He is going to kill me.
Sobs wrack my body. A body which no longer feels whole. It feels broken, damaged beyond repair. Floyd laughs, bending down to tap my cheek.
“No, that sounds like too much hard work.” He taps a little harder. “Put your fucking wedding ring on and do not go near him again. If you do, you willallbe sorry.”
My eyes remain closed as he leaves the room, the front door slamming shut moments later. I stay on the floor for what feels like an eternity, fighting the sleep that’s threatening to pull me under. Rolling onto my back, I look at the ceiling, taking stock of the aches and pains in my limbs. My ribs and my wrist hurt the most, but thankfully, I’m able to pull myself up on shaky legs. I can’t fight the nausea that hits me like a tornado, and I crouch over and empty the contents of my stomach onto the hardwood floor. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, it comes away wet with a mix of saliva and blood.
Taking slow, tentative steps, I move around the debris of my life, head down the hallway and to the front door. My hands shake as I take out my phone and order a ride share to take me to the only person who I’ll ever call my home. He can’t fix this – no one can. I made my bed and now I must lie in it, but maybe for just a moment, he can hold me and I can pretend everything will be okay.
Chapter 35
Oliver
My laptop is open on the coffee table, a home renovation show playing in the background as I move around the kitchen, preparing a slice of toast and a mug of tea. Darius left barely two hours ago and already the place feels lonely and I’m counting down the minutes until I can see him again. There are little parts of him all over my flat that make it feel more like a home than it ever has. A fleece blanket – blue with penguins – lays in a heap on the sofa. One of his lace thongs on the floor next to my bed. His shampoo in my shower. And in the kitchen, a twin box of Jaffa Cakes sits atop the microwave, half already eaten.
There’s a pan soaking in the sink from the steak Darius fried earlier in the day, and half a bottle of wine on the sideboard. All reminders that he should be here with me.
Sighing, I take my tea and toast over to the coffee table, placing them next to the laptop. Then I sink down onto the sofa, leaning forward to eat while watching the show. It’s an episodeI’ve seen, so I skip ahead to the next one. In this episode, a young couple has left their city life for a slower pace near the seaside. The cottage they’ve bought is dilapidated, the window panes wind-beaten and peeling, and the garden overgrown with weeds. I smile as I bite into my buttered toast. It’s the kind of place I can see in our future, when the time comes and all of this business with Floyd and Darius’s father is over.
Before I left the kitchen, I took one Jaffa Cake out of the box. It sits on the side of my plate, a tiny orange and chocolate flavoured treat that makes my stomach twist when I bring it to my lips. On my therapist’s suggestion, I’ve been working at my exposure to sweet foods. Small quantities. Little bites. Changing what I associate it with. Swapping the negative experiences with more positive ones.
I take a measured breath, hold on the inhale and then breathe it out. Then I take a bite, the tangy orange hitting my tongue. I follow the bite with a sip of tea to wash it down before taking another. I hate that my pulse races and my skin heats all over this tiny biscuit in my hand. I remind myself that Alister isn’t here. This isn’t about him. Isn’t a ‘reward’ from him. It’s me choosing to enjoy a fucking biscuit with my tea. I take another bite, then another, and soon enough, the biscuit is gone. It settles like a stone in my gut, but I ignore the feeling and focus on the show, sipping at my strongly brewed drink.
My phone sits on the coffee table and though it’s on loud so I know there are no messages waiting, I check it anyway. The background image is one taken at the club last night. Darius kissing my cheek, both of us gleaming with sweat beneath harsh purple lights. There’s another one in my photo roll of him in his tiny yellow thong and matching harness, on his knees on my bed. I don’t need to open it to picture it perfectly or to remember the delicious moments that followed.
I’m locking my phone when there’s a knock on my front door. Leaving the device on the sofa, I throw on a t-shirt, then open up.
“Darius? Shit, what happened?”
There’s a man standing on the doorstep, his arm around Darius’s waist and my boyfriend’s arm over his shoulder. Darius’s head lolls to the side, his eyes scrunching in pain.
“He got in my cab, told me your flat number and then fell silent, staring out of the window. He stumbled out of the car and couldn’t get up the stairs without help. One of your neighbours was coming out and they let us in the front door.”
“Jesus, D.” I take him from the man, wrapping an arm around him and resting his head on my chest. I run a hand down his back, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breaths beneath my palm.
“Don’t think he’s drunk,” the guy says.
“He’s not.”
“Do’ya think we should take him to a hospital?”
“No,” Darius mumbles. “Need to lie down. No hospital.”
The cab driver frowns, and I turn Darius away from him, my protective instincts in overdrive.
“Thank you for getting him here. I’ll take care of him. Give me a second and I’ll grab you some cash.”
The cab driver waves his hand. “No need. Paid on the app. Hope he’s going to be okay.”
Me too.
The guy doesn’t wait around, hurrying back down the stairs to where I presume his car is waiting on the curb.
My arms wrapped around Darius, I lead him towards my bed, but he stops me, a hand on my chest and I edge away from him, dipping my head to bring us eye to eye. It’s then that I get a good look at him. Swollen lip. Blood on his chin. His wrist cradled against his chest, still in the neoprene splint he had on earlier in the day.
My heart aches, anger curling around me like smoke. Someone did this to him, and I have no doubt who it was.
I will fucking kill the guy.
