I hate it. The noise, the smell, the people. I knew it would be hard, but why does it slam against every sense until I feel like I’m at the breaking point? I need a drink.

When I push forward through the doorway, which now seems narrower than it used to, and follow the path to the bar, surprisingly no one takes any notice of me. I mean, they see me, they move out of the way for me, but no one looks at me as if I’m any different to them. I’m not, I guess. It’s just that I’m surrounded by a huge hunk of metal and wheels, and if I didn’t have it, I really would be fucked. Gino, the head barman, recognizes me instantly and motions for me to come to the side of the bar. “My man!” He flips open the bar hatch so there’s nothing between us. “Good to see you, Spike.” The smile on his face is genuine as he takes my hand, giving it a firm shake. “What can I get ya’?”

“Sambuca,” I shout over the music.

“Startin’ on the hard stuff?” he asks, and that instantly pisses me off. Isn’t he supposed to serve the drinks without question?

“Why wait?” I smile back at him, through gritted teeth. Trying to stay as polite as I can just to get the damn drink that I want.

“I got a new cocktail I’d like to try on ya’, you willing? I’ll follow it up with Sambuca chasers,” he says with a wink, and this takes my rising anger down a notch or two.

“Sure. Why not? What have I got to lose?” Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

Ten minutes later, I have a cocktail in my hand. I don’t know if Gino knew about my drunken episode in the casino bar the other week, but I’m sure the cocktail he’s made me is a fucking virgin, or close to, anyway. And conveniently, he’s super busy when I want serving and it takes ages to get a shot to follow. None of the other servers in their shiny, PVC, Heaven and Hell uniforms even look in my direction and I’m starting to think it’s a fucking conspiracy.

“Well, hello there, sexy.” A tall blonde steps to my side and places her fingers softly on my shoulder.

“Hi,” I grumble and nod curtly, not inviting any conversation.

“You’re one of the King brothers, right? Spike, isn’t it?” I don’t like the sound of my name on her lips. It just feels all kinds of wrong.

“Don’t call me that,” I snap harshly. “I’m Preston. Okay?”

“Sweetheart, I’ll call you whatever you want to be called,” she replies confidently, my tone and remark not affecting that leathery exterior of hers. Ugh, one of those kinds. She’s painted her makeup on in layers and is wearing next to nothing. I rake my eyes up and down her body, taking in the bright white mini dress with the waist cut away, showing as much of her tanned skin as she can. “How about you call me over a bartender and get me a drink, yeah?” I suggest, putting her to good use. If she wants to hang off of me all night, that’s fine as long as she can keep the drinks coming.

“You got the cash, I got the time,” she drawls. I roll my neck back in a slow circle, feeling tension building and out of nowhere a pair of hands clamp firmly down on my shoulders and start to rub in slow massaging rotations. I spin my head around to see another blonde, dressed almost identically to the one at the bar who’s waiting patiently to get me a drink. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that they’re here together. I quickly scan around for a third blonde, expecting one to appear from my other side like a trio of velociraptors.

“Just relax, I can make you feel amazing, handsome,” she breathes suggestively in my ear. Can she even see that I’m in this fucking heap of metal? Does it not cross her mind that I have limited to virtually no sensation below my waist? Maybe that turns her on. Perhaps she sees it as a challenge, or an easy target. Or maybe she’s just out for her own gratification and doesn’t give a shit about anyone else. It seems like such a long time since I’ve been touched by anyone other than a doctor, nurse or family member. Being poked, prodded and moved around is no fun at all. Sexual feelings have been shoved to the back of my mind and although the doctor said I will probably never maintain a sexual relationship as I did once before, I haven’t even been tempted to explore if this is the case. Barbie standing to my side might be a good way to test the waters, so to speak. Could I even get a hard-on with a girl like her? I turn to glance at her, and I’m met with her fake tits right at my eye level. Some guys would say that’s a bonus. But I hate fake tits. Lottie wasn’t … There’s no comparison. This woman is nothing like Lottie. I’m sure she’s a nice woman and all that, but Lottie, well, she’s irreplaceable. Just thinking about her while I have another woman’s hand squeezing my shoulder then running down under the collar of my shirt to stroke my chest, makes me feel guilty as fuck. My stomach feels hollow, like I’m cheating on her. I picture her face if she could see me now and it’s enough to make me throw my shoulder back, suggesting to her to move her hands off me, and I nudge my chair forward so I’m out of her reach. I push ahead, the sea of people in front of me parting politely, and wheel back up to my apartment. What the fuck did I think I was doing coming down here? Oh yeah. Moving on. But instead, I’m falling backwards.

Chapter 12

I wake up with a jump at the sound of my cell buzzing across the nightstand. I have no idea what time it is, but the sun looks like it’s just starting to peek through the curtains, that dusky kind of first morning light. Torran managed to get me a room in his friend’s apartment for a couple of weeks at a really great rate, and the bonus is that it overlooks the whole of Brighton Bay. It’s a five-minute walk from the studio and although it’s only been a week, working with Torran has been a lot of fun. My initial feelings on him were correct. He’s a good guy.

I grab for my cell but it’s just out of reach and it falls to the carpet. I jump out of bed after it and snatch it up, answering the call without seeing who is calling.

“Hello?”

Nothing. The line is silent but I know someone is there.

“Hellooooooo?” I huff. Not only has the caller woken me up, when I glance at the screen, it’s an international call with no number shown. “Who is this?” I ask nervously. If it were Arianna or Denham, they would have spoken by now. I’m just about to end the call when someone speaks quietly and I put the phone back to my ear.

“Lottie,” he breathes out. My heart pounds and swells instantly before feeling a familiar ache.

“Spike.” Tears sting my eyes and I fight to keep myself together. It’s been so long since I heard his voice. My initial thought is relief, then I panic that he’s calling me because something is wrong. “Are you okay?”

“Lottie,” he whispers before swallowing noisily. “I …”

“Yes,” I whisper back. I hate that there’s thousands of miles between us. My fingers itch to reach out and touch his warm skin, to wrap my arms around him and not let go. We listen to each other breathing as if it’s all we need, that familiarity, that feeling of recognition that soothes us both. But it only lasts a few seconds before the reality of us halts the silence. “I don’t know why I called,” he says and I visualize him shrugging his broad shoulders, his head dropped low between them, defeated, broken.

“What time is it there?” I ask him, trying to make conversation. Why does it seem like the silence stretches for hours? I used to love sitting in silence with Spike, we didn’t need words.

“It’s ten.”

“Oh, I forget with the time difference,” I huff out a laugh awkwardly, highlighting the distance between us in more ways than one.