by Lacey Alpha
I shut my eyes, taking a moment to collect my thoughts. This is not me. Mouthy little girls do not tell me what to do. In fact, no one tells me what to do. But I've waited years for something to kick-start this plan. And she fits the bill.
My brother's voice sails into my head. “You don't always have to be such an arsehole, Logan.”
When I speak, I do so through gritted teeth, “Give me your address, please, sweetheart.”
“It's three, Ash Tree Lane.”
I hang up, tucking my phone into my pocket and heading out the door. This girl and her fucking watermelon.
ADAM
Five years ago
I take my second line of the night, sniffing hard through a rolled up twenty pound note. I wipe the remnants of coke from my nose and Kira laughs at me. She's got a cake of white powder running up the rim of hers. I run my finger up it before sucking it off, rubbing the residue around my teeth.
She laughs harder, screwing up her eyes, her mouth wide. She laughs like a child, I love that about her, always have. She doesn't care what anyone thinks of her; the exact opposite of me.
Exiting the disabled toilet, we head back into the club, the harsh drumming beat suddenly more appealing. Everything is purple, the tinted bulbs giving the effect and igniting my senses.
A sweet rush floods my veins, serving me with the kick I need. Two lines of coke won't wipe me out for tomorrow. I'll make it to my lectures in the morning. Never missed one so far.
“Dance with me.” Kira leans her head back, her perfectly straight hair swinging about as she hangs from my neck.
I run my hands down her arms, the sensation of her skin like velvet. I'm transfixed by it, needing to feel more. Sliding my hands over her silken, silver tank top, I slip my fingers beneath it onto her spine.
“Adammm,” she sings, giggling wildly, her laughs ending abruptly in a hiccough.
I duck my head, tugging her closer, kissing her. Her hips sway and rock to the beat. There's nothing like a kiss when you're high as a kite. She tastes like raspberries, my favourite fruit. I don't know if it's in my head or not, but what does it matter? She's sweet as honey and a mountain of sugar.
“Dude, get the hell home!” Someone grabs me by the scruff, dragging me backwards. I turn, coming face to face with my older brother, Logan, his expression stern. He's the biggest hypocrite I know. He practically introduced me to this life.
“Fuck off, Logan.” I roll my eyes and Kira giggles again, spinning in circles.
Logan glances at her with a frown. “I'm taking you home, with or without your permission.” He folds his arms. “But without will be all the more embarrassing for you.”
“I'm not half your height any more, bro. You can't carry me out of here.” I press back my shoulders. Damn bulky shit, I'm still a measly inch off his height which irritates the hell out of me. And what irritates me more is that his arms look extra-pumped today. I swear he gets bigger on purpose just to make me feel smaller.
“So?” he presses. “Are we taking the off-her-head Chinese girl home too?”
“Hey. That's racist,” I growl, my hackles rising.
“How? She's Chinese, isn't she?” He gives me an even stare and Kira giggles.
“He can call me Chinese, Adam. I am Chinese.”
Logan gives me a look that says 'see' and I'm filled with the urge to punch him. That's a road that never ends well, though.
Sighing, I grab Kira's waist, tugging her against me.
Logan eyes my stance with interest and I feel like I'm thirteen again, trying to impress big bro with my new girl. Kira's different. Kira's special. And nothing Logan says or thinks about her matters.
“Come on, idiot.” Logan turns, heading through the crowd, women practically throwing themselves at him.
I mimic his stance and girls eye me too. They didn't used to. And I despise admitting it, but Logan taught me that. He showed me how to make women look, how to make them fall at my feet.
If there's one thing he's good at, it's that. That and stealing cars.
We exit the club onto the busy street, the cry of police sirens echoing through London. Logan leads me to his piece-of-shit Toyota Corolla, the thing polished to perfection like he actually gives a fuck about how it looks.
“Where's the Merc?” I complain. He swiped a serious beaut the other day, a Mercedes AMG GT, red as blood, fast as fuck.
“I sold it, dickhead. What do you think Mum would say if she saw me driving that around?”
Logan drops into the car and I open the back door for Kira, following her inside. She lays her legs over mine and I stroke her silky knees.
Logan exhales hard as he starts the engine, glancing back at us. “Where do you live, sweetheart?” he addresses Kira.
“Hackney Wick,” she giggles, resting her head on my shoulder, licking my neck.
“She can come home with me,” I insist, balling my fists.
“Mum wouldn't like it,” he says, disinterested.
“I'm nearly twenty, man. Mum can go fuck herself.”
He snaps around, glaring at me. “What the fuck's up with you tonight, man?”
I shrug, glancing out the window. If he figures out I'm on coke, he'll get all high-and-mighty on me. And I don't need that shit. I can make my own decisions. Especially since he practically introduced me to blow.
We drive silently to Hackney Wick, the only sound the occasional hiccough from Kira.
When we've dropped her off, I move to the front seat, turning on the radio. Twisting the knob, I crank up a 60s classic by The Beatles. Ticket To Ride blares from the speakers and my heart pumps in time to the beat. Maybe this night can be saved yet.
Logan seems tense, his arms solid as they rest on the wheel. We arrive outside our shitty town house in Brixton (or the 'arsehole of London', as I prefer to call it).
Logan exits the car, slamming the door and walking up to the house through the small front garden. It's kept to perfection by Mum, even though it's a waste of her time. The garden might as well be a shitting hole for the local dogs, seeing as they use it as one.
Logan hovers the key before the drab front door, turning to me. He drops off the crumbling top step, narrowing his eyes at me. Here we go, Mr High-And-Mighty is about to make his cameo of the night.
I sniff, unable to fight the urge, rubbing my nose to try and get some relief from the running feeling.
“You fucking idiot,” Logan snaps, grabbing the collar of my shirt. “You're on something, aren't you?”
“So what if I am?” I jut up my chin, sniffing again.
He shakes his head at me, his upper lip curling back. “You've got lectures in the morning, you know that?”
“Never stopped me before,” I mutter, shrugging.
He shoves me and I stumble back from his ferocity.
“Fuck you, man.”
“Mum is working two jobs to fund your fucking education, you prick. What the fuck are you playing at?”
“You used to do it,” I say, giving him an even stare.
“Yeah, and I told you how much it fucked me up. Why can't you listen to me like you used to?”
I drop my eyes from his. He's always going to make me feel like this, like a little boy who will never be as cool as his big brother. I know better though. “You think you have your shit so together, Logan. You think you have the right to lecture me, but you don't. You still live with your mum at twenty five years old. You're a loser, and you're just jealous.”
“Jealous?” he spits, grimacing at me.
After a beat, his blazing eyes cool off and his expression softens. “Maybe I am. Maybe I'm jealous you've got a chance at a decent life. And I can't stand by and watch you piss it down the drain, Adam. Don't waist your time at university. You wanna be an architect, don't you?”
I shrug but I know he's right. He splits me open as usual, seeing my soul like it's tattooed on my face. I hate that. And I hate him.
“Just fuck off, will you?” I shoulder-barge past hi
m and he swings a fist at me.
I'm too slow to dodge it, taking it to the chin and stumbling backwards. My legs hit the metal bins and they clang together as I tumble over them, landing in Mum's rose-bed.
“Get your shit together!” Logan barks as I scramble to get up, thorns sticking in my hands.
Just as I gain my feet, the front door opens. My stomach sinks at the sight of my mother. She has her typical pale blue dressing gown wrapped around her, her blonde hair pulled up in rollers.
“What the hell is going on out here?” she hisses at Logan, accusing.
His shoulders droop as I move to join them.
Mum's eyes skim over me. “Oh Adam, come inside. You look exhausted.”
“I am,” I mumble, heading after her.
“What have you been teaching him now?” she snips at Logan, following me inside.
Logan says nothing, kicking the door shut as he enters behind us. The hall is narrow and littered with shoes; my own shiny leather ones soon join the pile. Planting a quick kiss on Mum's cheek, I make my escape, heading upstairs.
As I rise to the landing, I hear Mum laying into Logan. Guilt spreads through me, knowing it wasn't his fault. Knowing tomorrow I'll wake up hungover and filled with regret.
“-caused this because you acted this way when you were his age.”
“He can make his own decisions,” Logan drawls, evidently bored by the usual earful from Mum.
She tsks. “Maybe he would if you stopped putting ideas in his head.”
My gut shrivels at that. Logan doesn't influence me. Not anymore anyway. Yeah, I guess once I used to idolise him. But that was before I realised I was just as good as him. And probably better.
I guzzle water from the tap in the bathroom, bending my head and drinking from the faucet. It's a trick Logan taught me to curb a hangover: drinking a gallon before bed.
As I stand, I wobble on my feet, eyeing myself in the mirror. I run a hand through my mop of dark hair, spying a speck of white beneath my nose. I wash my face, grimacing.
Tomorrow.
I'll get my shit together tomorrow.
DARCY
I shouldn't have invited Logan over. But if he's going to demand I pay him back for the car, then I'm going to get my debt paid too.
I glance around the party. Kelly's friends from school are all dancing to Justin Bieber and swinging their hips with a whole lot more sensuality than's appropriate for their age. Kids these days grow up so damn fast. I'm pretty sure I was still watching cartoons and playing with My Little Ponies when I was her age. Aright, maybe I could have given up the ponies a bit sooner. But not Honeycomb, never Honeycomb (of course I still have her- tucked away under my bed where Mum's quick-to-throw-anything-out fingers can't find her).
There's a big age gap between Kelly and I, ten years in fact. And she's not actually my full sister. Mum had a fling with a fireman for a while. He was a nice guy, loved Mum to pieces. But I don't think she ever quite got over my dad. Not that she'd ever admit that.
We're a unit. The three of us. Three women against the world. I've had my share of burns too, the most recent having broken me completely. But that was nearly a year ago now. Daniel, the musician. It's all very well having dreams, but he couldn't even pay the bills whilst I was working double shifts just to make ends meet. And all because he insisted on living in Camden because it was the 'right scene' for his career. And if that wasn't enough, after two and half years together and me slaving my arse off to pay for two people whilst he sat at home all day working on his music, he cheated on me. With my boss, I might add. So I had to leave my job too. Thanks Daniel. I really hope you get your big break. Like two legs in a cast should do it.
I had to move back in with Mum and Kelly, start from scratch, left skint from paying off the bills on the apartment I'd poured blood sweat and tears into to keep.
I got another job eventually, at a bar. Somehow I didn't have it in me to get back into a career. Maybe it's because every time I walk into a bank, I think of Daniel and my boss fucking in our bed, in what was once my home. Or maybe it's the fact he admitted he'd fucked her in the office where I worked, and in the car we shared. Or maybe it's that banking was never my passion in the first place and breaking free from it made me wonder what my real passion was. I still don't know. Maybe I don't have one.
I envy creative people. Even Daniel. Despite his flaws, he knew what he wanted from life without a doubt. And that kind of infallible confidence in oneself just leaves me...jealous.
I grab a glass of wine from the fridge, taking a sip before placing it on the breakfast bar. My mum appears as if drawn to mess by some unworldly sense, grabbing a tea towel and wiping the ring of condensation my glass is leaving on the surface.
She doesn't even notice she's doing it, I don't think, her eyes on the party, on Kelly as she dances around the room.
“She's enjoying herself,” Mum says in a clipped tone. She always takes her irritation out on Kelly. I think because I put up with her bullshit, she doesn't bother to focus her anger on me.
“Yeah.”
“At least some of us are,” she says airily, brushing a speck of lint from my dark green dress. I changed after I got home from the 'incident'. Seeing as the bottoms of my jeans were soaked with dew and my top sweaty from running.
My mother would have had a heart attack if she'd seen me like that, so I snuck upstairs and changed before she saw me, running a hair dryer through my mane to style it right again.
Mum tucks a lock of hair behind my ear all the same. Never tidy enough.
It puts me on edge. Living here is becoming oppressive. I've been saving and saving but bar work doesn't exactly pay well enough to move out. Especially in London.
Maybe I should go back into banking. But it just doesn't feel right.
The doorbell rings and I glance at Mum, preparing to give her an explanation. “I, um, asked a friend to bring a watermelon over.”
Her face lights up. “Oh Darcy!” She cups my cheek. “I can always count on you, can't I?”
I smile, the knot in my chest unfurling a little.
Mum claps her hands together. “Right. Now this party can get properly started.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. The party has been going well all day, why is her happiness pinned on this watermelon? I realise, with a jolt, that so was mine. I've been in a sour mood since I got home. And I know it's not only the watermelon, but the way Logan looked at me. Like I was trouble and he'd like to teach me a lesson. I hate people making assumptions about me. He's the one who's trouble. With a capital T and an exclamation mark.
I head to the door, readying myself for this encounter. I don't really know how I can prepare, but settle on a care-free expression as I open the door.
The first thing I notice is the dark bruise on his jaw. Then the fact that he's holding a whole plastic box full of watermelons. The kind that fruit sits on in a supermarket.
Oh holy hell.
My carefully constructed expression dissolves in a flash. I shake my head at him in warning, but he strides purposefully into my house without asking.
“Watermelons!” he calls and my eyes go wide.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hiss, my heart racing. “I asked you to bring one.”
“I'm repaying my debt.” He gazes down at the watermelons for a second then says, “Ten times over.” A wicked grin whips across his face accompanied by a terrifying glint in his eye. “Just like you're gonna do for me.”
I back away, putting myself between him and the living room. He better not get any ideas about walking further into my home. “That wasn't the deal.”
“I set the rules,” he growls, his gaze fixing on me, his chin tilted down.
Fuck this guy. What is his problem?
“Oh for fuck's sake,” I give up, exasperated, holding out my arms for the watermelons.
He lifts a brow. “You're not strong enough.”
I glare at him, but can't deny the box looks ser
iously heavy. Something between a huff and growl leaves my throat. “Just put them on the floor, then.”
“Where's the kitchen?” he ignores me, side stepping me and walking into the living room.
My heart rate zooms into top gear. I can't have this rude, volatile, probably dangerous man around my family!
Not. Today. Bucko.
“Please,” I hiss in his ear, hurrying to his side. “Don't say anything. It's my sister's birthday.”
He eyes the dancing girls in the lounge, the sofa pushed back against the wall, the old TV that's got a strip of duct tape on the corner to cover the sharp edge that Kelly broke when she was practising a dance routine. My insides shrivel.
“Darcy! Come dance!” Kelly calls to me. She's nothing like me in looks. She's all dark hair and olive skin, her eyes a deep, sparkling chestnut. I'm blonde, pale and my eyes are grey and lifeless. Daddy trade, anyone?
“In a minute, Kelly,” I call to her, taking hold of Logan's sleeve and dragging him into the kitchen.
My mother's standing there polishing the fridge. Polishing the effing fridge.
I shut my eyes, praying for strength.
“Delivery,” Logan announces and I shoot him a warning look.
Mum spins around, taking in the ten watermelons he's carrying. “Oh my...what are we going to do with all of those?”
This is going to stress her out. I should never have asked Logan to come.
“Put them here,” I mutter to him, my gut churning as he follows my pointed finger and plants them on the breakfast bar.
He holds out a hand to Mum. “Logan Chase.”
“Penny Jenkins. How do you know my daughter?” She looks surprised, glancing at me in disbelief. Oh no, does she think I've stated dating again without mentioning it to her?
Logan shoots a look at me, a wry grin on his lips.
Oh please don't tell her the real story.
I had to lie when I got home earlier, saying the shops were all closed.
“Darcy's working on a job with me.”
I frown at him, folding my arms, not helping him with the lie.
“Oh?” Mum questions, glancing to me. “What industry are you in?”