‘That is definitely a Britney lyric.’
Sam’s face is inches from mine. ‘Kiss me.’
My phone buzzes, breaking the moment, but it doesn’t matter. I am the moon, and he the sun. Nothing could break us.
The ringing sound cuts through the cave, echoing off the walls, breaking us apart. Modern day disrupting order.
A withheld number.
‘Who is it?’
‘No idea.’
‘You should answer.’
I put my phone away. ‘Not now. I’m hungry.’
We unwrap our sandwiches, and Sam pours us his own coffee from a flask, and we sit in the cave undisturbed for the rest of the afternoon, Sam’s hand finding mine. If it wasn’t for the wolves, I could stay here all night.
As we pack up to leave, I check my phone. A text from the unknown number. Sam is already ahead, beginning the brief climb out of the cave. He’s whistling, happy with what we are.
Will. We need to talk.
Ollie.
Chapter Fifty-One
WILL
Day Seventeen
Iwait for Ollie in the shadows of a bar, like this is some drug deal that will go horribly wrong. There’s a waft here of dampness, smoke and despair. I’ve ordered a pint of lager, not my usual drink, but I need something bitter. Something that would take the edge off whatever Ollie wants.
He’s going to beat me up.
He’s not a uni professor, but a hitman, and I’m his next target.
He’s in love with me and he’s going to ask me to marry him instead.
Okay, that last thought doesn’t last as long. I dismiss it almost immediately.
My whole positive-thinking mantra isn’t helping, either. I tried to pump my ears with positive affirmations about how great I am on the walk here, but it hasn’t inflated my confidence.
No, my hands tremble and my eyes keep darting around the room.
There’s a lone man at the end of the bar. His hand slid down his trousers. Thankfully, he isn’t looking at anyone, and his hand doesn’t move. Then there’s a woman in a booth, smoking. I’m pretty sure that isn’t allowed.
And then there’s the bartender, looking afraid of the clientele as they wipe a dirty pint glass that would never be clean, judging by the dirty cloth used.
I tap my fingers on the oak bar, trying to distract myself.
Maybe Ollie won’t show. Or maybe there’s another bar by the name of Miseria. Looking around at the threadbare carpet and the peeling walls, I’m not surprised at the choice of name. Maybe misery was born here.
I’m counting how many dusty bottles are lined against the back of the bar when the door opens in the reflection of the bar mirror. Ollie, wearing sunglasses, looks around.
Disarmed, I indicate the seat next to me. After all, where else would he sit? He takes off his glasses, folding them softly.
‘What can I get you?’ the bartender asks, still wiping the dirty glass.
