Page 3 of Dancing With Distraction

When I step outside, I immediately regret it. The woman is yelling, and the doormen have formed a line behind my personal security detail to stop her getting back inside. Her eyes find me, and she immediately stops yelling. She knows authority, and this pleases me.

I pull on my jacket and move towards her as her friends are trying to pull her away. “You should listen to them,” I say firmly.

“You’re fucking rude,” she snaps, and I arch a surprised brow. My fingers twitch by my sides, and the urge to grip her by the throat and dare her to speak to me like that again is overwhelming. “I know the owner, and he’ll kick your arse when he finds out how you’ve treated me.”

I can’t help the grin that spreads over my face. “Really?”

“Yep. I mean, who the hell do you think you are, turning up in a flash car and parking on double yellows? This is London, you can’t do that.” She turns to the Range Rover Autobiography and kicks it. She actually kicks it. I’m so stunned, I stare in bemusement.

“Jesus,” I hear Marshall say, and I feel him move beside me like he’s going to grab her in front of this crowd.

I halt him, shaking my head. “What damage can she do?” I mutter.

And then she surprises me some more by kicking off her heel. “Treating me like crap,” she yells before dragging the heel down the side of the car.

She’s grabbing too many people’s attention now, and I’ve had enough of her hysteria. I move fast, slamming my body against her back until she’s trapped between me and the car bonnet. I grip her wrists, pinning them above her head so her face is also pressed against the car. “Drop it,” I hiss, and her fingers release the heel. The fact she does as I say sends a thrill through me and my body begins to react. “I’m going to release you, and you are going to stay calm.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll be forced to take action.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“Oh, little girl, I don’t have the time or the patience to deal with your tantrum. My driver will take your details, and you’ll pay for the damage to my car. If you can afford it, that is.”

She scoffs. “I’m wearing a five grand dress, of course, I can afford it.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I mutter, doubting this ball of crazy could hold down a real job.

“I’m a fashion designer,” she snaps, like she’s trying to convince me she has her life together.

“Then I’ll expect the bill to be paid immediately.”

I release her and step back. She slowly turns to face me. There’s an expression on her face that tells me she enjoyed our encounter, and I find myself wondering if she did it on purpose to get my attention. I turn my back to her and arch a brow in Marshall’s direction. “Get her details and take her home. I want to know her address so we’ll know where to go when she doesn’t pay up.” And then I breeze past him, heading back inside.

Tori

The banging on the door wakes me from my drunken slumber. The sun is blinding through the windows, and I squeeze my eyes back shut in distress. I was clearly incapable of closing my curtains last night.

The constant banging sounds like a drum and bass song playing in my head, worsening my already terrible hangover.

I roll over, grabbing the pillow and placing it over my head to muffle the sound in the hope that whoever it is will get bored and leave me alone to deal with my pity party for one.

It doesn’t work, and I outwardly groan as they continue to pound. Dragging my feet out the bed, I pad across the small bedsit I call home. It’s only about ten paces from my bed to the door, just big enough to swing a cat in. My bedroom doubles as my lounge, and it houses a small kitchenette just big enough for me to eat shit microwave meals and make a coffee. It’s not the kind of place where I could host a dinner party, or even cook for one extra, but it’s enough for me.

When I moved to London six months ago, I couldn’t afford much. The prices are crazy, and the waiting lists are longer than life itself. But I had to get away from my family once and for all, so until I can fall on my feet, this crash pad will have to do.

The hammering of the door is insistent now. “For fuck’s sake, I’m coming,” I shout.

I swing the door open, about ready to give them a piece of my mind, until I see Phoebe with her hands on her hips.

I moan out loud, knowing she’s going to give me the third degree about getting carried away on the cocktails again. She’s my mature, sensible, BFF. I met her when I first moved to London. She was already living here in the bedsit above me, and she helped me carry my stuff. We’ve been inseparable ever since.

“You really need to learn when to stop drinking, Tori. Look at the state of you. Get your shit together, you have to meet your brother.”

I throw myself back on the bed, tugging the duvet over my head.

Phoebe chuckles to herself, grabbing the corner of the duvet and pulling it back off me. “You know how he gets, Tori. He won’t be impressed with your tardiness.”

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