We climb the vast staircase to the spacious landing above. Window seats, lined with plump navy velvet cushions, offer extensive views of the gardens and woodlands. The only view I’m interested in seeing again is Sasha Sexton.
I’m addicted to her once again.
Was I ever not?
Every intimate encounter I ever had in LA was fucking laughable in comparison to what I feel for her. What I’ve always felt for her.
But she deserves better than me. She did then and she does now.
A variety of oil paintings adorn the walls, lush landscapes and authentic beach scenes. They’re evenly spaced and beautifully framed with gilded wood. The carpet’s thick underfoot, in the same shade of dove grey as the flooring below. Dense grey and navy curtains frame the window, clasped back with threaded silver tassels. It’s like taking a step back ten years. The decor appears almost exactly the same as when Sasha’s mother and father ran the place.
Navy, discreet double doors are nestled to my right. If I didn’t already know they were there, I might have missed them. I can only assume that was Sasha’s parents’ intention when they claimed this area of the castle as their family home.
I know the inside of that area well – intimate memories of a misspent youth, (or well-spent some might argue) have haunted my dreams for a decade.
‘If you’d like to follow me, sir.’ Louise beckons us across the corridor to the entrance of the penthouse. There’s no missing it, with its majestic maple door and burnished wall plaque.
Using a touch key card, she opens the door before standing back and allowing us to enter.
The suite is enormous and bright, despite the dark regal decor within. A colossal lounge area boasts sliding doors opening onto a huge terrace overlooking the extensive landscape, gloriously stretching all the way to the Irish Sea. The balustrade is comprised entirely of glass and chrome offering the perception of infinity. A hot tub sits next to a slate-grey Elementi fire pit.
I thought someone was having one over on me, but I can see the justification of the price. This is worth every cent.
LA has some stunning spots, but there’s no place like home, and that’s even without The Sasha Effect.
A porter enters with my luggage, and Pierce leaves with Louise to find his own suite next door.
‘I won’t bother you, boss. But I’ll be listening. Shout if you need anything.’
‘Thanks, Pierce.’ I appreciate his discretion, but the only thing I really need right now, is to get my head straight. Because every single bone in my body is screaming at me to bang on the door of Sasha’s private quarters and beg for her forgiveness. Something which is not only utterly futile, but completely undeserved.
We had our time. Our chance. It wasn’t to be. Her life’s here. Mine’s in LA. It’s pointless starting something I won’t be able to finish. Again.
Opening my suitcase, I begin to unpack. The crisp white designer shirts and tailored leather jackets seemed so appropriate in LA, here they just highlight how colourless my life is.
For the first time in months, my guitar calls to me from where the porter left it in the lounge area. My fingers itch to strum. To find a way to vent this emotion I’m finally feeling, to channel it outside of my body, because I’ve just been given a crash course in why I suppressed it for so long – it has the potential to consume me.
I need to expel it one way or another before it tears me apart. And though it might hurt like hell, this is exactly why I came here.
Grabbing the Huxley Castle stationery, I take my guitar onto the terrace and finally put pen to paper.
CHAPTERSEVEN
SASHA
22ndNovember
Despite the dark ungodly hour, my mobile vibrates from the pillow next to me. Assuming it’s my alarm, I hit the red button. Within seconds, it’s buzzing again. I cancel it for the second time.
Rolling face first into my pillow, I bury myself further under the duck-down duvet, hiding from the day ahead. Another day of trying to avoid Ryan. Though he made it easy yesterday, not emerging from his suite once.
Not that I was watching, I simply happened to notice the door didn’t open across the hall. But he won’t stay holed up in there forever.
When the phone vibrates for a third time, I know it can only be Chloe. She’s four hours ahead in Dubai and has a horrible habit of ringing me at appalling hours.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, Sasha, put the light on. I can’t see a thing!’ Her chirpy voice singsongs through the receiver.
