Page 59 of All the Forbidden Things
No. No. No. No. No.
What the fuck have I just done?
Billie
Ishake my hands inan attempt to remove the excess water from them while searching for a towel so I can dry them properly. I pull open drawers and cupboards in the small en suite bathroom in the apartment above Max Young’s garage.
It’s where Kenzie and I crashed last night while the “grown-ups” all slept over at the house. Once Mel took Layla off to bed with her, and it became apparent the boys were there for the long haul, we brought ourselves over here and crashed. Well, I crashed. Kenz spent half the night on her phone, doing whatever seventeen-year-old girls do on their phones all night.
She’s lying on her belly out cold, starfished across the bed. If it were just her, it probably wouldn’t be a problem because the bed is enormous, but I tend to sleep in the exact same position, so there’d been a fair amount of kicking and complaining each time we touched during the night.
I find two brand new toothbrushes, a refill for the foaming hand soap, which sits on the edge of the sink, and a bottle of mouthwash. No hand towels—no towels of any kind, actually.
Water drips off my chin from where I just splashed and scrubbed at it with my hands. I grab some toilet roll and dab under my eyes, ridding my skin of the remnants of last night’s make-up. The only problem is that, without my BB cream to cover it, I can just make out the yellow bruising which stubbornly remains coated across the corner of my eye, cheek, and jaw.
I release my hair from the plait it was in, tip my head upside down, and finger comb it. Standing upright and giving it a final comb through and shake, I look at myself in the mirror. Luckily, I’ve retained some of the tan my skin had built up over the four years I’d spent living in California. My freckles, especially, are still prominent, and the light dusting that covers my nose and cheeks helps hide the bruising and the fact I’m not wearing any make-up.
“You’ll do,” I tell myself before turning my back on the mirror.
I walk through the bedroom and out into the open plan living, dining, and kitchen area. Like the bedroom, it’s generously sized, and I could easily see myself living here.
I said yes, last night. Yes to being Max Young’s live-in nanny. What else could I say? I’m a Nanny. I have no job right now. Ineeda job, and Maxneedsa nanny. I could hardly say no. What excuse would I use?Sorry, dude, but I’m worried I might drop your daughter each and every time you walk into or out of a room or even breathe too close to me? Basically, I’m a perve . . . and someone you probably don’t want your baby girl around!
So, sitting at the table, feeling like all eyes were on me, I said, “Of course, I’d love to come and live with you, to look after Layla, to fantasise about you sleeping, showering, simply breathing right across the drive from me every night. Coz that won’t be torture, will it?”
Okay, I didn’t say all of that, but I might as well have.
Max was already pretty smashed when he asked me. He then proceeded to get absolutely shit faced, so maybe he won’t even remember.
I open the fridge door and pull out two bottles of water. Opening the cupboard, I find a box of tea bags and a jar of instant coffee. I’ve known since a young age that I live a privileged lifestyle. I’d travelled the world numerous times by the age of three, spent weekends in French chateau’s, Colorado cabins, and Chelsea mansions. My dad was a session musician for some of the world’s top bands, and my mum, a backing singer. They met on tour. I was conceived on tour. Spent most of the first five years of my life on tour. All those miles travelled. All those planes, the take-offs, the landings. All those tour buses, driving on icy roads, during blizzards and torrential rain. All of the countries we visited where the water was unsafe to drink and the mosquito’s carried any number of diseases . . . They kept me safe throughout it all, and then when we were enjoying something as simple as a family holiday, sitting in the lobby of a five-star resort in Bali, a terrorist blows himself into tiny pieces and takes my parents out with him. Despite all of that, and knowing I’vestilllived a life of privilege, not once, not ever, have I taken any of it for granted. I’m not a diva, and I don’t expect or demand special treatment, but I will gladly admit to being a coffee snob, and I will own that shit. So, no, just nope, there is no way I can bring myself to drink the instant I’ve just found.
I stand and stare blankly into the cupboard as I hang on to the door handle. I always feel a little light-headed when I think about my parents in any great detail, and it can be the simplest of things to trigger my recollections . . . like instant coffee.
I take a moment to swallow the familiar twisted knot of sadness and anger that has lodged in my throat at the memories.
As soon as I feel more in control, I head back to the bedroom, place a bottle of water on the bedside table for Kenz, pull on my jeans and boots, and find my phone. It’s almost seven, so not too early. Kenz will have to be up for school soon, and since she’s not yet passed her driving test, Mel or I will have to take her. Because considering the state the boys were in when we went to bed last night, I’m guessing it definitely won’t be Cal.
It’s still dark when I step outside. Cold, crisp, and dark. Not pitch dark, but that charcoal kind of colour, grey with wishy-washy lighter streaks scudding through it as the early morning winter sun attempts to make its presence known. Because I already have my hand and wrist in a cast, and my broken ribs have yet to heal, I err on the side of caution and use the torch app on my phone to help make my way to the back door of Max’s house, which we deliberately left unlocked last night. I needn't worry, though, because two steps out from the door of the apartment, motion sensor lights kick on, and the whole place lights up like Christmas.
I hurry across the driveway and head inside. The house is warm but still and silent, no sense of anyone awake yet. I come to a stop when I spot Max sitting at his kitchen table, a bottle of water in front of him, a mug of something hot and steaming cradled in his hands.
He’s staring down into his drink, a look of absolute devastation marring his handsome face. He looks so alone and isolated that I decide to back out of the room rather than interrupt his contemplations. But before I can take even one step, he looks up and catches me.
I feel like my entire being is being coated in syrup or something else that’s equally sweet and sticky as his eyes glide from my toes to the top of my head before settling on my face. My body feels heavy. My limbs become languid. My feet feel glued to the floor. I might possibly even sway slightly because of the way his gaze makes my head spin.
He blinks those golden eyes of his a couple of times before a small smile lifts the right corner of his mouth. “Morning, Bamm,” he says very quietly.
I lick my dry lips and prepare to speak, but all and any words leave me when he says, “I forgot how beautiful your hair is. I’ve always wanted a little girl with red hair; although, yours isn’t red, is it? If you take the time to look close, you’ll see it’s made up of gold and auburn, blondes, and so, so many other colours. It’s stunning, Bamm. You . . . you’re stunning. Gorgeous.”
I don’t move. I barely even breathe. “I—It’s—That’s—Thank you,” I whisper. My eyes and nose burn, my throat feels clogged, and I’ve no clue why. Whydohis words make me want to cry? Most girls would take the compliment, flip theirstunninghair over their shoulder, and totally own the fact a rock star had even noticed them. Me? I stand there like a complete twat before drawing in a shaky breath and forcing myself forward on even shakier legs.
I go to the fridge, find the milk, and fill the milk frother while a million and one thoughts collide inside my head. Eventually, I’m able to organise my brain cells enough to ask, “Would you like another coffee?”
He lets out a long breath before answering, “Yeah, please, another coffee would be good.”
I add more milk to the frother then top up the water dispenser before reattaching it to the coffee machine. “You’re up early. What time did you lot get to bed?”
“I’ve no clue. I went up but couldn’t sleep, so came back down and made Layla’s bottles, which probably wasn’t a good idea because I still feel half cut—more than half. Three-quarters? Actually, I’m still pretty smashed if I’m being honest.”
