Page 78 of Wanting Mr Black

The afternoon sun is fading behind the clouds by the time I park up on the side of the road. I throw an anxious glance at my phone, lying silently on the passenger seat, willing it to spring into life. I’ve no idea how long I’ve been driving around the streets of London. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve called Art’s phone, only to be directed straight to his voicemail.

Something doesn’t feel right. My suspicious thoughts have been replaced by the very real fear that something bad has happened.

I chew my thumbnail as my mind frantically spins. Art going AWOL on top of receiving Theo’s letter mean my nerves are atangled mess. Right now, I need him more than ever. I need his arms wrapped around me and for him to kiss my head and tell me everything’s going to be okay.

Where the hell is he?

I mentally revisit all the places I’ve driven past on my hunt for him. All the haunts we’ve ever visited or that he’s mentioned in conversation – Dark Desires, Le Gavroche, two of the local Go Fitness gyms. He definitely didn’t seem to be in the mood for visiting his mum when he walked out of the apartment earlier, and I even called the hotel to check, but he wasn’t there. I’m desperate, which is why I’ve ended up here. It’s the only other place I’ve ever heard him talk about, but it’s the one place I know for certain he won’t be.

I push my head back against the padded headrest and look at the building with the dark frontage and blacked-out windows. Above the two black entrance doors hangs a large black sign with silver embossed letters spelling out,Savage. The S & M club he used to be a member of.

I pull my eyes away from the front of the club and inspect my fingernails. Even though I know there’s absolutely zero chance he’ll be inside, I find myself looking back over at the club. God knows what kind of debauchery goes on behind those blacked-out windows.

Suddenly, one of the entrance doors pushes open, and a slender woman wearing tight black jeans and a cropped black leather biker jacket steps out onto the pavement. She’s attractive with carefully applied make-up and immaculate dress. The woman swooshes her thick, shoulder-length auburn hair over her shoulder and stops to hold the door open for someone else. I can’t help wondering what she’s been up to. She smiles at whoever she’s with and moves away from the door as they step out onto the pavement.

My heart stops beating in my chest.

It’s Art. Smiling and chatting with the woman. I feel as though I’m free-falling off the edge of a cliff, and my brain is scrambling to work out what the fuck is going on.

What is he doing here?

Who is that woman?

My fingers grip the steering wheel, and I watch with morbid fascination as they carry on, talking. I study their body language. Whoever she is, he’s relaxed around her, and they’re clearly on friendly terms. She’s not a stranger. They know one another.

The woman. The club. Art. A moment of clarity cuts through my confused, anxious brain. I reach for my mobile with shaking hands, and I swiftly bring up the search engine and type inAisling Lonergan. Almost immediately, a professional shot of the woman Art’s talking to appears. My blood turns to ice in my veins as I study the image of Aisling Lonergan of Lonergan Therapy Services. She’s dressed in a smart blue blouse, looking like butter wouldn’t melt.

My hackles rise as I watch Aisling place a manicured hand on his arm as they laugh about something or another, and my final nerve snaps.

I’m not running this time.

I see red and leap out of the car like a woman possessed, not even caring to lock it as I stalk across the pavement towards them, watching with absolute horror as they embrace.

“Sophie.” Art’s expression registers surprise and then confusion as he sees me, and Aisling steps away from him.

Her gaze narrows in recognition and then slowly slides from my messy up-do, down to my crumpled jumper, onto my frayed denim shorts, and finally rests on my flip-flops. A Louis Vuitton handbag hangs from her arm, and she’s groomed and perfectly put together. In fact, I doubt she even owns a pair of denim shorts and wouldn’t be seen dead in flip-flops, if the elegant black Jimmy Choos on her feet are anything to go by. Her skin iscreamy white, and she’s even more attractive up close. Her eyes remain slightly narrowed as her look of recognition morphs into one of contempt, as if I were a pesky bug that she was planning on crushing.

Alarm bells ring in my head at her reaction to me. Now that I’ve confronted them, I don’t even know where to start. The only words on my lips are expletives, and I don’t want to come across like some deranged, crazy, jealous woman, shouting her mouth off in the street even if that’s what I feel like doing.

Art shoves his hands in his pockets and frowns. “What are you doing here?”

I bite the inside of my mouth and taste blood. “What areyoudoing here? And what’sshedoing here?”

The harshness of my tone cuts through him, and he lowers his eyes to the pavement, as if sensing what’s to come.

Aisling’s eyes slide from me to him and then back again. She purses her glossy nude lips and rests a hand on his shoulder. I want to rip it off.

“I’ll catch you later, Art.” Her voice is smooth and calm and only serves to piss me off even more.

He smiles in response.

I bite back the urge to shout,No, you won’t catch him later, thank you very much, as she turns and walks away, but I refuse to lower myself. Instead, I glare after her, silently seething.

“Have you been following me?” Now, it’s his turn to sound pissed off.

He doesn’t look half as guilty as I’d expect him to, having been caught out in this situation.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

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