“Hey!” He looked at the blank screen, internally screaming. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Typing the address in the GPS, he was already shedding his clothes on the way to the shower. And fuck it if he was going to pick them off the floor, ever. He put the water on full blast, hot, and stepped under it, letting it hammer at his heart, wash that stress and grief out a bit. Soaping up, that familiar scent ramming into him, that scent they used to fuck in, pressedagainst the shower wall…Shit!He washed his hair out, rinsing the foam, watching it slide down his body, trickling in his dark body hair. That muscled body, his hands braced on the tiles as he let the water rush down his back, his ass and thighs, rush down that large tattoo on his left shoulder and arm.Fuck.
Drying quickly, he readjusted his hair, cropped short, a quick glance at his grieving eyes in the mirror, but there was no time to mull over his pain, so he went to their closet, ignoring that punch to his heart when he saw their clothes snuggled together.Fuck.Dressing, another shirt, another tie, another black suit. Fishing his wallet out of the other suit jacket, he took his phone off the sink, and rushed to pull new shoes on.Fuck.Glancing at his watch, he wiped it off.Ok, still fine…Riding down to the garage, he watched the floor count, trying not to break down and howl.Fuck.But of course, there was no car in their spot… Holding back another howl, he called a cab and walked up to the ground floor, stepping out in that amazing sun.
Waiting on the curb, seeing couples everywhere, holding hands, or just walking wherever, holding hands, and it all seemed a dream, a bad dream, those messages, that call… The cab pulled up and he sat inside, telling the driver the address. Meeting his eyes in the mirror, he gave him a glance which made him look away.Fuck this. Almost justifying himself when he hadn’t drunk a drop in years.
Watching the buildings whizz by, the streets, the cars, people on the sidewalks. Leaning against his hand, trying not to crumble when he knew he had to look professional. The landscape shifting from downtown to lush suburbs, visible from the highway, to the outskirts of the city, the road winding between tall trees, to a gated property. They could roll into that large park surrounding a cream colored building, discreet gold letters. Private Hospital.Fuck rich people.
He paid the driver and got out, walking straight to reception.Fuck…He messaged Sinclair.
-their fucking names?
Watching the dots.
-Polite, as ever. Henry Galloway and his wife, Martina.
Pocketing the phone, he smiled at the nurse. “Mr and Mrs Galloway are expecting me?”
“You’re from Sinclair’s Angels?”
He almost scoffed at the name. “Yes…”
“Second floor to the right. Room 12.”
He nodded at her and left to the elevator.
The hospital looked more like a hotel, with immaculate corridors, beige, and grey colors, and white, and he wondered if rich people hated colors, because sure as fuck wherever he had worked there had been none, but these sad tones of faux luxury. Second floor in the elevator playing some shit music. To the right, Room 12. He knocked, thankful to have something to concentrate on. Squaring his broad shoulders, he waited. The door opened then, and a man gestured him in. A man with grey hair, a small, neatly trimmed moustache, and black framed glasses, wearing a grey suit.
The man offered his hand. Firm handshake. “Welcome. I’m Henry Galloway, as you might know. And my wife, Martina.”
A slender woman had walked up to them, wearing a light pink dress, and the signature pearl necklace with matching heels. Her hair was down to her shoulders, dyed a creamy dark brown. “Nice meeting you.”
He shook her hand too. “My pleasure. I’m Duncan Lambert.” He had sort of pronounced his last name in French, but said the ‘t’ at the end because sure as fuck people started asking questions about the spelling then. And he was ready for the next one.
Martina perked up. “Oh! French?”
“My father’s side.” Hoping that would be enough.
“How fun!”
Henry gestured at the bed. “Here’s why I asked Sinclair to send us one of his best men.”
“It’s not like I’m not in the fucking room now, am I?” That voice, filled with scorn, the words slurred.
Duncan looked at the source of it, that human lying in that white bed, his eyes filled with hate under that layer of alcohol clouds.Perfect…Dark eyes, watching them, dark brown hair, down to his shoulders in soft waves, pale skin, from what he could see on his arms and hands on the covers, that hospital gown askew, showing his slender shoulder.
“Manners, Spencer.”
“Fuck you…” He chuckled, mocking. “I don’t want a guard dog.”
“I’m afraid that’s not an option anymore. Not with me being the target of constant threats, and you leading this life of zero control.”
“I’m fully in control…” Waving that feeble hand at them, he leant over the bed and threw up, hard. It exploded on the floor in a star of yellow goo, the stench of stale alcohol and stomach content flooding the room.
Martina hurried to open the window, and Henry looked at Duncan. “I’m truly sorry…”
Spencer laughed, wiping his mouth in the sheet. He leant back on the pillows, his hair dripping vomit. “Fuck your apologies… I’m the demon from the exorcist… Fear me…”
