“Good morning, Mr. King,” Sue, my home nurse, calls as she enters. She comes every morning to help me with the personal care side of things and I hate every minute of it. I hate that I can’t shower unsupervised. I hate that I can’t get dressed on my own and I hate having to rely on the care of a stranger to get me ready for the day.

I turn the wheelchair and come in through the double doors. “Morning,” I grumble unenthusiastically.

“You’re up early, Mr. King. How are you this morning?” she asks with her usual chirpy voice and unwavering smile.

“I’m the same as every other morning,” I sigh heavily, “and I’ve told you, Mr. King is my brother, I’m Spi… Preston. Just call me Preston, okay?” It’s been a while since anyone called me by my birth name. But I’m not the person I used to be. Spike isn’t here anymore.

“Okay. My apologies,” she says gently, making me feel a little guilty for my sharp tone. She busies herself in the kitchen for a few minutes before coming back out to me.

“How did you sleep?” she asks, same question every morning. Same routine. Same numb fucking existence.

“I didn’t,” I inform her with a grumble.

“Oh. Maybe we need to speak to the doctor about some sleep meds. It would help you relax a little.” There it is again. Positivity abounds.

“I would relax a whole lot more if everyone left me the hell alone with a bottle of Sambuca,” I mumble, steering away from her and heading back to the balcony. Sambuca makes me think of Lottie, Arianna and D, and our nights out as a foursome. Good times. Times passed.

“Would you like to shower this morning?” Sue calls across the room.

“No,” I answer bluntly in annoyance.

“Uh, are you sure?” she asks, surprised. I’ve showered every morning since I came out of the hospital, and every evening too. I hate the feeling of sitting in the same position all day and a shower seems the only way to break that monotony. “It’s really no trouble to go and get everything set up for you. Just come through when you’re ready.” She moves off in the direction of my bathroom, ignoring my answer and making me feel even more insignificant than I already do.

“Get out,” I bark harshly, swinging the wheelchair around as fast as it will turn, making her jump and causing the coffee in my cup to slosh and spill in my lap.

She tries to placate me, but hurt and self-pity take form as rage.

“Get out, and don’t fucking come back.” I throw the words at her with reckless anger, not caring that she doesn’t deserve this tirade.

“I’m sorry, Mr. King, I didn’t mean to−”

“To what? Undermine me? Make me feel like shit? And it’s Preston, for fuck’s sake. PRESTON,” I yell, feeling rage hurtling through me. My hands shake as I grip the mug, and I take fast, shallow breaths, fighting to regain control, battling to grasp on to a tiny piece of rationality. I come up blank.

Sue stands still, not knowing if she should stay or go. She’s probably been trained to deal calmly with situations like this. Like me. Difficult, uncooperative patients. Well, I’m sick of being a patient. I pin her with a sharp glare, telling her that she needs to get the fuck out of my apartment before I lose my shit.

“What’s the problem? Your legs stopped working?” I let out a bitter laugh that stings my throat as I realize the irony of my rhetorical question. “I told you to get out. Get. Out.”

She picks up her purse from the coffee table and makes her way to the door, keeping her head down and her distance as far from me as possible. It makes me feel like even more of an asshole. I never meant to make her wary of me. I didn’t want to frighten her or anything like that, but not only has she caught me on a bad day, she was so invested in doing her ‘job’ that she forgot that I’m a human being. A human being with a broken back and a shattered heart.

I take myself back out onto the balcony again, settling in the far corner and I stare across the expanse of Las Vegas. It’s starting to get busy now. It never really sleeps, but there are busier times than others. There’s always so much life, so much action, and I wonder if I will ever fit in to this world again. Maybe I need to be someone else to survive here. Maybe Lottie had the right idea, getting out when she could. Starting her life over and leaving her pain behind. Only I’m not sure ‘us’ and everything we were, is something either of us could ever leave behind completely. Just as the rest of Las Vegas comes to life and the sun starts to warm my skin, I cry. Every single tear that slides from my eyes is for Lottie. For every one of her beautiful smiles. For every time she kissed my lips. For every time my heart beats achingly for her.

Chapter 6

“So,” Torran starts, placing a coffee and the biggest slice of chocolate cake I’ve ever seen down in front of me. He takes the chair opposite me and rests his elbows on the table. “What are you doing here?”

“Having coffee and cake with a friendly stranger.” I shrug nonchalantly. He contemplates my answer before shaking his head with a laugh.

“I guess I am a complete stranger to you, yet you still asked me to go for coffee with you. You’re gonna have to toughen up, firebird, if you’re going to survive in London.”

“Well, that’s where you read me wrong. I’m perfectly tough, thank you very much. I’m actually military trained and could take you out in a second.” I raise my chin defiantly but struggle to keep from smirking.

“I’m sure you could.” He rolls his eyes playfully. “So, are you going to tell me what you’re doing in London? You on holiday?”

“Vacation,” I correct him in jest.

“Same difference,” he fires back.

“Honestly, I’m not really sure what it is. It’s a vacation, I suppose, but it’s indefinite.”

“Oh yeah? Well, that sounds cool. How far have you travelled?”

“It feels like a million miles,” I sigh. “Vegas. I lived in Las Vegas.”

“Awesome!” he comments, his eyes lighting up. “I’d love to go to there. Never really travelled very far, never had the chance, but I’d love to.”

“I hadn’t travelled much until now.”

“So what made you?” he asks before taking his coffee cup between his inked hands.

“Life,” I reply, stopping that line of conversation. I grab my coffee and take a huge gulp, keeping my eyes down at the table in the hope he won’t ask my anymore. He’s too easy to talk to. I’d probably end up in a pool of tears and tell him everything right here in the middle of this coffee shop if I don’t move this conversation on from here. Thankfully he mirrors me, drinking his coffee and not pressing me for an answer. “Do you live in the city?” I ask.

“I live in a city. Not this one though. I live on the coast, in Brighton.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“Having coffee and cake with a fiery little redhead.” He mimics my earlier comeback with a wink and dips his finger into the creamy middle layer of my cake. I’m not sure if it’s innocently playful or if he’s flirting with me. Whatever he’s doing, however genuine he seems, being here, with him, suddenly sits awkwardly in my gut. I fight the urge to flee out of the door. It’s ridiculous that even though I’m free and single, I feel guilty for having coffee with a man. Yes, I suppose he’s cute, in a rugged, tattooed, pierced kind of way. He’s tall, probably six foot four plus, and he’s slim. The opposite of Spike’s shorter, stockier build. But there’s something about his gentle nature that reminds me of Spike and this is what stabs guilt deep in to my heart.

“I own a tattooist’s. Came up to town to see a friend of mine and get some new ink.” He pushes his right shoulder forward, indicating where he has a new tattoo.

“More ink? Do you have anywhere that’s uncovered?” I immediately regret that question. “I don’t want to know. I do not need to know the answer to that.” I shake my head rapidly and try to pretend that I did not just ask that question.