Page 1 of King of Hearts

Chapter One

Arna

Learning lessons wasn’t always enjoyable – especially when said lessons were not what you ordered and served with a side ofabsolutely not. The persistent dull throb just above my right eyebrow was an aggressive physical lesson reminding me why I never willingly went on blind dates. My dry, parched mouth was a lesson on why tequila was never, and should never, be my drink of choice. And the blinding light stabbing through my curtains, sending a shooting pain straight through my severely hungover head, was a lesson on why I desperately needed to move out of this disgusting shared house.

The cheapest rent in Sydney was not worth my far too interested roommate, the lack of privacy or the glaring punch of sunlight currently burning my retinas. Investing in some decent curtains that were not made of sheen would also probably be a quick fix – if I found time to do anything other than work. At this point it seemed my life was just a series of frustrating lessons with regrettable consequences, all of which I was powerless to stop.

Requiring more effort than it should have taken, I shoved my discarded clothes from last night aside and groggily checked the time. 7:30am and exactly thirty minutes before I needed to be in the office.

Falling back onto my bed with a groan I threw the covers over my face. It was outrageous by anyone’s standards that I was heading into work on a Sunday let alone with a hangover that had the potential to last the week. But I needed to gain the promotion to senior editor if I was going to one day launch my own media platform and that goal wasn’t likely if I didn’t agree to every ridiculous demand Dickhead Darren made. After nearly twelve months of working for him, I was growing tired of his requests and especially those that came at the expense of my Sunday.

Keeping my eyes closed, I slowly sat upright determining the probability of showering without emptying the contents of my stomach. The kebab I stupidly purchased after I left the bar last night sat low and heavy and I groaned at my decisions from only a few hours ago. The date was a complete disaster and the multiple margaritas I ordered in a blind attempt to find some humour in the situation only resulted in a pumping headache and an insatiable hunger for the damn mixed kebab. Another lesson I was forcibly enrolled into.

After deciding I was likely going to vomit either way, I stumbled into the bathroom and tried to wash away the memories of last night. It wasn’t like I did anything risqué, however, listening to Chris ramble on about his latest Contiki tour was not my idea of fun. I could almost feel my brain cells self-imploding as he droned on and it’s literally my job to syphon through bullshit on the daily.

Grabbing my towel, I dared to look in the mirror. The lack of sleep and way too many drinks were prominent in the lines around my eyes, prompting me to investigate Botox before I turned thirty because this was getting frightening. Throwing my hair into a bun, I settled on a pair of sweats and an oversized tee. It wasn’t like anyone other than Darren would see me today as I was purely in the office to ensure the interview with some cantankerous sports star was edited and ready to release in tomorrow’s edition of Urban Pulse. Despite the work I would put into refining the piece, Felicity would receive all the credit while I smiled along as if her success had nothing to do with the fact that her and Dickhead Darren so obviously blurred the company lines on fraternisation.

Give me a break!

I snatched my laptop bag from my bed and threw on my Converse shoes before racing out of my room, instantly regretting the too high heels I wore last night. They looked amazing and even I could acknowledge pain is beauty, but as my feet throbbed along with my head, I wondered if it really was worth the blisters.

I needed coffee if I was going to survive the day and no doubt if I didn’t get Darren one too, he would be insufferable. Opening my phone for the first time since I woke up, I smiled at the fourteen missed calls and twenty-two text messages from my insane best friend. Most people would be alarmed by such a notification massacre, however, not when it was Marlee. She never sent her thoughts in one message and as I opened our chat, I laughed at the copious messagesandvideos demanding I let her know I was alive.

I walked into the local cafe´, ordering a cappuccino for myself and a chai latte for my awful boss as I hit the call button.

“Arna!” I held the phone away from my face as she screeched into my ear. “You better have had a deliciously long night, or you are in big trouble for taking so long to tell me you are safe.”

It was far too early and I was way too hungover for the pitch of her voice. You would think that after fifteen years of friendship I would be used to the sound that I was certain only dogs could hear, but my tequila fogged brain was not.

“The only thing that was delicious about last night was the garlic sauce on my end of night delight.” I grumbled.

“Oh my, please tell me that is a euphemism, and you finally broke the drought.” Marlee screeched before I could continue.

I laughed, “No. Unfortunately not. I’m never letting you set me up on a blind date again, Marls. He was not at all my type.” She groaned, clearly expecting this. “His pants were too short and he was wearing a flat brimmed hat, but his head was too small, and the brim was wider than his forehead. I could not for the life of me move beyond this. Where did you even find him?”

Marlee’s snort led into her contagious bright laugh, and I could picture her, green smoothie in hand as she flicked through her daily planner. The woman used sticky notes like they were going out of fashion, yet despite the overwhelming fluoro rainbow which painted everything she owned, I was envious of her life-organisation.

“Arna, you have the most, ridiculously high standards.”

“Justifiably so.” I replied quickly. “He asked me if I scrunched or folded my toilet paper. On - our - first - date. I mean, surely you wait until at least the second date before you discuss anything bowel related, right? I need a man with substance, Marls. The packaging is irrelevant if the food is beyond its use by date.” Marlee laughed as the barista called my name and I moved to grab the tray, shoving my ear buds in so I could continue talking while I walked to work.

“For goodness’ sake, you are dramatic.” She said, “Wait, I can hear people – why are you out so early, are you going to work today?”

I could hear the judgement in her tone as she added, “You are too good for that douche bag boss of yours. When are you going to quit and find a job more deserving of you?”

“You know I can’t just leave. I need this job or I won’t be able to stay in the city. We both know I won’t move home and I’m so close to becoming the senior editor, and with that the accompanying pay rise will get me away from Paul.”

I pressed the button for the lights and took a sip of my coffee. The instant warmth was medicinal and I knew I could not do a Sunday in the office, or any day ending in ‘y’ for that matter, without this soul saving liquid.

“You need to move in with me already. I am so done with that hideous place and your predatory borderline obsessed roommate is the reason I no longer wear skirts to your house.”

“Marls, your house is one bedroom and the size of a shoebox. The rent is cheap here and while I may catch influenza from the mould spores that stare at me while I sleep, like I said, I’ll be out soon.” The pedestrian man gave the green signal and I headed across.

“The mould isn’t the only thing staring at you while you sleep.” She mumbled.

“Oh, hush. Paul is a weirdo but he also knows I’d kick his arse if he tried anything.” I said. “Anyway, I’ve got to go, I’m almost at work and the interview I’m editing today is for some big shot football player. I think he plays for that team you follow.” I said absentmindedly as I fumbled in my bag for my ID card. If I spilled even a drop of Darren’s Chai, I would suffer an even surlier boss which I did not at all need today, so it was a juggle as I navigated both the tray of drinks and my bag holding half of my life.

“Wait a minute! Arnabelle Lily Frost, tell me you are not talking about Andy freaking Gloss! I might literally shit myself if you’re talking about the sexiest footballer to ever grace this planet” She was screaming again and I was grateful I was midway through my coffee otherwise her screech would be sending me back to bed.

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