I stretch my arm out to reach for my phone, the device lying face down on the bedside table, and type in my passcode, effectively cutting off whatever she was going to say next.
A hot huff of morning breath skitters across my jawline. “Hudson? Did you hear me?”
I hear her alright, although I wish I didn’t. I need to get out of here ASAP.
“I gotta get going,” I say, still not looking at my one-night stand. It’s almost noon, and I need to get a taxi back to mine, change out of last night’s clothes and hop on the next train, all in the hopes of making it to the weekly Millen Sunday family dinner on time. Mum won’t let me hear the end of it otherwise.
She’s adamant I don’t call or text her enough as is, so missing the family dinner because I’ve woken up in some random girl’s bed and I can’t drag myself out of it, would just end up in a lecture I could do without.
Plus, I quite enjoy the time together with my mum, dad and brothers. It was easier when we were younger and all living at home, but now we’re all off doing our own things, living our own lives, creating families for ourselves – or, at least, Noah and Grey are – finding time to see each other in between work and other commitments can be difficult. More so, when three of us Millen boys live in London; out of the four of us, Noah is the only one who stayed close to home in the Cotswolds.
Although I don’t say it very often to their faces, I do love my brothers and I’ve always been very aware that the time wespend together is precious because we’ll only ever get that exact moment once.
There aren’t any replays, second attempts, or a chance to rewind time with life, no matter how many times you wish you could.
The redhead sits up next to me, her sharp nails grazing the bare skin of my bicep. She snorts derisively and purposefully allows the bedsheet to fall past her breasts, as if the sight of them alone will convince me to stay until well after breakfast, maybe even another evening. “You’ve got to get going?”
She says it as if she doesn’t understand, as if no other man has ever turned her down before.
“Yeah.” I scrub the crumb of sleep from the corner of my eye and swing my legs out of bed, scouring the floor for my discarded clothes.
“Seriously, Hudson?” Once I’ve pulled my underwear on, I force myself to look at her, locks of extensions and real hair all mussed up as evidence of just how rough we were together last night.
“I’ve really got to get going…”
“Will you call me tonight? Once you’re back home? I can come over if you want—”
“I—Look…” I button my trousers up tight. “Last night was great.” I don’t know if that’s a lie or not. I know I came all over her back, but just because I got my rocks off doesn’t mean the sex was any good. Still, I pretend I remember every detail, if only it’ll soften the blow of what I’m about to say next. “But I’m not looking for anything serious and I don’t think you are either, so—”
“You don’t know a single fucking thing about me, Hudson,” she fumes, face screwed up in a mixture of what I think is disbelief and anger.
Well, she’s not wrong there, but you can’t blame me for just trying to get out of this situation as unscathed as possible.
“I just mean that I really enjoyed last night… but I’m not sure there should be a repeat. Do you catch my drift?”
“I fucking catch your drift alright!” The redhead is only one decibel from screaming now. “I hope you catch mine when I tell you to get the fuck out of my apartment and block my number! I don’t ever want to hear from you again!”
She doesn’t need to tell me twice. I shove my arms through my shirt, double check my phone, wallet and apartment keys are in my back pocket and high tail it out of there.
I’ve been in this exact same position more times than I care to admit, but I never seem to learn my lesson.
Ignoring the questioning looks from the other passengers, probably at the state of my sex hair and messy clothes, I hop on and off two different tube lines to get back to my small apartment in Clapham, Southwest London. It’s nothing massive or fancy, not at all like my brother Grey’s apartment, which I lived in for a few months last year when I’d been fired from my job and kicked out of my apartment.
Apparently, my boss at the gym hadn’t really appreciated the fact that I’d slept with his youngest daughter and then never called her back.
I hold my hands up. I admit it was my mistake. But I never dreamed he’d fired me from working at the gym and then kick me out of the apartment I’d been living in above said gym.
That had been a fucking bad day.
Thankfully, Grey had taken me in when I needed him most, giving me a roof over my head while I got back on my feet. So no, my apartment isn’t anywhere near as nice as his, nor as big as the apartment he and his girlfriend Delilah have been viewing in anticipation of moving in together, but still, it’s all mine and I take pride in that.
St Pancreas train station is packed to the rafters by the time I get there, buying myself a digital ticket on my phone while I navigate the crowds of confused tourists staring up at the large, pixilated boards with its bright orange lettering displaying random platform numbers, train departure times and locations.
I duck into one of the many shops dotted around the station, to grab a sandwich and a packet of crisps; something, anything, to soak up the alcohol still sloshing about my stomach and to keep me going until I shovel Mum’s famous roast potatoes down my throat.
“A packet of painkillers as well, please, mate,” I ask the bored looking cashier behind the till, scanning my phone to pay for my items.
Arms full of my lunch, painkillers and a bottle of fizzy pop to wash it all down and give me a bit of well needed energy, I find platform four and perch myself on the uncomfortable, metal seats tucked away inside the platform waiting room. At least I don’t have to sit outside, freezing my balls off in this harsh January weather while I wait for the train to make its arrival.
