“You’re going to sand a hole right through that, Ollie.” He gestures to the kitchen surface I’ve been sanding for far too long.
I wince. Fucking this up will be costly.
“Shit. Sorry. Zoned out there for a moment.”
Zander smiles softly. He’s a good guy. Kind. A great boss. Patient. If I wasn’tthisperson, we could probably be friends.
He thinks he knows who I am. Confident, cocky, fuckboy. A good worker. A loner. Sometimes an asshole. And that’s fine by me. That’s all I want him to see. It’s all I ever want anyone to see.
“Why don’t you take a break,” Zander suggests, patting me on the shoulder. “Grab something to eat.”
I place the sander carefully on the incomplete counter top and wipe the dusty sweat from the back of my neck. The kitchen we’re working in is a mess. Organised chaos. It’s been completely gutted. Plasterboard, wood and marble packed into corners of the space that’s four times the size of my apartment. Standing proud in the centre of Chelsea, this mansion probably cost more than I’ll ever see in my lifetime. I think it belongs to apolitician, though I don’t know for sure and I don’t care to find out. I only show up and build the cabinets, work tops, tables and chairs that Zander tells me to.
“Good idea,” I say, knowing full well that I will only buy a protein shake. Maybe an apple. “You want anything?”
Zander shakes his head. “I’m meeting Isabelle for lunch,” he replies, his green eyes sparkling. Isabelle is every bit as kind and generous as Zander and not for the first time I have to fight away the longing ache in my chest for something real like they have.
It’s a silly thing to want something so badly while also not being willing to put yourself in a position to have it. What good has letting people in ever done for me?
I tried with my parents. Told them my biggest secret. Tried to get them to see me as the victim I was and not the troublemaker they presumed me to be. Tried with Caiden, but he was always one foot out the door where I was concerned. I won’t do it again. Fool me once and all that.
The reality of my life is that no one has ever chosen me. No one. So I chose myself.
A solitary existence. Easy hookups. Quick fucks. Over and done. No feelings. No attachments. No expectations or broken hearts. And maybe it’ll never be enough, but at least they don’t fucking hurt.
Leaving the mansion, I step out into another scorcher of a day. It’s a short walk along the treelined pavement to the corner store where I buy an artificially flavoured protein shake, ignoring the pang of hunger in my belly. Eating is often hard for me, even more so when I’m stressed and the three messages on my phone from my mother are doing nothing to help ease the knot of anxiety in my chest. I feel sick just thinking about food, and of what she’s asking of me.
She wants me to come home and to sit in a church and listen to people talk about what an amazing man my father was.
She wants me to see the man who ruined my life, and pretend he didn’t spend eight years taking from me something I never offered.
Fuck that. Fuck it all to hell.
I unlock my phone and delete all the messages without replying, then check the time. I have two hours left of work and then I’ll go home. Or to the gym. Or maybe…I shake my head. No. I won’t do that, no matter how strong the pull is. Not after last night. And not just because of my uncharacteristic show of emotion, but because every time I looked at Darius, my heart tugged in a way it hasn’t since I realised just how much I felt for Caiden.
And I refuse to feel that way about anyone ever again.
The best thing I can do for the both of us is stay far, far away.
My resolve is shit. It never was before, and I blame Darius and his pretty blue eyes for that. I also blame the stupid fucking organ in my chest, which feels like it’s beating for the first time whenever I think of him.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
My head thumps against the wall and I study the ceiling. The luminescent bulbs that light the communal space and the cobwebs in the corners. This place is far nicer than mine. I’ve always thought so.
The tiles are cool beneath my palms, but the air is stagnant. Hot and dry in that way that only August in the UK can be. Made worse by the lack of any open windows in this part of the building. My skin is clammy and my tee sticks uncomfortably to my skin. The cool shower I took after spending an hour at thegym, pounding the treadmill until my lungs ached, was a short-lived relief from the sweltering day.
I sip from the energy drink in my hand, ignoring the way the scent of garlic and melted cheese filling the corridor makes my stomach turn. I love pizza. I actually really fucking love food. But my relationship with it is complicated. I blamehimfor that. Alister. For poisoning something so simple, until it wasn’t. Until every meal became another sordid reminder.
Good boy. Eat your pudding. You’ve earned that. You like earning these treats, don’t you?
His voice in my head is something I’ve never been able to shake. Not even in the three years since I left Devon, and it makes me sick to my stomach each and every time it pops back into my mind.
I shuffle the pizza box from my lap to the floor beside me, needing the distance.
I’ve been in this corridor countless times before, but this feels different. I’ve rocked up at Caiden’s place to fuck. To get drunk. To lose myself. But never like this. Never with a fucking meal and a yearning to just sit in silence and share it with someone. That yearning wars with my need to protect myself by keeping a wall between me and the rest of the world, and my heart races with a genuine rush of fear.
I should go.
