a minor?” Into the search bar. Disturbing news headlines clogged the screen. I am not a victim. I did not belong on these sites with abused children. No, I am just upset, angry. I wanted to know my options or if there was someone that I could talk to.

Well, if I returned to Briar House, I am sure the overly optimistic caseworker will help. She will also place me back in the system.

That’s not happening.

An advert flashed on the screen.

“Stop Corruption!”

Interesting. I had a mind like a sponge. I soaked up everything and anything. Pointless and useful. Beneficial and unbeneficial.

I typed corruption into the search engine.

Corruption is dishonesty and illegal behaviour by people in positions of authority and power.

I scoffed.

And to think I wasted two hours of my life in this dump.

I exited the internet cafe at nightfall. Retrieving the stolen bike that I had dumped behind the pizza place on the corner, I slung the bag over one shoulder and peddled the dark streets until I found somewhere safe to sleep.

A prime bush.

A rancid skip.

A dark bridge.

What does it matter?

I’d rather sleep in the sewage pipe than have Trevor the nonce climb into my bed. I could rough-sleep, not in blatant visibleness, though. I pushed the bike through the side alleyway of the pub, ditched it behind the steel wheelie bin and, hankering to blind drunk fools indoors, hid from possible exposure.

***

My bike journey lasted eight days, with frequent pit stops to pilfer food from twenty-four-hour service stations or catch some shut-eye behind obscured overgrowth. I found the big city—London. I smelt worse than a flea-bitten, aid-ridden dead animal. Blisters pinched my toes. Hunger manifested. Yet, I stood in front of Westminster Abbey and knew I was home. Nothing else mattered. Not the stench. Not the pangs in my stomach or the pain in my feet. I climbed off the bike and, admiring Big Ben and the Thames, pushed my only source of transportation across the bridge.

For too long, I sat on the brick wall, the cold air in my hair, hearing trivial conversations as people walked on by. I am not opposed to eating out of dumpsters, but the guy behind me, the one on his phone, with the boxed takeout left on the bench, needed to be taught a lesson.

Yeah, I am wrong for stealing his late-night food and dashing into the night.

He’ll think twice about taking his eye off the prize in the future, though.

Lining my stomach became straightforward and unproblematic. I am somewhat destitute, but mentally occupied security guards made shoplifting too easy. Shit, I even smiled at them when entering the store. I selected my favourite snacks, bottled water, slipped everything in my pocket and exited without fuss.

Sure, I sat opposite restaurants on occasion and imagined how good those spaghetti dishes tasted, or I lingered near burger vans and inhaled the pleasant meat aromas permeating the air.

Nonetheless, life treated me well. Days rolled into weeks, and weeks rolled into months. I found shelter at night, avoided blue coats like the plague (I am not risking exposure to the authorities) to prevent the system.

I am a runaway child.

In the eyes of the law, I did not belong on the street. I belonged at Briar House or with another family who only wanted me for pay checks.

Taking care of myself provided a sense of fulfilment. I was happy, self-sufficient and carefree.

Well, that’s what I thought until the dynamics changed.

It was the day I met Bill.

“If yuh listen carefully now, yuh will hear,” a low, husky voice sounded, and I stopped in my tracks. “This could be the first trumpet. Might as well be the last. Many more will have to suffer. Many more will have to die.”

I backtracked, towing the bike with me. I followed the sound of the guitarist, the vocalist, dodged pedestrians and turned the street corner. Outside Victoria Station, I spotted a freakishly tall man with bum length dreads that he unquestionably dyed blond. He stood proud, strumming his guitar, covering the famous Bob Marley song. His brown leather-worn coat fell to the ankles. His gold tooth glimmered in the sun’s rays, and long, silver chains dangled from his neck. He was the darkest shade of brown and, although he had an exceptional voice and the locals seemed to love him and his live entertainment, I could smell his stench from here. I eyed his split boots and belatedly realised the man was homeless—just like me.

Resting the pushbike by the railing, I sat on the wooden bench and tore into the stolen bag of chocolate-coated peanuts. And that’s where I de-stressed for the rest of the day while the man poured his heart out to the streets of London.

Then he left.

Yet, I stayed.

At that moment, I did not want to be anywhere else. I’d heard music before (I am not entirely feral), but it’s the first time I truly listened or paid attention.

Every day, I re-visited Victoria to escape reality.

He sang the same songs and cracked the same jokes.

Straphangers dropped cash into his case.

“I can buy some lunch,” he said, winking at the older female. “Maybe a pint.”

Amused, I scarfed nuts.

His fingers strummed the guitar. His rough voice amazed me. I admired his work ethic and jubilance under distressing circumstances. It’s his smile. Through any wind and weather, he smiled. He appreciated the simple things in life, the small pleasures, the sun on his face, the cold air at night, afternoon coffee, belly-laughing at the crowd, watching commuters and ice-cold water on a hot day. His music. He really loved his music.

I stole an old cassette player, headphones and disposable batteries from the charity shop. It took four days to get my hands on a particular cassette. I found it, nonetheless. “Don’t let them fool you or even try to school you.” Pedalling through Borough Market, I waded between hordes of tourists, shops, stalls and restaurants. “We’ve got a mind of our own. So, go to hell if what you’re thinking is not right.” Instrumentalists and vocalists blared in my ears. “Love would never leave us alone.”

Dashing past the fruit and veg stall, I raised one hand and caught an avocado from the generous owner. “Nice one!”

The road of life is rocky, and you may stumble too. So, while you point your fingers, someone else is judging you.

Listening to Bob Marley, I rode for twenty-five minutes until I reached Victoria Station. Shit, I was sweating by the time I arrived. I dumped the bike on the floor, parked on the bench and pondered how to peel the avocado. I glimpsed across the street to see if the guitarist made an appearance. When I saw an empty spot, I bellied disappointment. I was fifteen minutes late, which means he was thirty minutes late. That’s not good. I hope he hasn’t relocated.

Anyway, avocado.

How to de-nut?

No, drupe.

Seed dispersal?

Whatever. I had to eat.

A shadow fell over me.

“What are yuh doin’?” someone asked, and I jumped out of my skin. “Yuh need a knife.”

I recognised those fit-for-the-bin boots.

My eyes raised.

“Give me that.” Man with dreads snatched the avocado out of my hand. “If yuh ain’t got a knife?” He utilised the gold cross on his chain to slice through the green skin. “Improvise. Yuh lucky it’s ripe.” He separated the fruit, scowling at the large seed. “Yuh will have to eat around that.”

My jaw slackened in veneration.

“Where did yuh come from? Yuh sit alone out here. Yuh nyam nuts.” He lifted his sunglasses to the top of his head. “Why?”

My brow arched.

I had no idea what he just said.

“Well?” He probed. “Wah mek duh yuh stare at people?”

I blinked rapidly. “Do you think, like, you could, I don’t know, like, speak a different language?”

“What?” He looked offended. “Mi speak English. Yuh damn bubu.”

I cleared my throat. “What’s a bubu?”

He glared deadpan at me. “A foolish person.”

I took umbrage at his insult. “I ain’t no fool.”

“Tell mi otherwise.”

“I just did!”

“What do yuh want?”

“Nothing from you.”

“Yuh stalk mi.”

“I do not.”

He glared.

I glared harder.

“Ansah di question.”

“I struggle to understand you.”

His cheeks puffed. “Answer,” he said slowly, “the question.”

I smirked. “I understood the first time.”

“Yuh ave no brothupsy!”

I genuinely got lost. “See!”

“Wah duh, mi, see?”

“You do it on purpose,” I argued.

He grinned. “Guilty as charged.”

“Seriously, dude. Give me a break.”

He scratched his chin. “What do yuh want?”

“How did you even notice me?” I glanced across the street. “I ain’t that visible.”

“Why did I notice the lad watchin’ mi play every day for the last eight weeks?” He toned down the accent. “Let mi consider the question for a moment to see if I can point out the obvious.”

Even with the tuned pronunciation, he still had a strong accent. It made me smile. “I like your music.”

“Yah,” he agreed, nodding. “I like mi music, too.”

I opened my tight fist, offering him peanuts. “Do you want some?”

His eyes lingered on my dirty palm. “Wah ’bout yuh momma?”

“I don’t got a mother.” My heart hurt. “Look, do you want to eat or not?”

“Wah ’bout a father, then? Do yuh got one of those?”

Embarrassment heated my cheeks. “I don’t know.”

“Yuh don’t know?” he repeated, flabbergasted. “I guess some bastard just shit yuh out, huh?”

“Something like that,” I half-agreed, not quite comprehending his logic. “I never met him before.”

“What is yuh name?” He inched in, trying extra hard to pronounce words. “I assume yuh got one of those?”

“Liam,” I whispered, blocking the cider stench on his breath. “Liam Warren.”

“Warren.” His eyebrows curled into a stern frown. “The name is Bill. Now, tell Bill. Why are yuh alone?”

I studied him intently. “I got dealt shit cards, I guess.”

Hiking the guitar strap over one shoulder, he breathed out a tired sigh. “Well, I think yuh need to come with mi. Wah duh, yuh say?” He walked off, believing I’d follow. “I am hungry, Liam.”

Decidedly nonplussed, I seized the bike and did the inconceivable; I followed Bill.

Bill was Jamaican, which explained his accent, but he moved to the United Kingdom to join the royal navy at just eighteen years old. “Bill studied at the Naval College,” he told me. “Boarded mi first warfare ship at twenty-two. Bill travelled all around the world.” Ambling the street corner, he led me toward an old, derelict building where squatters rested with their carrier bags and unkempt dogs. “Everyone is harmless, especially with mi keepin’ an eye on yuh.”

Pushing through the unlocked door, he traipsed across the dark, vast space with me close in his footsteps. Graffitied concrete encompassed the walls. Second-hand furniture strewed the floor. Alcoholics gathered by the boarded-up windows.

Shirking away from the watchfulness of others, I sat on an alcohol-stained green sofa.

Bill dragged a steel bin to the furthest end of the room. Gathering dispersed newspaper on the ground, he tore articles into clumps, chucked them in the bin and generated a small fire. “Yuh should sleep, Liam. Bill will find us somewhere better tomorrow.”

I nodded.

Removing his leather gloves, Bill sat on the metal crane.

Tucking my hands under my cheek, I stretched out on the sofa and watched the flames cast shadows on the wall.

Bill balanced the guitar on his knees. He swept his thumb across the strings. “Emancipate yuhself from mental slavery. None but ourselves can free our minds,” he rasped, and I was too fascinated to look away. “Have no fear for atomic energy. ’Cause none of them can stop the time.” His throat cleared. “Redemption songs.”

I fell asleep to Bill’s voice.

***

Bill took me under his wing. He demonstrated the tricks of the trade. He taught me how to survive on more than stolen peanuts and unripe fruit. “Yuh never get too greedy.” He tossed me a premade sandwich. “Only rob essentials. And don’t steal from the decent folk, Liam. They don’t deserve it. Target the big chains. Money grabbers. Yuh know?”

“Sure, Bill.” I bit into chicken and mayo. “I hear you.”

“Yuh can rob any store when it’s busy,” he continued. “People don’t notice. Yuh survived on plant food for long enough. Yuh need to get some carbs inside yuh.”

I wolfed down the sandwich.

“Bill should make more money.” He maintained his spot at Victoria to earn money for his cider fix. “Why didn’t child services help yuh out?”

My Adam’s apple jived. “Where do you think I’ve been?” I asked, licking seasoning from my lips. “They don’t help kids like me. They chuck us with all these different families that decide they don’t want you anymore. I ran from the last place.” I omitted the part where Trevor sneaked into my bed. “I was tired. If I went back, it’d start all over again. I wanted freedom.”

He nodded in reflective thought. “Well, it’s a good job yuh found mi, then. Yuh can be free with Bill, Liam.”

According to Bill, homelessness was dangerous, especially for kids. For two weeks, he combed through abandoned properties with unsold placards on the metal gates, and eventually, he found an old shed at the back of an unrented property. The timber walls were unprepossessing but accommodating. Previous tenants left old paint tins, garden tools, smashed gnomes and forgotten memorabilia inside. We managed to operate around them. And the bugs. Hell, we outlived those crawling fuckers. I am not against whacking an eight-legged spider if it crawled on my chest at night.

It’s them or me, right?

I liked the shed. It’s much better than rough-sleeping under the bridge. It should have been temporary. We should have moved on. But with the unsold house collecting dust and the overgrown garden lost to mother nature, we staked our flag and claimed the land.

Bill planted fruit and vegetables in the garden. Most died to slugs. Tomatoes prevailed. Peppers ripened. Strawberries are my favourite.

“Yuh gettin’ tall,” Bill said one afternoon. “Got some hair on yuh, too.”

Yeah, soft facial hair fringed my upper lip and bewhiskered my jaw. It’s patchy, though. I had to fix that. “I might start shaving.”

“Why would yuh do that?”

“It looks like bum fluff.”

“And what does bum fluff look like?”

I pointed to my face. “That.”

“If yuh shave, it’ll grow back thicker.” He sipped cider. “Yuh ain’t ready.”

I laid on the sleeping bag on the floor. “Then, I will wait.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Fine,” he clipped.

“Fine,” I joshed.

“Go to sleep, Liam!”

Grinning into the pillow, I said, “Goodnight, Bill.”

A pause. “Goodnight, mi boy.”

I always woke up alone in the shed. Bill left early for work. Well, to sing in Victoria. He might be a homeless drunk, but he grafted for pennies, and I respected him for that.

Tired, I rolled onto my side and extracted the book from under my pillow.

William Kennedy, Ironweed.

I nabbed it from the store last week.

Yawning into my shoulder, I shifted for comfort and read passages.

I want to take a break from everything to find out if I am still alive.

Well-lit streets discourage sin but don’t overdo it.

It’s quite uncanny what one sets in motion by being oneself.

But fear is a cheap emotion, however full of wisdom. And, emotionally speaking, I’ve always thought of myself as a man of expensive taste.

And what If I drink too much? Whose business is that? Who knows how much I didn’t drink?

Only a bet on the impossible makes sense. It is an act of faith and courage requiring an irrational leap over reason. A man wins simply by making such a bet.

Love is always insufficient, always a lie. Love, you are the clean shit of my soul. Stupid, love. Silly, love.

I closed the book.

It’s surreal how certain books can provide new perspectives. I am not a fan of fictitious tales. I want the raw realities of life and the tragedies of relatability.

I rolled up the makeshift bed and stuffed it on the wooden shelf for later. Uncapping bottled water, I squirted toothpaste onto a brush and scrubbed my teeth. Cracking open the wooden door to bask in the morning sun, I stood on the concrete slab, swished water in my mouth and spat foam in the flowerbed of dead plants. Bill won’t be home until later. I changed into an old tracksuit, jumped on the bike and peddled into central London to swipe shelves.

Two years later, I still rode Trevor’s bike to swipe goods.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Life Before

Liam

It is cold. I had a hard time warming up. Encroaching frost began to scale the timbered cracks of our ramshackle shed. My warm breath against the frigid air misted into small puffs. I am buried in an oversized hoodie, but the jogging bottoms had seen better days. The material strangled my ankles, threatening to tear at the seams. Luckily, the thermal socks kept frostbite at bay, and if winter kicked arse, I had insulated gloves.

I am taller now. I sound older, too. It’s the throaty voice, I guess. It’s thicker, deeper and huskier than it used to be.

Morning-glory transpired often. When I lived at Briar House, I loathed the unpredictableness of my shaft. It had a mind of its own. It came alive at the humiliating of moments, and because of lack of privacy, it was difficult to ease the ache. Now, with Bill roused at the crack of dawn, headed into Victoria, I had hours to kill. It’s become a ritual. I did my business every morning before I ventured into London, and, well, it felt good, and I liked it.

Fucking sue me.

In addition, I had more control over my arousal. My dick doesn’t jerk to life impulsively anymore, which I appreciated. There is nothing more embarrassing than a raging boner in the proximity of cute girls.

Speaking of girls, I am pretty stoked about those sleek legs and ample curves. I paid attention to detail, the dip in their spines, the sound of their laughter and the way their eyes brightened when they smiled.

Yeah, I liked a girl with pretty eyes. It’s her innocence that warmed me most.

You see, I am a sucker for unassuming females. If she’s pretty yet modest, I am drawn to her.

Girls did not notice me, though. Even if they did, I doubt they’d want to pursue a homeless bum that lived in a tumbledown shed with an alcoholic.

On Bill’s thumbs-up, I started shaving three months ago. I had to groom the ever-growing stubble, eventually. My shoulder-length hair stayed in a top-knot while I saved extra cash to visit the Barbour. Bill offered to put the sheers on my head, which I declined. I liked Bill. Hell, oftentimes, I loved him. But he is a functioning alcoholic. I did not trust him to trim the mane in his unstable state. His hands trembled due to alcohol withdrawal. Well, until he accumulated money to visit the liquor store to get his fix. Only then would his anxiousness end.

Bill had a huge problem. He is recognised in London. When shop owners spotted him headed their way, they stood on the door and refused entry. If he stumped up the cash, they’d hand over the goods.

Alas, for Bill, the days of robbing stores have long passed. He cannot step foot over the door without confrontation.

Bill is a big guy. He is tall, stern, intimidating, but Bill is a softie at heart. He doesn’t like trouble or conflict. He would never lay down the law and make demands or rough people up to get what he wanted.

No, Bill is good people.

He tries to do better.

Adjusting the beanie hat on my head, I placed two flagons of cider on the workbench and, blowing into my palms, rubbing them together, I slumped onto the array of sleeping bags on the floor.

If Bill is in no position to thieve, I can intervene. It’s on me to provide now just as long as I don’t get caught.

I had a new book.

Healing The Shame That Binds You by John Bradshaw.

Tucking one arm behind my head, I stretched out on the floor and read highlighted passages.

Shame is internalised when abandoned. Abandonment is the precise to how one loses one’s authentic self and ceases to exist psychologically.

“Since the earliest period of our life was preverbal, everything depended on emotional interaction,” I read, turning the page. “Without someone to reflect our emotions, we had no way of knowing who we were.”

I hummed.

“Hell, in my opinion, is never finding your true self and never living your own life or knowing who you are.”

I re-read the quote repeatedly.

“Who am I?” I stood, paced the hoarded space. “Who. Am. I?” My shoulders drooped. “I am an unwanted child. I live in a shed with a drunk dude. I eat stolen food to survive.” Staring at the messy bed, I clasped the back of my head. “I am no one.”

“Yuh name is Liam Warren.” At the intrusion of Bill’s voice, I spun around to face him. “Yuh ain’t nobody. Yuh somebody.” He stepped right up to me, his eyes fierce and determined. “Warren is inevitable.”

I swallowed the knot in my throat. “Poetic.”

“Seer.” He tapped his temple. “Yuh still readin’ those books, huh?

I nodded.

“Good,” he approved. “Knowledge is the key to success.” Removing his leather gloves, he tossed them on the metal shelving unit. “I earned some extra dollars this afternoon.” Shaking rain droplets from his dreads, he closed the rickety door. “Yuh gonna be thrilled, Liam.” He noticed the alcohol on the workbench, and his ebullience plummeted. “What did yuh do?”

My brow arched. “I got you some cider.”

He looked sad yet grateful. “Wah mek yuh duh that?”

Great. He’s angry. I always know when he’s pissed because he accentuated every damn word in Jamaican. “Honestly, I can’t handle your mood swings. You are irritable without alcohol.”

“Mi nuh jink,” he scolded, the vein in his neck pulsating. “Mi tryin’ tuh quit.”

I frowned. “Since when?”

“No more drink.”

My frown deepened. “Yeah, but—”

“No,” he berated, and my lips sealed. “Bill ain’t interested.”

Not wanting to argue, I pointed to the carrier bag in his hand. “What did you get? And why does it smell so good?”

“Yuh gonna love it.” Unwrapping two newspaper parcels, he motioned to heaps of chips and battered fish. “Bill did well, huh?”

My stomach growled. “You’ve been banging on about chippy since I met you.”

Passing me a plastic fork and a ketchup sachet, he delved into his food with delight. “I love fish and chips.”

Forking greasy fodder around the newspaper, I delved in, sampling the goods. “Damn.” Salt and vinegar never tasted so good. “I’ll want one of these bad boys every night, now.”

“Good, huh?” His eyes glittered. “Bill needs to shower. Is the hose still runnin’?”

“Hardly,” I said, and he cursed. “It’s winter. Damn cold, too. It froze the pipe.”

“Enuff seh,” he numbed, his eyes dark and dejected. “Bill gotta sleep.” His hands shook while peeling the leather coat from his body. “Get fi bed.”

It’s still early. “Sure, Bill.”

Bill went to his side of the shed, rolled out the sleeping bag and curled into a fetal position on the floor. His light snores followed, and his shivers increased. Shoving leftover food in the carrier bag, I took the blanket from my bed and draped it over his body. Hell, I am worried about him. It’s too cold, and I don’t want him to get sick. I can survive one night without additional covers. If all else fails, I will go out the front and run laps to warm up.

Two jogging sessions later, I returned to the shed, tired and aching. I fell asleep for what seemed like minutes before Bill jabbed me in the shoulder. “What?” I groaned as he poked and prodded. “What, Bill? Let me sleep.”

“Liam,” he hissed, and my eyes flew open. “Tenants.”

Rubbing my eyes, I staggered to my feet and peered through the wooden cracks. Watching a young couple unpack their car, conveying large cardboard boxes into the house, I tampered down disappointment. “We have to leave, don’t we?”

Bill’s packing ceased, the backpack falling to his feet. “Yeah.”

I blew out an exhausted breath. “But I like it here.”

“Bill likes it here, too.” He scrubbed a hand over his features. “It’s all good. Survival skills, remember?”

I had little to pack: two books and the clothes on my back. “Then, what are we waiting for?” Whipping the bag strap over one shoulder, I gestured to the door. “Elders first.”

Clipping the back of my head, he limped across the threshold. “Bill ain’t no elder.”

I beg to differ.

We never quite found somewhere decent to live again. Nothing compared to the shed. From one alleyway to another, we bounced between unsafe destinations hoping for some semblance of home in the future. Times were hard, yet Bill still got up at the crack of dawn to walk into Victoria, where he played for hours on end to earn cash. I, however, upped the ante on theft. You see, I had an issue with begging people for pennies. It was degrading, humiliating.

Please, Sir. Can I have some more?

I snorted.

No, I ain’t Oliver Twist. You won’t see me with my hands out, pleading for scraps or copper coins.

Where is the best place to pickpocket?

Tourist attractions.

Trusting, unsuspecting sightseers.

The Underground.

Stressful, preoccupied commuters.

I’ll settle for the tube. People will be less inclined to chase me there. By the time I swipe something, they’ll already be on the train. It’s easy enough to snatch bags or swipe phones from loiters. Like the woman sitting on the metal bench engrossed in conversation with the man on her right. Her black handbag laid on the floor by her feet. Guesstimating the distance from here to the stairs, I sidled close to the couple and, without a second thought, snatched the bag and fled the scene. Nobody foresaw the wicked intention. Hell, they yelled blasphemy as I bolted toward the exit, though. Fuck, I don’t think I’d ever run so fast in my life.

Jumping on the bike from the alleyway, I balanced the bag on the handlebar and cycled to safety.

I uncovered a hidden gem that afternoon.

Marsh Lane Allotments.

Numerous greenhouses stockpiled the gated yard. Knowing maintained glass buildings had frequent visitors from owners, I searched for an unmaintained possibility and found just the right place. Hiding the bike in overgrowth, I scoured the vicinity, cracked open the door to the cedar woodshed and popped my head inside. Okay, so the compost bags and expired fertiliser took up a lot of space, but there was enough room to squat.

Emptying the woman’s handbag on the floor, chucking cosmetics, perfume and receipts aside, I unzipped the snakeskin purse and thanked the heavens above. Stuffing three hundred quid in my sock for a rainy day, I dropped loose change into my pocket and peddled to Victoria.

***

“How did yuh find this place?” Bill tucked into fried rice. “I like it. Bill wants to stay.”

“Just lucky, I guess.” I sat opposite him on the floor, eating gravy and chips. “I am officially addicted to unhealthy food.”

“It’s good stuff.” He smiled widely. “Where did yuh get the money?”

I masked deceit. “I begged for change by the palace.”

He harrumphed. “How much?”

“Here.” Handing over twenty quid, I kept the rest hidden for later. “Keep this.”

“Well done, Liam.” Folding the money, he stuffed it in his guitar case alongside his earnings. “I’ll try and get yuh a new hoodie and trunks this week. Yuh are too big for that tracksuit. I’m savin’ those pounds for trainers too so that we can replace yuh old ones.”

Yeah, I had holes in these trainers. “It’s okay. I can manage for a while longer.” A thought occurred to me. “Where did you go?”

Bill eyed me warily. “What do yuh mean?”

“I came to Victoria early.” He was not playing at his regular spot, but he made sure to be there at six p.m. when I was due to arrive. “Did you play elsewhere?” When he didn’t respond, I looked up to see his crestfallen eyes showing defeat. “What’s wrong, Bill? You look a little lost over there.”

“I have been thinkin’. It’s no life for yuh, Liam. All this movin’ around, beggin’ for leftovers from the common folk.” He tied the dreads atop his head. “Did somethin’ bad happen to yuh while in the system? Is that why yuh don’t wanna go back? It’s still a warm bed at night and decent fodder in yuh stomach, right? Yuh fourteen. Survive another year, reach the legal requirement, and the government will set yuh up somewhere. Maybe a nice one-bedroom flat or bedsit. They’ll give yuh money, too, until yuh get a well-paid job. Who knows? Yuh might be able to work part-time, attend college and get a degree.” He smiled sadly. “Yuh can sit in one of those top-notch offices someday.”

“What did I do?” I whispered, and he looked confused. “I didn’t ask to be in this world, Bill. I didn’t ask to fall into the hands of unloving parents. I didn’t ask to grow up in the system, to be flung from family to family, wing to fucking wing.” I stood, wiping a loan tear from my cheek. “I didn’t ask for any of this! Yet here I am, clinging to a good for nothing homeless bum, so I don’t have to sleep alone at night…”

His eyes rounded, and I immediately regretted my harshness.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. “I didn’t mean that, Bill. I am just…” Angry, sad, hurt. “I love you. You’re the first person who treated me like I’m not some worthless burden…”

Bill’s eyes cast to the floor.

“Don’t worry. I should be thanking you for tolerating me for so long.” Pulling the hoodie over my head, I reached for the backpack. “I ain’t going back to Briar House, though, Bill. You’re right. One more year on these godforsaken streets, and I’ll get something stellar.”

“Don’t do that.” He pushed to his feet. “Yuh got it wrong, Liam. It’s not because I don’t care about yuh. If anythin’, I care too much. I just feel for yuh, lad. Yuh don’t deserve to live like this.”

“But I’m happy with you.”

Bill grasped my shoulder. “And that’s all that matters.”

I did not understand Bill’s pained expression or why he looked conflicted that night.

It would be weeks later before we revisited previous disputes.

“Weh ave yuh been?” Bill reprimanded. “Mi did worry sick about yuh, Liam! Yuh left before the crack of dawn and didn’t come home until the fuckin’ moon ridiculed mi!”

Shit, he’s moody tonight. “I found another family,” I said, and his eyes rolled. “What? I don’t talk to them. I just watch them interact and stuff.”

“That’s not crazy at all.”

I stared unblinkingly.

“Yuh fuckin’ batshit crazy,” he spat, and I stormed into the shed. “What the fuck is wrong with yuh? Why do yuh go ’round stalking other families? Yuh askin’ for trouble.”

I am not stalking anyone.

At least, I don’t consider it as stalking. It’s fun, somewhat heartfelt, to see families together. The park is my favourite. Father’s play football with their sons. Mothers laugh with their daughters. I simply eat peanuts, wishing I could join them.

“Park yuh bottom. I got somethin’ to show yuh.”

Tossing the backpack on the floor, I sat on the bag of compost and waited impatiently. While he was busy, I noticed the empty bottle of cider under his sleeping bag. “I thought you quit drinking.”

“Don’t judge mi.” His back stiffened. “Yuh need to close yuh eyes.”

My eyes closed.

“And don’t be peekin’, or I’ll slap yuh.”

I smiled mischievously. “You know, I am bigger than you, right?”

“Ain’t too big for a slap.” He came closer. “And quit gettin’ chopsy. I don’t like it. I don’t care how tall yuh get. I can still smack the smirk off yuh face.” I heard a click. “Open yuh eyes,”

I slowly peeled my eyes open to see one dancing flame.

Holding one candle lit cupcake, he crouched in front of me. “Happy fifteenth birthday.”

My eyes watered.

“Go ahead,” he prompted. “Blow out the candle and make a wish.”

I am paralysed. “You got me a birthday cake?”

“It’s a cupcake,” he corrected smugly, and I cracked a lopsided grin. “Don’t be makin’ me cry, Liam. Just blow out the damn candle and make a wish.”

I leaned forward, whispered a wish across the flame, and asked the stars to keep us together. “Thank you, Bill.” Removing the candle, I sank my teeth into chocolate frosting. “Do you want to share?”

“Not after yuh lapped it up like that,” he joked.

Unable to look at him while I spoke, I studied the cake in my hand. “I love you, Bill.”

“Yeah,” he croaked. “I love yuh too, mi boy.”

That night, I roused to the sound of Bill’s husky voice. Wiping sleep from my eyes, I unscrambled from the sleeping bag and dragged myself to the door. Bill sat on an overturned plant pot, strumming his guitar. “It’s not warm when she’s away.”

I joined him, sitting on the grass.

His fingers stilled on the guitar strings, and then, he sang, “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s done. And she’s always gone too long. Anytime,” he strummed, “she goes away…”

I hated the sadness in his eyes. “You’ve been playing that song a lot recently, Bill.” My throat thickened. “Why?”

“Mind yuh business,” he retorted, more cantankerous than usual.

My eyebrows met my hairline. “Someone’s moody this morning.” His glumness taunted apprehensions. “What’s wrong? Why do you keep shit from me? I want you to talk to me.”

“It’s nothin’.”

“It’s something.”

After a long pause, he said, “Alright.” He set the guitar on the floor with a slight tremble in his hand. “Bill got somethin’ to tell yuh.”

I knew it was bad—felt it to the bone.

“Yuh will be sixteen before we know it.” His hands clasped together. “I guess yuh came a long way from the little, chopsy boy I found on the bench that day…” His cheeks hollowed on a low inhale. “Bill might die, Liam. The doctor said, I ain’t seen’ six months without treatment.”

“Doctor? Treatment?” I stuttered. “What, doctor? You didn’t tell me about no doctor. When? How? What’s wrong with you?”

“Don’t panic.” His hands raised. “It’s all good. Bill got it figured out.”

My heart stopped beating. “Why are you sick?”

Bill mulled over my direct question. “Cancer is a bitch, huh?”

“No.” My entire world came crashing down on me. “You can’t have cancer.” Jumping to my feet, I thrust a hand through my hair. “That’s not fair! You can’t leave me. I don’t want to be alone again. You know, I can’t live without you.”

“Let me tell yuh somethin!” He matched my stance. “Yuh was put on this earth with goddamn nothin’, but that shit doesn’t define yuh. Yuh don’t need somebody to hold yuh hand. Yuh are a smart boy. Yuh will figure it out.” He grabbed my head, his thumbs kneading my temples. “Don’t be worryin’ about old Bill, alright? Yuh gonna sort yuh life out.”

A tear trickled down my cheek. “But I don’t know how.”

Bill suppressed tears. “I got yuh somethin’,” he said thickly, revealing an old firearm from behind his back. “It’s a Colt Government. Mi got it from the Royal Navy.” He placed the cold metal on my palm. “It is for yuh now.”

“I don’t want no damn pistol. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Listen to mi,” he yelled, and I wired my mouth shut. “Yuh need to listen ‘cause mi only gonna tell yuh this once. There is a gated community down in Kingston. Yuh won’t miss it, Liam. Nice houses, the better half. Yuh will be scared, but yuh can’t back out. Number nineteen. Don’t be forgettin’ that number. It’s important that yuh find the right one. The owner leaves a key under the mat. Yuh might notice some surveillance and dog warnin’ signs, but that’s bravado. Take the key, unlock the front door and go into the office. Don’t ask Bill how he knows all this—just pay attention. Nothin’ strenuous nor complicated. The code to the safe is four zeros—very fuckin’ original. I want yuh to unlock the safe and take everythin’, and don’t be leavin’ scraps behind. Yuh gonna need that money.”

I was disordered, nauseated. “I thought we didn’t steal from decent folks.”

“That didn’t stop yuh snatchin’ the ladies handbag.”

Oh, fuck. “How did you know?”

He popped an eyebrow. “Yuh left the evidence in a bush over there.”

I dragged a hand over my features. “You want me to break into some random person’s house and steal their money?” I asked in disbelief. “What about the cops? I’ll get caught.”

His rough hands grasped my cheeks. “Redeem yourself.”

Benumbed, I nodded.

“I got one wish, and that’s for yuh to be the best version of yourself. Yuh will use yuh pain, anger and resentment to become a man.” He carefully slid the gun into my bag. “If yuh want somethin’ bad enough, then take it. Don’t accept nothin’ but the best.”

I knuckled tears from my cheek. “Why do I need a gun?”

“Maybe yuh won’t.” He shrugged. “Bill got the feelin’ yuh will.”

After that night, everything changed. Bill wanted to live the remainder of his life in solitude, where he took great pleasure in playing his guitar. He grew sombre, weak and tired. He no longer travelled to Victoria to play music.

I had to venture far and wide to obtain extra supplies. Each time I ran with a handbag or stole notes from someone withdrawing funds from the cashpoint, I became more and more indifferent, careless, withdrawn and unsympathetic.

“Why don’t you get treatment?” I asked one night.

Bill stared at the shed’s thatched ceiling. “I have to sign into the hospital.”

Bending the paperback, I chucked it in the bin as I no longer cared to read. “Then, go to the hospital.”

His eyes shut on a strained exhale. “I ain’t leavin’ you.”

“I’ll be fine by myself.”

“Yuh gotta hit sixteen,” he said sleepily. “It’ll be safe for yuh, then.”

The only person I had ever loved deteriorated before my eyes.

My heart broke.

Bill sleeps mostly. He doesn’t eat much anymore, either.

He stopped playing music.

He barely ate.

Securing headphones to my ears, I sat next to him one afternoon, keeping an eye on his heavy breathing. “I see the crystal raindrops fall,” I sang quietly to the song. “And the beauty of it all. It is when the sun comes shining through. To make those rainbows in my mind. When I think of you sometimes.” Tears blinded vision. “And I wanna spend some time with you.”

“Just the two of us,” he croaked, interlacing out fingers. “We can make it if we try. Just the two of us.”

Licking tears from my lips, I whispered, “Building castles in the sky.”

His thumb brushed my knuckles. “You and I.”

My head fell to his chest, and I burst into tears.

“It’s okay, mi boy.” He sounded breathless. “Yuh will be fine. I have great faith in yuh.”

That night, while Bill slept, I unlocked the guitar case and borrowed his notepad. He penned lyrics on every page. I found a clean sheet at the back, tore it in half and scribbled something down for him.

Bill,

You loved me enough to say.

I love you enough to walk away.

I will never forget,

Liam.

Leaving the note in his bag, I pulled the beanie over my head and left my old life behind with the bag slung over one shoulder.

How I felt was unexplainable. All I can say is I cried more than I had ever cried in my entire life. I missed him with each step, but I knew I made the right choice. He was dying right before my eyes. At least, without caring for some stray kid, he can go to the hospital. Sure, it might be too late for treatment. But he can sleep in a warm bed and pass peacefully in his sleep.

I peddled in slow-motion, witnessing the world go by, replaying the last few years in my mind. I made another pit stop, bought myself a sandwich and forced food in my stomach.

I’d never felt so alone like I did that night.

My fingers wiggled into Bill’s leather gloves. As instructed, I took the key from under the mat and unlocked the front door to what I’d call a mansion. I was greeted by luxurious furnishings, rich carpets, crystal chandeliers, and marble floors. I admired the vast foyer and glanced at the wall-mounted portraits. A family. Husband and wife. Two daughters.

Guilt struck my chest. I almost backed out. “Fuck.”

I crept the doors open until I located the office. Peering over one shoulder to ensure nobody was around, I entered the room, left the door ajar and eyed the four walls. I examined the large painting exhibited on the alcove. My fingers curled around the gilded frame to reveal the hidden safe.

How the fuck did Bill know all this?

I punched the code to the safe.

It unlocked.

“Holy shit.” I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing fifty-pound notes before. I daren’t count these. I’ll have a heart attack. While clumsily emptying the safe, filling the backpack, I knocked a vintage-looking box over. It scatters jewellery and documents across the floor. “Shit.” I squatted, tossed the folders and stole the gold.

I flipped open a passport,

Light-headedness almost stole the air from my lungs.

Raymond Warren.

I scrutinised the mugshot.

Is this a coincidence?

If so, why am I on the verge of vomiting?

I overturned an image.

Bill and Raymond huddled close with the picturesque Caribbean Island as their backdrop. “Brother from another mother,” I read the penmanship. “What?”

I felt betrayed, confused, angry, hurt.

Standing abruptly, I rounded the desk, fired the laptop and roamed the internet.

Raymond (Ray) Warren, CEO of sales company, Telecomservices.co. Married to wife, Evelyn, two stepdaughters—I skimmed over unnecessary details, then paused—divorced. Previous wife, V. J. W. “Come on,” I complained, opening articles, hoping for more—anything more.

What more did I need, though?

It’s evident why Bill sent me here—to Raymond’s house. A man who was his friend? My alleged father? Or am I jumping to conclusions? Loads of people have similar surnames—the wife, though. The one he divorced. Could she be my mother? Do I care enough to find out?

Bill lied to me.

No one wanted you, Liam.

You’re just a nobody.

I fisted my hair.

That’s not true.

You are better than this, Liam.

You don’t need to do something stupid.

Leave everything and walk away.

Just leave…

My eyes opened.

Redeem yourself.

Taking the gun out of the bag, I weighed it in my hands and stared into the dark hallway.

Blood roared in my ears.

Raymond Warren left me to rot. He married another woman. He left my mother behind to raise two girls that belonged to another man. He lived amid affluence and lavishness.

He didn’t want you.

Someone must have informed him of my mother’s death.

He still didn’t want you.

You were put in the system.

He still didn’t want you.

Bill’s husky voice whispered in my ear, “Become a man.”

Rage took over my body.

I ascended the stairs.

Old floorboards groaned under my weight.

I entered the master bedroom and stood by the dominating four-poster king-sized bed. I touched the silk coverlet with an investigatory hand and listened to their soft breathing: husband and wife.

Raymond sensed an appearance. His large, plump body rolled over and his eyes, widening in horror, spotted an intruder. “Wait.” Hands raising in surrender, he dragged himself upright. “Take whatever you want. Just don’t hurt us.”

We had the same blue eyes. “I emptied your safe,” I said, and his eyebrows met in the middle. “You are a wealthy man, Ray.”

“And you’re just a kid.” He glared at the gun in my hand. “Why would you throw your life away? Be sensible. I’ll even help you.”

He had no idea who I was.

My eyes glazed over, and for a fleeting moment, emotional pain immobilised me. For years, I watched families from afar, wishing my mother organised garden parties and picnics, wishing my father took me to those parks and taught me how to play football.

Maybe I did jump to conclusions.

Perhaps he wasn’t aware of my existence.

Ray looked haunted. “Liam,” he said, and my muscles tightened. “It can’t be.”

“Oh, Lord!” the wife shrieked, her pink hair rollers skewed. “Who is that boy, Raymond? What is he doing in our house?”

“Shut the fuck up!” I yelled, aiming the gun in her direction. “Tell her to be quiet, or I will shoot.”

“Darling.” He patted her thigh. “Please calm down. Stop crying.” He flung me a long glare. “Son…”

“You left me to rot!” I snapped, his awareness awakening a rage I hadn’t known lived inside me. “You didn’t care…”

He tried to stand but bristled when I jerked the gun. “Son—”

“You don’t get to call me that,” I whispered as tears streamed down my cheeks. “You didn’t know, Ray. You didn’t know about me. That’s why I never saw you.” The truth laid bare in his regretful eyes. “Right?”

His lips pressed together.

“You selfish bastard,” I mumbled, wiping my cheeks. “My mother died, but you already knew about that, didn’t you?”

“I am calling the police,” the wife shrieked, flinging over the covers.

Panicking, I pulled the trigger. Her body collapsed disjointedly on the bed.

I paled.

What have I done?”

“Evelyn!” Raymond pulled his wife’s lifeless body into his arms. “No,” he sobbed, examining the blood doused to her white nightgown. “Please, no.”

I stopped breathing.

I killed someone.

I fucking killed someone.

“Liam,” Ray bemoaned, his pain howling into the night. “You murdered my wife.” His gaze paralysed me. “Diablo.”

My lip curled in disgust.

I pulled the trigger.

“—Bossman,” Brad shouted, and my eyes flew open. “What, we sleep on the job now?” A toothpick perched at the corner of his mouth. “Are you sick or something?”

“No.” I rubbed a palm over my weary features. “Tired.”

His eyes sliced. “Who the fuck is Bill?”

I feigned puzzlement. “How the hell should I know?”

He was sceptical. “You said his name…”

“Since when were you authorised to ask me questions?”

“Fair enough.” He prepared to leave. “I’m overdue some time off—not literally—but Cherry’s waiting for me downstairs, so call me if you need anything. If not, I’d like to get my cock wet in peace.”

I waited until he left before I breathed.

My eyes landed on the Tower Bridge painting.

A guitarist stood on the embankment.

A young boy listened to him sing.

Nostalgia inflated my lungs.

Opening the desk drawer, I reached for the old leather gloves and smoothed my thumb across faded grooves.

I voiced gratitude for divine redemption. “I never forgot, Bill.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Alexa

Impatient customers packed The Coffee House. I fell through the rotational door, windswept and tardy, toppling over mobs of numerous faces to reach the staffroom.

I stuffed my handbag inside a spare locker, peeled the rain-sodden coat off my body and, re-checking my dreadful reflection in the long-standing mirror, knotted an apron behind my back.

I looked a little bit worse for wear, with tired eyes and wild, unruly hair. The unbecoming image is entirely my fault. I stayed up far too late with Chloe last night, drinking inexpensive vodka, ingesting street bought takeout, watching back-to-back horror movies and, thanks to Michael Myers, shrieking until the early hours.

Taking a seat on the wooden bench, I combed soft bristles through my hair and styled two braids. I can overlook the pounding headache as it is nothing a few painkillers cannot fix, but clamminess is hard to ignore.

I sent a text message.

Me: I am dying.

My phone pinged with another.

Chloe: Same. I have already fallen asleep twice at the computer.

Me: LOL.

It was her idea to polish off an entire bottle of vodka.

Me: I blame you.

Chloe: I blame me, too.

Me: Let’s go on an alcohol ban.

Chloe: Boring.

I smiled to myself.

Me: Alcohol limitation, then?

Chloe: I can agree to compromise.

Me: No cheap liquor until next week.

Chloe: Yes, I need to save whatever organs I have left.

Grayson’s grouchiness boomed down the hallway.

Me: I have to go. My manager is ready to send a search party after me.

Chloe: He sounds like an arse.

Me: No, Grayson is cool.

“Alexa?” Gray’s loud voice had the phone stumbling from my hands. I peered up and found him standing in the doorway, glaring at me. “What are you doing? Have you seen the queue?” Before I replied, he threw two hands up in exasperation. “I am out there, losing customers, while you sit in here, moping around like a drowned rat.”

I scoffed. “Thanks, Gray.”

“I am understaffed,” he groused with a petulant lip pout. “Three people called in sick this morning. And don’t get me started on the lazy delivery guy. I think he’s fallen asleep behind the wheel somewhere. What am I going to do?” Thrusting a hand through his freshly dyed peroxide hair, he paced the small space. “I have eight office deliveries this afternoon. Eight,” he stressed for emphasis. “Yet I have no salads, protein pots, juices or smoothies. Elderflower is a customer favourite. I could lose regulars because of unsatisfactory service.”

I put the phone in the locker. “Have you tried calling the supplier?”

“Yes.” He sank onto the bench and dropped his head into his hands. “I might sell the shop and move abroad.”

He is so dramatic. “What can I do to help?”

“Can you make deliveries appear miraculously?” he asked, and I winced. “Then you are pointless.”

I stifled laughter. “Would you like me to call the offices on your behalf? I can explain that we have an issue with suppliers, apologise for the inconvenience and even present a solution.”

Grayson nodded. “I would appreciate that.”

“In the meantime,” I helped him stand, “take a break before you have an aneurysm. Go to the office and write apology cards. Perhaps we can provide free lunch and coffee tomorrow? It will mend the fence between you and dissatisfied customers.”

“Yes,” he agreed as we exited the staffroom. “I cannot afford to lose sustainable office trade because of one slothful delivery guy.”

Inside the fresh-smelling all-wooden office, Grayson cracked open the window and tilted the blinds. Ebullience brightened his once grim expression. His hands clapped in glee, and I peered over his head to locate the source of his sudden gratefulness: refrigerated transport reversed into the alleyway.

“Hallelujah.” His palm braced to the wall as he watched the guy climb down from the vehicle. “Scrap the apology cards, Alexa. You can get to work while I go and give this guy a piece of my mind.”

Pine and sandalwood cologne lingered in Grayson’s wake. I went to the window and watched him prowl toward the delivery man, waving a condemnatory finger; the poor sod was severely reprimanded. Jace joined the commotion in his all-black attire and tattooed sleeves. He was clean-shaven and grinning, which drew attention to his soft, boyish smile. Wiping his hands in the black apron, he helped the guy stack boxes inside the demountable roll container and wheeled fresh produce indoors.

I started work on the shop floor, decluttering tables and wiping down the surfaces. After all, the newly hired female barista behind the counter executed customer demands without extra hands.

The Midday hustle and bustle commenced. Lunchtime traffic congested the Coffee House, so I got down to business on the espresso machine while Jace unpackaged sandwiches, baguettes and wraps and restocked the fridges and coolers.

“Can you step in for a bit?” the fresh-faced blonde asked while adjusting her purple-framed spectacles. “I was supposed to have lunch twenty minutes ago.”

“Go ahead.” Setting the small stainless-steel pitcher aside, I relocated to the cash register. “Next.”

Americano. Flat white. Cold-brew. Matcha latte. Iced coffee. Daily greens. Ginger shot. Chicken salad. Niçoise salad. Pesto—not a fan—salad and mango bowl. “Oh, this looks divine.” I marvelled at the colourful presentation. “I might try this one later.”

“Highly recommended.”

“Enjoy.”

“I will.”

“Next.”

Rock salt popcorn. Cinnamon danish. Hazelnut truffles. Superfruit salad. “Do you want a drink with that?”

“No.” The guy handed over his debit card. “Actually, what does iced mocha taste like?”

I paused like a deer in the headlight. “I wouldn’t know.”

“No?” He had the sweetest countenance. “Have you not sampled the menu?”

“No.” I have tried the occasional coffee, but I seldom eat or drink here. I tend to buy from the food truck around the corner.

He glanced at the overhead menu board. “What about the berry blast?”

“That’s a favourite,” I assured him. “You should try it.”

“Okay.” He gave me the thumbs up. “Then I shall take two.”

I delivered the goods, swiped the card payment and handed him the receipt. “Thank you for visiting the Coffee house.”

Gray’s hip nudged mine. “You are overly happy lately, Alexa.” His eyebrows waggled impishly. “Did somebody get laid last night?”

This man is obsessed with my sex life. “No.” I haven’t seen Liam for almost a week—an entire week since he visited the apartment. I am unperturbed, though. He sends many text messages to counterbalance lost time.

How did you sleep, baby?

When are you coming back to work?

I’m busy, but I haven’t forgotten about you.

What are you doing?

Send me a picture of that beautiful face.

I miss you, Alexa.

I thought about you last night (this message landed with a wink emoji).

“I just am, Gray.” Blowing out a dreamy sigh, I rested my elbows on the coffee-stained counter. “Nothing could deter my funk right now.”

“Deter your funk?” He snorted to belittle me. “Who says that?”

“I do.” Restocking the napkin holder, I smiled like a sick love fool. “And—whoa.” Feeling someone’s hand smooth across my backside, I spun around to see Jace arrange gourmet flavoured syrups on the counter. I gave him a derisive glare. “Did you just cop a feel of my arse?”

Jace popped a pierced eyebrow. “Why would I feel your arse?” He opened the display cabinet and refilled the baskets with packaged baked goods. “Shit. You were serious?”

My veins heated. “No…”

Am I imagining wandering gropes?

“Gray?” I unmistakably felt someone’s hand brush my backside. Maybe Jace’s touch was unmindful, or perhaps Grayson is winding me up again.

My manager’s hands raised in surrender. “I have no interest in your arse, doll.” His eyes darted between us. “Save the threats.”

I am an arrogant bitch.

How dare I presume an unknown graze between passing employees meant inappropriate touching? I jumped to conclusions too hastily. “I am so sorry,” I blurted out, then returned to duties to hide shame-faced embarrassment. “I thought…”

You thought what, Alexa?

Jace randomly fondled you—and with Grayson present?

What an egotistical assumption.

I had to escape the heated glares. “I will clear the shop floor again.”

Leaving the men to wipe the coffee machines, I worked through chores, spraying disinfectant on the tables, emptying designated disposal units and conveying dirty, used mugs to the dishwasher.

I stopped for lunch, barricaded myself inside Grayson’s office and checked to see if Liam responded to my last text message.

Liam: I am still waiting for the photo.

Assured nobody was standing in the doorway, I unravelled two braids and posed. I checked the image and clicked delete, then snapped another—nope. “Shit.” Losing the apron, I shifted on the leather chair, angled my head better and took another shot. It is not the best representation of myself, but I send the image, nonetheless, hoping he will still approve.

I see three dots dance on the screen and hold my breath.

Liam: Fucking beautiful.

Liam: Those eyes, baby.

I almost asked him to return the favour, but Liam would never capture selfies.

Me: Thank you.

Liam: Do not thank me for complimenting you, Alexa.

Me: What are you doing?

Liam: Lunch with the men.

Me: Restaurant?

Liam: The Shard.

I blinked.

Me: Nice. What’s on the menu?

Liam: Salmon.

Me: Well, that sounds marvellous.

Liam: You disapprove.

Me: I am not a lover of fish.

Liam: When did you last eat salmon?

Me: Never.

Liam: We should rectify that immediately.

Me: I can survive without it.

Liam: Are you busy this weekend?

Me: Depends.

Liam: On what?

Me: Do you plan to visit?

Liam: Yes.

Me: Then I am not busy.

Liam: Perhaps I could interest you to stay.

I set the half-eaten sandwich to the side.

Me: When?

Liam: This weekend.

Me: For the entire weekend…?

Liam: Yes.

My heart raced.

Of course, I wanted to spend the entire weekend with him.

Me: I don’t know…

Liam: I will even cook for you.

Me: We both have to work this weekend.

Liam: Right. We can afford to clock off early.

He can afford never to work again. I have bills to pay.

Me: Okay. I guess I can work and come back to the penthouse for our sleepover…

Liam: Sleepover?

Me: Pillow, duvet, sofa, ice cream and movie nights.

Liam: I am starting to feel old.

I laughed inaudibly.

Me: Why?

Liam: Movie nights and ice cream?

Me: You are never too old to enjoy a good movie on the sofa, Liam. Plus, it involves under-the-duvets cuddling.

Liam: Go on…

Me: I might wear nothing if you promise to keep me warm.

Me: Will you approve?

Liam: Most definitely.

“Are you still eating?” Grayson’s head poked into the office. “It’s getting busy again.”

“I’ll be right out.”

Me: I have to get back to work.

When Liam didn’t respond, I tucked the phone away, binned the rest of the sandwich and returned to the shop floor. Normally, I complain about high customer demand, but today, I appreciated the liveliness as it set the time into overdrive. It was dark when the very last customer bid her farewell. I locked the door behind her, flipped the closed sign and coupled with the team for an hour to tick through the closing checklist. It’s the tedious part of working in a coffee shop: checking expiration dates, cleaning the coffee brewer, air-pots, espresso machine and ancillary pieces. I was going through the nightly waste log when Jace brushed past to mop the floors and, subtly, his knuckles skimmed the curve of my arse cheek.

I looked up from the checklist.

Jace whistled a haunting tune. He drenched the mop-head in clean water and slapped the synthetic fibres across the floor, leaving streaky suds beneath the table.

Nibbling my lower lip, I clicked the top of the pen, ignored the gnawing feeling in my stomach and began to turn off all the equipment.

Grayson unlocked the door to let the other employees out. He is multitasking, speaking to someone on the phone and counting down the cash drawer.

With the floors squeaky clean, I lifted the upholstered chairs onto the wooden tables. Yet again, I felt someone’s palm tour the expanse of my arse and, knowing it wasn’t in my head, knocked the barely secured chair straight off the table, which caused a considerable racket. It crashed on the floor, the wooden leg splintering on impact, and a slew of apologies projected from my mouth. Only, once I had gotten over the initial embarrassment and clumsiness, I flung Jace an accusatory scowl. He is already looking at me. His whistling became low, spine-chilling, the type of whistling you hear in horror movies when the serial killer nonchalantly trails behind its prey.

I gave him an unsuspecting smile.

The impossible man smiled back.

I picked up the damaged chair and tested the weight. “I will buy another one.”

“It’s okay.” Not looking up from the cash register, Gray waved me off. “I have spare chairs in the basement.”

Moving to the next table, I sprayed the wooden surface and flinched when Jace’s hand brazenly squeezed my hip. I studied the wall-mounted clock and contemplated how to handle his inappropriateness without causing an unnecessary scene.

“Do you need help?” His lips tickled my ear. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” I fibbed. “Maybe ask Grayson.”

I do not imagine Jace’s inappropriate behaviour. In forty-five minutes, that man hasn’t steered his eyes from me. He patrolled my every move, monopolised trivial conversations and indelicately found a reason to paw me with those large, inky hands.

“Alexa.” Jace is behind me, his groin pressing into my backside. “I—”

“You need to stop.” Turning to face him, I pinned him with a murderous glare. “Jace, you cannot behave like this. It is inappropriate, unprofessional, and I am also in a relationship with a jealous psychopath who wouldn’t think twice about burying you alive.” I omitted Liam’s name to avoid pointless drama. “And before you question my rationality, I am not insane. Your hand slips far too often. It is making me uncomfortable.”

Jace looked wholly horrified. “I… You think I am… What is the accusation? Do you think I am sexually harassing you?” He is sickly pale. “Those types of accusations can get me in trouble, Alexa.”

Oh, now he is acting melodramatic. “No, I am pointing out that you are a little too touchy-feely. If I wanted to cause you any problems, then I would be sitting in Grayson’s office, filing a complaint.” Tossing the cloth onto the table, I wiped my hands on the apron. “Listen, I do not want to argue with you. We are co-workers who spend more time here than we do at home, which means we’re in each other’s company a lot. But we cannot be friends if the inappropriate fondling continues.”

“I am not interested in you, Alexa.” His mocking eyes seared into me. “Or any woman, for that matter. Oh, come on. Don’t act like it’s not apparent.”

I blinked rapidly. “What?”

He motioned to himself as if stating the obvious.

“Help me out, Jace.” My eyebrows met in a confused frown. “I am not a mind reader.”

His cheeks reddened. “I like…”

I tried to fill in the gaps. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re gay?”

Jace nodded sheepishly. “Yes.”

“I am so sorry.” Shame heated my neck and cheeks. “I had no idea, Jace. I thought…”

You thought what?

You are egotistically vain, Alexa.

Not everything in life is about you.

Rubbing my temples, I put the brakes on mental ridiculing.

Jace is gay. It’s incredibly ignorant, but I struggled to believe this newfound information. I have witnessed him ogle women all day. Plus, if he’s that invested in the male population, why is his hand permanently attracted to my arse?

“You just don’t look…” How do I put it? “I mean, Grayson is obvious.”

“Hey,” Grey scolded lightly, eying me over the cash register. “I heard that.”

Jace scratched the back of his neck. “Well, Grayson is more open about his sexuality, whereas I am not.” Giving me a weak, humiliated smile, he tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. “Listen, Alexa. I am sorry if I came across in the wrong way or if I offended you. I am the new guy—a nervous new guy who is just trying to make friends. And, well, you can be a little distant and cold sometimes…I wanted to be friends, that is all.”

“Alexa is full of herself,” Grayson joshed from across the shop. “Ignore her.”

God, he is not helping my case here.

“Gray!” My cheeks scorched. “Will you please shut your mouth?”

“It’s true.” My motor-mouthed manager strode toward us. “Alexa believes every man wants her.”

I fisted his black polo shirt. “Gray, what is wrong with you?”

His smile resembled a Cheshire cat. He threw an arm across my shoulders and tugged me close. “You know I’m fucking with you.” He looked from me to Jace. “Listen, hot stuff. Alexa has a boy slash man friend that she is weirdly obsessed with, so I doubt she is seeking prospects. I, however, am single and so ready to mingle.” His toothy grin had me tickled. “In case you are interested.”

Jace bristled. “I’m cool, man.”

“That’s a shame.” Gray’s lust-filled eyes roamed Jace’s muscular physique suggestively. “I’m generous.”

I choked on air. “Dear God.”

“Duly noted.” Nervous laughter rattled in Jace’s chest. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“How about this for an idea? Let’s go out tonight. Something simple.” Gray pondered beneath incurved eyebrows. “Food, cocktails and maybe some dancing. What do you think?”

We never associated outside of work. “Why?”

“So that we can all mingle.” Grayson’s fingers pinched my cheek. “Come on, Alexa. It will be fun.”

“Sure.” Jace’s teeth caught his tongue piercing. “I’m down for whatever.”

I guess alcohol and food never hurt anybody. “Sure.”

I texted my friend ten minutes later.

Me: I think we should break our alcohol ban.

Chloe: Shock horror.

Me: LOL.

Me: I will be home soon.

Chloe: I’ll get the drinks ready. I am not sold on going out, though.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Alexa

I convinced Chloe to join me on a work’s night out, which was untroublesome because the second I mentioned handsome men and killer cocktails, the woman disrobed Bruce Almighty style and then glamorised her once tired appearance into vibrant becomingness.

Tempestuous wind and cool drizzles greeted me as I clambered from the taxi. I handed the driver a generous tip, squealing behind Chloe when the heavens complained and clangorous thunderclaps and torrential downpour lashed against the streets of London.

My wet hair dripped down my back. Perhaps the short red dress was presumptuously daring in this depressing weather.

I opened the rustic door and stepped into the shack-style restaurant. Mouth-watering aromas permeated the air. Powder white sand dusted the hardwood floor, and colourful chalkboards adorned the oak-panelled walls. Red, yellow, green and black mismatched tables and wooden chairs besprinkled the layout. A graffitied portrait of Bob Marley dominated the back wall. Low-hanging dim light fixtures, friendly waiters and reggae music. “You Want Me” by Vybz Kartel sounded from the rear stage where partygoers occupied the matted dance floor.

“Ladies.” The casually dressed waiter collected two menus from the wooden front desk. “Table for two?”

“Reservation.” I spot Jace and Grayson seated at the corner in a private booth. “We’re with them.”

The waiter led us to their table.

“Hey, guys.” I slipped onto the leather bench opposite the men. “I hope you didn’t start without us.”

“Well, it’s about time.” Grayson tousled his platinum blond hair. “I am wasting away.”

I glimpsed at my wristwatch. “I am fifteen minutes early.”

“You are fifteen minutes late.” He was already frolicsome. “I should be drunk.”

The impossible sod. He is three sheets to the wind.

Chloe shuffled next to me on the leather bench, stuffing her clutch purse between our almost touching thighs.

“Bring two more of these over.” He elevated the giant fishbowl above his head. “No need to go easy on the rum. I plan to get unbridled and insatiably sloshed.”

The friendly waiter gave him a thumbs up.

Scanning the price list, I mumbled, “Nothing new, then.”

Honestly, Grayson is hungover six out of seven days a week. I commend his late-night gregariousness and irrepressible partying. Hell, I wish I had his energised stamina.

“What is your secret?” Jace asked him. “I am on my arse for days if I mix too much alcohol.”

Grayson smiled proudly. “I am amazing.”

“Right…” Jace’s brows furrowed slightly. “But what’s the secret to hangover-free success?”

My manager’s smile widened. “I am amazing.”

I laughed airily.

Even though I never peered up from the menu, I caught Jace’s head tilt in my direction. He looked handsome in his tight black T-shirt and worn leather jacket. He’d slicked back his brown hair, which boasted intricate back-and-side tattoos on his head. When I regarded him fully, he smirked at me with raillery. “Are you okay over there, Alexa?”

I was slightly ruffled by him, which I found most unfathomable. “Yes, I am figuring out what to eat.”

“Oh, I might be able to help with that.” Grayson winked lasciviously. “I hope you like juicy meat.”

My manager is irredeemable. “Not as much as you, apparently.”

“Bigger the better, right?” He fanned himself with the menu. “I am glad we are on the same wavelength.”

Chloe’s lip kicked up at the corner. “Am I missing something?”

“Yes.” Gray rolled up the sleeves of his ostentatiously metallic shirt. “Alexa is telling me that she likes big sausages in code.”

“What?” I said nothing of the sort. “Grayson, I will not be the butt end of your salacious jokes all evening.”

“Why not?” he asked, and what’s more concerning is that he is deadly serious. “It’s fun.”

Chloe laughed once. “Fun for whom?”

“Me.” He deadpanned. “I get to watch little miss frigid squirm in her seat all night.”

I am seconds away from reaching over the table and dunking his head in the fishbowl. “I am not frigid.”

Gnashing his fingers, Grayson purred. “Oh, sell it to me.”

“I can attest to the woman’s insatiable horniness,” Chloe answered on my behalf. “After all, I am her roommate. I hear everything.”

Jace’s arms folded onto the table.

“Really?” Gray sipped alcohol through a straw. “Like what?”

I murdered the pair of them with fierce eyes. “Why am I the topic of smutty conversation?”

“What do you think?” My best friend rapidly tapped her finger on the table. “All night.”

“Chloe!” My eyes flicked from her to the snitch of a finger. “Behave.”

Gray stared narrowly. “What, like, bean-strumming?”

“No,” she chimed. “Hardcore fucking. I am going through earphones like no tomorrow.”

“Oh, God.” I hid behind two hands. “I do not strum anything.”

“Really?” Jace entered the chat. “Never?”

I lowered my hands to glare at him. “Do you play the pied piper on your whistle?”

The question repulsed Jace. “No.”

“Is it possible?” Gray peered down at his leather pads. “Jace, imagine being able to facilitate autofellatio.”

“No.” Jace itched his pierced eyebrow. “I couldn’t think of anything worse than sucking my own knob.”

“This is like a game of sexual instruments.” Grayson looked around the table in amazement. “What do you have?”

Chloe blinked in puzzlement.

“I know,” Gray said with a cocky grin. “The violin.”

“Did we skip introductions and jump straight into a filthy conversation?” My friend’s knee clipped mine under the table. “I’m Chloe. You must be Grayson.” Her finger aimed at Jace. “And you are…?”

“Jace.” His rough voice had her lips puckered. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Chin resting on the heel of her hand, she fluttered her eyelashes. “Are you single?”

“No.” His green eyes briefly flicked in my direction. “I’m not available, either.”

Chloe sulked. “Why not?”

“You are barking up the wrong tree with this guy.” Grayson rubbed Jace’s back. “I have better luck.” He squeezed the red-faced man’s jaw. “Ain’t that right, hot stuff?”

Jace seemingly hated attention. “Right.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Her hands fumbled with the cutlery. “I never would have guessed. You don’t look gay.”

“Excuse me?” Grayson feigned offence. “Leave the brigade of insensitive comments outside, Goldie Locks. Is a man supposed to wear a skirt to represent the gay community?”

In her defence, I had the same thoughts when I first met Jace. It has nothing to do with sexual orientation discrimination. You cannot perceive someone’s sexuality based on appearance. However, he has wandering eyes when in the presence of desirable females. Maybe he appreciates them. It might not be sexual attraction, but he foraged like a predator for prey in their nearness.

Chloe’s eyes welled up in mortification. “No, I…”

“I’m just kidding.” Grayson’s smile failed to suppress his watery eyes. “Hey, while we are on the subject.” He gazed at Jace longingly. “Top or bottom?”

“Really?” Jace covered his mouth with inked fingers. “I’m not answering that.”

“I’m versatile.” Gray clicked down the waiter. “How much longer for service?”

Jace overturned the menu in my hands. “Your pricelist was upside down.”

I masqueraded stupidity. “I knew that.”

He wore a meek smile.

Chloe thanked the waiter for our fishbowls. “It’s nice to put names to faces. Alexa’s told me so much about you both.”

“Really?” Gray’s laughter crescendoed. “I have heard absolutely nothing about you.”

“That’s a lie,” I called out his frivolousness. “Grayson calls me a lesbian because I talk about you so much.”

Gray nodded, sharp and vehement. “It’s true,” he confirmed, and I deliberated sending him articles on split personalities. “I think she secretly loves you, Goldie Locks. At this dire point, I know the size of your bra.”

Chloe turned at the waist to arch an eyebrow at me. “You told them my bra size?”

“No.” I flung my manager a miffed glance. “He’s obviously had too much to drink.”

“And I checked out your knockers the second you sat down,” Gray admitted, and Jace snorted behind a clenched fist. “Don’t worry, though. I’m harmless.”

Against Chloe’s better judgment, she chuckled, unvexed by his innocuousness. “Your petulant behaviour is a sign of senility,” she said, and he jerked an insouciant shoulder. “But I will take your perverted behaviour as a compliment.” Plucking the menu from my hands, she scanned the plethora of main courses. “Tonight, is my first visit to a Caribbean bar, so I don’t know what to order. What does a Rasta burger entail?”

“Do not trouble that little head of yours,” Gray said pompously. “I will order for everyone.”

“Little head.” She flicked poker-straight blonde hair behind her shoulders. “Since when did I need help to order a damn meal? Don’t,” she dragged her fishbowl away from his covetous hand, “touch my alcohol.”

I shared a worried look with Jace.

“Why all the hostility?” Mischief pivoted in Gray’s sliced eyes. “Quit whining and get drunk with me.”

Her forehead creased. “Is there something mentally wrong with you?”

I spluttered mid-drink, alcohol burning my throat. “Chloe,” I gasped, and Jace passed me a napkin. “You can’t ask questions like that.”

“I just did,” she quipped with temerity, scowling to the motormouth across the table. “Do we have a problem?”

“No,” Gray scoffed, tossing a bunched-up napkin in her face. “I’m trying to dislodge your wedgie.”

Jace ran a palm down his worried features. “I am so fucking confused.”

I concurred. “Likewise.”

Our waiter reappeared. “Are you ready to order?”

Grayson added additional beverages to our endless order. “How long are we talking? My tummy thinks my mouth is on strike.” He patted his stomach. “It needs fuel.”

“Quick service,” the waiter assured as he retreated to the bar.

My Caribbean inspired cocktail consisted of sweet pineapple, cranberry juice and coconut rum. “This is lethal.”

Jace eyed the pineapple wedge. “How so?”

“You can barely taste the alcohol, which means I will consume it faster and be on my arse within half an hour.”

“Logical,” he joked. “I’m not a fan of coconut.”

Yet he chose pina colada. “You might want to opt for the beer menu next time, then.”

Our dishes arrived alongside various coloured cocktails twenty minutes later. The crafted drinks are already taking effect. I am on course to see two of everything. “This is divine,” I murmured around the bamboo-like straw. Edible leaves floated in alcohol, and rich frosting decorated the rim of the glass. “And lethal.”

“You said that already,” Jace pointed out.

“Alexa is repetitive. Ignore her.” Gray rubbed his palms together. “Right, we have solo wings, Caribbean bites, sweet chilli prawns, Dutty fries, plantain, mango slaw and jerk sauce.” His eyes rolled heavenward. “Taste the curried goat and let the food coma commence.”

We shared dishes, individually scooping tasters onto our plates.

I think Chloe is warming up to Grayson’s eccentricities and uncontrollable tongue. They engaged in a light-hearted conversation, discussing a rave they’d both enjoyed last year.

“Alexa.” Jace forked shredded chicken into his mouth. “There is a slight cinch in your London accent.” Licking sauce from his lips, he chewed quietly. “Why is that?”

“I wasn’t born in London,” I said, taken aback by his perceptiveness. “I’m originally from Cornwall. Newquay, to be exact.”

“Really?” He tore into fried dumplings. “Why did you move?”

Pondering an adequate response, I swallowed rice. I mean, his innocent questions are not bothersome, but I am socialising and enjoying cocktails, and depressing stories will only hinder ebullience. “I moved a long time ago with my sister.” I omitted the details. My past is hardly a secret. Jace isn’t privy, though. And I’d like to keep it that way. “What about you? Born and raised Londoner?”

“The outskirts.” He eyed Chloe with a questioning glint. “Is she your…?”

“Best friends. Kathy,” I said nostalgically. “My sister’s name is Kathy.”

“I guess I’ll meet her soon.” He set the licked-clean plate aside, crossed his arms and relaxed. “She probably hounds the Coffee House for discounted beverages, huh?”

Forking coleslaw, I masked concerns once more. “Kathy is backpacking around Europe.”

“Impressive.” He studied me with considerate concentration. “You miss her, though, right?”

Why am I shrinking under his inoffensive line of questioning?

“Of course, I miss her.” I will never stop loving Kathy. Immaterial to her behaviour before she died. “Nothing good vodka cannot fix,” I chimed with feigned humour. “What about you, Jace? Any family?”

He breathed in, his chest expanding. “My parents died a few years back,” I noted an angered twitch in his neck. “That’s pretty much it.”

“I’m sorry.” I switched subjects before our night became an over-emotional mess. “So, tattoos?” My lips enclosed around the straw and sucked empty. “What happened?”

“You finished. Here.” Jace replaced the empty fishbowl. “We can share.” He waited until I sipped. “I’m a tattoo artist.”

“Well, that explains your love for ink.” My phone vibrated in the clutch purse, but I was in no rush to answer the phone. “Question time. Do you tattoo yourself? How much pain do you suffer when someone stabs you with a needle?”

“No, I rarely ink myself. I prefer someone else giving me ink.” He declined Grayson’s offer for extra dumpling portions. “Pain is subjective. I enjoy long sittings. It’s quite addictive.”

“You call voluntary pain enjoyable?” No, thank you. I’d rather not traumatise myself. “I would love to have one. I could never stomach it, though.”

His gaze roamed my exposed arms. “I think a little ink would suit you.”

“Never going to happen,” I said firmly. “I mean it, buddy. Keep your gun away from me. I bite.”

He gave me a long, immersed look. “Feisty.”

My phone jittered again. I apologised to the group, unclipped the clutch and stifled excitement. “Hey,” I answered, butterflies fluttering in my chest. “What’s wrong?”

“Why do you assume something is wrong?” Liam asked, his hoarse voice raking goosebumps across my flesh. “Am I not allowed to call my girl?”

Smiling like a deranged woman, I nibbled my lower lip. “You never call.”

“What?” Gray shrieked, lobbing an ice-cube at Jace. “And I thought I was a pervert.”

Jace draped an arm on the bench rear. “I’m honest.” He discerned my perplexity. “I actually defended you. Gray reckons you are the unfortunate owner of A-cups, so I corrected him.”

His eyes dipped to my chest. “More than a handful is too much, right? I think you have great tits.”

Why would he choose this exact moment to say something so gratuitously inappropriate?

My heart lunged to my throat. “Liam—”

“Where are you?” He was confrontational rather than conversational, which I had expected. The man has the tendency to lose his temper in one heartbeat. “Who the fuck was that?”

I skinned both assholes alive with a contemptuous scowl. “I am at a restaurant with work friends,” I clarified, ignoring everyone’s judgmental stares. “I texted you earlier—”

“A co-worker who thinks it’s acceptable to make licentious comments about you.”

I ceded, sinking back in my seat. “They were only—”

“Do not trivialise his behaviour, Alexa,” he warned, and I knew Chloe overheard because she shook her head in disapproval. “I’m not okay with this.”

If Jace heard, he seemed oddly impervious to the unsubtle threat in Liam’s voice. “Can we do this later, please?” I whispered, my cheeks reddening with each passing second. “Not in front of an audience.”

Liam sighed into the receiver—and then the asshole ended the call.

Slack-jawed, I lowered the phone.

“Did he hang up on you?” Chloe asked, studying my phone as if it offended her. “Seriously, Alexa. I don’t know how you tolerate him. That guy,” she pointed at me while addressing the men, “is surrounded by naked women every day. And he probably fucks half of them.”

“Chloe,” I scolded, wishing she’d control her wayward tongue. “You know that’s not true.”

“Yet he has the audacity to get shitty with my best friend because she’s out with a bunch of fully clothed gay guys.” Her eyes rolled. “Warren and his double-fucking-standards.”

Jace shot me an interrogative look. “You’re dating Liam Warren?”

I was not sure whether Chloe’s rhadamanthine judgment stemmed from alcohol inebriation or usually suppressed opinion. “Yes,” I responded, blundering with the fishbowl.

“Warren is fucking dangerous,” Jace said with asperity. “Why the hell are you in bed with a man like that?”

“Hey, come on, guys.” Gray’s relaxed mood sharply plummeted. “Alexa’s a big girl. It’s her choice.”

“Isn’t he a bit old for you?” Jace proceeded, and I wondered where the defensiveness escalated from. “What are you? Eighteen?”

“Twenty,” I corrected. “Liam is only twenty-nine.”

“Almost ten years your senior.” His green eyes enlarged. “You might not appreciate my opinion or friendly advice, but you need to be careful with him, Alexa. There is a big fucking reason why people avoid Warren.”

Chloe had no right to throw my business out there like that.

Jace’s lips flattened. “You don’t know him as well as you think you do.”

“Are you speaking from experience or unfounded hearsay?”

“Experience.” Jace pulled his barbell between gritted teeth. “Warren murdered my parents.”

I was stunned into silence. It’s no secret that Liam had murdered but knowing someone affected by his callous crimes was a quandary. “How do you know it was Liam?” I asked, wrongly prepared to defend his honour. “If he killed them, why isn’t he in prison for murder?” I knew why. Liam has a close relationship with the metropolitan police department. They unlawfully cover his wrongdoings. “You know what? I’d rather not discuss this matter, Jace. You’re putting me in an awkward situation.”

“Why don’t we dance?” Grayson strived to cool down our heated discussion. “I—”

“I’ll pass.” Jace soared to his feet. “I’m calling it a night.” Opening his wallet, he counted six twenty-pound notes and dropped them onto the table. “For the bill.”

Jace walked away.

“Shit.” I watched him storm away with a nagging feeling in my stomach. “I’ll be right back.” I climbed over Chloe and dashed through the lively dinner setting. Pushing through the front door, I glanced from side to side and saw him headed toward the tube station. “Jace,” I called, chasing him down the pavement. “Please, I want to apologise.”

He looked behind.

I caught up. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault.” A pre-rolled blunt rested behind his ear. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“I was insensitive,” I insisted as he glanced at something over my shoulder. “It’s complicated, though. I’m with Liam. I love him very much.” My fingers wrangled nervously. “Jesus, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything, Alexa.” His expression darkened before my very eyes. “You might want to head back inside. That Bentley looks familiar.”

There is a black vehicle parked across the road. One of Liam’s men relaxed behind the steering wheel. He openly assessed the display; no doubt reporting updates to his boss. I recognised him from outside the Coffee House this afternoon. Liam said mandatory protection and surveillance is non-negotiable for us to be in a relationship. “He is harmless.”

My gaze returned to Jace.

He disappeared like an apparition.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Alexa

I never heard the door open when he entered the bedroom or the floorboard creak when he walked to the bed. I smelt the alcohol on his breath when he kissed my cheek and his fingers in my hair when he smoothed my head, though.

He thought I was asleep. He scrutinised me in the darkness while guzzling beer until he stopped watching.

Now he stands back by the door, looking across the hall.

What did he want?

My eyes ripped open.

I see shadows on the wall.

I screamed.

“Mummy!” I cried, snatching the duvet over my head, hiding. “Please, Mummy! I don’t like the dark” I hate the dark!”

“Alexa?” The bright light above blinded my eyes as my mother rushed into the bedroom. “What’s wrong?” She drew me in for a tight hug, and I squeezed my arms around her waist. “Why are you crying, sweetie? What happened?”

“There was a monster in my room,” I sobbed into her negligee. “I saw him, Mummy. He was watching me sleep.”

Her thumbs swept tears from my cheeks. “Are you sure it wasn’t a nightmare?”

“It was not a bad dream.” I rubbed my eyes. “He was in here, Mummy. I heard him breathing.”

“It’s okay,” she cooed, standing from the bed. “Just wait there.” She fixed the loose hair roller irritating her forehead with trembling hands and warily walked to the wardrobe. Holding her breath, she reached for the handle and flung the door open, rattling the metal hangers, disturbing the ironed clothes. “See.” A sigh of relief flew from her lips. “No one is in here.”

I rested on my haunches. “What about under the bed?”

To pacify her alarmed daughter, she kneeled on the floor and peered under the bed. “I can only see hidden crisp packets.”

My cheeks pinkened. “I ate those earlier.”

Her perked eyebrow appeared from the side of the bed. “Rubbish belongs in the bin, Alexa.”

“I know!” I huffed. “But you told me not to eat anymore, so I guess I was a little sneaky.”

Mother’s arms folded. “You need to get back to bed. Little girls need their beauty sleep.”

“I cannot.” My head shook violently. “What if he comes back?”

“I will beat him with a slipper.”

I giggled. “He might steal it and beat you instead.”

“Well, I should hope not.” She helped me climb off the bed. “Well, alright. Follow me. I got something to show you.”

My feet sunk into the carpet. I snatched Teddy off the wooden chair and chased mummy down the hall into her bedroom.

I stared at her messy bed. “Where is daddy?”

Mummy smiled. It was sad and did not reach her eyes. “He’s working late tonight,” she explained. “Now, where did I put it?” Opening the chest of drawers, she searched for whatever she was looking for. “I know I put it in here somewhere. Oh,” she finds what she’s looking for, “here it is.” Draped from her slender fingers is something wreathed with delicate white feathers and beads. “I made it for you.”

I was spellbound. “What is it, mummy?”

“It’s a dreamcatcher, sweetie.” She admired the hard work she put in to make such a beautiful, handcrafted gift. “What do you think?”

I watched the feathers dance in the draught. “It is pretty.”

“You can hang this above your bed.” She went to her knees before me. “It will protect you.”

Curious, I pouted. “How, so?”

“Well, you see this web,” she indicated to the stitched beads, “it steals the bad stuff that visits when you sleep and stops them from frightening you.”

My mouth was wide open. “Does it really work?”

Her gaze softened. “Would I lie to you?”

I curled a strand of hair behind her ear. “You promise?”

“I promise.” Kissing my cheek, she opened her bedroom door. “Shall we try it out?”

“Okay,” I said eagerly. “Can we take it to Kathy?”

“Alright.” We ventured to Kathy’s bedroom. “I think she’s asleep.”

When the door creaked open, I peered into the dim room and found Kathy stood by the window, looking into the garden. “What’s wrong, Mamma?” she asked with her back to us. “Are you okay, Alexa?”

“Alexa had a nightmare.” My mother’s hand laid on top of my head. “Can she sleep with you?”

“Please, Kathy.” I dashed into the room and lunged onto her bed. “Mummy made us a monster catcher!”

Kathy shared an amused look with our mother. “Sure.” Pulling the coverlet back, she waited for me to snuggle under it. “You must sleep, though.”

“Are you okay, love?” Mother asked Kathy. “You look sad.”

“Ben broke up with me,” she said sullenly. “It’s okay, Mamma. We will be fine in the morning, right?”

My head nestled on the duck feather pillow.

“He didn’t,” Mother gasped. “Oh, I will give him a piece of my mind.”

“No.” Kathy grimaced. “I don’t want you to do that. It’s my fault, actually.” Her cheeks were very red. “I am not, like, you know?”

I did not know.

Mother, however, pulled a weird face. “Boys,” she whispered almost disgustedly. “They don’t know what’s good for them. If he could not wait until you were ready, then he does not deserve you. Let him run around with someone else.”

I picked my fingernails. “Wait for what, Kathy?”

“Never mind.” Mother pinched my cheek. “You go to sleep. It’s way past your bedtime.”

I huffed dramatically. “I hate being little.”

“Why?” they asked at the same time.

“Because you talk in secret,” I complained. “I miss out on everything.”

Mother secured the dreamcatcher onto the middle of the curtain pole. “Now, go to sleep, young lady.” She kissed my forehead and then Kathy’s cheek. “Goodnight, girls.”

Kathy waited until the room darkened before she crawled into bed. “Why do I have feathers in my window?”

“It will protect us from the monsters.”

Her eyes searched mine. “Monsters aren’t real, Alexa.”

“Yes, they are, Kathy,” I retorted, wishing they’d believe me. “I see them in my dreams!”

She punched the pillow under her head to puff up the feathers. “Whatever.”

“It doesn’t matter. Mummy said the web would protect us.”

“Nothing can protect you from me.” Her unrecognisably harsh voice breathed against my cheek. “Lexi.”

Why is Kathy trying to frighten me?

Why did her voice change?

I focused on the whispered feathers above. “I don’t like it when you talk like that, Kathy.”

“So naïve, little Lexi.” Her large, rough hand crept under my nightgown. “Always my favourite.”

Her scarred, inked hand touched my leg.

“What are you doing?” Dark shadows danced behind my eyelids. “Stop!” My head thrashed from side to side. “Please, stop. It hurts. It always hurts—”

“Alexa.” Liam’s baritone voice ripped me into the present. “Baby, wake up.”

Inhaling sharply, I bolted upright, the sheet falling to my waist. He stands beside the bed, unbuckling his belt. “Liam,” I whispered, fear and confusion burgeoning by the second. “What are you doing here?” I grabbed my phone from the bedside table. “It’s four o’clock in the morning.”

“I wanted to see you.” He tossed his shirt on the cuddle chair. “Are you okay?”

I stood, glanced at my reflection in the mirror. I was puffy-eyed and drenched in sweat. “I’m fine,” I lied, and he resigned with a tight-lipped smile. “Sorry, I am half asleep. Why are you here? Did something happen?”

“Do I need a reason for wanting to see my girl?” he asked with light persiflage in his rough voice. “I missed you.”

I regarded him suspiciously. “Is this about dinner with the guys earlier?” Silence humidified the air. “Liam?” When his accusing eyes landed on the bed, impossible rage clawed out of me. “Are you serious? What, you thought I had a guy here? Is that what this is about?”

He gave me a vainglorious smirk. “I am not threatened by little boys, Alexa.”

“Really? If other men do not threaten you,” I ignored his derisive chuckle, “why did you swing by tonight? Did you expect to catch me in the act?”

“You’re letting that senseless mind get ahead of itself.”

Farcical laughter rattled from me. “No, I think I’m pretty spot-on, asshole.” I shouldered past him, but he caught my wrist in a tight grip. “Liam…”

“You’re wrong,” he said decisively, his fingers pinching my skin. “I know you would never do that to me. But I do want to know which guy made inappropriate comments about you this evening.”

Jace’s sad expression flashed in my mind.

“Why?” I thought about my co-worker’s admittance. “I need to ask you something.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“His name is Jace,” I clarified to please him. “And Jace is gay.”

An element of surprise etched his stoic expression. “Gay?”

I nodded, snatching my arm back. I wanted to know if it was true—if Liam had murdered Jace’s parents. I should know, right? I am working alongside the man daily. “How many people have you killed?” I didn’t trust Liam enough to mention Jace’s story, though. He’d consider Jace a threat and act on impulse. “Liam?”

Minutes passed before he spoke. “Why?”

“I’m curious.” My back rested on the wall. “Ten? Twenty? Thirty?”

Liam’s muscular shoulders squared. “Awareness is irrelevant.”

I chuckled to hide discomposure. “Surely, it’s no more than fifty.” My eyes rounded when he didn’t respond. “Jesus, Liam.”

“Why are we arguing?” His teeth gritted. “When did I preach prestigiousness? Righteousness? Honourability? When did I mislead you, Alexa? You know what I am, yet you climbed into my bed regardless. Are you backing out now? Having second thoughts about us?”

“Don’t do that,” I argued valiantly. “You put words in my mouth. I never once claimed that I didn’t want to be with you. I do, however, need some answers.”

“You’re usually incurious about business.” He stepped up to me. “Why do you suddenly require knowledge and assurance?”

I need to know if Jace is going to be problematic. “Do you harm women?” I asked in a soft, demure voice. “Married couples? Undeserving victims?”

“You witnessed Kathy’s death.” His fingers splayed on the wall on either side of my head. “Is that enough validation for you? Or is it a name you require? Perhaps illustrative killings: blood, screams, pleas, weapons, torture methods.”

I put my hand to his chest. “Stop.”

“We’re not doing this.” He rubbed a hand across the scruff of his jaw. “Business is business. I shouldn’t have to justify myself to you, Alexa.” Cursing under his breath, he snatched his trousers, ready to pull them on. “Fuck this.”

“What? You’re leaving?” Panic shot through me. “Do not storm off when in the middle of a conversation. Why bother coming here?”

“I haven’t seen you in over a week,” he fired back, his unzipped trousers hanging low on his hips. “At this point, I don’t even know why this animosity festered or why the fuck we’re arguing. I had a long night. I wanted a few hours with my girl. I wanted to fuck you back to sleep.” His jaw clenched. “I don’t need the headache, though.”

I stumbled toward the door. “You are not leaving in the middle of an argument.” Haphazardly dressed, he powered toward me and shoved me aside. “Liam, please. I’m so sorry. I am picking a fight…” Why did I challenge him? I chose him—all of him. I cannot second-guess his lifestyle because Jace decided to spill distressing information. “I’m sorry.”

His breathing was heavy but controlled. “You infuriate me,” he said throatily, his hand claiming my throat, crushing. “Yet I fucking idolise you.”

His words were soul-consuming. It mightn’t be a declaration of undying love, but it was enough for me to feel it.

“I quite literally worship the ground you walk on.” His unyielding grip on my neck tourniquets blood flow. “I should demand an explanation.”

My fingers curled around his wrist, silently asking him to alleviate pressure. His hand softened, and when his mouth touched mine, I tasted a night of whiskey. “I’m sorry.” My hands smoothed over his broad shoulders. “Let me fix it, Liam.”

He released his hold on me. I held his eyes while descending to my knees, lowering his trousers and boxer briefs. He assisted, kicking both items of clothing aside, and grasped his growing shaft, giving himself a tight upstroke. “You got something better to do with those pretty lips, baby?”

My hands skirted up his thighs, feeling his muscles bunch together. Not breaking eye contact, I fluttered my tongue along the underside of his elongated cock and licked salty pre-cum from his engorged crown.

Fisting the back of my hair, he hissed through parted lips. “I can’t handle this beautiful view.” His throat worked on a tight swallow. “Take me into your mouth, Alexa.”

I obliged, replacing his hand with mine, upstroke, downstroke, worshipping his shaft with long strokes.

Groaning his approval, he thickened in my palm and dipped his head to watch me lick and taste the glistening crown, lapping pre-cum from the slit, taking him to the depths of my throat.

“Fuck.” His fingers tightened in my hair. “That’s it, baby.”

I ravished him greedily, head moving, bopping to his command, lapping up his arousal until he unexpectedly eased back and told me to stand. “I need to be inside you.” He snapped my thong, eliminated my oversized T-shirt and untied my hair. He watched unruly curls fall down my back. “I love your hair,” he whispered, and my heart reacted, thudding from the intensity of his penetrating blue eyes. “Hold me.”

My arms enveloped his shoulders.

He gathered me into his powerful arms and lifted me off the ground.

I wrapped my legs around his waist and crossed them at the ankles.

His cock nudged my entrance. “I came here because I was jealous.” He shoved into me with one sharp thrust. “Not because I thought you’d wrong me.”

I inhaled a deep breath, held it, adjusted to our angle—his size. I’ll never get used to his length, his thickness. He is big, too big, but he’s worth the desirable ache.

“There is only one man for me,” I whispered against his lips. “You.”

For the first time since knowing Liam, I witnessed insecure vulnerability in his questioning eyes. “It’s my birthday next week.” His hips jerked forward. “I’ll be thirty.”

Liam’s indirect approach registered. He needed reassurance. He needed me to promise that our age difference would not affect our future, but he’s too stubborn to admit apprehensions. Instead, he claimed me with hard thrusts. He left open-mouthed caresses along my neck, sucking, branding, seeking my mouth and devouring me with voracious kisses. “Tell me.” He relented, his hips hammering against mine, nailing me to the door. “I need to hear it.”

“I am not going anywhere,” I cried out, my fingernails digging into the back of his neck. “Liam.”

He pushed us away from the door and abruptly chucked me onto the bed. I positioned myself on all fours. The mattress dipped under his weight as he settled behind me. His fingers separated my soaked cleft, stroking my aching core expertly. “Fuck.” With his eyes on me, he sucked my juices from his fingertips. “I love this arse.” His sharp blow to my cheek tore an aroused moan from me. Holding my hips, he drove forward, his cock sinking to its full potential. “Fucking hell.”

My hands grappled the sheet with knuckle-white urgency. He shoved into me with such force, the sound of our bodies slapping together imitating around the bedroom.

I am entirely at his mercy, trapped beneath him. His lips ravished my neck. “You’re fucking beautiful.” Our fingers threaded as he pinned my palms to the mattress. “It fucks with my head, Alexa.”

Liam quickened the pace, but it was hardly punishing and unmerciful. He’d never admit his behaviour aloud, but he was making love to me. His chest to my back. Our gazes locked. His raw, bruising kiss not quite easing all-consuming sentimentalism.

“Liam…” I reached the pinnacle of combustion. Agonising pleasure tore through my body. “Oh, shit.”

His teeth sank into my shoulder, which both hurt and filled me with pleasure. “Alexa.” His shaft throbbed, emptied inside me in three warm spurts. “Fuck.”

My body was on fire.

His shaft eased out of me as he fell onto his haunches. Whispering a soft kiss to the small of my back, he collapsed onto the bed beside me. His body was a sculptured work of art. I often struggled to look elsewhere. “You had a nightmare.”

I nod, my cheek pressed to the sheet.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Sometimes,” I said, and his eyes fixated on mine, “I see my mother. I think they are happy memories—realistic moments we must have shared.”

He repositioned onto his side. “You’re unsure?”

“I don’t know if it’s a figment of my imagination.” My fingers fixed his ravelled chain. “I never got answers, Liam. I don’t know how she died or if it hurt. I like to believe her death was sudden, painless. In my dreams, she is happy and always smiling or singing…and then darkness creeps in like clambering shadows and…”

“Don’t,” he warned, his thumb pressing on my wobbling lips. “It’s not real, Alexa. Encumbered guilt is not the answer, either.” He slipped an arm underneath my neck, tugged me into his side and kissed the top of my head. “You didn’t finish reading your case file.”

No, I skimmed the majority as I was too distraught by Kathy’s betrayal.

“I can elucidate if you wish,” he said, and I craned my neck to look at him. “About your mother.”

“I found her, Liam. I remember seeing her on the kitchen floor. She was covered in blood, and they had torn her clothes.”

“Bullet wound to the back of her head,” he filled in the blanks. “It was a quick death. No signs of violation.” He studied the ceiling. “Buried in Newquay.”

I nuzzled into his chest. “Thank you, Liam.” I knew he was lying about her not suffering prolongedly, but I appreciated his need to preserve my memory. “Maybe I will visit her someday.”

His thumb and forefinger pinched my chin. He kissed me, slow and sensual, as if I was the oxygen he needed to breathe.

“Anyway, It’s your birthday next week.” I shot him a wicked smile. “Are we celebrating?”

He looked disgusted. “No.”

I bit back a laugh. “We can’t just do nothing, Liam.”

“An entire weekend in bed with you is the precision of celebratory fulfilment.” I felt his smirk on my lips. “If you’re lucky, I will feed you.” Ignoring his sexual innuendo, I pondered how to corner Brad and plan a surprise birthday gathering. “Until then,” he tugged my forearm, “I think it is your turn.”

My brow arched. “What’s my turn?”

“Sit on my face,” he ordered, and I blushed. “Let me feast on you.”

“Liam,” I scolded, but the cavemen used force to straddle me on his face. “You’re too crass—oh.” His tongue flattened through my dripping lips, and my palms struck the wall. “Oh, shit.”

His hands gripped my thighs. He swept his tongue between my folds, suckling me into his mouth. “No meddling, Alexa,” he cautioned, and I nodded, lying with intent. “I don’t want any fucking presents or social gatherings, got it?”

“Loud and clear.” I buried my fingers in his hair, shamelessly riding his face. “Oh, God.”

“Good girl.” He shoved two fingers inside me, searched for my G-spot; finding it, he plunged into me with deft fingers, his tongue circling the aching throb of my pussy. “Fuck.”

My head fell back as I chased my orgasm.

He sucked my lips, scissored his fingers. I was dripping wet, but now was not the time for modesty. I rode him until I tensed above him, his name falling from my lips.

Liam left no room for recovery. I was on my back, arms idly rested by my head, watching him crawl above me through hooded eyes. His fingers smeared juices across my lips, and I sucked them clean, tasting the sweetness of my arousal. “I hope you’re not tired,” he said, the thick, swollen head of his cock pushing into me. “I am nowhere near finished with you.”

As if I could say no to Liam Warren.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Alexa

I am a naughty woman.

Liam cautioned me about his birthday, strictly prohibiting undesirable celebrations and thoughtful presents. I didn’t ask nor understand his reasoning and, although I had vowed to respect his wishes, I hunted down Brad Jones the following afternoon and demanded his secret service.

I had previously conversed with Grayson, asking for some time off work to organise a surprise party at Club 11. Gray complied with stipulations, a personal invite for him and employees. I agreed before speaking to Jace, the problematic co-worker.

Jace apologised for his indelicateness the night we dined together. In fact, the man quite literally floored me when explaining he might’ve been quick to jump to conclusions about Liam. Apparently, he’d overheard whispers that Liam Warren was the man responsible for his parent’s death but never had solid proof or concrete evidence.

I mean, yes, I was somewhat sceptical of Jace’s sudden nonchalance. How can a man so vehemently defame someone one night and then act calm and unbothered merely days later? In saying that, I was simply relieved that Jace dropped the matter. He even asked if the open invite included himself.

After thanking Grayson for granting mandatory time off, I spent the rest of the afternoon shopping with my favourite Suit.

Optimistic and assuring, Brad claimed Liam would be thrilled with planned festivities once the initial shock subsided.

Since then, I have avoided Liam Warren as though my life depended on it. His incuriousness and lack of suspiciousness mollify me.

Liam continues to send text messages, asking about my days or sleep patterns or if I will return to work so that we can spend more time together.

I coolly played off Liam’s innocuous questioning, feigned hecticness at the Coffee House and promised to consider his unrelenting job proposals.

Presently, I stand in the middle of Club 11’s main function room, watching the scene unfold around me. Long gone are the half-naked dancers, vociferous conversationalists, clamorous clubland music and sporadic strobe lights. Alternatively, sophisticated and glamorous waitresses deliver champagne flutes to guests, pleasant-sounding music segued, and hors d’oeuvre and repartee for entremets ensued.

Under Brad’s stern advice, I omitted the three-tiered cake, celebratory embellishments and ostentatious décor, even though I wanted to splash out and make birthday celebrations extra special.

Luckily, Nate escorted Liam to the Grape and Vine, beguiling him into believing the restaurant had a problem that needed immediate addressing. According to Brad, Liam hadn’t suspected the lie nor discerned their dishonest behaviour; their boss’ absence granted us time to commence the surprise gathering.

I slipped behind the long-stretched bar and settled the diamante clutch bag on the counter. “Hey, stranger,” I chimed a little too excitedly. “How’s life?”

“Alexa.” Dressed to impress, Josh pulled me in for a tight hug, his broad-muscled chest smothering the line to my airways. “I missed you.” His hand tapped my backside as he released me. “You look hot as fuck. The boss will go ballistic when he sees you.”

I selected a red spaghetti strap dress with a drape neck, open back and side slit. Josh is correct. Liam will hit the roof when he sees me. It’s too brazen and revealing, but once he’s over the astonishment, I am sure he’ll be thrilled by the attire choice—or he’ll tear it off in anger and fuck me senseless. “Can I get a drink, please?”

Josh held a tall glass, added two vodka shots topped with lemonade and citrus fruit. “For you.” He winked cheekily. “Am I allowed to drink tonight? Brad never specified.”

“I don’t see why not.” My elbow rested on the bar top. “It’s a private function. Knock yourself out.”

Josh poured Jameson into a crystal glass, adding a splash of coke. “Damn.” He whistled. “Looking good.”

I followed his line of vision and bellied disapproval.

My blonde nemesis, modelling a skin-tight dress, impressive rack and six-inch heels, perched onto a padded bar stool. “Hey, Josh.” As I am a non-existent species to Natalie, she ignored me, ordered champagne and scoured our surroundings with intense covetousness. “Where is the boss?”

I hate her so much. I will not stand here and listen to her fawn over Liam.

Without wreaking havoc, I grabbed the glass and clutch purse, left the bar and hunted the growing crowd for my friends. Tailored in a navy three-piece, Brad stopped me from going further. “Just a heads up.” His chin jerked toward the entrance. “Warren is on his way over.” He rubbed his palms together, and the gold curb bracelets that adorned his wrists clinked together. “Make yourself scarce.”

My chin hit the floor. “Why?”

“In case he freaks out,” he stated the obvious, and I resisted the urge to kneecap him. “What? You knew hostility was a possibility.”

His rhyming lingo almost had me smiling. “You assured me he’d get over it,” I retorted, and he grinned mischievously. “Brad!”

Brad gently probed me toward the velour cushioned booths. “Your crazy friends are over there.” His fingers combed through blond locks. “Hide until he calms down.”

“Okay,” I whispered, hand to my stomach to ease intense nausea. “Oh, God. What if Liam finishes with me? This is a terrible idea. Let’s call it off while there is still time.”

“No.” He lifted an amber-filled glass to his lips. “Get wasted. Be quiet. I will find you later.”

Brad disappeared before I protested. As instructed, I downed the vodka for necessary courage and went to Chloe, Grayson, co-workers—and Jace. Great. “Hey,” I sing, wiggling past partygoers in their glamorous cocktail dresses and black tuxedos. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.” I eyed the only space beside the man in leather and contemplated standing. I plopped onto the seat, turned my back to him slightly, and crossed my legs. “What are you drinking?”

“Hon, I love him.” Chloe tossed a thumb toward Grayson. “He is adorable.”

Affronted by her child-like praise, Gray spluttered mid-drink. “Adorable,” he mocked, gesturing to his silk cream and gold embroidered shirt. “Not cool, Goldie Locks. Since when did Versace scream adorableness?”

“I meant your personality, dick head.” She sucked champagne through a black straw. “Why can’t you accept compliments, Grayson? Just be quiet and do shots with me.”

Not understanding their newfound friendship, I shook my head.

“What are you drinking?” Jace leaned closer to investigate the contents in my glass. “Ah, vodka. The good stuff.”

His neat drink sat on the table. “I found a fellow vodka aficionado,” I said, impressed. “Nice.”

Liam and Brad appeared at the entrance. I sank in the seat. Oh, God. Liam’s angry. I can feel his rising tension radiating from here. He passed guests fake smiles while he mastered scolding Brad like a ventriloquist.

Head falling against the booth’s padded rear, I snickered into the glass.

“Why are you laughing?” Jace’s pierced eyebrow hiked in question. “You are so strange, Alexa.”

“I know,” I agreed, unfazed by his light-hearted judgments.

As a unit, Liam and Brad descended the glass staircase to join the lively party. Blond Suit tapped the boss’ shoulder before he vanished into the crowd, and Liam, forced to converse with excitable guests, alternately addressed whoever demanded attention. He managed to slip away by gesturing to the bar. Masking irritation, he ordered a drink from Josh, a distilled glass of whiskey. His back to the counter’s edge while he sipped and hunted our proximities. I knew he was looking for me, and I almost stood to greet him until Natalie forced herself into his optical axis, hand on her hip, slick blonde hair falling down her back.

Liam downed whiskey in one mouthful and set the empty glass onto the countertop. His tall, imperious height towered her short yet slender frame.

Natalie brushed something off his suit sleeve, imaginary lint, I bet, and batted her eyelashes at him.

Impossible jealousy resurfaced.

If Liam doesn’t put Natalie in her place, I will raise hell on earth.

His face remained impassive, but when her fingers grappled his suit jacket, he never laid down the law. He allowed her to touch him, even though it made me uncomfortable.

“Someone is stroppy.” Gray’s arm extended across the booth’s rear behind Chloe’s neck. “Shot?”

“Please.” Rubbing the chill from my arms, I watched him pour neat Grey Goose into neon shot glasses. “Thank you.” Bringing the plastic rim to my lips, I tilted my head back and relished in the burn that sauntered down my throat. “I could use another.”

My gaze went back to Liam, who still entertained the blonde heathen.

I am furious.

How dare Liam berate me about other men and then play into Natalie’s hands, knowing how much we dislike each other?

Natalie’s ravenous palm fell to Liam’s chest as her face inched closer to talk sweet nothings in his ear. He mouthed something in return—I turned away. I worked too damn hard for tonight to be special for him. I will not punish myself with their visible display.

Jace engaged in conversation with an identifiable man. He is dark and mysterious, smartly dressed and attractive on the eye. I openly nosed, half-listened to them discussing football teams and pondered whether Jace was interested in his new friend.

I poured vodka into a glass, nursed it, and contemplated leaving.

Maybe Liam knows I am over here, but he’s punishing me for ignoring inflexible demands. “Whatever.”

Jace’s friend excused himself to use the male restroom. In the meantime, Jace folded his arms, his leather jacket stretching, unaccommodating his muscles. “What do you think?” He licked his lower lip in wait for my approval. “He mentioned going back to his place.”

I hadn’t pegged Jace as shy. “If you are interested, then why not?”

Humming throatily, he rubbed a palm against his chin. “I don’t know. He’s coming across a little clingy.”

My nose wrinkled. “What’s the definition of clingy?”

“Someone who obsessively blunders over another.”

Relation dawned on me. “Oh, God. I am a clingy blunder.”

Jace tossed me a double-take. “A what?”

“I am a possessive, jealous, blundering girlfriend,” I elucidated, and his green eyes rounded. “Do you know what terrifies me? How much I need him. I willingly made him my lifeline. If he cut me off, I would not survive it.” He was understandably nonplussed. “I am worth nothing without him,” I whispered the last part. “I know he’ll break my heart again, yet I am still sitting here,” I knocked back another shot, “waiting for him like a lovesick fool.”

Swivelling at the waist to face me fully, Jace clicked his pierced tongue. “Alexa,” he said, an indescribable emotion dancing in his eyes. “Listen, I am probably not the best person to share your problems with. Not only am I shit at giving advice, but I am not overly fond of the guy you choose to lay down with at night. If I were to give my opinion, which you stressed is unsolicited, I would say that you deserve so much better than Liam Warren.”

My gaze lowered to his chest, unable to withstand his concerned expression. “Maybe.”

His fingers grazed my cheek, and I uncurled my spine. “You probably won’t care, but there’s a guy near the bar who has been checking you out for almost twenty minutes.”

I gave him a half-smile. “He might have eyes for you,” I teased, unfazed by the appreciation of other men. “Perhaps we should test the theory…” I witnessed his eyes enlarging before the familiar sound of a gun clicking.

“Alexa.” Liam’s terrifying, authoritative voice hit me to the bone. “Do you want to tell me why this man is touching you?”

I belatedly recognised Jace’s palm caressing my knee and paled. “Liam…”

“Hey, listen,” Jace tried reasoning, raising his hands in surrender, “It’s not what you think—”

“No?” Liam’s lower body pressed up to my back. “So, it’s all in my head, huh? Your hand didn’t hike under Alexa’s dress.”

“Liam,” I intervened, standing on wobbly legs and placing myself in the firing line. “Jace is a friend.”

Liam’s infuriated, his anger soaring to a feverish pace. Without making eye contact, he fisted the front of my dress and hauled me close, chest to chest, the gun aimed at Jace’s head, decisiveness in his cold, blue eyes.

“Stop,” I ordered, noticing curious onlookers, some distressed, others unruffled, watching from the sideline. “Liam, I mean it.” I felt his erratic heartbeat under my palm. He was seconds from losing composure. “I already told you that he’s gay,” I whispered in his ear for only him to hear and reached for his hand to coax the gun from his rigid fingers. “Please.”

My back was to the others. I had no idea if my friends’ were worried or calm or if Jace remained seated.

Liam stubbornly persisted with antagonistic bellicose to defy me. “I want that man out of my fucking club,” he spat, and I espied Brad moving into action. “You.” His eyes aligned with mine. “My office. Now.”

With unwarranted vigour, he thrust me away from the occupied table. My face was impossibly hot. I caught my footing, straightened my dress and beelined the private door that led to Liam’s office with him on my heels. I smiled apologetically at security while entering the next floor, and then, standing by the office door like a naughty teenager, I held my breath and prepared for his onslaught.

Liam punched the code to his door and jostled me inside his office. “A fucking party.” He stormed across the room, snatched bottled whiskey from the minibar and unscrewed the cap. “What am I, Alexa? Sixteen? You,” he pointed at me with his hand gripped around the bottleneck, “might want to prance around like a fucking teenager, but that doesn’t mean I want to parade around like one with you.”

His offensive remark hit me hard in the chest. “I hate when you refer to me as a child, Liam,” I said calmly, closing the door behind me so that security took a hint to plug their ears. “I appreciate that you’re upset, but please refrain from insulting me.”

“And don’t even fucking start me on the alleged gay fucker downstairs.” His jaw steeled. “Anyone with a pair of eyes can see how much he wants to fuck your cunt.”

“Liam!” Anger coursed through my veins. “How dare you speak to me like that? It’s vulgar, offensive and downright disgusting. Yes, Jace is gay.” Please, for the love of God, Jace, I hope you did not lie to me. “And yes, I threw you a party, but that does not mean I am childish. I wanted to do something nice for you.” My hands curled into fists to prevent anxious shakes. “While we’re on the subject of jealous partners. You have no right to stand there and judge me. You had no right to threaten an innocent person, not after I saw you with Natalie.”

“Natalie?” Awkwardness squeezed the space between us. “I don’t give a fuck about that bitch.” He stared at me in silent fortitude as a single tear fell down my cheek. Resting his backside to the desk, he swept a hand down his angered features and lunged the bottle at the wall, fragmenting the glass into tiny shards. “You went over my head.

Fury bubbled inside me. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Alexa,” he berated, holding up a hand. “Be quiet. Let me fucking think for a minute.”

“Do not tell me to be quiet,” I argued, forcing myself into his personal space. “I am supposed to be your…” Girlfriend, I thought, despising how immature it sounded. “I deserve respect.” His eyes bored into the ceiling. “Liam.” My palms captured his cheeks. “Talk to me.”

His gaze toured my face in pensive reluctance. “I haven’t had this before,” he said, and I frowned. “I don’t normally celebrate my birthday. It’s not me. I meant what I said, Alexa. You and me, all weekend. That’s what I wanted.”

“I’m sorry. You told me. I didn’t listen.” My hands hugged his broad shoulders. “Please don’t hate me.”

“Alexa, fuck. I could never hate you.” His hands grasped my head. “What are you wearing? Are you trying to kill me?”

I put our foreheads together. “I love you.”

His eyes closed on a low exhale. “I wish you’d stop saying that.”

“Why? Because you refuse to say it back?” I goaded him, and he bristled me with a sharp glare. “If you believe that committing yourself to me wholeheartedly guarantees my death, then you are more senile than I thought. It doesn’t matter, Liam,” I added, and he stood taller to move away from me. “People see us together. Your enemies will learn who I am either way.”

“Stop.” His harsh snide sliced through me. “Enough. Don’t complicate what we have. Don’t put bad concepts inside my head, Alexa. Quit while you’re ahead.”

I relented, stepping out of his reach.

“I got shit to do. You should go home.” He noticed tears in my eyes and spat out another curse. “Don’t do that. You know I hate seeing you like that.”

“Then stop hurting me!” My chest heaved as I grappled for composure. “Go ahead—shut me out. I am used to your bullshit.”

Furious, he squared up to me. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

“For you to love me back,” I cried, slapping a hand over my mouth, regretting the devastating words that I spoke. “Liam, I can’t do this anymore.” I turned for the door when his hand seized the nape of my neck. “Get off me!” I wrestled in his inescapable hold. “Liam!”

“Enough!” He trapped me in his strong arms. “I cannot look at another woman without comparing her to you,” he admitted in a low, gravelly voice. “I cannot think straight when you are not with me, or breathe properly when you enter a room, or sleep without you by my side at night. Alexa, I can’t picture a future where you are not in it.”

My back hit the wall. “Liam—” His mouth crushed mine, stealing the oxygen I breathe. It’s neither firm nor soft but determined, adamant, sealed with an unspoken promise. “No.” I ripped away first, giving him my cheek. “It hurts too much.”

Liam’s head fell to my shoulder, his warm breath to my ear. “Feel it.” He placed my fingers over his chest. “That is how much I care.” His thudding heart rapt against my palm. “That is how much I love you.”

My breath hitched. “It’s not love.”

His lips, soft to my cheek, whispered, “It’s love, baby. It scares me. But it is real. I feel it when you look at me,” he said quietly. “I am irrevocably in love with you.”

We breathed in each other’s air and settled in our quiet ambience.

I blinked back happy tears.

Liam Warren fell in love with me.

I looked him in the eye. “And I am in love with you.”

He was all smiles as he kissed me. “I am taking the weekend off and spending it with you.” His thumbs roved the length of my collar bones. “What do you say? Nobody else. Just you and me. If you behave, I might even cook for you.”

Tapping my chin with a pointer finger, I pretended to consider. “Will there be lots of sex?”

His infectious smirk palpitated my heart. “Of course.”

Resting my head against the door, I unclasped the emblem from my necklace and held it between us. “For you.”

Liam’s fingers curled around mine as he accepted the gift. “You got me a present.” Lips twitching as he read the engraving, he studied the white gold military tag. “Are you branding me, baby?”

I respond with a gleeful smile. “You bet I am.” He leaned in to whisper a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth. “I mean, it’s only my name. I stopped myself from being too possessive and, I don’t know, claiming you as my property.”

Liam chuckled, low and throaty. “I will wear it proudly. He fastened the tag’s link to his long chain. “I need to send a few emails before we leave.”

“Well, I should go first,” I suggested, and his expression became serious. “I need to pack a bag, Liam.”

He glanced at the laptop on the desk.

“Send the emails. I will go home and come back here before you finish.”

“I will order one of the men to drive you.”

“That’s not necessary, Liam. I promised Chloe late-night noodles. And before you protest,” I hiked a leg and pointed to my shoe, “I will remind you that Nate bugged my favourite footwear. Let me stuff my face, and then I will meet you back at the penthouse.”

He struggled not to argue with me. “Fine.”

I walked away, giddy and slightly nauseated. “Oh, shit.”

Gathering scattered thoughts, I opened the dance room door and searched for the others, but new occupants took ownership of our booth. Recalling Gray’s predilection for social smoking, I squeezed through dancing crowds, ascended the glass staircase and exited the club through the main entrance. Cold winds blew under my dress. I gripped the hem to avoid flashing, stepped onto the main road, and, head darting back and forth, tried to locate my friends. I did not see the others, but across the street, Jace rested against the brick wall. “Hey,” I called, and his drowsy eyes slid open. “Oh, God. How much did you drink?”

Licking his dry lips, Jace briefly took in our surroundings. “I was waiting for the bus,” he slurred, staggering to keep himself upright. “I might flag a taxi.”

“Come here.” Wrapping an arm around his waist, I latched his hand onto my shoulder, and we both zigzagged down the street like drunken idiots. “Why are you heavy?” I complained, my back straining under his weight. “Jesus, Jace.” We stumbled around the street corner, and I slapped a hand against the shop window to keep us upright. “You need to lay off that damn sugar.”

“I am not fat,” he mumbled, and I snorted. “Do not make fun of me.”

It’s hard not to laugh. Drunk Jace was comical. “Not fat but big.”

“In more ways than one,” he felt the need to tell me, and I died on the spot. “It’s a joke. Well, not really. I am big down there, but yeah, I should shut up now.” He gestured to a parked vehicle. “That’s my car.” He patted himself down to find the car keys. “You are a diamond, Alexa.”

“Jace, you cannot drive in your state.” I tried to steal the keys. “You’re too drunk. It’s not safe.”

Aiming the keys at his rusted wheels, Jace removed his leather jacket and tossed it in the boot. “I get it,” he said, clicking his neck to the side. “I understand why Warren’s so protective over you.”

“Yeah.” I winced. “I am sorry about what happened tonight.”

“I would be the same.” His green eyes held mine for a few seconds. “You’re fucking sinful, Alexa.”

I stiffened all over. “Maybe I should call that cab.”

“You know, I am not really gay, right?”

Jace stepped forward. I stepped back.

A predatory blackness filled his eyes. “I am still trying to understand how you fell for that.

“Touch me,” I warned, preparing to run, “and I will fucking scream.”

A sinister smile wound on his lips. His once-friendly smile posed a threat. “You can try,” his gaze flickered over my head, “but you won’t get far.”

A body slammed into my back. I screamed, reaching for the leather-clad hand that captured my mouth to muffle cries.

“Remove the trackers,” Jace said, his tone panicked as he snatched the shoes on my feet. “Hurry up.”

I begged Jace to stop through watery eyes, but soon, my senses died, and chemicals disoriented my mind. My handler kept the damp cloth over my mouth until I struggled to keep my eyes open.

“We will contact you,” the man drawled, his recognisable accent mulling me to sleep. “Get her out of here.”

Jace lifted my lifeless body into his arms. I inwardly cried for Liam as he placed me into the car boot.

Darkness crept in and invaded dreams, dragging me back to hell.

CHAPTER FORTY-Eight

Liam

I snagged the Macallan bottle from the mini bar, fell onto the leather chair behind the desk and imbibed enough alcohol to relax the tightness in my muscles. Alexa only left the office ten minutes ago, yet I’m already anxious, waiting for her return. I hate when we’re apart. Over the past few weeks, we distanced from each other, which challenged my obsessive possessiveness. I wanted her back at the club, working behind the bar, and back at the penthouse, spending the nights in my bed.

Alexa, however, adopted a different approach regarding our relationship. Perhaps her insistence on staying at the Coffee House and sleeping in her own bed was an impenetrable fortress she built between us to protect herself from me just in case I broke her heart again.

We sent an array of text messages, though, I thought, unlocking my phone to read the one she’d sent me this afternoon.

Alexa: Sorry, I missed your call. I am in bed with a cold. Make me better? I promise to love you forever.

The lying little con artist. I damn believed that sickness tale and prepared to collect her after the bogus trip to the Grape and Vine so that we could spend the entire weekend in bed together. I had it all figured out. I was prepared to let her rest while I ran ragged around her, assisting every demand and need.

I specifically protested the idea of celebratory gatherings, and the disobedient woman schemed regardless. She even dared to cajole the men.

Tonight, on arrival, I instantly discerned too many familiar faces in the crowd. People I seldom socialise with unless exchanging favours. The dancers, who usually wear next to nothing, dressed in impressive attire with a sophisticated touch of elegance. I knew the high-priced champagne, tailor-made tuxedos, and pretentious gowns embodied grandiose defiance, courtesy of my beautiful woman.

I had calmed down for a nanosecond until witnessing Alexa’s cosy display with her co-worker, Jace, the apparent homosexual whose shifty eyes haughtily disrobed her while they talked. Alexa, so trusting, unassuming and oblivious, believed his lies and spurious claims. I, however, know a serpent when it provokes me so audaciously.

Jace watched me advance. He even curbed a smirk when perceiving the cocked Desert Eagle. He tried to convince Alexa that I am a tempestuous tyrant, and he is a saint who preaches world peace—fuck off.

“You cancelled the party.” Brad entered the office. His hair and clothes were dishevelled, his belt buckle slackened and clanking together. “I thought you got over the festivities…” His eyes bounced around the room. “Where is Alexa?”

I sent Nate a message.

Me: I want everyone out of the building.

Nate: Yes, Sir.

“Alexa went home.” I balanced a cigarette on my bottom lip, matched a flame and drew in a long drag. “She is spending the weekend at the penthouse and will need to pack a bag.”

“That’s good.” Brad helped himself to the minibar. “Do you need me to pick her up?”

Brad had drunk too much alcohol. It’s not usually a problem because he’s a better driver when under the influence, but I am not testing fate with my woman in the car. “Where did you go?” I pointed to the lipstick and smudged foundation on his shirt collar. “Cherry?”

He shrugged, collapsing onto the leather sofa. “I didn’t get a name,” he said minus shame. “I don’t understand women.”

I exhaled smoke. “Said by every man roaming this godforsaken planet.”

“So, this bird lets me pummel her from behind,” he said, and I mentally prepared myself for the raconteur. “And it was decent, fun, whatever.” His lips flattened into a grim line. “She was a virgin.”

My eyebrows climbed. “You fucked a virgin?”

“Well, she didn’t tell me that,” he fired back, disgusted by their occurrence. “Bloodied cock and whatnot.”

“That’s what you get for being irresponsible all the time,” I respired a slew of smoke, watching him closely. “How did you handle Jace?”

Brad was confused for a moment. “Oh, the inked guy?” He jerked a shoulder. “Fine. He left willingly. He didn’t argue the matter.”

Odd, I thought, twisting slightly in the chair. “Not even a bit of lip?”

Brad shook his head. “He apologised for offending you and went on his merry way.”

Unease gnawed my stomach. “I do not trust him,” I said, and his lips stretched into a knowing grin. “No. It has nothing to do with Alexa. There is something off about him; I feel it in my gut.”

I scratched my jaw, finished the cigarette and picked up the phone to scan the recent dial history. I clicked Alexa’s number. “Welcome to the o2 messaging service—” I ended the call and sent her a text message instead.

Me: Are you ready?

Nate strode into the office, tossed his suit jacket onto the coffee table, rounded the desk and loaded surveillance.

Me: You looked beautiful tonight.

I gave him a sharp look. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Sir.” Nate’s inked fingers tapped the keyboard. “Do you know this guy?” He turned the monitor and zoomed in on a middle-aged male, lingering near the customer bathroom facilities. He stands with his back to the camera, a phone to ear, but frequently looks over his shoulder as if expecting someone.

Brad’s hand grasped the back of my chair. His narrowed eyes were pinned on the screen. “Isn’t he one of Alexa’s work friends?”

I had no idea. “What about him?”

Me: Maybe keep the dress on. I need something to hold onto when I bend you over.

Nate minimised the window and clicked on a different camera angle, confirming the man had previously sat around the table with Alexa and her friends. He held an intimate conversation with Jace but paid scarce attention to the others. “Again, what about him?”

Me: Fuck the dress. I want you naked, writhing beneath me, those sinful legs wrapped around my waist while I fuck you.

My cock is hard just thinking about it.

“He left them before you confronted Jace,” Nate explained, loading a third camera angle. “After he utilised the restroom, he vacillated near the fire exit. He spoke to security and convinced him to let him smoke a cigarette in the alleyway.” We watched the men interact on the screen. “I don’t know why the doorman authorised it, though.”

I was anxious to leave. “Well, call him to the office so that I can ask him.”

Me: Don’t worry, baby. I plan to make love to you, too.

“He’s not downstairs,” Nate continued, and my scowl deepened. “That’s how I knew something wasn’t right. The fire door was left open, with no sign of security. I checked surveillance on my laptop, felt their strange interaction was noteworthy and brought it to your immediate attention. I don’t know what this means, though.” He’s unconvinced. Worry lines merged above his furrowed eyebrows. “It’s probably nothing.”

Drumming my fingers on the desk, I anxiously awaited Alexa’s response.

Brad’s backside perched onto the desk. He uprooted his phone, dialled a number and placed it to his ear. “What’s your station?” he asked Tim, tonight’s head bouncer. “Who is patrolling the back? Alfie?”

Nate passed me a worried glance.

“Well, where the fuck is he?” Brad asked, his hand crushing the phone. “No. Alfie is not outback, and the boss wants to know why.”

I overheard Tim’s raised voice through the receiver. “Give me that.” Snatching the phone out of Brad’s hand, I set it to my ear. “Tim, quit talking so much, or I’ll take a fucking peeler to your face. Find Alfie. Now.” Ending the call, I tossed it back to Brad and checked my screen, wondering why Alexa still hasn’t messaged back. “Locate Alexa.” My apprehensions were escalating to a concerning speed. Maybe I am tired, irritable and famished. I need a good night’s sleep. “Any luck?”

“Alexa’s home surveillance is down,” Nate said cautiously, and I sat taller. “Her trackers are fine, though.” He counted the red dots on the screen. “No, one’s missing.” One by one, the red locations intermittently disappeared from the monitor. “What the hell is going on?” he barked, unable to conceptualise tonight’s strangeness. “Sir—shit.” Snatching Brad’s phone, he dialled Alexa’s number, sharpened cheekbones sinking. “Something is wrong. Why did she remove her trackers?”

I gripped the phone and listened to the automated message. “The number you have dialled is not recognised,” the female voiceover robotically said. “Please hang up and try again.”

Amid our over anxiousness, reverberations began to ripple beneath our feet. High-pitched screams and bursts of sporadic gunfire followed. “Fuck.” I lunged from my chair just as the window shattered into a million pieces, spraying shards of glass across the room. Bullets whipped through the air as we ducked in unison, knees colliding with the floor, our heads buried under our hands. “Who’s in the building?” I yelled, rolling onto my back to retrieve the Desert Eagle from the waistband of my trousers. Flinching from unremitting gunfire, I slammed a magazine round into the gun. “Nate?

“I was in the middle of ushering people out before I came to you.” Nate crawled toward the door, his crouched from disappearing into thick white smog and dispersed effluvium.

Following Brad into the hall on my hands and knees, I slammed the door behind us, concealing whatever detonated chemicals clambered the four walls inside the office.

Full-throttled screaming and gunshots reiterated from downstairs. I descended the stairs, passed armed security as they oscillated in numerous directions to obscure the clubs’ exit routes, and shouldered into the main function room. My shoes slipped across pooled blood. Dead bodies strewed the floor. “Fuck.” People stampeded toward the entrance to avoid bombardment, but our masked attackers aimed fire with reckless haste, popping off victims and fought their way through security.

A man wearing all black and a balaclava stepped out in front of me, his arm raised, ready to shoot. I snatched his forearm, snapped his wrist, feeling bones crunch beneath my fingers, obtained his gun and shot him at close range with the same bullet he dared to aim in my face. He dropped to the ground. Leaning down to unmask him, I checked he was dead and noted the Nazi tattoo on his neck.

Panic flooded every vein in my body. I ran to the burly bloke wrestling with one of my men, wrapped an arm around his neck and dragged his thrashing, kicking body to the side. Thrusting the gun into his spine, I pulled the trigger and captured his slackened, deadweight body. I remove his balaclava. Again, another unidentifiable man, but the Coat of Arms emblem tattoo scrolled his neck confirmed trepidations. His body met the floor, the colour of warm crimson spreading across the marble. I stepped over him to locate Brad, who was fighting someone near the shattered bar.

For a long moment, I stood in the juxtaposition of combativeness and rounds of gunshots, watching bullets rip through the club’s interior. The once majestic room laid in bloodied pieces on the ground. I could not bear to look at the fragmented glass, the overturned furniture and the destroyed ceiling.

“Let Nate finish,” I ordered, ripping my right-hand man away from the dead Albanian. “Now. Brad.”

Brad thrust a hand through blond, tousled hair. He spat bloodied saliva on the floor, dodged scattered dead bodies and, rudely shoving hordes of screaming customers out of his way, parting space for us to leave, he headed for the main door.

Cold winds greeted me, blowing dark strands of hair across my heated face as I sprinted down the street.

Brad unlocked the parked Bentley’s door, fell behind the steering wheel and fired the engine. “What about Nate?”

“He’s fine.” I shut the passenger side door behind me, opened the glove compartment to retrieve extra ammunition and reloaded the Eagle. “Drive.”

Brad’s foot slammed on the accelerator, and the Bentley raced down the street. He drove around dispersing people, the vehicle ripping onto the main road, disappearing into the night.

My phone jerked in my pocket. Relief inflated my lungs. I glimpsed the screen to see a withheld number flashing, and dread resurfaced. “Warren.”

Alarming silence stretched for ten harrowing seconds.

“You lost.” His throaty voice and unmistakable Albanian accent made my muscles coil.

“You think you’re tough, huh?” My anxious tone lowered to a threatening drawl. “You call me on a private number and make a mockery out of me.” Anger reaching dangerous heights, I punched the dashboard. “You didn’t win, Bajramovic. I am going to find you,” I promised, the vehicle vibrating as Brad sped down the street. “Your death will be my most gruesome killing yet.”

“Mund ta provosh. Ju nuk do të fitoni.” He chuckled into the receiver. “Warren.”

Cutting the call, I lunged the phone onto the back seat and sank back against the leather. I gazed out of the window, the streets of London passing in a colourful blur.

“Nate is fine,” I said, knowing Brad needed to hear it. “Alexa is fine—” A vehicle crashed into the back of the Bentley. “Fuck!” My hands instinctively slapped onto the dashboard. “Brad.”

Spitting out a slew of expletives, Brad tussled the steering wheel, the tyres shrieking as he tried to straighten our vehicle. “Get on them, Bossman.”

I looked in the rear-view mirror. “Get down!” We ducked our heads in time for the back window to shatter on a loud crash, spraying pieces of broken glass across the leather seats. “Fucking hell.” Lowering the passenger side window, I twisted in the seat, extended an arm into the cold and fired at the black Tesla. Bullets pinged off the car’s protective exterior and the driver, swerving into the next lane, almost lost control of the wheel. “Keep driving.”

Razor-focused, Brad stomped on the accelerator and waded between on-coming traffic.

I aimed for the driver, the one preparing to ram the Tesla into the Bentley. My finger traced the Eagle’s trigger. I released a bullet from the chamber. It whooshed through the air, penetrated the driver’s side window and nailed him in the cheek. His accomplice, unprepared for his friend’s death, failed to grab the steering wheel. “Got them,” I said, my back slumping against the dash to watch their car spin out of control, the speed spiralling at a rapidly unstoppable pace, the tyres skidding as the passenger fought to regain control.

The Tesla collided with another vehicle, and Brad extended a low whistle. “Bang, bang, motherfuckers,” he chimes as their car toppled over, the metal roof scraping across the road. He holds up one hand, counting on his fingers—pause. “Boom.”

A head-splitting explosion blew debris heavenward. Black smoke clambered toward the dark sky. The vehicle and its occupants went down in a sea of uncontrollable flames.

Brad turned another corner, veering the Bentley down Alexa’s street. An assemblage of neighbours loitered the pavements, mugs and cigarettes in hand, concern and devastation in their round, weeping eyes. “Stop the car,” I whispered, and he decelerated to apply pressure to the brake. “Now, Brad.”

I flung open the passenger side door before the vehicle fully stopped. I tucked the firearm into the waistband of my trousers and, drowning out the neighbourhood’s hysteria, elbowed through devastated mobs. Then I see it, uncontainable smoke billowing to the depressed heavens, the council building groaning, disintegrating, violent red and burnt orange flames licking through windowless frameworks.

I felt the heat on my face.

Police cars, fire engines, ambulances and emergency services mounted the curbside to cordon off the catastrophic event.

I broke into a sprint through blurred vision, ducked under the yellow barrier tape, and ran straight toward the burning building. An officer bolted towards me, ordering me to stand down—I slammed a fist in his face, dropped him. “Alexa—”

“Bossman.” Brad gripped me by the shirt collar, his knuckles fisted under my chin. “You can’t go in there. It’s gone—”

“Call her,” I demanded, heaving for breath. “Call her, Brad. That’s a fucking order.”

He let go of my shirt, fluctuating with the phone in his hand. “Boss—”

“Give it to me.” I snatched his phone and dialled her number. “The number you have called—” Throwing the phone across the street grass, I gripped my hair by the roots. “Alexa is not in there, Brad. The penthouse…” Pain ripped through my chest. “Alexa’s at the penthouse…” Whispering groans protracted as the fire spread rapidly up the building’s exterior, claiming the residential floors, the old brickwork and the crumbling rooftop. “Brad…”

Why did I leave her unguarded?

Why didn’t I prevent this?

“Fuck.” Staggering backwards, I rubbed two hands down my face. “Ah, fuck. I knew…” Never am I lost for words. “I fucking knew this would happen—” Someone speared me to the ground, knocking the wind from my lungs. My face adhered to fallen leaves and wet mud. “Get the fuck off me.”

“He hasn’t done anything,” Brad defended my honour, arguing with the officer jabbing his knee into my lower back, immobilising me to the ground. “For fuck’s sake!”

I struggled and relented.

The officer wrenched my arms behind my back and fastened handcuffs to my wrists. Tasting salty tears on my lips, I closed my eyes, inhaled through my nose and choked on a heaved sob—I do not cry. I mustn’t show emotion, weakness, or fear. “Ah, fucking hell.”

Roughly lifting me from the ground, the officer boastingly babbled in my ear, taking great pleasure in my arrest. “Liam Warren, I am arresting you for assaulting a police officer.” He put us nose-to-nose. “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court—”

I spit in his face.

“Bossman,” Brad cautioned.

Salvia slapped the officer’s chin. He shut his eyes, wiped away my uncaring disrespect and continued, “Anything you say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

Six officers appeared, anticipating a struggle. I blinked back tears, licked fine wet dews from my lips. “You are a fucking jobsworth,” I tell him, my breathing strained. “Everybody knows I got London by the fucking balls.”

His nostrils flapped, cheeks flaring red.

I purposely shifted, and he flinched, ripping dry laughter from me. “Three days, cunt,” I warned as his fellow officers intervened, using unnecessary force to drag me toward the police vehicle. “I’m coming for you.”

“Boss, keep your mouth shut,” Brad advised, keeping his distance. “We’re going to be right behind you and—”

Unrepressed vigour tossed me onto the backseat before the door crashed in my face. Head buried on the leather, I lowered my eyelids, faced the consequences, and sobbed like a fucking baby.

Alexa Haines stole my heart.

I don’t want it back.

To be continued…

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Thank you for reading Redemption. I really hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a review if you have time. It would me a lot to me.

Book Two, Sacrifice, is completed and available on my profile.