Page 10 of London's Calling: Part 1
“I take it things didn’t go so well?”
I grab a beer from the fridge, holding one up for him in question, and he nods. Snapping the tops off with the bottle opener on the wall beside the fridge, I hand him one.
“No, things didn’t fucking go well.” I down half the bottle as Priest watches me. Shaking my head I look at him before spinning around and resting my elbows on the counter. I drop my head between my shoulders.
“You fucked her, didn’t you?” He takes a seat on one of the stools across from me. “You fucked the Ice Queen. God dammit, Mickey. I didn’t believe Fletch when he told me what happened on Friday”
“Yeah, well. Now she has more reason to hate me.”
Priest arches a brow, bottle paused halfway to his lips. “How so?”
“Because I fucked her so thoroughly, she’ll have a hard time getting over it.”
Priest laughs, almost spraying his beer all over me. “Watch that fucking head of yours. Mickey.” He points a finger at me. “So, screwing the Ice Queen aside, have you thought about what you’re going to tell you father?”
I finish my beer, slamming the bottle down. “The truth. Not about that,” I add as he straightens. “My father will never know about that. He can’t.”
I leave Priest with a promise to call later once I’ve sorted things with my father.
Chapter Eight
Mickey
The house is quiet when I enter, but I can smell something delicious cooking in the kitchen. Heading that way, I find Mrs Howe.
“Afternoon, Mrs Howe. Something smells good. Dad around?”
She startles and curses, “God damn it, Mickey.” Swivelling her head, she looks over her shoulder at me. “He’s in his office.”
Freshly baked cookies are laid out on a cooling rack, and I snag one as I pass. “Thanks.”
“Watch out, Mickey, he’s not in a good mood,” she warns as I exit down the hall toward my father’s office.
“Fucking wonderful,” I mutter, taking a bite of the still warm chocolate cookie. I’ve devoured the whole thing by the time I reach his office and knock on the door before pushing inside.
He’s on the phone when I enter, and he frowns then holds up a finger for me to hold on a minute.
Plopping myself down in the chair across from him, I wait while he finishes his call.
Slamming the phone down, he looks up at me. “Didn’t expect to see you today. What happened?”
I resent the accusation, but he’s not wrong. “Anyone living in the second apartment in Mayfair?”
He frowns and narrows his eyes at me. “I’m not letting one of your prick friends use it as a bachelor pad, Mickey,” he snaps.
I can play this one of two ways; tell him the absolute truth and admit I fucked up, or I can blag it and make it seem like I meant to lose my fucking home to spy on Roni.
“It’s not for one of them. It’s for me,” I tell him and before he can ask why, I continue, “Roni Hart is living there…temporarily. I thought it would be a good way to spy on her. Maybe we can figure out what her piece of shit father is up to.” I go with the second option. It’s a version of the truth, but not what I had hoped to be sitting here telling him.
“And you thought letting her live in your apartment was a good way to do that?”
I nod. “Sure. Not like I keep anything important there,” I say nonchalantly, shrugging.
“And how did this convenient little arrangement come about exactly?”
I look him dead in the eye. “I lost a poker game.” It’s always best to stick to the truth as much as possible, and I can’t risk Priest or Fletch dropping me in it around my father. Fletch especially has a track record for that shit.
My father laughs, leaning back in his chair. “Poker, huh?” I nod, maintaining eye contact, knowing if I look away, he’ll catch me in my lie. He pauses a moment longer, keeping me on fucking edge. No doubt waiting for me to crack under his scrutiny. But I’m my father’s son. “Fine. Lucky for you it’s empty.” He reaches forward, pulling a drawer open and pulls out a set of keys before tossing them to me.
