Without warning, she scuttles backward off the bed, standing and stretching. “Send me that video, ’kay? I gotta hang it up and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s kind of a big deal.”
“It is.”
She yanks the fairy lights from the socket and stuffs them into the bag, then pockets her mobile. “And, uh, you don’t have to stay for the race. You should go back to London now.”
I get to my feet. “You don’t need me?”
“I thought you wanted to leave,” she says, a bit peevish.
My eyes narrow. “Is this…” My words falter and I point at the bed. “Did something almost happen here, and now you’re angry with me? Because I felt as if—”
“Nothing ‘almost happened.’ Jesus, youwish.” She unties the knot in her shirt and swipes the wrinkles. “You know what? Skip Saudi too. Don’t show up until Melbourne. It’s… probably better.”
“For whom?”
She rolls her eyes and turns away, grabbing the props bag.“I’ll call if I need anything before the Australian GP. But, y’know, Iwon’t.” She backs toward the door.
“You’re punishing me and I’m unsure why.”
Her expression darkens. “Got about a year for me to list off the reasons? We can start with your fucking blog.”
So. Here we are, in a dance that feels like ten steps forward, nine back. “All right. I’d hoped we might move past that, but apparently not yet.”
She twists the neck of the bag. “Look, you have your moments, and you’re hot and all that, but I don’t trust you. And I can’t afford a distraction.” She pulls a wry face. “I can get away with taking one sample bite of cake, one sip of booze. But I’m not, uh, not samplingyou.”
I follow her to the doorway and open it for her. “That’s probably wise,” I say, flashing a devilish smile despite the sting in my heart. “I don’t think you could stop at one bite either.”
LONDON
ALEXANDER
I’ve been home for over a week now but have felt a bit shit. I’ve spent my time playing my piano and day-drinking a case of 2009 Chateau Latour. Badrick is in France visiting Laurent’s family, or I might’ve had a pint with him… though maybe not, since it would take roughly thirty seconds for him to diagnose my malady and give me no end of grief about it.
Salvia officinalis.
The deluge of her fierce, impulsive nature is like a mad cloudburst, and I submitted to the storm and opened my arms until I was soaked to the skin.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve imagined caressing the strong curve of her tattooed neck, the ink peeking between my spread fingers. Walking her back against the nearest wall, our eyes locked. Bracing her in place and devouring that sweet, impertinent mouth of hers…
It’s doing my head in, longing for Sage. I can’t wait for the week of the Australian GP when I can see her again. I want to hear that taunting chuckle of hers, catch her scent as she dances past, oblivious and grand in her unselfconscious movements.
But part of me hopes she sends a message saying,Don’t bother coming to Melbourne; I’ve had my sport of you and it’s done, thus freeing me from my intractable lust. Maybe then I can return to the hunt with uncomplicated—and less venomous—prey.
I’m sitting at the piano, fueled on wine and depression as I lean into the angst of “River Flows in You,” when my front door flies open. I don’t even have to look; my mother is the only one with a key.
I close my eyes briefly, sighing, but don’t miss a note. “Can I help you with something?” I ask the busy clatter of her high heels, which grows louder as she advances to the living room.
The noise muffles as she steps onto the Oushak rug. “What are you moping about?” she asks with her trademark hint of mockery. “You always play the Yiruma when you’re moping.”
I continue to the end of the measure, then drop my handsdiscordantly to the keys. “No, when I’m feeling blue, I’m more likely to play Brubeck’s ‘The City Is Crying.’”
Never mind that Ididjust play it…
I lift the marmalade jar of red wine from its makeshift coaster—a takeaway menu from a nearby kebab shop—and polish off the last inch before lifting the bottle and finding it empty.
“Hmm.” She comes to the piano. Flicking a red-taloned fingertip against the paper menu, she pulls a face. “Are you a student in a bedsit? Bloody hell.” She waves an arm at the room. “Like a haunted attic in here. Litter everywhere”—in evidence she gestures at the menu, a stack of neatly folded laundry I’ve simply neglected to put away, and a pair of slippers on the floor—“and an empty bottle at noon. Drinking out of a jam jar? How very bohemian. Surely you’re not taking unemployment so hard.” She strides toward my window to throw back the drapes, inviting a feeble wash of rainy-day light.
“I’m rich. I’ve no need to be employed,” I say, dancing an arpeggio up the keyboard.
