Page 24 of Cherry Beats

“How did you know where I lived?”

“Bourbon told me.” Presley turned to me, a sly smile baring his bright, white teeth. “About forty minutes ago when I barged into BB’s and scared the shit out of him while he was doing stock check in the cellar.”

“You went to my work?”

“I needed to see you.”

“Nice to know Bourbon takes staff confidentiality seriously,” I muttered. I was going to kill that idiot. Or buy him a basket of flowers and a Marks and Spencer voucher as thanks.

“I paid him well.”

“Youpaidhim?”

“Never ask for something if you’re not willing to give something in return, right?”

Presley smirked and raised a brow, and I felt my insides tighten. Those were the very words I’d spoken to him that night when he’d asked me up to his apartment after we’d got out of the taxi.

I leaned back and looked up at the high-rise building. “So, this is where you live.”

“For now.” He nodded, and I dropped my eyes back to his face.

“That’s right. Bright light city gonna set your soul, set your soul on fire!” I sang jovially.

He tugged me closer. “Will you stay the night?”

“Until morning?”

“Maybe dinner?”

“That depends. Will you stay in Hollings Hill?” I arched a brow.

“You know I can’t.”

“Then don’t ask for something if you’re not willing to give something in return, rock star.” I stood up on tiptoes and kissed his lips tenderly. “Don’t ask anything of me. I won’t ask anything of you. Let’s just see where tonight takes us. You might have a really small dick, and I could be turned off from you in a second,” I breathed against his lips.

“You’re in for a large, painful surprise, Cherry.”

“You have a good memory,” I eventually said, swallowing down the hope I felt resting in my throat. He grabbed hold of the back of the sofa, pressing his fists down onto it and leaning over, and he looked so comfortable there, it made me hitch in a breath. “Presley, what are you—”

“Damn, my name still sounds so good from your lips.”

“Stop it,” I whispered.

“Sorry, Cherry.” He smiled seductively. He wasn’t sorry at all.

“How are you here? Aren’t you meant to be…”locked up?

Right on cue, the news reporter on the TV behind me started replaying the video footage of Presley swinging his fist. I didn’t need to see it again. I had the entire incident burnt into my retinas, ready to replay at any given moment. But Presley’s eyes widened in front of me, and he stood taller as he watched himself go crazy.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“Is this the first time you’ve seen it?”

He nodded, his eyes darting everywhere over the screen. “Looks bad,” he sighed. “Worse than it felt.”

“Today’s news is tomorrow’s trash, right?”

“Right.” He swallowed, and I watched the large fall and rise of his Adam’s apple.

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