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Unbind (Sub Rosa Series Book 1)

Page 4

by Lynch, Sarah Michelle


  I looked at my audience and realised nobody was impressed. Neither was I, really. I was talking drivel. I sat back down with a thump and drowned in my seat.

  Ash cleared his throat and politely thanked me for sharing. (Yeah, sharing a little too much I reckon!)

  The rest of the meeting passed in a blur. In one respect, I was glad Kincaid wasn’t in that room with us. God knows what he’d think of me otherwise. Then again, it led me to consider what his job was.

  During the meeting various members of staff made their input at whatever point they felt like, which meant I had no idea what was going on between all the criss-crossing and to-ing and fro-ing of conversations and exchanges. It was a free-for-all. I was in a room with researchers, editors, managers and the lackeys at the bottom like me—the content writers.

  “That’s it for this week then guys,” Ash said.

  Everyone left the room quickly but Ash waited behind and we were the last ones.

  “Kind of don’t like talking in front of people,” I explained sheepishly. “I sort of have shit for brains sometimes.”

  He patted my shoulder, laughing. “Actually kind of made my day knowing someone new can see straight through these boring old tossers. Now, let’s get you and Trevor acquainted.”

  Back at my desk, Trevor was waiting. I didn’t know if he’d been in the meeting—like I said it’d all passed in a blur and there were too many people’s names to remember. Trevor had rocker hair, he was 50-odd years old and rake thin.

  “Right Chloe… Trev’ll get you started.”

  I nodded like I knew what he was saying, when really I was still in a daze of confusion. They knew I had nearly ten years under my belt, right? Right!? When Trevor and I were alone, he talked like I knew what the hell he was going on about.

  He started passing me bundles of paper. “Here is a copy of the in-house style guide, you know? A guide to familiarising with the systems… a guide to exceptions to the rules… oh, and I’ll mail you a favourites list to add to your browser… email contacts, too. So, there’s lots to get yourself accustomed with…” and the list went on.

  His voice was so quiet, so low, almost a hiss. I had to move closer so I could hear and I ended up like he was—hunched over the desk with my elbows propping my head up. At one point we even sighed in unison. He seemed like an okay guy so I said off the bat, “Is this place gonna be my worst nightmare?”

  His laughter was like his voice—a comical hiss, his eyes closed, his hair and fuzz making most of his features indistinguishable—his face squeezed tight with amusement.

  He whispered, “Nah. You’ll be fine.”

  Chapter 4

  BY LUNCHTIME I was exhausted. I’d been awake since six a.m., run the gauntlet of my own stupid nerves—and Trevor had just about tested me with as many facts and figures as he could. I had a mere half an hour for lunch and would have preferred to use that time to have a snooze under my desk!

  Instead I sat Googling stuff to do for free in London. I held a ham sandwich with very curly lettuce in my hand and looked down at the empty coffee cup by my side, wondering how I might procure some more. Which is when I realised I had my email system up and running. I navigated the internal address book and typed, Kinc—, when his name came up in the list. Kincaid Matthews. One Kincaid in the entire company. Alongside was an extension number and his job title, ‘Freelance Photographer’. That got me all excited—thinking he might be a bit more than artistic.

  I pasted his name into a new mail and typed:

  Subject: Hi there

  Coffee man, new girl here.

  I’m lacking in black gold and I’m hoping…

  I nervously waited for a response, chewing my nail, pretending to absorb what was on the screen in front. I was so distracted thinking he wouldn’t mail back that I missed him sidle up to my desk, jar of coffee and mug in hand.

  When I saw his shadow standing behind me, I must have flushed a thousand shades of red. His scent invaded my nostrils again and just his presence made me wildly happy.

  When I dared to look up at him, he gestured without words that we head to the kitchen, grabbing my mug for me. Some of my colleagues sitting at the more populated side of the desk looked on as if what was happening was their latest news piece.

  Kincaid and I rocked up at the kitchen without any awkwardness, despite the silence between us. He busied himself cleaning my cup and making me a fresh coffee (yes!).

  “You’re a photographer, then?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “All my life.”

  I leered and decided, “You’re wet behind the ears. How is it you’re here, I mean… aren’t you too young to be a freelancer?”

  I wanted to know everything about the man. I was really hoping for an age above 26. Cougar was not a label I wanted for myself.

  He laughed lightly. “You’re a journo alright.”

  “Sorry, it’s just that… you’re the only one apart from Ash and Trev that I’ve spoken to here.”

  “You’ll make more friends, Chloe. This is only your first day,” he said to comfort me. “This place is just fast, and when you get up to speed, you’ll understand it then.”

  Though really, I didn’t understand. Didn’t think I ever would, either.

  Anyway, I was still wondering about his age…

  “Twenty-five?” I guessed, like the forward bint I was.

  He snickered, still busying himself in the formulation of hot, caffeine drinks.

  “Twenty-five in a few months,” he said, his American accent deepening. His cute smile crinkled the corners of his mouth and the way his cut cheekbones carried that blush made me instantly aroused.

  Twenty-four, I repeated inside my head. How had it only taken 24 years to perfect that heavy body, that sarcastic undertone, that magnetism he exhibited in treating me like a lady?

  “Shit, 24?” Oh my god. Suddenly the realistic (very small) portion of my brain was so disappointed. He was far too young for me. However, the revelation gave me the edge then. If we were never to be paired outside the workplace, we could be paired within. I could make an ally of him. A friend. “And already a freelancer?”

  “I like to keep the job interesting, you know? The image archive here is a big pull, it’s one of the most substantial in the world… I can dip my hand in, shutter time or not. Sure I get work in New York, but I need to escape sometimes, you know? Even if just for a while.”

  “Lucky you.”

  I knew exactly what he meant but I didn’t have the luxury of picking and choosing. Where I came from, this—what I was doing with my life—was entirely alien to those back home. I’d clawed, scratched and scrambled for what I wanted out of life.

  “You must have some connections then, Cai?” The minute I said his name, I knew I liked it on my lips. Knew that it suited him and that I’d like to say it in other circumstances, in places other than at work.

  I’d dated normal, ordinary guys I suppose. Working-class geezers. Big, lumbering men. Muscles. Sweat. My type. Yet none of them kept my attention, for one reason or another.

  Just because I didn’t want marriage, babies, or to live with someone—didn’t mean I hadn’t had my pick. In fact sex was often the one thing that took my mind off the boxes and the lines. I got accustomed to flings and no expectations. It was hard to admit to myself, but the truth was, I didn’t need a man telling me what to do. Men in general posed a risk as far as I was concerned. I couldn’t cope with that—the memories associated with suffocating control could send me into a tailspin of organising all my shelves of books, or notes. It was kind of why I’d thrown all that crap out, knowing there’d be no room in my life in London to get bogged down with alphabetizing DVDs every evening.

  Cai seemed embarrassed to admit, “My aunt is kinda big in the media world. It opens doors.”

  My half-hour lunch was nearly over and I decided to take a leap of faith. “I’d like to know more about your work. I’d like to see it, if you want?”

  He turned a
nd smiled with a sincere expression. “Sure.”

  My heart skipped a beat and I knew I wanted him. Also, I knew his answer was ominous and that for him to commit to any kind of promise early on… was a risk for him, too. I gathered from his intense eye stares, he was stricken as much as me.

  Once outside the kitchen, people on the other side of the door were going to know what was already happening.

  He handed me my coffee and we turned to the door, bumping into one another as we zoomed toward escape from the sexual tension residing in that room. It’d probably ferment inside those walls and spread to everyone else, it was so palpable.

  As our shoulders knocked, I looked sideways. His deep-blue eyes were framed by dark lashes and sleek brows. He stopped still and remarked, “I could make a stunning photograph of just your one eye.”

  I was stuck to the spot with surprise. “Shut up!”

  We laughed it off, Cai blushing as furiously as me. He opened the door for me and we left the room. What I really wanted was to snog him senseless.

  He was at my side until we reached my desk and, he was gone again. I thought about discovering what shade of blue his eyes were with a Google search but Trev was there waiting for me.

  AFTER Trevor loaded me up with a ton of information, on top of everything else, he abruptly left me to it at three p.m. after he got called to deal with a crisis somewhere. I didn’t know what his exact job title was, perhaps, ‘Sorter of Shit and Breaker of Free Will’, you know, something like that.

  So, there I sat refreshing my email inbox every five minutes, hoping for a message from Kincaid. Perhaps even something random from a colleague sat nearby. I fired off a couple of emails to friends back home with my new, professional signature—but none of them replied either. My mind wandered with thoughts such as… Did they go to spam? Should I just mail Kincaid? Am I already out the door and they’re just debating how best to break the news?

  The day felt so long I was sure time stopped still at certain points, just to spite me. When five p.m. arrived, it was a mass exodus. I overhead lots of people communicating to each other, little convos along the lines of, “Let’s Skype tonight about that.” OR, “We’ll meet at Leicester Square at eight to talk it out.”

  Problems. Concerns. Hmm? Possible affairs outside the office more like it! If those little insights into cliques and bonds already formed within the company didn’t make me feel left out in the cold, I didn’t know what else would.

  I bumped into Kincaid at the bottom of the stairs as I stopped to adjust my bag before the long walk home. He wore a leather jacket, shoulder bag and light-blue woollen scarf. He dipped his head in acknowledgement and his nostrils flared, yet he stepped right past me and out into the cool, spring air. I watched him standing on the top step outside, like he was waiting for a lift. Then I realised, he was waiting for something else—me to follow him. Either that, or ask him out.

  I didn’t have anything to lose so I stood alongside him and murmured, “You… wanna grab a drink?”

  “Sure,” was his response. “What’s your neighbourhood? I’m in Chelsea, so…”

  “I’m in Notting Hill. I like to walk it so if you just wanna go somewhere close, take the edge off the day… I’ll start walking home after that.”

  “Deal,” he agreed, blinking quickly. It seemed a relief that I only wanted a drink and wasn’t suggesting we make a night of it.

  We only walked a short while before we found the Duke of York and piled in with what looked like a lot of other company workers. He went to the bar while I found two stools up against a window. When he brought me a G&T, I could have cried.

  I didn’t stand on ceremony and got it down my throat as fast as possible, draining the glass so quickly, he gaped. I took a deep breath and apologised, “I really needed that! It’s been a tough day!”

  My nerves were shredded and that just wasn’t me, I was usually in charge and confident. The truth of it all was, all day I’d had that niggling fear in the back of my mind: They’ll say I’ve abandoned them again.

  Cai supped his pint of Stella and pursed his lips, eyebrows raised. He was quiet, still. I was usually the one doing all the talking, no matter the place, situation or person. I just had a big gob.

  He stared so hard it made me nervous.

  “You feel sorry for me, don’t you?” I began, my index finger rimming the empty glass. Living in Chelsea… you must be rich, educated and worldly. Women fall at your feet. I’ve got a faint Barnsley accent…

  I was so ready to go up to the bar and get myself another.

  “I don’t.” He shook his head vehemently.

  “Then what?” I felt my brow furrow.

  “I have to say it?” His shoulders fell forward, his hands clasped together. He looked at the floor to hide what he was really thinking, though whether I’d be able to judge this closed book regardless was uncertain.

  “Yeah, come on. Nobody else is nice to me all day, except you. I don’t get it.” I picked at my nails, trying to ignore how strongly attracted I was to this boy/man. It was ridiculous how beautiful he was.

  “Well,” he looked into my eyes briefly, his hands now open, “let’s not sweat semantics this early on. You only started today, yeah? I’m a good guy and I saw you looking helpless. I think you’re funny… so here we are.”

  His response didn’t satisfy me at all. “Do they know I got put forward for this job? Is that the reason for all their iciness? I swear I sat within inches of other human beings who didn’t acknowledge me once, not once today.”

  He looked up quickly and scanned my face. I saw his shock at my forward approach but I wasn’t going to hide from anything, not least my friendship with Klaus Häuser, a notable figure in the media world.

  “Not many people are so honest. Where I come from, few are,” he remarked, his voice strained. “It’s refreshing.”

  To be honest he didn’t act like he was 24. There was something old about his soul. It all clicked for me—I wasn’t imagining it. We did have a connection, I felt it. The way he looked at me, yet was so restrained—told me there were other things he was worried about. Our age difference was the least of it.

  “Your own connections are frowned on… so you empathise? You thought you may have an ally in me?” I reasoned that was his modus operandi, or something. Hell, our meeting might have been random but something told me it wasn’t. I’d have loved to hear him say he just thought I was pretty. I’d not had anyone tell me that in a long, long time. I hadn’t let anyone get close… ooh, in about ten years. This guy was making me wonder the hell why.

  He coughed lightly, “Yeah! Maybe. Like I said… semantics.”

  “Another drink? I’m getting another.” I arched a brow.

  He put his hand on top of his glass and shook his head. “No. You go for it, though. Please god, take the edge of your first day if not for yourself, for me!”

  I went to the bar half-laughing and asked for my second G&T, feeling stung by the price! Christ! I was wondering more and more why I’d left my native land behind.

  Wobbling with my double in hand as I went back to Kincaid, I spotted his hand shaking as he lifted his glass to his lips—and I wondered. Who was this guy?

  I’d barely eaten all day so maybe I wasn’t thinking 100 per cent clearly. I’d been a nervous wreck for most of it. Now, I was drunk almost. On one drink. And my second was a double. Great!

  I felt an overwhelming sense of foreboding. Like something terrible was going to go wrong for me if I wasn’t wary of Kincaid. Something about him had my senses tingling with suspicion. Trepidation. Wonder. Intrigue, even. Most guys would have asked for my number by now, might have tried to give me a kiss, and most certainly would have arranged a date at a restaurant, not a drink in the office local.

  When I got back and plonked myself on the stool once more, I joked, “This is my last otherwise I’ll have to take out another credit card just for booze!”

  His smiling eyes hid his strain well, though his
fiddling hands didn’t. “You guys all sound Australian to me but I’m guessing you’re not from London?”

  How cute, I laughed to myself.

  “Hmm, no. Where I’m from you can still get a pint for less than two quid. I used to work for a local, regional rag in Sheffield where I spewed essays worthy of doctorates. Maybe nobody ever read any of it… all I know is the pieces filled space. It paid the bills but I don’t remember the last time I took a holiday, or went on a real splurge of a shopping spree, you know? In this country you don’t get dealt a good hand in journalism without a break. It’s the toughest place in the world to be a professional writer… trust me, I know.”

  He sipped some beer without his hand shaking, so perhaps my talking had relaxed him. “Some of those guys back at the stead… they kinda have sticks up their asses, don’t they?”

  “Oh, god yeah!” You took the words out of my mouth. I laughed. “They clearly work hard but they love it. I know the type… I am the type.”

  I laughed and was tipsy enough by then to reach out and touch his knee. That was conservative. I wasn’t loathe to befriend anyone who’d listen, so long as they were willing to put up with my foul mouth and liking for the occasional heavy drinking session.

  However, he flinched at my touch. His bulk visibly recoiled… it wasn’t as if he could hide himself. He looked away and tried to cover his reaction but I felt so offended, hurt. Mainly because I liked him. Yet, a warning bell reminded me he was younger—despite seeming older. I knew I should be the administrator of this little social occasion so I stroked his fingers with mine and soothed him, “It’s okay. Whatever it is. I’m just friendly. It’s how I am.”

  “I’m not being a dick… I just… have problems with physical contact.”

  Alarm bells! I should’ve dashed out of there right then. Made my apologies and left him to his wealthy, privileged lifestyle. When I thought about it, it was like he had been stalking me all day.

 

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