The wheelchair. The God. Damn. Fucking. Wheelchair. Nope, not enough alcohol yet.

“Fill ‘er up, Chris, my man,” I slur, pushing the glass towards him. This time it doesn’t slide forward as it did before. My fingers are clumsy and I knock it sideways and it falls off the bar and smashes on the hard ground. Fuck.

“Nope. Sorry, man. That’s enough now,” Chris answers firmly.

“Excuse me?” I squint at him, my vision is extremely blurry and my eyes can’t focus on him properly no matter how hard I try.

“Here.” He hands me another glass carefully this time and I note that he holds on to it until he knows I have it securely in my hands. Fucking idiot. What, does he think because I’m in a wheel chair that I need special treatment like a kid? I push it away, and despite his grip, some of it spills in my lap.

Then it hits me. Four tumblers of brandy on an empty stomach and mixing it all with copious amounts of painkillers in my bloodstream has shut down my coordination. It’s jumbled my thoughts until all that’s spinning around in my head are the words ‘Lottie’ and ‘gone’.

I close my eyes and try to stop the spinning in my head. So fast. Won’t stop.

“I’m gonna be sick,” I blurt out as my throat contracts.

Did I even manage to say that out loud? I reach out in front of me and grab at the edge of the bar which is higher than it’s always been before due to me being in this curse of a chair. But I can’t focus enough to grip it and before I can control my body’s repulsion of the alcohol, I’m heaving over the side and decorating my wheels with strong, pungent, second hand brandy.

I hear people talking. There’s people shuffling around me, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t determine who they are. Shit. This might not have been such a good idea.

“Let’s get you back upstairs,” a soft feminine voice says over my shoulder, rubbing her hand along my upper arm.

“Lottie?” I question. I’m pissed off with myself that all I can hear are jumbled words that merge into a distant echo. I can’t even tell if it’s Lottie that sounds different or if it’s my head distorting the sounds around me.

“No. It’s me, Arianna.”

“Ari … I miss her, Ari. I miss her so fucking much,” I slur, and despite the sad state that I’m in, tears force their way to my eyes as another wave of brandy surfaces in my throat.

“I know,” she soothes. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

“I’m sorry.” I manage to get the words out right before I’m hurling over the side of the chair again. “I’m sorry for everything.”

Chapter 8

In the four days that I’ve been here, I’ve exhausted all the most obvious tourist haunts. I’ve visited the dungeons which almost made me pee myself with fear, ridden on the London Eye, visited the Tower of London, watched the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace and wandered around admiring everything in the National Gallery, twice. I’ve treated myself to traditional English afternoon tea at Harrods, and eaten the best Chinese food in China town. I’ve seen Big Ben, which I didn’t think was that big, and I’ve even taken a tour around the creepy back streets of London to see where Jack the Ripper gruesomely killed his victims. Maybe I should have spaced them out and done one attraction a day, but I was so eager to see as much as I can while I’m here that I couldn’t help myself. It was all so exciting, and each visit was a distraction from the torment of my thoughts.

But now I’m bored. Stone cold bored, and lonely.

London is a huge place. But having seen the main attractions, and not knowing anyone here or having anyone to share all my experiences with, I don’t know what to do or where to go next. Yes, I’ve chatted with people each day who have recommended places for me to see, but I don’t want someone to tell me where to visit. I want someone to visit places with me.

I miss Spike.

So many times I’ve turned to say something to him. So many times I’ve seen something he would love. So many times. I wonder what he’s doing now. Is he still distancing himself from the rest of the world in a struggle to cope with everything that has happened to him? Or is he moving on? Maybe he waited for me to leave before starting his life over again. Maybe he was looking for an out all along?

No. I can’t think like that. We were perfect. We were Lovestrong.

The last few days were just a way of keeping myself busy so I didn’t think about him. I’ve tried over and over again to push all the sadness away and pretend that I’m on the adventure of a lifetime, but it’s actually made me feel more alone than I did before. And now I’m sitting at a table for one in the hotel restaurant with tears pouring down my face, again.

“Is everything okay, miss?” a young waitress asks me. I look up at her through wet lashes. She has kind eyes and a genuinely concerned look on her face.

“No,” I answer quietly. “Everything isn’t okay, and I don’t know if it ever will be.”

“Oh,” she answers, looking awkward now that I’ve not brushed my feelings away out of politeness.

“There’s nothing you can do.” I brush the tears from my cheeks with the back of my knuckles. “I have to deal with it. I just don’t know how.”

“Okay. Uh … Is there anything I can get you?”

“Sambuca,” I answer resolutely. “Make it a double, please.” She hurries off, probably relieved that I changed the subject and didn’t drag her in to a conversation about how fucking awful my life is. She may have asked politely if everything was okay, but there’s one thing I’ve noticed about British people. They are so polite, to the point of masking their feelings and thoughts for fear of upsetting someone. She didn’t really want to know about my life, she was just being polite in asking. She comes back with my double Sambuca in a few minutes and places it on the table, hovering for just a second.

“You know, if it’s a guy, in my experience, they’re never worth the tears.” She gives a small shrug and a wry smile before going back to her job.

He was worth it. He still is. Every tear.

After pushing my half-finished meal away and substituting it for a couple of double Sambucas, my head is nicely clouded. I’ve moved from the restaurant to the bar, where the drinks flow freely. It’s amazing how fast you can drink when all you have to do is raise a finger and the next shot appears in front of you.

“Fancy some company?” A guy sits beside me and I’m about to tell him not to bother chatting me up, but I recognize his face. I frown trying to remember who he is.

“Luke. It’s Luke. I helped you get in to your room when you were fighting with the key card.”

“Ohhhh, yeah. I remember you.”

“Are you enjoying your stay?”

“Is that a line you use on all the girls?” I roll my eyes and turn away from him.

He chuckles at my evasion. “It’s probably a line that’s programmed into my brain from working here actually. I’m not trying to hit on you.”

“No?”

“You disappointed at that?” His lips curve into a cocky smile and instead of looking handsome, he just looks cute.

I frown. “No. Relieved, I think.”

He shakes his head with a snigger. “You wanna see something cool?”

“Depends on what it is. You’re not going to show me an intimate piercing or something, are you?”

“No! I thought I already said I’m not trying to hit on you,” he laughs. “No, I thought you might like to see the other bar we have here.”

“There’s another one?”

“Yup.” His eyes twinkle and he smiles as if he’s just told me a huge secret. “VIPs only.”

“I’m not a VIP.” I dismiss his offer with a shrug of my shoulders.

“You are when you’re with me. Come on.” He hops off the bar stool and holds out his arm for me to link mine with his. The alcohol in my system doesn’t allow me to think much before I take his arm and follow his lead.