Page 16 of London's Calling: Part 1
“Yes, Miss.”
“Can you bring me half a pint of your finest larger, please.”
She frowns like she doesn’t understand but then smiles. “Of course.”
When I look to Clayton, he is scowling at me like I just insulted the queen. “Something wrong?” I ask, picking up the jug of water from the centre and pouring a glass.
“Something wrong with the champagne?”
“No, I’m sure it’s nice, but I don’t drink champagne,” I tell him and take a sip of water, needing to wet my dry mouth. The restaurant is busy, and I’m keen not to cause a scene.
He reaches over and pushes the full champagne glass my way. “Drink the champagne, Veronica.” His tone is filled with threat despite the smile on his face.
“No, thank you.” I keep my voice level and tone calm as I push the glass back towards him. “I’m not your wife yet, Clayton, so I think I’ll keep my autonomy a little longer.”
His hands clench on the table, but before he can say or do anything the waitress arrives with my lager. Clayton’s eyes follow her movements as she places it to my right.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling at her. I pick it up quickly, sensing that left on the table, Clayton will remove it from me. I’m aware what I’m doing is probably not the best idea but being bossed around by my father and having him control pretty much my whole life makes me more determined to hang onto my independence where I can and for as long as possible.
“Huh,” is all Clayton responds with, and somehow that single word is worse than if he had balled me out in the front of a restaurant full of people.
After that I drink my lager while he guzzles the champagne, finishing off a whole bottle before ordering a second, and conversation turns to more unimportant and casual things. For the most part, the evening is pleasant, and we appear to be a normal couple out having dinner together.
Until we leave.
Chapter Twelve
Roni
Returning from the bathroom while Clayton took care of the bill, he’s waiting for me, but he’s not alone. The waitress that served us is standing with him, a little closer than necessary. I pause just out of sight and watch them for a couple of minutes, and for the first time tonight, I notice how friendly they seem, how intimate they appear to be. I really shouldn’t be surprised. Clayton has a reputation with the women almost as infamous as my father’s within the property business. I can picture the two of them smoking cigars and drinking champagne while they discuss their conquests—and I don’t mean in real estate.
When she lays her hand on his forearm, I decide now is the best time to show my face. I don’t give a shit if he fucks half of London because while he’s busy with other women, he’s not bothering me. Yet I don’t need to be here to watch.
The waitress sees me coming and immediately removes her hand from Clayton’s arm, straightening her posture and returning to the professional waitress she was when we arrived.
“Ah, here she is, my beautiful fiancée. Everything okay?” Clayton asks as I reach them, his hand instantly snakes around my back, and he grips my hip, pulling me closer.
“I’m fine, just a little tired.”
“Let’s get you home then.” Clayton thanks the waitress, who he calls Brittany, then steers me toward the door, his grip on my hip tightening the closer we get to the exit. “You think you’re funny, Veronica?” He opens the door, moving his hand from my hip to my bicep. “When you’re my wife, you’ll learn how to behave in public and be a good little wifey.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” I hiss, yanking free of his hold and hurrying a couple of steps ahead so he can’t reach me. Carl steps from his car, and for a second, I hope he’s going to intervene, but I should have known it would be too good to be true. Carl is not my friend, he’s not there for me, other than to ensure I don’t die, and that’s only because my father doesn’t want to lose his opportunity for revenge on the Rawlins family. Carl is my father’s man, his wages come from Franklin Hart’s deep coffers and not mine, so that’s where his loyalty lies.
Feet stomp behind me a second before Clayton meets my back, forcing me forward in the direction of his own car and away from Carl.
“Seems Veronica here can’t handle her drink.” Clayton’s driver has the car door open already, and Clayton doesn’t wait for Carl’s response before he’s shoving me in the back of the car with him hot my heels.
My shins smack into the rim of the car, sending pain splintering up my legs, and I land sprawled over the backseat. Not wanting to be in such a vulnerable position, I scramble to the other side of the seat as the door closes.
As the driver pulls away, Clayton slides over to me, pinning me against the door. Bringing his mouth to my ear, he whispers, “I don’t give a flying fuck if we are married yet or not, but you will never embarrass me like that again. When you’re out with me, you will do what I say, eat and drink what I fucking tell you. Do you understand me?”
I slowly turn my face toward him and look him in the eye, but I stay silent. His hand flies forward, smacking against the window behind me, and I wish I could contain my flinch.
“Answer me!” he bellows in my face, baring his teeth like a savage dog before it attacks.
“You don’t own—” My words are cut short as he grasps my chin, gripping to the point of pain.
“Your daddy says otherwise. And I don’t need a ring or a piece of paper to own you.” He slams his mouth to mine. Between his firm grip of my chin, his vile tongue forcing its way inside my mouth and one arm trapped against the door, I have no chance of stopping him. I can taste the bitterness of the champagne, and my olfactory senses are assaulted by the overpowering and sickly scent of his aftershave.
