Or sex.
And I certainly haven’t got anyone to leave my money to.
“We’re here for a good time, John.”
He shakes his head, and I know he’s thinking Uncle Carmichael would turn in his grave. “Or,” he starts, “perhaps you’ve bought it because a tiny part of your fucked-up brain, which makes a brief appearance most mornings when you wake up with a pounding head and a few women in bed, is telling you that you need to get the fuck out of this lifestyle.” He turns and wanders toward the bar.
Yeah, and maybe that too.
“Go on holiday, Jesse,” he calls back.
“I just got back from Cortina.”
“That wasn’t a holiday. That was a change of scenery.” He disappears into the bar as I drop my heel from my arse. He’s right, of course. But in my defense, I went with good intentions. A detox, if you will. Then I found the minibar and a few hot Swedish women. It spiraled from there.
My head is suddenly pounding again, and I glance around The Manor’s lobby. Opulence and grandeur stretch to every corner. From floor to ceiling. Every inch of this place drips sophistication. I look up the stairs to the private suites. Why the fuck wouldn’t I want to stay here every night?
Because it’s slowly killing you.
Run.
I turn and break into a sprint. And I don’t stop. Not for miles. My head empties and my body loosens, my mind focused on the feel of my feet hitting the ground constantly. Peace.
And that sense of freedom only intensifies the farther I get away from The Manor.
2
I wake up the following morning sprawled on a bed in the communal room, my staff cleaning around me. “Fuck,” I mumble, propping myself up. “Morning.”
“Morning, Mr. Ward,” Rosa says cheerily as she strips the bed next to me. God love her, she doesn’t bat an eyelid at my naked form.
I gather the sheets and stand, wrapping them around my waist. “What time is it?”
“Ten o’clock, Mr. Ward.” She flaps a fresh sheet, and it whips the air, creating a deafening crack. I flinch, kicking a bottle out of the way as I leave.
I trudge down the stairs, around the landing, and into my private suite, shutting the door behind me and leaning against it. Why the fuck do I do this to myself?
Because you’re a glutton, Ward. A glutton for alcohol and sex. And punishment.
And escape.
But there is no escape.
I hear the muffled sound of my mobile and scan the room. The bedsheets are everywhere, the floor littered with various pieces of leather lingerie. My mind fuzzes, a montage of naked bodies and entwined limbs, ransacking my brain. Moans of pleasure. Screams of ecstasy. Meaningless orgasm after meaningless orgasm.
Release.
But no release.
I fall to the bed and close my eyes. I shouldn’t. I know what I’ll see. What I’ll hear. But I’m exhausted. Always exhausted.
* * *
Seven months. Seven months of hated but deserved solitude. Can’t face a world where there is no Jake. I haven’t left the house. Not once. Hardly left this room. We didn’t share, not since we were fifteen, but he was always in here. Always reminding me I wasn’t all bad, because we, Jake and I, were one, and everyone has two sides.
“We did everything we could.” His words, his grave face.
The looks my parents gave me when the doctor uttered those dreaded words. They’ll haunt me for the rest of my miserable life
I’m hollow. So fucking hollow.
No Jake.
Endless guilt.
Parents who hate me.
I hear a knock at the door, but I remain where I am, unmoving, unfeeling, unwilling. I hear it open. I know who it is; I heard them arrive a few hours ago. I’m surprised it took her this long to seek me out.
“Hi,” Lauren says, closing the door and resting back against it.
Silence.
I don’t have the energy to tell her to fuck off. To leave me alone. She wanders over to my bed and settles on the edge. Reaches for my shoulder. Strokes it a little. My dead eyes find her, my face as blank as my mind. Then she produces a bottle of vodka from her bag. Unscrews the cap. Takes a glug. My face remains impassive, but when she holds it out, I find some strength to take it and sit up. And I down half, forcing myself not to gag. The burn in my throat is welcome. It’s something else to focus on. Something other than my unrelenting pain. I don’t hand the bottle back. I work my way through it under Lauren’s watchful eyes until it’s empty, before slumping back to my mattress and closing my eyes.
I know what’s coming next, so I remain unmoving when her hand slips under the sheets and finds my limp cock. “Condom,” I mumble.
“I’m on the pill.”
I open my eyes and find her top half naked. Reaching for her hand, I yank her into the bed and climb on top of her.
Numb.
Nothingness.
But it’s a fuck load better than grief and guilt, and maybe all I’m good for anyway.
The easy lay.
Leave your feelings at the door.
* * *
I blink my vision clear, shooting up on the bed. My phone is ringing again, and I sift through the sheets and pillows until I locate it. Amalie’s name glows on the screen. I drop my mobile back to the bed and head for the shower, the sound of her trying to reach me taunting me while I scrub last night’s dirt away.
By the time I’m done, I have endless missed calls and a few voicemails. I delete them, but notice one from John. I dial him.
“I need you in the new wing,” he says in answer.
“What for?”
“The beams. The carpenter wants to know if you’re happy with them.”
“They’re beams. What could possibly be wrong with them?”
“Just get your motherfucking arse over here.” He hangs up, and I laugh to myself. God, would I love to smash that fucker in the face from time to time. The feeling is probably mutual.
On a heavy sigh, I start to get into one of my finest suits, my armor, a mask to hide the cracks, rough up my blond hair with some wax, slip on my Rolex and brogues, and head to the new wing.
I find John in the farthest room, staring at the ceiling. “What’s the problem?”
His head drops, and I get a rare glimpse of his eyes as he stares over his wraparounds at me. “Are you happy with them?” He motions to where four thick oak beams span the width at even intervals.
“They look great.”
John raises his arms, and I frown, wondering what the fuck he’s doing. Then he launches his big body upward and wraps his hands over the top of a beam, his huge, imposing frame dangling from the ceiling. I recoil. More so when I hear an almighty crack. “What the fuck?”
John drops to his feet. “Still happy?”
“There was no mention of reinforcements,” the scrawny man next to him says, sounding panicked.
Well, fuck me. “How many of these have been installed?” I ask, mentally calculating the number of new rooms and how many beams are in each.
“All of them,” John grunts, throwing an accusing glare the guy’s way.
Oh. Well, that’s fucking great. “We need to fix this,” I say, looking across to the contractor who’s franticly flicking through his phone, probably searching for the email that makes no mention of reinforcements. Whatever. We’re here now and it needs sorting out. Jesus, I’ll have personal injury claims thrown at me left and right. “We need to hang things from these, mate,” I say, pointing to the ceiling.