He ignores the question. He’s more passive-aggressive than Taylor Swift. “You haven’t eaten properly for a few days now,” he says instead in a concerned voice.
“I have eaten,” I say crossly.
“Tequila and vodka aren’t any of the major food groups.”
I shrug. “I had a Pop-Tart this morning.”
“You had thatyesterdayand very charmingly regurgitated it into a jasmine bush earlier on.”
“I’m fine,” I say dismissively.
“I surely hope you are,” he says wryly. “Because you’ve got your hands full tonight.”
I shake my head, thinking of the two men I’m about to get into bed with and looking down at my very disinterested cock. “Russ, you’d need a medium and a séance to bring my dick back to life tonight.”
He laughs loudly and then sobers. “Maybe you should call it a night then. Go to bed on your own for a change, sir.”
“Okay, Nanny McPhee. And maybe I’d be better with a box of tissues and a wi-fi connection.” I sigh. “Actually, that sounds a lot quieter.” I stare blearily at the back of his grey head. “I hope you also know that tagging the word ‘sir’ on the end of a sentence doesn’t make it any less bossy.”
“I am aware of that,” he says tartly. He pauses before saying in a rush, “Why don’t I get them out of your room for you? You can get an early night. And see a doctor in the morning,” he adds sternly.
“I don’t need a doctor,” I say peevishly.
“Yes, you do, Gideon. I’m telling you now that you are not well.”
“I’m fine.” We pull up to the hotel and I wave him off as he goes to get out and open my door. “I think we’re far past the point of ceremony, Russ, when you’re lecturing me on my choice of bedmates.”
“Choice isn’t the right word,” he mutters. “Conveyor belt is more like it.”
I get out but stagger slightly and lean back in, resting my hand on the roof of the car for balance. “What the hell? Have you been speaking to Frankie?”
He makes a moue of disgust at the sound of my manager’s name. “Of course I haven’t. I don’t work for him. I just know he’d be right here if he knew what was going on.”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Okay, only a complete meltdown. Nothing to see here, folks.” He glares at me. “Gid, you’ve been destroying yourself for a long time, but this last year you seem to have stepped up the effort. You’ve got a lot worse very quickly. Frankie hasn’t spotted what you’re doing to yourself yet, but either he or the press will. I hope for your sake that it’s Frankie.”
I wink at him. “I’m not doing it to myself. That’s the whole point of the evening.”
He sighs and shakes his head as I give him a half salute which goes slightly awry when I forget where to put my hand.
I give up and wave to him as I stumble blearily into the hotel. I blink.Jesus Christ, it’s fucking bright in here.I feel the ever-present headache start to throb painfully and take another sip from the bottle as I wonder where I put the ibuprofen I had to buy earlier.
A member of staff approaches me. It’s the man from reception who has made it subtly clear that he disapproves of me. “I’m so sorry, Mr Ramsay,” he says officiously. “Would you mind if I took that bottle off you?”
“I would, actually,” I say, hearing the slur in my voice. “I’m not big on sharing my things so you should get your own.”
“It isn’t our policy for guests to bring their own alcohol into the hotel.”
“I’ll give you three hundred pounds if you leave me alone,” I say, digging in my pocket, and he hesitates.
Then he politely says, “Of course, sir,” taking the bundle of cash I thrust into his hand. I’m pretty sure there’s more than three hundred quid in there but I honestly can’t be arsed to check. “Maybe you’d like to go to your room,” he says smoothly.
I smile at him, taking another drink. “You sound just like a matron,” I offer.
A smirk plays on his lips as he presses the lift button and it arrives as quietly as everyone and everything seems to move around here. The place is like heaven, but with chocolate on the pillows and bribable staff.
I slump back against the mirrored walls of the lift as the door closes. Three or four Gideons look back at me. Pale and sweaty with big circles under their eyes. I look closer.Shit, I do look terrible. Sweat rushes up my body and my stomach seems to turn over. I suck in air.Fuck, I don’t need to be sick in another bloody lift.
