“Jack is driving me crazy.” I shrug. “He’s going overboard with all the security protocols and whatnot. Yesterday, I was five minutes late, and he barged in and scared the shit out of my roommates.”
“To be fair, your five minutes is half an hour in real time.”
“Whose side are you on?” I groan. “Seriously. He’s been lurking around so much, they call him Peepinator.” Caden laughs, dodging a few people who try to tip my skinny friend off the curb. “Where are you going?” My eyes narrow at the familiar street in the background.
“Just meeting some friends at the club.” He scratches his head.Yeah, sure. I know what’s at the end of that street, and it’snot a club.“The more important question is, what are you doing at home on a Saturday night?”
“Jack has me on a complete lockdown, remember?”
Thanks to the long list of enemies Grandpa has collected at Fort, it’s not safe for me to leave my flat unless I’m surrounded by black suits. A life my Labour councilor father and social worker mother tried their best to shield us from. Until six weeks ago, when my brother changed his mind.
Now, Dan is the bigshot CEO of Etheridge Enterprises, walking in the footsteps of our grandfather,theLondon real-estate mogul. His life is all private jets and champagne brunches with Premier League players, while I sit here, alone and confined. Frankly, I liked him better when he was just another gremlin glued to his Xbox, hoodie always up, hair never brushed.
Our parents would have Dan’s head if they saw him now. And mine for going along with this travesty.
“Are you serious?” Caden laughs. “You have actual bodyguards, Eva. What’s the point of them if you can’t go out? Even I could keep you safe inside. Well… from the spiders, anyway.” He winks.
I open my mouth to argue, but then forget how to close it. He’s got a point. After all, most of my assigned security are former police. They can keep me safe on one night out, right?
Chewing on my thumbnail, I consider my options.
“That’s right.” Caden flashes me a victorious smile. “Order them to take you out and earn their paycheck for once.”
I chuckle. I swear this guy could convince me to rob a bank and then take the fall for it.
We never went back to our home in Manchester after the accident. Too many memories. There are a lot of things I miss about my old life. My university friends, our modest cul-de-sac family home, with oak furniture and Mum’s plants overtakingevery sill, and Lily, our family dog, but nothing compares to Caden.
I have known him since preschool. We spent every day together. He’s not your typical friend. I can’t trust him to keep a secret, and we don’t have a lot in common. But we work. I’m his voice of reason, and he’s my voice of mayhem.
“Screw it, I’m going.” The first smile of the day tugs at the corner of my lips.
Caden’s pace falters as he angles himself away from the familiar blue neon sign ofThe Poker Lounge.Like that will fool me.
“Go on then, break your wallet,” I say with a meaningful look.
Caden glances at his feet nervously, then flashes a devious grin. “I won’t. One friendly game.”
“It’s never just one, Caden.”
“I promise,” he drawls. “Now go. Don’t die on me, okay.”
“I’ll try.” I shrug and hang up.
With a deep breath, I ditch my sad pot of ramen, rise from my desk and start tearing open boxes neatly stacked in the middle of my room—Ireallyneed to unpack. A full week in Fort George, and I’m still pulling clothes from my suitcase while the wardrobe sits empty. Maybe a part of me hasn’t come to terms with the fact that I live here now.
Damn. I actually live here now.
It’s not so bad. The flat is cozy, with modern black-and-white décor, a small common lounge with an open-plan kitchen, and three ensuite bedrooms. My roommates are nice. Well, Thea is. Penny is our resident chaos-seeker. The look on that girl’s face when I refused to go to one of her underground parties was comical.
Slowly, I work my way through the boxes in the dim lightfrom the table lamp, not turning the main lights on, not even when I almost trip over the pile. Darkness is my new comfort mode. Bright hurts my eyes. My therapist gave me some clinical term for it. But I don’t care for her labels, nor the multilayer psychoanalysis behind them.
Tearing tissue, shredding ribbon, snapping zippers, I rip through primly wrapped clothes with tags in luxury garment bags.Where the hell are my evening outfits?Each item of clothing in here is courtesy of Grandpa’s housekeeper, Kate, who loathes my chic style with a passion.
Irritation starts creeping in as my fingers itch to find something familiar. I don’t look at the labels on the box anymore. Yanking lid after lid, cardboard splitting under my nails, I finally see a folded black piece at the top of a box labelledKitchen Maybe?
Nice try, Kate. Nice try.
Twenty minutes later, I tiptoe down the stairs wearing the black silk skirt and a matching fitted blouse. I glide an extra layer of pink lip gloss on, and push open the glass door of Charlton House Porch with my arse, then spin around and stop mid-step.
