Just Friends (The Agency Book 1)

by Elizabeth Grey

  I take the medicine then instinctively rub my head, moving my hand through my tangled hair until I stop at a clump of wetness. “Shit,” I say as I pull my hand away to see blood coating my fingertips.

  Ethan instantly moves closer as I fight the panic that always comes with the sight of blood.

  “Let me see.” He parts my hair and gently separates a handful at a time, looking for the source of the blood. “Where does it hurt?”

  “Everywhere. I got knocked into a metal beam and then I fell. I hit my head on glass. Shit . . . do I have glass in my head? Please tell me I don’t have glass in my head. I hate hospitals. Whatever happens, I’m not going to A&E! Not even if I’m bleeding to death.”

  “Calm down, Joan of Arc,” he says with a laugh. “After this, you will never tease me over Angus savaging my bollocks, by the way.” He slowly detangles the bloodied clump of hair with his fingers. “Aha,” he says finally, letting my hair fall back over my shoulders.

  “What?” I ask nervously. “Do I need stitches? I don’t need my head shaved for it, do I? It would take at least five years for my hair to grow back this long.”

  “I don’t think so, but you’ve cut just behind your ear. Back in a minute.” He disappears into my bathroom again, emerging minutes later with a pack of plasters, a bag of cotton wool and a cup of water. “You’re shit at shopping, Vi. I have a proper first aid kit – they’re only ten quid or so on Amazon. You don’t have any antiseptic cream, so don’t blame me if your ear turns black and drops off.”

  A few minutes later, I have a clean ear sporting a modified plaster and Ethan is back on the wine. He rests his arm against the back of the sofa, then he moves his leg to get comfortable and suddenly it’s resting against mine. Heat rises inside me, settling low down in a soft ache. I think back to the last time we were this close, our bodies pressed against each other’s as I watched him sleep, and my skin begins to warm.

  “Three years we’ve been friends, and I don’t think I knew you half as well as I thought I did.” His voice is quiet. A fleck of silver in his blue eyes sparkles as it catches the light from the chandelier in my sitting room.

  “Are you talking about Laurel?”

  “Yes and no. I was shocked when you told me about your family. Then all of a sudden I realised how much you meant to me. It hit me that night . . . in that moment . . . and, well, you’re my best friend. I know you think I have tons of friends, but none of them mean as much to me as you do. I know what real friendship is and I only have it with you. I trust you completely. If my life became a living hell overnight, I know you’d be there in the middle of it all, propping me up and trying to fix everything for me.”

  I reach for the other empty glass, fill it with wine and take a long drink. My hands shake as I place the glass back on the table. “That’s because you’re all I have.”

  He nods sadly, and I have no idea why my heart is hammering in my chest. “I’m sorry about Carly,” he says softly. “It was thoughtless and stupid and I betrayed you. I knew how you felt about her.”

  Whoa, where did that come from? “It doesn’t matter,” I lie. I wonder if he notices that I’m gnawing on my bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

  “It does matter. I shouldn’t have done it, and I know how I’d feel if it was you with someone I hated.”

  “I admit that it did hurt, a little, but we’re just friends, Ethan, and . . .” My voice drops to a whisper and crawls away when his expression changes from sheepish apology to deep regret.

  “You’re more than just a friend . . .”

  We’re both breathing in gasps and I don’t know which breaths are mine and which are his. He opens his mouth to talk, but nothing happens. He turns his face away from me, so I place my hand on his knee to bring him back. He flinches in surprise before covering my hand with his and giving it a squeeze.

  I shiver as he holds my hand. I feel his touch in every part of my body, on every inch of my skin. It feels like he is buried deep inside me, and I wonder if he’s as scared as I am. Does he know this is me, or have I become the “anybody” he told me he seeks out when he’s emotional and drinking?

  Ethan moves even closer and rests his forehead on mine. I can smell the scent of his cologne mixed with red wine and a coarse sweat. He moves his hands to the nape of my neck and caresses light waves onto my skin that tingle and pulse through my body. I drop my hand to the hard curve of his chest and I feel his heart thud under his shirt.

  I feel myself falling . . . I feel myself wanting . . . but then reality kicks in. He’s seeking comfort, reassurance, pleasure . . . and I don’t want to be his “anybody”. This is what he does. I could let this happen, but then what? How would we move on from that? What would we become?

  “Ethan, don’t do this . . .” I whisper desperately as my desire is beaten back by my fear.

  He brushes his thumb against my cheek. “Shh.” His skin is damp with sweat against my forehead. Neither of us moves. It’s as if we’re stuck together, scared to go forward but refusing to go back.

  I let out a shaky breath. “I think you should go.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “This isn’t us.”

  “Why not? It could be . . .”

  “Ethan, no,” I say as his mouth starts to seek out mine. “No.”

  He breaks free. I search his eyes and all I see is confusion. He turns away from me, bends forward and holds his head in his hands. “I’m sorry . . . I think I’ve had too much wine. I need to stop doing this. Fucking hell. I’m sorry. I could have destroyed everything.”

  Tears prick my eyes as I realise I was right. He was performing to type – seeking out comfort through sex, just like he did with Carly and Erin and Jenny and god knows who else. But none of those women were his best friend; it didn’t matter if they walked out of his life afterwards. I’m different, and the fear in his eyes tells me he knows he’s gone too far.

  He picks up his jacket, puts it on and downs the last remnants of his drink. He turns around and cocks his head to one side, his mouth lifting into an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and leaves.

  I watch him go. It feels unreal. I wonder why my legs aren’t carrying me after him, and I wonder why I’m not hearing my voice calling him back.

  I return to bed and attempt to count wildebeests, but my brain has placed the events of the evening on a vicious cycle of repeat in my mind and I can’t fall back to sleep.

  It feels like my world has changed forever, and I don’t know how to get it back.

  14

  I CAN’T REMEMBER THE LAST time I overslept and was late for work. The gigantic clock which hangs on the back wall of our lobby over a bronze silhouette relief of the London skyline is telling me it’s almost ten o’clock. I can remember snoozing my alarm. I can also remember switching it off, thinking I’d get up in a minute.

  Well, that minute somehow turned into two hours.

  I walk out onto the fifteenth floor and head straight to my desk, my pulse racing. I hold my breath, expecting to see him. But he isn’t there. Then I see something else . . . a Post-it note stuck to my computer screen: Fuck it.

  Fuck it? Fuck what?

  I recognise the handwriting as Max’s barely legible scrawl. It looks like a cockroach has dipped its bottom in ink and scuttled over the note, but there’s nothing unusual in that. Thank god he’s alive is my first thought. Thank god he’s in work is my second.

  I peel the note off the screen and switch on my computer. I’m just about to call Ethan to find out where he is and ask him if he’s seen Max when I notice an email in my inbox.

  Max wasted – taken him home.

  Oh god, not again. My stomach churns as I remember our search for Max yesterday, the search that ended with a nightclub brawl, a bloodied ear and the realisation that I very nearly hit the hay with my best friend. I lay awake for hours last night, overthinking what happened in my flat. I can’t deny that part of me wanted Ethan to kiss
me last night. My heart was already being carried away, but I’m thankful my brain kicked in. Would our friendship survive? Would our working relationship survive? I couldn’t stop the images invading my mind, imagining what his kisses would be like, wondering what sex with him would be like . . . The early hours of this morning became a guilty, erotic adventure as thoughts that had only ever been idle and fleeting became all-consuming.

  We have to talk about what happened last night, and I find that positively terrifying. I don’t enjoy discussing my feelings. I much prefer pretending I don’t have any. I’m sure it will be easier if I push it out of my mind and forget it happened, yet I can’t. I want to know what he’s thinking.

  I take out my phone and send Ethan a text: How is he? Are you at his place or yours? – Vi xx

  A minute later, my stomach leaps into my mouth when my phone pings with his reply: His place. He’s totally lost the plot. Need help please. PLEASE.

  I’m shocked that Ethan has given up and engaged the Bat-signal so soon, but I know he finds Max’s moods difficult. I text him back to say I’m on my way and email Gabriel, Stella’s assistant, to tell him I have a family emergency. We need to prep for the Lakes shoot today, so I hope I can fix this quickly.

  ***

  Max’s flat is on the main street in Brixton, above a fried chicken takeaway separated from a slightly differently named fried chicken takeaway by a bookies, a greengrocers and one of those awful payday loans shops. He could afford a better flat. I’m not being snobbish (much), but this area of London is shit. I have absolutely no idea what Max does with his money, aside from pissing it up the wall. But still, he has two bedrooms and his place is twice as big as Ethan’s pretentious Soho penthouse. Ethan calls it a penthouse; I call it a cupboard. But at least his place doesn’t smell like Colonel Sanders’ final resting place.

  I press the doorbell and wait for the familiar buzzing noise which allows me to enter the building. I walk up the back stairs and my stomach growls hungrily in response to the aroma of fried poultry that Captain Cluck declares has been “spiced to ten different secret recipes”. I knock on the door. Ethan answers, his face bearing a frown that could crack rocks.

  “What the hell took you so long?”

  I have spent the last twelve hours wondering what Ethan would say to me the morning after last night happened, and not once did that greeting feature. “I literally came straight over.”

  “Sorry. How’s your ear? I . . . couldn’t sleep last night, so I got into work early. Max arrived at eight thirty and he was up the wall. I had to get him out of the office before Malcolm clocked the state of him.”

  “My ear’s fine,” I say as I walk into Max’s sitting room. I’m pleased to see it’s still paying homage to the Tate Modern. Max is a graphic designer, but he dabbles in fine art in his spare time. His flat is like a cool, bohemian art gallery – every surface is painted white, and every wall is decorated with breathtaking canvasses and framed photographic art. And sitting on a yellow plastic Ikea armchair in the middle of it all is Max.

  I go straight to him and crouch down in front of him. He’s staring intently at his feet and it takes him a few seconds to register my presence. “Violet, what are you doing here?” The skin around his eyes is dark, his pupils are dilated, and his thinning hair is wet with sweat. He’s wearing torn jeans and a greyed t-shirt which looks like it’s been over-washed from black over the course of a decade.

  “I’m here to see how you are. And I must say you’ve looked better, my friend.”

  “Before you tell me to go to bed, I don’t want to go to bed. He’s been telling me to go to bed since he dragged me home, threatening to kick the shit out of me if I didn’t.” He scowls at Ethan. “You’re such a fucking shithead.”

  I look between the pair of them. Ethan shrugs. I can imagine the scene and I can imagine the threat of physical violence was the last resort. Max huddles into his squeaky plastic chair, his body jerking unnaturally as his long limbs sway with the effects of whatever he’s been pumping into his body.

  “Max, what have you done to yourself?”

  “What do you mean?”

  My heart is breaking for him. I raise my hands to his jaw and cup his face. He responds by closing his eyes and gently rubbing his cheek on my palm in a silent plea for comfort. “Just tell me what you’ve taken, sweetheart.”

  He sniffs and opens his eyes, which are dead to the world, his gaze struggling to focus on mine. “Pills and stuff. It’s the only way to block it out.”

  I feel like crying. I didn’t know he was still suffering. How didn’t I know?

  He climbs down onto the floor to sit next to me and places his head on my shoulder. I wrap my arms around him and feel his hand move up my arm, holding on to me desperately as he starts to sob. “Shush, it’s okay,” I whisper into his ear as my own eyes fill with tears.

  “I keep seeing her in my brain.” He crosses his arms around my shoulders and I have to reposition myself to cope with the weight of his body resting on mine. “And I know she’s not in a coma anymore, but that doesn’t make me feel better. I didn’t even like her. I thought she was a bitch, so if she’d died they’d have put me in prison for murder.”

  “Oh, Max, you have this so wrong. That makes no sense at all. Carly is a grown woman; you weren’t responsible for her. Can’t you remember what I said to you over the weekend?”

  “Yes, and I believed you, but when I was on my own I started thinking you were just saying nice things to make me feel better.”

  “Max, you know me. You know I always say what I think. I’d never lie to you.”

  He raises his chin and looks at me. “Tell me how to stop thinking about her.”

  “If I knew how to stop thinking about things you don’t want to think about, I’d own the world. But, look . . . Carly is going to get better. She’s going to be fine. You don’t need to worry anymore, and getting high isn’t helping. In fact, it’s making things worse. Ethan’s right. You need to sleep all of this off. Do you think you can do that for me?”

  “Only if you stay. Don’t leave me.”

  “Max, we have a ton of work to do today for our shoot next week.” He looks like he’s about to cry. “Okay, I’ll stay a little while – until I can find someone else to sit with you.”

  He nods his head. “Thank you, Violet, thank you. I really mean it. You’re a true friend, and I know I’m a disgrace right now, but I promise when all of this is over, you and me are going to do something exciting together. I know! I’ve been planning a weekend trip to Bruges – why don’t you come with me? There’s a meat-curing festival on in September and it’s supposed to be awesome. What do you say?”

  I can’t help but look at him as if he’s just invited me to my own funeral. “Cured meat? Hmm . . . I’ll think about it.”

  Somehow I help him to his feet and walk him to his bedroom. He goes inside, flops face down onto the bed and sighs as his body relaxes onto his navy-blue denim duvet. For a brief moment I consider tucking the duvet around him, but he seems peaceful enough, so I wish him sweet dreams and close the door.

  As I walk back into the sitting room, relieved that Max is safe, my guilt escalates. I could have prevented this. For days, my friend has pumped himself with drugs to block out a pain I could have made vanish if I’d shared what I know about Ridley and Carly. This is all my fault.

  “You deserve a medal for that.” Ethan is sitting on Max’s striped armless sofa. He looks on edge, as if he’s ready to charge for the door and make a bid for freedom.

  “A medal for what?”

  “For getting him to go to bed. He took a swing at me three times before you got here. I thought I’d have to knock him out to get him to calm down.”

  “Oh, that bad? He didn’t seem too bad just now.”

  “That’s because you can handle him better than me. I told you before that he freaks me out when he’s like this. He’s done it ever since we were at uni together.” He offers me a half smile and a
glance so fleeting that I know he’s afraid to look at me directly. Is this us now? Is this the way things are going to be from now on? Is our friendship going to be awkward and uncomfortable and embarrassing? My eyes fill up at the prospect of losing the one thing that means more to me than anything else in the world. And then I think about Max and how I could have helped him, and I can’t stop the onslaught. The regret is so intense that it almost takes my feet from under me.

  “What’s the matter?” His tone is off. He sounds more terrified than concerned.

  “Hmm? Oh, nothing.” Yes, I know I just said “nothing” was the matter, and yes, I realise that’s lame, and yes, I’d punch myself in my own stupid face if I could.

  He shifts nervously in his seat, pulling one leg up over his knee then placing it straight back on the floor again. He glances at me and quickly looks away. I bite my bottom lip to stop my tears from falling, but one sneaks out. I hope with everything I have that he didn’t notice.

  “Look, I’m sorry about last night,” he says tentatively.

  “Let’s just forget about it.”

  He stares blankly at me, no doubt wondering what’s running through my mind. I’m wondering myself. I don’t know what I want or expect him to say, but I know I can’t bear this. This isn’t us. None of this is right. We seem broken. Are we broken?

  “Violet, please. I’ve said I was sorry, I thought . . .”

  I walk further into the room and sit down on the yellow plastic armchair. My legs are trembling and my stomach feels like it’s about to hurl my breakfast across the room. Words I don’t want to say appear in my brain, and before I know it they’ve leapt out of my mouth. “I need to tell you something. I’ve fucked up and I don’t know what to do. This thing with Max is all my fault.”

  “What are you talking about? You did great with him – at the weekend and now.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I don’t mean that.”

  “Then what?”

  I don’t look at him. I can hear the worry in his voice and that alone is breaking my heart, so god knows what looking into his eyes would do to me.