... please stand back from the platform edge.
The train pulls in with a cacophony of squealing brakes as the warm updraft moves my coattails.
. . . Oxford Circus. Change here for . . .
People pile off as people pile on, the crowd beginning to thin.
My heart beginning to sink.
Until someone moves left, and I spy the back of a green coat!
“Ryan!” I bellow, my feet propelling me forward again. “Ryan!” Louder this time.
She disappears onto the train.
The alarm sounds.
The doors begin to close. I pivot left, making for the nearest.
She’s so close—she’s fucking here! So close until ...
The doors meet before I can reach them.
“Ryan!” I bang on the thing with my fists, drawing lots of looks, but no recognition. She’s in a different carriage.
My heart drops to my boots as the train begins to move, then disappears from my view. Despondent, I collapse to a nearby bench, panting and out of breath. I press my elbows to my spread knees, all kinds of curses and mutterings flowing through my head. Until something kindles in my chest. A realization.
She’s here. In London.Somewhere.
It’s just a question of finding her.
Hope is a fire that burns bright.
“Excuse me, sir.”
I tilt my head to find one of London’s finest—the transport police version—towering over me. “Do you realize fare evasion is a criminal offense?”
I break into a smile. “Fucking worth it, though.”
Chapter 13
Matt
“Here he is—Prince Charming!” Wearing a grin of shit-eating proportions, Fin raises his glass in toast as I cross the floor of Oliver’s almost-empty club.
Oliver’s club isn’t a nightclub or a sports club. It’s the kind of place I never thought I’d see the inside of. Heavy furniture and leather chairs built to last but not necessarily for comfort. Poor lighting and antique paneled walls, the timber dappled with sword marks.Allegedly.And my least favorite aspect, ugly portraits of long-dead white men staring disapprovingly down.
Ah, they’d be turning in their graves to know they let Irishmen—and women—in these days.
The club is a private members’ establishment, formerly known as a gentleman’s club, renamed so as not to be confused with the kind of place with poles, stages, and scantily clad women.
“I think you’ve got that the wrong way around.” Reaching my so-called friends, I pull out one of the ugly leather chairs around a small table. “You’re the one with the hairandthe charm, pretty boy.” I give my head a theatrical shake, a bit like a Thoroughbred Iberian. Or a social media influencer in front of a camera.
“But you’re the one with the silky sash and shiny buttons.” Fin makes feckin’ spirit fingers over his chest, vicious delight in those sparkling blue eyes of his. “Or so I’ve heard. Wear it for me sometime, baby?”
I make a noise of disgust as I wonder what else he’s heard, the least of which would be that I dumped his wife with a kid she barely knows. Thankfully, the pair of them seemed to be getting along like a house on fire when I got back to the theater just before curtain-up. I had hung back before taking my seat, waiting for the lights to dim to hide the fact that I was mildly disheveled, sweaty haired, and red in the face. Mila would’ve probably assumed I’d been up to no good. Worse, she might’ve insisted on answers.
As it was, I spent the first half of the show with my brain reeling between plans to find Ryan and excuses to provide Mila with because telling Fin and, to a lesser extent, Oliver seemed like a fate worse than death. But Mila was far too polite to ask and, during the intermission, merely murmured a quiet “I hope you caught up with your friend.” She didn’t wait for an answer, turning to speak with one of the kids from her youth group instead.She’s one of the good ones, Mila.
