Decline (Declan Reede: The Untold Story #1)

by Michelle Irwin

  “Would Ruth Dawson be available please?” I asked, hoping with everything I had that he wouldn’t recognise my voice. The issue of course was that I was too well known by him, both personally and professionally. Despite the intervening years, there was no way he wouldn’t recognise me.

  “No, sorry she’s out for the day.” The new edge to his voice confirmed my fear.

  “Can you help me then?” I asked with desperation. Another minute more and I was sure he’d hang up the phone. I just needed to try to appeal to his compassionate side before then.

  “No, fucker, I don’t think anyone can fucking help you.” The phone clicked and then beeped. He’d hung up on me.

  Shit! I forgot the arsehole didn’t have a compassionate side. At least not when it came to me. Maybe he had once, but not anymore.

  I picked up the phone and dialled again.

  “Hello?” There was no joviality in Josh’s voice this time. No doubt he suspected it was me again.

  “I need to find her, Josh.”

  “No. What you need to do is leave her alone, fuckhead. You’ve done enough fucking damage already.”

  The phone clicked again. I dialled for the third time. I didn’t wait for him to say hello.

  “Look, I feel pretty damn shitty about all of this. I just need to fucking know that she’s safe, all right?”

  “She’s safe,” said a female voice that I didn’t recognise. It was almost soft and caring. Then the phone went dead again.

  I wasn’t sure if my frustration or defeat was winning when I dialled the number again.

  “Please, I just need to speak to her. Tell me the hotel she’s at. Anything?” The defeat—and the tears—climbed to the top for the moment.

  “I . . .” It was the female voice again, and I hoped she’d help me, but then she paused. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Alyssa asked me not to.”

  What? ”You spoke to her?”

  “I told you she was safe didn’t I? Did you think I was fucking lying?”

  Whoa, the bitch is back. With the comment, and the attitude her voice contained, recognition rammed into me. It was Ruby, Josh’s wife.

  “Look, I know I fucked up by throwing her out like I did. I know it was a dick move. I fucking know all of that. But it was a bit of a fucking shock to find out that shit like I did.”

  Ruby chuckled slightly. “Yeah. Although in her defence, she did try to tell you earlier. Quite a lot actually.”

  “I know,” I whispered. “I just wish she’d tried harder.”

  “How exactly?” Ruby snapped. “Turn up at Sinclair Racing with a fucking gift basket saying ‘Congrats, Daddy’?”

  “I don’t fucking know, all right? But she should have found some fucking way to tell me.”

  I was greeted by a beat of silence. I was sure the click and tone of a hang-up were about to follow. I calmed myself down as best I could, but my frustration was taking over and bursting from me in uncontrollable ways.

  “If you won’t tell me where she is, can you at least do me a favour? Can you please tell her how fucking sorry I am and let her know I’m ready to listen whenever she’s ready to talk?”

  “What if she’s not ready to talk?”

  “Then I’ll wait until she is.”

  I was about to hang up when I heard a small voice. “I wanna talk to Mummy.”

  “It’s not Mummy, sweetheart,” Ruby responded to the little girl.

  “I wanna ta-alk.” The voice became demanding and whiny.

  My heart hammered in my chest. That was her. That was Phoebe. That was my daughter.

  Oh my fucking God!

  “Can I speak to her?” I asked tentatively, not knowing what the fuck to say to a child but knowing that I absolutely fucking had to try to find some words.

  “No. I don’t think that would be best right now.”

  “I have a right, you know.”

  She snickered. “Actually, you don’t.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “You need to talk to Alyssa about that.”

  I growled. “I’m fucking trying to talk to Alyssa, but no one will help me.”

  “I’ll let her know that you called. But if you call again, we’ll regard it as harassment. I’m sure Curtis will be more than willing to have his mates press charges, or something.” Alyssa’s Dad, Curtis—Killer Curtis—was a prison warden at Wacol. He knew plenty of cops, and just as many criminals. With that threat looming between us, she hung up.

  Fuck!

  I was no fucking closer to finding Alyssa than I had been before all the fucking phone calls. I didn’t feel better about anything either. I felt even worse.

  My own fucking mother knew. My mother had known and kept it from me. Because I was too much of a fucking dick to give two shits about anyone but my own fucking life.

  My life is just fucking perfect right now, isn’t it?

  It was daylight but with a murky grey sky that had no warmth at all, I was fucking hungry, and my brain was dancing a fucking conga against my fucking skull. All of that, and I still didn’t have a fucking clue where Alyssa could be. At least I knew she was safe though. It was a small consolation, but better than worrying about her lying dead in a gutter because of me.

  I grabbed the rest of the duty-free alcohol from my bag. I had another bottle of whiskey, although I wasn’t sure I wanted to fucking touch that yet. Not with the reminder it was of the previous night. There was also a bottle of vodka. Preferring my vodka chilled, I opened the fridge to put it in, planning to drink as much of it as I fucking could later that night.

  What I saw in the fridge was something I hadn’t expected. Alyssa had ordered enough takeout—Indian curries—to get me through about four fucking days, all in individual containers. She’d left it all there, nicely stacked in the fridge waiting for me, despite the fact that I’d thrown her out onto the fucking street. There was a moment where I wondered whether it was actually possible to hate myself any more than I already did.

  Fucking fuck!

  I risked Ruby’s ire, and Curtis’s possible punishment, and made one more phone call to Alyssa’s mother’s house.

  “Hello?” It was Ruby again.

  “Please.” My voice was laced with the tears that had sprung to my eyes and were running uninvited down my cheek. “Please. I need to speak to her.”

  There was a pause and the phone was being handed to someone else. Fuck. Josh was probably going to fucking threaten to rip my balls off or something. Well, fuck him. There was nothing he could fucking say to me that could make me feel any worse than I already did.

  One small word, “Hello,” in a small fucking voice told me I was wrong.

  Ruby had clearly misinterpreted what I’d meant.

  That was my fucking daughter. On the phone.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. How do I fucking deal with this?

  My breathing hitched. More tears flowed and I squeezed out, “Hello?”

  “You’re not Mummy. Who are you?”

  Fuck.

  What a loaded fucking question. How the fucking hell was I supposed to answer it? “I’m just a friend of your Mummy’s. My name’s Declan.”

  “I’m Phoebe Castor Dawson.” Each word was said with such gusto and enthusiasm, I couldn’t help but smile.

  “It’s nice to talk to you, Phoebe Castor Dawson.” I was surprised she could even hear me over the beating of my heart. “How old are you?”

  “I’m three and on my next birthday I’ll be four, and I’ll have a yellow birthday party with a yellow chocolate cake and my friends will be coming to my house.”

  My lip twitched. I had no idea what to say to her. “That sounds fun,” I said eventually.

  “It’s time to go now, sweetie. Say goodbye.” I heard Ruby say in the background.

  “Okay, bye-bye, see you later.”

  I hung up the phone and sank to the floor trying to breathe around the lump in my throat. That was
my fucking daughter.

  I knew in that instant, no matter what else happened, my life had irreversibly changed. I was a father now. A fucking father. Nothing could change that. I would always be a father. Now I just needed to figure out if I was ready to be a dad.

  I thought about the photo that was sitting in my wallet and the voice over the phone line. Two pieces of irrefutable evidence that she was real, that she actually existed.

  What a fucked-up ride the last few days had been. If the trip to London had done nothing else, it helped to confirm in my own mind just how fucked up I really was—much more than I’d ever admitted to anyone else, or even myself. I grabbed some of the painkillers the hospital had given me, washed them down with a mouthful of vodka, and then threw one of the meals into the microwave. I had no idea how to work the damn thing so the food was blistering hot in some places and ice cold in others, but it was edible. I wondered if it was just the luck of the draw that Alyssa had ordered a beef vindaloo, one of my favourites.

  After finishing the food, I grabbed the bottle of vodka and headed up to bed. I figured if I drank myself into oblivion there at least I wouldn’t have far to fall. As soon as I hit the bedroom, the events of the previous twenty-four hours crashed down on me—hard—and I couldn’t breathe. I skulled as much of the vodka as I could and took another painkiller. Then I closed my eyes and let the panic take me away, stealing my breath and exploding my heart.

  Maybe it wouldn’t bring me back. At least then I wouldn’t have to deal with any of the shit I faced.

  The last thoughts I had before unconsciousness took me was that I was fucked-up. Too fucked-up to inflict myself on an innocent child. She didn’t deserve to be stuck with a fuck-up like me in her life in any capacity, not even watching from the sidelines.

  She deserved better than that. She deserved Alyssa, who could do this a hundred times better on her own than she ever could having to put up with my shit. A thousand. I decided I would call the airline first thing in the morning and book my return flight. There was no fucking point staying in London any longer than I already had. There was nothing there for me. Maybe there was nothing for me anywhere. Not anymore.

  Not long after that thought, I blacked out.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: WAKE-UP CALL

  ALYSSA STOOD IN front of me, her face lined with tears. She held her hand protectively over her stomach. Her eyes were downcast, staring at my feet. I followed her line of sight and saw a gaping chasm between us. As soon as I saw it, the distance seemed to grow exponentially until I could barely see her features anymore. Except her eyes—they were clear as day to me.

  “Alyssa, I want to talk to you!” I shouted to her. “Is there any way to cross?”

  I couldn’t look for myself, I was completely immobile.

  She shook her head.

  “Please, Alyssa? I need to make this right!”

  She raised her eyes and they locked on to mine. I expected to see them full of pain, or anger, or something. But they were dead. Flat lifeless pools of golden brown stared back at me. I cried out in strangled agony.

  “Please, Alyssa! I need to talk to you!”

  She shook her head and then turned away, walking slowly into the distance.

  “Come back!”

  She stopped but didn’t look back at me.

  “Please?”

  She shook her head slightly.

  “I love you!”

  She turned back toward me and opened her mouth to speak, but all that came was a shrill ringing.

  Waking with a gasp, I opened my eyes. My heart raced in my chest as I tried to calm myself. Just a fucking dream, I realised, only the ringing from within it continued.

  I sat up in bed, and regretted it the instant that I did. My head swam and my stomach churned. I didn’t know if the pain was because I needed more painkillers for the bruising on my face and cut on my arm, or if it was a result of the—oh fuck—bottle of vodka I’d drunk the night before. I really couldn’t start with that shit again—it was a slippery slope that I’d climbed to the top of not that long before, and I didn’t want to end up back at the bottom. The drinking needed to stop.

  The ringing still continued. Rubbing my temples to try to clear some of the cobwebs and cottonwool that seemed to have taken up residence overnight, I wondered what the fuck it could be. Where the fuck was that ringing coming from?

  I climbed—fell—out of bed and staggered toward the stairs. Whatever the fuck was ringing, the noise definitely came from downstairs. I held tightly on to the railing; my head was spinning too much to risk trying to pick my way down safely without the support. When I saw the desk, I worked out what was making the sound. The fucking phone.

  Who the fuck has this number?

  I debated ignoring it, but it had been ringing persistently for a while now—more than just a casual caller would try for. I walked over to it and stared at it for a few seconds, daring it to stop ringing before I could pick it up. It didn’t, so I cradled the handset to my ear.

  “Hello?” My voice sounded like I’d downed a cup of bleach. Although I supposed downing a whole bottle of vodka probably wasn’t far off that.

  “Declan.” I recognised Danny’s voice of calm authority immediately. Fuck. I really didn’t want to talk to him while I had the hangover from hell and my body ached.

  “Danny.” I responded. I couldn’t think of anything more appropriate to say.

  “I trust you had a productive flight.”

  What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Productive flight—not safe flight, not easy flight, fucking productive flight. Who the fuck talks like that? Oh yeah, fucking multibillionaire team bosses obviously do. Who the fuck am I, the hired fucking wheelman, to argue?

  “It was very interesting,” I countered.

  “How are you going with our little agreement? Are you getting yourself together?”

  Fuck no. I’m more fucking shaken apart now than I have ever been in my entire fucking existence, and I don’t know which fucking way is up anymore. “Sure, or at least, I’m working on it.”

  “I just wanted to let you know we’ve decided to run you in the new car next season, so I’ll need you back a month earlier for fitment and testing.”

  Fuck me. The new fucking car. He was really hanging his balls out there on this one. Actually no, fuck it—he was hanging my balls out there.

  “Why?” I managed to force the solitary word out around the lump in my throat. I really shouldn’t have felt as terrified about it all as I did.

  “Morgan’s stoked with the way his car has been running lately and wants to stay in it. And I decided it was more beneficial to spend the dollars on the new car than to repair yours after Bathurst.”

  Fuck me. “So when do you need me back?”

  “January. So get your shit together by then.”

  “Uh huh.” Fuck me.

  I hung up the phone and grabbed some more painkillers. This time, I washed them down with water. For a moment, I thanked my lucky stars that I’d had the fall and the hospital grade painkillers because normal paracetamol wouldn’t have done shit all for the fucking roaring ache in my head.

  After the pain slowly lulled to a dull throb, I realised I was famished again. I wondered if it was too early in the morning for curry, but then figured fuck it, because there was nothing else in the apartment anyway. I’d have to go get some normal fucking groceries soon if I was going to stay. And that was the kicker: despite my moment of “clarity” the night before, I couldn’t fucking decide whether to stay or go.

  If I stayed, I could only hope that Ruby spoke to Alyssa and that by some fucking miracle she could convince her to come talk to me. I still didn’t know if I wanted to inflict my fucked-uppedness on Phoebe, but I did know that I needed to talk to Alyssa before I made any definite choices. If only to find out what Ruby had meant by her statement that I didn’t actually have any rights.

  Rubbing my eyelids, I thought about the phone conversations I’d had. I wanted to know
what the fuck had happened. Everyone seemed to hint about there being more to the story, but no one was willing to spill their guts on exactly what that might be. They all just told me to fucking ask Alyssa. Too bad Alyssa was the one person in the fucking world I couldn’t fucking find.

  I heated the curry in the microwave for longer than the previous night. This time none of it was cold. Instead, it varied from lukewarm to molten lava. I’d really have to fucking learn how to use that shit properly if I was staying. Fucking if.

  While I ate, I tried to remember what Alyssa had said on the plane. I was certain she’d told me how long she was in the country for, but as I ran through what I could remember of our conversation, I came up blank.

  After a moment, I remembered she was staying for a week, but she hadn’t told me while we were on the plane. No, she’d imparted that information while she was standing over her fucking vibrator.

  Oh God!

  The thought of her using that on herself took over my mind and made me instantly fucking hard. The image was clear in my head—her hand sliding the silicone dick in and out of her body. Her moans would grow louder with each thrust. Her other hand would massage her breasts or her clit. Her mouth might scream my name as her orgasm took her away.

  A boy can fucking dream can’t he?

  Had it really been just a little over thirty-six hours ago that we’d had that conversation? My whole fucking world was different then.

  My mind was rebelling, picturing her the way I wanted to, rather than figuring out the problem at hand. Fuck, what was I trying to work out?

  How long she was in London for, and how long I wanted to stay myself. I jumped on the phone and booked my return flight. If Alyssa was only there for a week, I wasn’t going to stay any longer than that. I figured Danny would probably be pissed that I used his fucking expensive-arse seats for a week-long holiday, but I honestly didn’t give a flying fuck. I was doing what he told me to do—I was getting this fucking shit out of my head so I could race. Or at least, I was trying to.

  With that organised, I raced upstairs. When I hit the bedroom, I was lost in memories of Alyssa and me in that space. Part of me wanted to just sit and relive the images, but I couldn’t. I needed a fucking shower. It had been far, far too long since I’d had one.