“Miss Calla Becker? She showed your around the apartment you’re applying tenancy for?”
The hand banding around my neck slides forward to rub at the eleven lines marring the space between my brows. How is it I know how Calla feels wrapped around my cock, how she sounds when she breaks apart, the sound of her giggle and the taste of her tongue, but I don’t know her last name?
“Yeah, sorry. I was drawing a blank there for a minute.” The lie tastes like acid on my tongue; acrid and bitter.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever drawn a blank trying to remember Calla,” chuckles the voice on the other end of the line. “But there’s a first for everything, ain’t there, mate?”
I clench my jaw, feeling the muscle there tick at the patronising, over familiarity of his tone. I’m not his fuckingmateand I hate the sound of Calla’s name lying on his tongue. It sounds too… personal, as if he has the right to talk about her.
That thought is even worse than my first, causing my stomach to roll.
The overfamiliar tone of his voice, the casual way her name drips from his mouth, the taunting desire I can hear… I might find it a little difficult to read people at times, but I’m not fucking stupid.
Maybe they’re sleeping together; him and Calla.
Swallowing back the bile rising in my throat, I flick down to check the time on my watch. There’s nothing more I want right now but to end this call and get back to my fucking job.
Blood pressure rising, I can’t keep the snap of ire from my tone. If he wants to be a smug twat; fine. Two can play at that game. “You’re right. Nothing about Calla is forgettable. I’ll be there before five.”
I’m panting by the time I jab my finger into the red end button, anger zapping through me, burrowing under my skin.
Shoving my phone into my back pocket, I grab the still tangled set of stopwatches and stomp out on the field, where most of my class are already gathered kicking around an almost deflated football.
“Warm up! Five laps, lads.”
The warm summer sun beats down on me as I give up trying to untangle the knotted web, instead shoving my hands in my pockets and watching my class run around the track.
I’m pissed off but I can’t quite put my finger on why, which only serves to piss me off further. It’s like a viciouscycle I can’t escape. And to make matters worse, now I’ve got to go somehow sweet talk my boss into letting me leave work early, just so I can sign a stupid piece of paper.
Fucking hell…
This place is like a fucking maze.
Pushing through another revolving glass door, I squint upwards at the black and white board, boasting directions to the sixteen different floors hosted within the skyscraper.
I’ve already been here five minutes or so – after practically running to the tube, straight from work, fighting for my life through the busy throngs of tourists and the beginning of the afternoon rush hour – desperately trying to decipher the directions on how to reach McAvoy and Fraser Real Estate in this god forsaken glass maze of a building.
Taking another sharp left turn, I pass by a familiar looking tall fern encased in an orange ceramic pot. Fisting my stands of hair, sweaty from running around, I feel my eyelid tick. I swear I just passed that exact plant a minute ago. Am I going in a circle?
Feeling more annoyed by the millisecond, mainly at myself because how the fuck did I forget asinglesignature when I read the damn paperwork front to back a thousand times over, I decide to take the next right instead.
Landing myself in a lift packed to the rafters with expensive smelling men and women, dressed head to toe in business wear, I stare straight ahead, folding my arms over my chest, ignoring the whispers while we glide upward.
My stomach feels like it’s still floating somewhere about floor four, but I swallow down the feeling, stepping out and making a beeline for the large information desk I spot.
It’s just my luck that it’s devoid of any human activity; the glass countertop and glossy high-tech computer impersonal. Almost robotic. As if it’s purposefully made that way to intimidate you.
Flicking my gaze back and forth, I take a step forward, only then noticing the small doorbell sitting innocently upon the glass.
I hardly touch the thing, before a door swings open, a small brunette woman stalking out. She smooths her skirt and then sits, staring up at me with a wide, lipstick-stained smile.
“Can I help you, sir?” she twitters.
“Yeah.” I clear my voice. “I’m looking for McAvoy and Fraser.”
“That’s us.”
“Right, I’m—”
