Page 11 of The Redemption of Alex Cade
We went through a few other items of business. Kelvin called through for more coffee, personally delivered by the nervous looking manager. The door closed quietly behind him, and Kelvin waited for a moment before he spoke.
“So, back to your drink last night. Your second one with the same guy.” His eyes on me were watchful through the steam floating up from his cup.
Like he’d done, I waited a second or two before speaking. “I told you what happened.”
“You seeing him again?”
“No.” Kit turning away, walking away from me. My stomach clenched.
Deep inside the hotel, I could hear the faint drone of a vacuum cleaner before it switched off, leaving only the whoosh of blood racing through my veins.
“Perhaps it’s just as well, eh?” Kelvin said, breaking the silence, his voice softer, losing its normal rough edge. “Dates?—”
“What are you talking about? It wasn’t a date.” Not even nearly.
“Relationships,” he said, ignoring me. “So-called normal life. It doesn’t fit our world, the one we’ve carved out for ourselves. Outsiders, they wouldn’t understand.”
I said nothing, because what could I say? Kelvin was right. We were the centre of a world of our own making. We’d clawed our way out of the shit to reach a place where we were safe from everything we’d endured. But we weren’t safe, not really. It was an illusion. Only one domino needed to fall and everything would come tumbling down.
But wecouldbe safe.
A heavy arm wound its way around my shoulders. Kelvin pulled me close and rested his forehead against my temple and with no thought I leant into it, the way I had so many times in the past.
“Don’t waste your time and energy thinking he, or anybody, can really be something in your life.”
“We had a drink, that’s all. It’s you who’s making something out of nothing, not me.” I shrugged him off, the weight of him too heavy, too suffocating.
Kelvin’s eyes drilled into me, the challenge undeniable.
He moved behind me, strong warm hands on my shoulders, kneading at the iron-hard knots. I could push him off just as I’d done a moment ago, but I couldn’t push away thetruth of his words. How could I tell anybody who and what I really was?
“What we are, Kel, it’s not what we have to be,” I murmured.
Kelvin’s hands on my shoulders stilled for a second before they resumed their steady motion.
“You’re tired, babe, and stressed. You’re not seeing things as they are. Why not go away for a few days? Maybe get some sun? Have a bit of the old R&R, and leave everything to me, eh? Yeah, let Kel look after everything. The way you always used to.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
KIT
I stirred my coffee, slopping it over the sides of the cup.Bloody Brendan.
We were supposed to be meeting for a long and possibly liquid lunch, during which he’d in turn berate his ex, Mitchell, for being a two-timing bastard and then mope about how he was the best thing to have happened to him. I’d have needed a whole line up of drinks to put up with hearing all that but Bren was an old friend, even though I had to admit not always a very good one, who’d nonetheless had his heart broken. I’d listen to him wallow, even if I did increasingly tune him out. The whole Brendan-Mitchell thing had been a bad soap opera from the day they’d met. And now I was in bloody Hampstead, bloody stood up on the other bloody side of London because bloody Brendan had sent a text to say that he and bloody Mitchell were talking things through. Lunch was off. Sorry.
“Thank you, and goodbye,” I muttered as I dumped too much sugar into my coffee.
Saturday, early afternoon, and Hampstead was buzzing. Every other shop seemed to be either a smart restaurant, café, or bar. Smart and expensive, like the funky Italian place I was sitting in. Fuming from the message I’d picked up as soon as I emerged from the underground, I’d gone into the nearest coffee shop, ordered my usual flat white—and almost fainted when the amount came up on the card machine. This was one coffee that was going to last, but at least it’d come with a biscotti. I snorted. Stale, break-your-teeth rusk sounded so much better in Italian. I’d go for a walk over the Heath, make the journey from New Cross to Hampstead worth at least some of the effort. A rumble of thunder was followed by the sudden whip of rain against the window. Jesus, could the day get any worse? I’d sit out the weather, then make my way home and spend the rest of the weekend in bed watching box sets and eating my weight in pizza and ice cream. It wasn’t as if I had anything better to do. I picked up my coffee and stared out at the rain-soaked gloom.
Behind me, the door rattled open.
“Hi Stephano. Is my order ready?”
My whole body tensed. The cool voice I hadn’t expected to hear again, my last encounter with its owner ending up awkward and uncomfortable. The owner of the voice with a face I hadn’t been able to get out of my head.
I peered over my shoulder and swallowed hard. Alex Cade, but not as I’d seen him before. A bright yellow, long-sleeved running top and a pair of black running leggings hugged his frame, showing off his lean, long, runner’s legs and taut backside. Mud smeared his trainers, and a blue hat was pulled low over his flushed face.
The barista, Stephano, handed over a large paper carrier bag emblazoned with the café’s logo.
