Page 34 of London's Calling: Part 1
My eyes close, trying to figure out who is calling me as I stumble a couple of steps forward. My thigh hits something hard, and I almost topple over. Hands grip me, guiding me from behind.
“Jesus, Priest, what did you do to him?”
Fletch—that’s Fletch.
“Fuck you, man. Maybe it was this chick. What did you slip him? Did you fucking roofie my mate so you could fuck him, bitch?”
The voices fade as whoever is guiding me moves me further away. My limbs feel like mush, and I can’t focus my eyes on anything, everything spinning and hazy.
“Nearly there, Mickey. A couple more steps.”
Then I’m falling, falling, falling—my face meets something soft that smells like magnolia…then nothing.
“Urgh!” I grumble as I smack my lips together, attempting to wet them. My face is squashed against whatever I’m lying on while a splintering pain arcs through my skull. “What the fuck…” I groan as I rollover, flopping onto my back. My arm feels like lead as I raise it and begin patting down my body, grateful to discover I’m fully clothed and there is not a random, nameless female lying beside me.
It takes me a good twenty minutes to get myself up and on my feet. I stumble down the corridor and into the lounge where Fletch and Priest are sitting, looking a hell of a lot better than me.
Fletch looks up. “Shit, Mick, you look like death.”
“Yeah, I feel like it too. What the fuck happened?”
Priest and Fletch share a look before Priest gets to his feet and disappears into the kitchen. By the time I’ve made it to the sofa, dropping down beside Fletch, Priest has returned with a bottle of water and some headache tablets. I take them both when he offers them to me, chugging down half the water before taking the tablets.
“How much do you remember?” Fletch asks.
“After arriving and having a few beers, not much.” I frown.
“Yeah, that’ll be whatever that bitch put in your drink. But don’t?—”
“Hold up, are you saying someone spiked my fucking drink?” They both nod. “Explains why I can’t remember shit, and why my head feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it.”
“It seems Trina doesn’t take no for an answer. You were blowing her off all night, man. What the hell was up with you?” Priest asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing. I just wasn’t feeling it. And after spiking my drink, I guess my gut was right.” I arch a brow, downing the last of my water.
“I call bullshit on that lame excuse,” Fletch says, pointing at me. “This is about Roni, isn’t it?”
“Shut the fuck up, Fletch. This is not about anyone, especially not the Ice Queen.” I squeeze the empty water bottle, the plastic crinkling under the pressure, and push to my feet. “I need to get out of here,” I tell a confused Fletch and Priest, tossing the bottle aside.
I know how they feel ’cause I’m as confused as fuck too. I’m in no state to drive, but I can’t stick around here for the duos interrogation about why I baled on a sure thing. I want a shower and some actual sleep as opposed to the drugged up, comatose shit I got last night.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Roni
I roll my eyes for the hundredth time tonight as Clayton regales yet another poor guest about his successful hotel chain while I sip my…third, no, fourth glass of wine. I turn away from them and scan the crowd from my position at the small bar in the corner of Marvin Kerr’s ostentatious dining room.
“Veronica, I’m so glad you could join us tonight. You look wonderful,” Marvin says as he steps into my view before leaning in and kissing me on the cheek. “I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to talk to you till now, but you know how it is.”
“Of course,” I say, nodding. “Dinner was delicious, thank you.” I raise my glass to my mouth, but as his gaze falls upon the ring on my finger, he snatches hold of my wrist.
“Ah, I heard congratulations were in order. Clayton certainly has good taste in jewellery and…women,” he says, his tone thick with unsuppressed desire and approval.
The wine I’ve drunk sours in my stomach and the aroma coming from the glass in front of me, which I had earlier thought appealing, smells like vomit at the feel of this man’s hand on me. The idea that this man who is a friend, a business partner of my father, who has known me since I was a young girl, is thinking about me that way… I pull my hand from his grasp, wine splashing over the rim onto my hand, at the same time as I receive a jostle from behind.
“Sorry, sorry,” the guy who knocked into me slurs as Marvin pins him with an angry glare.
I use the opportunity to school my features, concealing my disgust, and place the glass on the bar top before I ram it into Marvin’s face.
