Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
I wondered where Vincent was, whether he was smirking to himself just a short way away, knowing exactly how messed up I’d feel at his presence, knowing exactly what game he was playing with releasing early. Knowing exactly that my days here were numbered, that I’d be uncomfortable, and stressed, and angry.
Of course he knew.
I bailed on my cocktail efforts and took to sorting out the stockroom. The physical effort did me some good, working off the stress as I rejigged the boxes. I arranged the toys in one section, and the cleaning supplies in another. I arranged the bar snacks in a way that was easy to reach without climbing over three mop buckets and a box of butt plugs. It looked good.
Fuck you, Andy Morgan.
I scrubbed down the wall space I’d cleared behind the boxes, gloved-up and dangerous with a spray bottle of disinfectant. I pulled out the trays under the shelves and swept out all the dust. I mopped the hard to reach bits behind the storage units, and I polished up the candlesticks we used on special occasions.
I was on the floor reassembling a load of old table decorations when the door creaked open behind me. I heard a jangle of keys.
“Time to go,” he said. “Topaz is locking up. I’m tired.”
“You’re leaving the club with someone else?” I sneered. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Don’t make me regret it, or you’ll have another four hours of doing that… whatever it is you’re doing.”
I held up one of the orchid displays. “Fixing these.”
“I forgot we even had those.” I heard his footsteps about the place, but I didn’t turn to face him. “Jesus, Faye, you’ve torn the place apart.”
“It’s better, no?”
“Yes, it’s better.”
“My God, don’t tell me that was actually an acknowledgement of something done well?” I gathered up the decorations and pushed them back in their box. “Fine, let’s go. I’m fucking knackered.”
His hand was on my elbow before I could protest, pulling me to my feet. “I can give praise, Faye. When it’s warranted.”
“Sure you can,” I pulled away. “Let’s go.”
We drove back to his in silence, my arms tight across my chest in defence of some barrage of questions that never came. He pulled up outside and I was out like a shot, up the stairs and through the apartment door as soon as he could open it for me. I hovered around the kitchen while he made a drink, but pretended I was busy on my mobile. It shocked me no end when he drank up and disappeared for a shower. He really was tired. I didn’t see him come out, even. He was straight into his bedroom, lights out.
The frustration was more than I could bear.
I made myself a sandwich, and I clattered about the place like I was feeding the five thousand. I put the TV on loud, and made a big deal of going to the bathroom three times over the course of one short programme. If the volume irritated him, he didn’t react. He didn’t storm into the corridor in his boxers and demand some quiet, or ping me that I needed to get to pissing bed and not be late in the morning. He didn’t do fucking anything.
I turned the TV off and cleaned up, jumping in the shower for a proper scrub down before I went to bed.
There was the faintest light under his door as I crossed the hallway. It made my heart stutter. Ridiculous.
I dried myself off and shoved my damp hair back into a bun, then lay in bed, listening for signs of life, but none came. I made a big deal of getting comfortable, hoping the headboard would bash the wall. It didn’t. Not even when I pushed it.
I grabbed my mobile and called up his details. Text box.
Are you still awake?
A minute of silence.
What do you want?
I typed out a message only to delete it, over and over again.
I want to ask you… I can’t sleep and I… About today… I can’t help but…
There was only one message that made sense. I stared at the letters.
I want you. Now. Please.
But I couldn’t press send. I just couldn’t do it. I rolled onto my side, chewing on my fingernails, that churn of something in my stomach threatening to throw up my sandwich.
I held my breath at the sound of movement, eyes wide in the darkness at the realisation it was coming from the room next door. I flicked on the lamp, all ready to head out into the living area if he headed in that direction. I would have to hang around the corridor if it was the bathroom he vanished into, pretend I needed the toilet. Again.
Anything just to see him.
But I didn’t need to do anything.
I pulled the duvet up to my chin as my bedroom door opened, and it turns out that Andy Morgan doesn’t even wear boxers to bed. He doesn’t wear anything at all.