Take My Hand

by Haken, Nicola

  Take My Hand

  by Nicola Haken

  Take My Hand

  Copyright © 2013 Nicola Wall

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are created from the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author, except in the case of critics or reviewers who may quote brief passages in their review. If you are reading this eBook and have not purchased it or won it in a blogger/author competition then you are reading a pirated version. Please support the author by deleting this copy and purchasing it from an authorised distributor.

  Dedicated to my wonderful mum and dad – for everything they do for me and my children. We’d be lost without them.

  Bmml

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Eleven Point Five

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Four Point Five

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty Point Five

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Dexter

  After blindly fumbling for the alarm clock on my nightstand and then not being able to shut the damn thing up, I threw the annoying piece of shit against the wall.

  “What the hell was that?” squealed a voice behind me.

  Fuck.

  Groaning heavily, I rubbed at my closed eyes… as if that would make her disappear. But guess what – it didn’t. I flickered them open slowly, grunting at the too-bright daylight piercing my pupils. Then I took a hesitant glance to my left and grudgingly made eye contact with the nameless and naked blonde.

  “You need to leave now. I’ve gotta get to work,” I said, stealing one last glance at her too-perfect, obviously plastic tits.

  Shit. She was a clinger. I could tell by the way her eyes grew a little wider as they stared at me all hurt and dolefully.

  “Okay,” she answered hesitantly. “You’ll call me though right?”

  Not a chance.

  “Sure,” I lied confidently. Yep, I was a complete jackass, but I had no idea how to handle a crying chick and I was pretty sure I never wanted to. Blondie chomped on her bottom lip as she smiled so wide the veins in her neck popped out. I couldn’t help feel a little sorry for her. I’m not a total heartless monster, and it was obvious this girl was gonna be experiencing some serious disappointment in the not too distant future.

  “I’ll miss you,” she said after shimmying around wearing nothing but her perfume for ten minutes while she gathered her clothes and girly shit and then teasingly covered herself back up.

  She was a stunner no question. It’s a shame sometimes that I can’t break my one night only rule, despite how lonely my existence is at times. But it’s just too risky. I can’t chance it going any further than sex. Women are interfering creatures – they can’t help it, it’s in their nature. If I ever took it further than one night they’d want to start getting to know me. They’d prod and probe and ask a shit load of questions I’m not prepared to answer. And they fall too easily. I mean take Blondie, she didn’t know I existed until twelve hours ago and now she was gonna miss me. That shit just doesn’t make sense.

  In my experience there are three different types of women (all of which come with an insufferable need to pry), and I knew Blondie was the Marshmallow type before I even spoke to her. Marshmallows are cute and fluffy on the outside but essentially offer no sustenance. And they’re frivolous – easy to please. It usually only takes a half-hearted smile and a compliment about their hair to get them in the sack. They typically don’t have room in their heads for more than one thought or emotion at a time therefore I don’t feel bad about using them. Firstly, if they’re prepared to offer it, why the hell shouldn’t I take it? And second, they may be able to flip the tears switch the minute I say I’m not going to call, but chances are they’ll have forgotten all about me the minute they pass a cute puppy on the street.

  Then there’s the M & M’s – they’re pretty tough – hard to crack without a good firm bite. They’re usually intelligent and need to be treated as such. There’s no point in trying to sweet talk them, they can smell your game four miles away. Therefore your intentions must be clear from the start. M & M’s are probably my favorite kind, because more often than not you actually get a pretty decent conversation before the actual fucking, and both parties are in agreement that it’s just a bit of fun that’s going no further. Everyone’s a winner. And I’m telling you, I’ve had my fair share of those babies melt in my mouth and not in my hands.

  Then we have the Tootsie Pops. Tootsie’s are the most dangerous kind of woman there is and I steer well clear at all costs. Tootsie’s are typically M & M’s but with an added dash of compassion – it takes a hell of a lotta licks to get their center but once you make it, they melt in the middle. They’re smart but they also care too easily – foolishly. Once you’ve cracked that hard shell, they want to love, and heal, and take care of you. They’re kind and gentle and truly are capable of hurt and rejection, rather than the remarkable ability to fake it like the Marshmallows. I won’t ever risk losing myself with a Tootsie. I don’t want to be loved and healed and cared for.

  I don’t deserve it.

  And she wouldn’t deserve to have to try.

  I purposely didn’t respond to Blondie’s quite frankly ridiculous statement. I didn’t want to lead her on too much. Instead I opened my mouth when she bent down to kiss me goodbye and let her have one final taste. See? I’m not all bad. Then she jotted her number down on a piece of paper from her purse, stood it in prime place in front of the strip lamp on my nightstand and left with a smile I just knew wasn’t gonna last long.

  After crumpling the piece of paper I had no intentions of reading and tossing it in the trash, I grudgingly hopped in the shower. Trying to shave in a hurry resulted in three nicks with the blade and a whole host of cuss words. I think I might’ve even invented a few new ones. I was tired and irritable and couldn’t be assed going to work one bit. Stacking shelves was exhausting when you’d had no more than an hour’s sleep the night before. Still, I’ve only got a few days left seeing as lectures start next week. I applied the day after I arrived in this country and it was only ever supposed to be a summer job. I’ll have to try and find something else to slot in between studying and tending bar at The Blue Apple soon though. One set of money coming in just isn’t enough and I’ll be damned if I let my Aunt Sarah down.

  **********

  Getting home after my first shift of the day (which was just as boring and shitty as expected) I threw a TV dinner in the microwave and planned to chill out for a couple of hours before heading to The Blue Apple. Maybe I’d even have a decent shower.

  Or a nap.

 
Jared: Mick wants u in early. He said B here in 20.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuckety fuck. An hour’s peace, is that too much to ask? Mick is a douche of the highest order and if I didn’t need this job so bad I’d have told him where to stick it the day after I started working for him. But I do need it, so I tossed a few forkfuls of lasagna in my mouth (almost searing away any traces of taste buds in the process), changed into my work gear and put on my game face for the night. Then, after reluctantly straddling my Yamaha with an almighty huff as I prepared to face the barbarous London traffic, I pulled out my cell.

  Me: Tell the dickwad I’m on my way

  Chapter Two

  Emily

  After our gruelling nine hour drive I flopped backwards onto the comfier than expected bed and closed my weary eyes.

  “Emily Barton!” My best friend Rachel yelled whilst throwing a pillow at my head. She only calls me by my birth name when she means business. The rest of the time it’s ‘Em’ or more often than not ‘Ho’. I jumped upright and let out a thoroughly peed off groan. “No time for that shit. We need to explore!” she beamed. I forced a smile and then rolled my eyes when she wheeled away.

  Rachel is a paraplegic. She was involved in a horrific car accident when her mum’s car veered off the road when she was just two years old, resulting in severe spinal damage. She’s been in a wheelchair ever since and never once complained about it - it’s never held her back. In fact if it wasn’t for the two big wheels sticking out from either side of her bum, you’d never know there was anything wrong with her. She’s fun, loving, tattooed up to the eyeballs and has a mouth dirtier than a backstreet pub urinal.

  “I need to call Chris and take a shower before I do anything,” I said through a jaw-splitting yawn. We had just arrived at our new ground floor studio flat (aka tiniest maisonette you’ve ever seen in your life) in Camden after completing what should’ve been a four hour drive in just over nine – thanks to Rachel’s half-hourly smoke and make-up touch-up breaks at every other motorway service station. Chris is my brother. He worries about me like only an older brother can and so I promised I’d call him the minute we got here. I missed him already. It wasn’t like we’d never been a while without seeing each other before – but we’d never been this far apart.

  Rachel and I had finally flown our parents’ nests in Cheshire and were about to start our new lives as university undergraduates here in the centre of London. I’ll be studying Psychology, while Rachel’s opted for Fine Art – which I’m pretty sure would bore the crap out of me. I still can’t believe I’m actually here. What’s more, I still can’t believe I’m going to university. I detested school. I didn’t have any friends other than Rachel and to be honest the thought of having to endure that environment for another four years scares the crap out of me. But social status is important to my mum and I want to finally do something, achieve something to make her proud of me. I want her to be able to boast about me to her posh friends and tell me how well I’ve done for once in my life. So for her, I can do this. I will do this.

  To say my parents are strict is a severe understatement and before this move I had never even been allowed to go into the local town centre unaccompanied – hence the lack of friends at school. I’ve often wondered if they were overprotective, or if it was just my mum’s way of punishing me.

  My dad wasn’t happy about me leaving and he never would be (I’m pretty sure my mum couldn’t care less). He’s not a man of many words – doesn’t really show emotions easily, but I’ve always known he loves me. It’s there in the looks he gives me, the simple rubs on the head when I walk by… So anyway, thanks to some not so subtle bulldozing by Rachel I found the courage to stand my ground, and here I am.

  I’m nineteen years old and I want to start living. I want to see things and do things that I’ve only ever been able to dream about. That’s why Rachel devised my ‘New Life’ list. She drew it up on a computer and even went to the trouble of laminating it! There are fifty steps which I have to tick off during our first year here and then depending on how ‘normal’ (her word) I am after that, she’ll decide if it needs adding to. Some of them are just ridiculous. Take Number 34 for example:

  · Midnight skinny dipping on Brighton beach

  I mean, seriously? Or how about Number 18:

  · Have sex at least four times in one night. Same partner optional.

  That one is just… disturbing. Yet also describes Rachel down to a tee. I have only one experience with the S word that I’m in no particular hurry to repeat. I’d been secretly seeing this guy called Rhys (or studying with Rachel if my parents ever ask) for six months last year and to be honest I got tired of him practically begging on his hands and knees so I gave in. It was messy, clumsy and hurt like hell, and the real stinger was Rhys dumped me a week later.

  According to Rachel I just need to ‘break myself in’ and apparently the only way I can do that is by forcing myself to do it more often. But in all honesty, I’d rather sit in front of the telly with a giant bag of Minstrels watching True Blood repeats until I fall asleep on the couch.

  “Right come on, Ho. Time to hit the town and cross off number one!” Shoving my makeup bag in my face, Rachel grinned devilishly at me the second I stepped out of the shower.

  Ugh. Number 1…

  • Get wasted!

  “Tonight? Oh come on, Rach I’m knackered. We’ve been travelling all day,” I groaned. Even if I hadn’t been more than a little apprehensive about getting drunk for the first time, I just didn’t think I had the energy. All I wanted was to be wrapped up in bed, Kindle in one hand and chocolate in the other.

  “Yes tonight. We’ve only got a few days to fit the good stuff in before classes start. So stop being a miserable bitch and make yourself look fuckable.”

  “Fuckable?” How the hell would I know what ‘fuckable’ looked like?

  “Like, wear something that shows a bit of flesh, stuff some tissue in your bra to bulk out those bee stings of yours, straighten your hair… that kind of thing,” she clarified. Not much then. She might as well have just called me a munter to my face. My boobs aren’t that small. I like to think I’m packing a decent sized handful. Just because the weight of hers would make her topple over if she wasn’t in a chair… “Come on, I’ll help you.”

  Fixing my most contrived smile in place, I followed Rachel into her bedroom. We didn’t even bother to look through my clothes seeing as the only flesh I’d ever braved baring was my forearms. So instead we raided Rachel’s stuff, which unsurprisingly was still stuffed in crumpled balls inside her suitcases.

  I spent an hour parading around the apartment, giving Rachel her own personal fashion show. We are the same dress size, although Rachel tends to buy from the petite section given the fact being in a wheelchair makes her essentially shorter, so the dresses she made me try on rode so high up my thighs I might as well have just worn a belt.

  “Right that’s it. I’m not wearing a dress. I look ridiculous,” I muttered sulkily – pouting my lips, crossing my arms and everything else that a stroppy twelve year old should do.

  “If by ridiculous you mean hot, then yes you look totally fucking ridiculous.” I rolled my eyes at her and began the fiddly task of unzipping the back of my dress.

  “I’m wearing pants. End of.”

  “You’ll never get laid wearing pants, Ho.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to get laid!”

  “So what you’re saying is, you want to grow old and wrinkly all alone, stepping in pools of cat piss round every corner and scaring away any kids that pass by your house?”

  Oh my God… I was so on the road to becoming a cat lady. I might as well roll over and die right now.

  “Fine. But I’ll only wear one that reaches my knees,” I caved, sighing heavily. What on God’s green earth was I thinking letting her conjure up my New Life List? I guess I assumed she was either joking, or would forget all about it by the time we got here. How dumb was I?

  “There’s my g
irl.” Rachel winked at me and wheeled herself back into her bedroom to gather some more selections.

  After another hour I’d reluctantly settled on a strapless black dress that showed too much of my non-existent cleavage and rested just a tiny bit above my knees. Then I sat on the floor Buddha-style while Rachel teased my red hair into bouncy curls with her tongues – even though my hair was naturally curly anyway - before applying a smattering of natural makeup the best I knew how.

  “Damn, Ho. I think even I want to fuck you a little bit,” Rachel teased as she eyed my finished look up and down. I smiled appreciatively, even though I knew she was probably exaggerating. But seeing as though neither of us thought to bring a mirror bigger than a compact with us, I had to take her word for it. “So I’m thinking we grab a taxi into the town centre and take it from there?”

  “Sure,” I replied passively, suddenly nervous that she was actually going to make me get wasted. Maybe I could tip my drinks in a flowerpot and just pretend. It can’t be that difficult. I’ve seen a thousand drunk people on TV, not to mention the countless times Rachel had rolled into my bedroom (excuse the pun) inebriated to the point she couldn’t remember her own name while my parents were away.