Page 49 of London's Calling: Part 1
Dad
What the fuck did you do, Mickey?
“Something interesting?” drawls Mickey from the doorway to the bedroom.
I startle at his voice, looking up as he steps inside. “No,” I say, shaking my head and throwing back the covers. “You’ve got a message, and I was just bringing it to you,” I say, agitated at his obvious accusation, not that I can blame him or argue about it. I was snooping and had he not caught me, I would have continued a more in-depth snoop of the contents on his phone—providing he hasn’t changed the password since the other night when, unbeknown to him, I watched him put it in.
I walk toward him and hold out his phone. “I thought you’d gone. Do I need to ask if you were snooping too?” I smirk as he takes the phone, then turn away from him and enter the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.
I rest my hands on the sink and stare into the mirror. Dropping my head, I let out a sigh.
I hear the door creak open behind me a second before Mickey’s says, “Snooping implies you have something to hide.” He pauses, just a split second too long before adding, “Do you?”
The level of suspicion is both on point and painful at the same time. I have plenty to hide, I reply silently. Instead, I give him a variation of the truth. “Nothing past the usual, an unpaid bill perhaps, a nude photo nobody needs to see. You get the picture.”
He watches my reflection intently, and I can feel every inch of my face heat where his eyes roam. “A nude photo, huh? I’d like to see that sometime.”
And we’re back to the easy banter, the deflection of everything that sits entirely too heavy between us. His phone buzzes in his hand, and he glances down at it. He curses and shakes his head.
“I have to go,” he says, shoving his phone in the back pocket of his jeans and moving back to the bedroom.
I follow, leaning against the doorjamb as he snatches up his discarded T-shirt and pulls it on. “I’m sure you do,” I mutter, earning me a pointed look from him.
“Roni—”
“Leave it, Mickey. I don’t need you to worry about me, and I certainly don’t need you to protect me.”
He scowls, his lips twitching with the urge to say more, but then his lips tighten, trapping whatever he was going to say. He shoves his feet into his shoes before looking back to me. “I made coffee and breakfast. See you around, Roni.”
Without another word, he leaves.
“Thanks,” I whisper to the empty room.
When I get downstairs, I find the coffee and breakfast Mickey made. The toast and scrambled egg are cold and sit like dust in my mouth as I eat, washing it down with the tepid coffee. Nothing like going through the motions.
It’s still early, but seeing the message from Mickey’s dad has me waiting for the call from my own father demanding to know what the hell is going on. He specifically told me that nobody, especially Clayton, was to know about me and Mickey.
Something feels wrong about him not tearing a strip off me.
It’s what I expected, what I’ve grown accustomed to. The fact he hasn’t has me concerned.
I tidy up. I shower and dress. I do other mundane shit while the clock ticks by with no call, message or visit from my father. Even Carl is absent from his usual creepy stalker role. By the time three rolls around, I’m a nervous wreck, pacing the living room. Maybe I should have gone to the hospital or called to find out how Clayton’s dad is. But I console myself with the idea that if there were news he would have called me.
Instead, I try to focus on what stopped me from accessing Mickey’s phone earlier—aside from his interruption. If he hadn’t, would I have come to my senses and done what was necessary? Or would I have put his phone back and continued with my delusional fantasy that we mean more to each other than just sex.
“Urgh! Stop it, Roni.” I flop down onto my bed with a sigh. Pushing up onto my elbows, I look around the room. There has to be something, some dirt I can get my hands on to give my dad. I’m not going to get anything sitting here.
I trawl through my social media account looking for a party or some event where Mickey might show his face. At this point, Fletch or Priest would be a step in the right direction. I’m about to give up when I see a post from one of the guys at Priest’s the other night that Fletch has commented on. I read through the comments and see there’s something going on at a small bar tonight. There’s no mention of what the event is, but it doesn’t matter. If there’s a chance for me to pick up even the slightest hint of Mickey or Kurt’s name on someone’s lips, then I’m going to take it.
I can’t afford to let my body continue to control my actions anymore. I need something to give my father when he comes to me next time. And I know it’s going to happen.
I move my arse, even though it’s still early. With no idea what I’m walking into, I dress casual; jeans and blouse with a fitted waistcoat and a pair of boots, then I head out to Fletch’s place. I figure if I stick close to him—follow him—he’ll lead me where I need to go.
I’ve been reluctant to use either of Mickey’s closest friends simply because their loyalty to one another is undeniable. The possibility of either telling me anything worthwhile is about as likely as my father having a change of heart and cancelling my wedding. But it’s worth a shot.
It’s an hour before Fletch appears from inside, jumping in his car and driving away. I follow, keeping a few cars between us. He makes a couple of stops, one of which is to the house of the guy whose post Fletch responded to, the other is an off licence, returning several minutes later with a crate of beer each.
Since when do you take your own beer to a bar? Confused, I carry on following them, and it all becomes clear as we head toward Priest’s.
