The sound of his helpless body hitting the ground is chilling.
A sound I’ll never forget.
And the beats of my heart slow to nothing.
1
April 2012
* * *
My nose wrinkles. My closed eyes clench. My waking brain pounds like a motherfucker. I open one eye and come face to face with an empty bottle, the damn thing practically touching my nose. I groan and roll onto my back, away from it. Good fucking God. My head feels like an army of soldiers is stomping its way through it.
I lift my hand on a sigh and rest it on my forehead, trying to compress the thuds. Painkillers. I need painkillers. And water. Get me some fucking water.
I drag myself up, resting back on my elbows, and peek around the room, searching for more evidence of my heavy night. I spy my clothes on the floor. But no others with it. No bra, no knickers. I hitch a brow in surprise. Don’t tell me I went to bed alone.
“Water?”
I startle and look at the bathroom door, finding a naked woman—her name escapes me—leaning against the door with a glass in her hand.
“You look like you need it.” Another woman appears behind her, also naked, except for the smile she’s wearing. I definitely know her name. Fucking hell, what was I thinking entertaining Coral again? The woman is in love with me. I’m not assuming. She’s told me. Repeatedly. I knew getting into bed with her and her husband to fulfill their wild fantasies was a mistake. Now she’s left him. Now, I have a pissed off copper on my back. And now she’ll take me however I come, always drunk and, last night, even with another woman.
“Want some help up?”
Make that another two women.
You’re a fuck-up, Ward. A total, uncontrollable fuck-up.
I fall back to the mattress and pull the sheet over my head. “Any more of you hiding in there?” I ask. Jesus, I can’t remember a thing.
I hear the bedroom door open. Then silence.
Then . . .
“Okay, the orgy’s over,” Sarah says, sounding as unimpressed as usual. She’s got a nerve. I bet she’s been thrashing man after man all fucking night. “Out.”
“I’m a paying member,” one of them retorts, as indignant as fuck.
“Not if I cancel it,” Sarah counters. I can hear the smugness in her tone. “No need to get dressed,” she adds, and I peek out from under the sheet, seeing her gathering up clothes from the floor at the end of the bed and chucking them at the women. She’s pissed off. Pissed off because there were three women in my bed last night, and she wasn’t one of them.
She escorts them out, slams the door, and then starts collecting up various toys from the floor and shoving them in a basket ready to be cleaned. “Why didn’t you stay at your rental last night?” she asks.
“It’s lonely.” I swing my legs off the bed and stand. And wobble. And groan. Fuck me, why do I punish myself like this? On cue, a million flashbacks parade through my sore head, reminding me of my wrongs. As if I need reminding. But in case I do, my scar twinges too, and I rub at it as I wander to the bathroom. I can feel Sarah’s eyes on my back as I go. “What time is it?” I call back.
“Too early for a drink.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter under my breath, flipping the shower on. It’s never too early for a drink. Never too early to escape.
“You have an appointment with your lawyer at three, remember? To sign the papers for your new place. I’ve arranged for the transfer.”
“When am I moving in?” I ask, stepping into the shower and standing there. Just standing there, letting the hot water wash away last night’s shame, at the same time wishing this water could wash away my regret. My past. Wash away me.
“A week Saturday. The developers have the launch night on the Friday, then it’s all yours.”
I look at the bathroom door when Sarah appears, leaning on the frame. She seriously needs to stop with all that stuff she pumps into her face. It’s having the reverse effect these days, making her look older instead of younger and fresher. “So my new apartment will be full of strangers wandering around messing it up?”
“It’s in the contract. The developer has assured us it’ll be left as good as new for you to move into.”
I set about washing my hair. “What else?”
“We need to talk about the new rooms. Décor, design, layout, equipment, that kind of thing.”
I work up a lather, closing my eyes and trying to enjoy the spray while Sarah bothers me. “John’s sorting the equipment,” I tell her. “As for the décor, call the company who did my new place.”
“You want the Lusso designer?”
“Yeah, why not? All that Italian shit looks great.” Really great. The penthouse I now own is fucking incredible, but the décor? Yeah, whoever did that knows what they’re doing. It’s good. Very good. Tasteful. And if The Manor is anything, it’s tasteful. Past the orgies and illicitness, of course. I smile as I rinse my hair, thinking Carmichael would be proud of what it’s become. Then it drops when I think about how disappointed he’d be by what I have become.
I flinch and shake my head free of those thoughts. “What’s the time?” I ask as I step out of the shower. Sarah doesn’t control her roving eye.
“Still too early for a drink.” She pulls a towel off the rail and chucks it at me. “I’ll call Rococo Union,” she says as she leaves me in peace.
I frown. “Who’s Rococo Union?”
“The designers of your new swanky penthouse,” she calls. “What should I say when they ask what kind of establishment this is?”
I go to the mirror and immediately look away from the drained-looking man staring back at me. My green eyes look dull, my skin sallow. “It’s The Manor, that’s it. No need to give them a rundown of everything that happens within its walls, Sarah.”
“Why? Are you ashamed?”
I don’t entertain her. She knows I couldn’t give a flying fuck what people think of me or my establishment. I just can’t be bothered to feed their curiosity.
* * *
As I descend the sweeping staircase to the lobby, John wanders out of the bar. His wraparounds are perfectly in place as always, but I know his eyes will be narrowed behind them. I reach the bottom and stretch my hamstrings, nodding to staff as they pass. “All right?” I ask.
His face remains impassive. “Stayed the night again?”
I give him a tired look but hold back my retort, because if there’s one man on this earth who deserves my respect, it’s John. “I’m going for a run.” I need to clear the cobwebs off. And the drink. And the sin.
I head for the doors.
“Just tell me,” he says, pulling me to a stop. I don’t turn around. “Why the fuck have you spent millions on a penthouse apartment when you crash here every night?”
It’s a reasonable question. I turn to face him, pulling my heel to my arse to stretch my thigh. “It’s an investment.” What else should I spend my money on? My car’s paid for, my bikes are paid for, this place is paid for, I don’t need to pay for gym membership, food, and drink.