Page 27 of London's Calling: Part 1
“Marvin Kerr is here to see you. He says it’s important.”
“Fine. Get her out of here,” he orders as he strides from the room, leaving me on the floor.
I tug my dress down with shaky hands, wincing as I lift and slide the material under my arse. It’s fucking silk but feels like sandpaper against the carpet burns on my backside.
A hand appears in front of me, but I bat it away. “I don’t need your help.” I get to my feet without Carl’s help, though it takes me longer than normal.
“Let me help, Veronica,” Carl says as I slowly move toward the door.
“Ha!” I bark hyperbolically. “Help me? Please,” I say sarcastically.
Making it to my room, I remove my ruined dress and underwear, then step into the shower. Taking the smaller hand-held shower head, I switch it on, turning the temperature to almost cold before spraying it over my lower back and arse cheeks. I lean against the tiled wall as the initial sting slowly numbs. After fifteen minutes and more tears than my father deserves, I switch the water off and step out of the shower, then carefully dry off.
Wrapping a towel loosely around me, attempting to keep the fabric from touching my sore skin, I step back into the bedroom. There’s a tube of something on the end of my bed, and I know it was Carl. I silently thank him, but it doesn’t lessen my disappointment in him and my situation.
I find a longish T-shirt and a thong, knowing I can’t have anything touching the burns even after applying the ointment Carl left for me. Once I’m dressed, I flop face down on the bed and try to sleep.
Chapter Nineteen
Mickey
All fucking night I’ve sat in her—no, my apartment waiting for her to return. As the sun rises, I head back down to my apartment where I take a lukewarm shower, hoping to wake myself up, and dress for the office.
I haven’t been able to get the thought of Roni going home with that wanker, him fucking her, out of my head And it’s not even that, just the idea of him touching her, any part of her, has me wanting to cut his hands off. It’s completely illogical, irrational and ironic. The one woman I shouldn’t want is living rent free in my mind night and day. I’ve tried to deny it, and I thought finding out she’s set to marry Clayton would turn me off, burst the bubble, break the spell, whatever this fucking shit is. If anything, it’s only increased my desire for her.
Fuck that!
By the time I make it to the office, my mood has dropped into the bowels of hell. I managed to hit every damn traffic light, every jam and even got stuck behind a guy on a motorbike who clearly thought he owned the road. It took me double the normal time, so when I get to my office and find Donald waiting for me, I know my day is fucked.
“What is it, Donald?” I ask, opening my office door.
“Er… Well, um…”
“Spit it the fuck out,” I snap, spinning to face him.
“I just heard Clayton Simmonds fired his board of directors by way of an ordinary resolution.”
“Excuse me?” I say slowly, sure I misheard him.
“Clayton fired his boa?—”
“I heard you, Donald. What I’m having trouble with how the fuck he managed to do that less than twenty-four hours after I met with him.”
“Well…” Donald begins explaining the ordinary resolution process to me like I don’t fucking know how it works.
“Enough!” Donald jumps and takes a step back from me. “Out,” I tell him, and his eyes widen at the order.
“Mickey, we need?—”
“No, Donald, we don’t need to do anything. You need to get out of my office before I fire you.” He tries to speak again, but I march forward, forcing him out of my office. As soon as he’s over the threshold, I slam the door shut, rattling the walls.
“Fuck! Fuck!” I thump the door with my fist just in case anyone was unsure about exactly how pissed I am. Stalking back to my desk, I flick the mouse, bringing my computer to life, and settle in my chair.
I open Companies House website and search for Tower Hotels. It seems to take an age for the screen to load, and when the information finally fills my screen, my anger takes on a whole other persona. It’s a fucking storm.
My door flies open, and my father marches in wearing a look I imagine mirrors my own.
“What the fuck happened, Mickey?”
