Prologue
Finn
* * *
Am I dead?
The floor’s cold. Which wouldn’t be a problem if I weren’t face down on it, naked and confused. My cheek’s stuck to the stone tiles, something sticky matted in my hair. Could be champagne, could be lube. My bet’s on both.
I should be laughing. But there’s this quiet dread under my ribs, like I’ve opened my eyes underwater and can’t remember how to swim.
I lift my hungover head and immediately regret it. Someone groans behind me. Female, definitely. There’s a leg draped over mine. Smooth, tanned, and freshly waxed. Painted toes with French tips. But nothing clicks. I stare, waiting for memory to kick in and say, Aye, mate, you’re grand. That’s Chloe or Frankie you met at the bar…
Nothing.
This is what I get for thinking I could outrun the shitshow that is my life. For thinking Finn Lennox could forget who he is for a week and go on the epic mother of all benders.
Another groan, a different voice this time.
Two women? Christ, what happened last night?
I push myself upright, slow and careful, because the wrong move might trigger a nuclear event inside my throbbing head. Dull, thick waves that are synced to my heartbeat. There’s a fur throw…or something like it…dangled over the end of the bed. I stagger over, wrap it around me as if I were some cursed Viking chief, and survey the battlefield.
Crumpled silk sheets and crystal glasses with bits of ash floating in the bottom. A teddy on the windowsill, half-soaked and strangled in a lace bra. Knickers on the curtain rod and a single ski boot in the fireplace. Next thing I notice are olives smashed into the sheepskin rug.
Minging.
Even through the hangover haze, I clock the torn foils glinting on the couch. Evidence I didn’t gamble with safety. I bagged up. Thank fuck.
There’s got to be a phone somewhere. Not mine, that’s still in Scotland. But someone’s. I need to know what time it is. What damned day.
I stumble toward a coffee table with half-eaten chocolate strawberries, a tequila bottle, a clutch bag the size of a dinner roll, and a few pills scattered between them. I don’t do pills, don’t touch that stuff. Never needed more than rugby, a drink, and a bit of sex to take the edge off. Gave up booze a year ago. Not one drop, at least until…
Aye, I got steamin’ from Christmas all the way to Hogmanay to numb the pain and the grief of losing a father I never even knew.
I look inside the clutch: tampons, gum, lipstick, and an iPhone. I hit the screen.
1st January. 10:42 am.
New year, new rock bottom.
The lock screen is a golden retriever in a Santa hat. Cute dog that looks like he’s got more emotional stability than me. But, to be honest, that’s not hard.
The upper corner of the screen says St. Moritz, CH. Switzerland. That checks out, sort of. I look back at the fireplace. Must be a ski chalet. A bolt hits my stomach with memory fragments. Kit. That posh git brought me to the Alps for the holidays, right after…
You’d think I’d feel something by now. Shame, maybe. Relief. But it’s just static. I blink hard, hoping this scene will rearrange itself into something familiar. I get only flashes. A hot tub. Fireworks. Me screaming ‘I will never die!’ off the balcony like the hopeless eejit I am.
I sit on the edge of the bed. The throw glides off my shoulders. Slowly, I lower my head.
There’s glitter on my boaby.
Goddammit, Finn.
And inside me there’s a muted scream. I won’t let it out. If I let it out, I won’t stop.
The brunette on the floor giggles in her sleep. I watch her for a second, then the blonde one on the bed. They both look fine, pleased, and blissed out. Like they had a good night and no regrets.
Good. That’s what matters.
