The thought made my guilt over my actions spike. Drinking a whole bottle of alcohol in one fucking night, two nights in a row, was a damn scary start.
I grabbed the apartment key and my wallet, sparing a second to glance at the photo that now resided in there. With the image of my daughter firm in my mind, I swept out of the apartment, unsure what to expect of the rest of my day.
Unsure what to expect from the rest of my fucking life.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: LONDON
FOR FOUR DAYS I’d been alone in London.
Four fucking days.
For that time, I’d been petrified to venture any farther than the corner store half a kilometre from the apartment. A lingering dread filled me whenever I thought about going out and exploring anything else. I was certain that the one time I went any farther than that would be the time Alyssa chose to visit me. It was stupid that I felt that way even though it was pretty fucking clear to me that she wasn’t coming. Four days of absence and silence had proven that. Still, I was trapped like a prisoner in Danny’s apartment.
In two more days, I was due to be on a plane flying back home, which left just one day of prison. I had absolutely no clue what the fuck I was going to do after I got home though. I’d half debated going back to Browns Plains to confront her, but that would only have landed me squarely in the lion’s den. I’d have to deal with too many fucking crazy people, most of whom were all kinds of pissed at me. Not that I blamed them. I just didn’t want to be forced to deal with them.
Frankly, I was fucking terrified of some of them—Josh and Curtis in particular. If I faced either of them, I’d been surprised if I ever walked again—let alone drove—for the dick manoeuvre of throwing Alyssa out on the street after I’d learned about Phoebe. True, Alyssa already had a hotel room she was able to go to, but it was still a fucking dick move. I knew that and tortured myself mentally—her family’s torture would be physical and would ensure my agony was complete.
Even without the thought of the hate I was certain I would face, I didn’t think it would be a good idea to follow Alyssa home for another reason: I wanted to talk to her alone because I needed to know the truth and I was sure that was the only way I would get it. If I wanted to know what she was thinking, and to try to figure out what the fuck she’d been through, it had to be just her and me. The fact that there was much less chance of my face being mangled was just an added fucking bonus.
Although, truthfully, there was no guarantee no mangling would occur with me alone with Alyssa. She could be a fucking wildcat when cornered. A memory from school came to me unbidden, something I hadn’t thought about in years. I snickered to myself as I recalled the time she’d caught Darcy Kinsley trying to pretend she’d received a valentine from me.
Thinking about Darcy dredged up Alyssa’s confession of her reason for knowing I always used condoms when I fucked random chicks. She only knew because Darcy had been one of the masses and she’d wanted to make damn sure Alyssa knew it, the fucking scrag. I hadn’t been physically violent with a woman since putting the drugs behind me, but fuck if it didn’t sound like a good idea where Darcy was concerned. Maybe she’d be a little less likely to fuck with Alyssa then. I should have made her take her mask off; maybe then I would have known who she was and told her to fuck off. Although, it was just as likely I wouldn’t have made her leave—and that fact made me feel like shit.
Recalling the things I’d done to distract myself made me feel a hundred times worse about myself than I already did. I’d been the one who’d stuck my fucking dick into Darcy. Ultimately, I was responsible for the ammunition she’d used to hurt Alyssa. Every fucking day we’d been apart, I’d fucking hurt Alyssa in some way, even when I didn’t allow her to cross into my thoughts.
I was such a fucking arsehole.
The guilt that ate me slowly from the inside out was the ultimate reason I sat on the kerb in front of Danny’s apartment every day until at least nine at night. Then I would go inside and ring her parents’ house in Australia and get chewed out by whoever answered the phone, all while begging them to let me know where she was staying, or give me a contact phone number, or fucking something. That was what my fucking life had been reduced to.
A fucking dog waiting to be either kicked again, or given a fucking treat, depending on the whims of one fucking woman. A woman who clearly didn’t want anything to do with me despite the bombshell she’d unwittingly dropped.
Fuck this shit!
I needed a night out. One good night to forget it all, to go out and get myself completely fucking wasted, and hopefully get laid. All I could think was four days and that fucking bitch hadn’t even bothered to call, even though I’d left the apartment number with her family every time I called them.
Why should I wait for her anymore?
Standing from my position on the kerb, I brushed myself off before walking back into the apartment. Before jumping in the shower, I pulled my black slacks and the formal grey team shirt from my suitcase. Whether the grey formal one, or the casual orange, the team shirts always guaranteed me a screw in Australia. They might not have quite the same pull in the UK but one could only hope. I was getting sick of my own fucking hand being the only thing that came near me, and four fucking days for me was like a year. Especially with all of the shit going on inside my head. I needed some fucking tension relief; the sort that only a wet pussy or willing mouth could provide.
After I’d finished in the shower, I pulled on my boxers and grabbed my electric razor. The blade was already set to just the right length to allow a little of the rough stubble that seemed to drive women crazy. When I was about halfway through the job, the phone rang. Stopping the razor, I headed down the stairs to answer the phone. It stopped ringing just before I answered it.
I was almost at the top of the stairs when it started ringing again. Whoever it was they must have really wanted to talk to me. I figured it was probably Danny again. He was the only one who had the number—at least the only one who was actually likely to call. When I answered it, I was surprised that I didn’t hear the usual beeps indicating that it was an international call.
“Hello?”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Hello?”
The line was still almost silent, but I could hear faint sounds, like barely contained sobbing or possibly someone hyperventilating.
“Who is this?”
I heard a sigh. Then I had a thought and my heart did the strange throat/feet combo thing again.
“Alyssa? Is that you?”
The phone line clicked and the call was disconnected.
Fuck. Was it her? It was the only thing that made a lick of sense. Who else would call the apartment number from within the UK? Someone dialling a wrong number wouldn’t have remained silent for so long. Grabbing the phone directory, I leafed through it to find the number I needed to dial in order to call back the last missed call. I waited anxiously as it rang once . . . twice. It was answered on the third ring by a pleasant female voice.
Pleasant, but not Alyssa.
“Suncrest London, Caroline speaking.”
“Hi, I . . . um, I just had a missed call from this number.”
“All of our rooms dial out over this number, sir, so I won’t be able to put you through unless you know the room number or name of the person who called you.”
It was a long shot. “I think there’s an Alyssa Dawson staying there. She’s the only one I can think of who’d have called me.”
There was a pause and tapping on a computer. “I’m sorry, we have no record of any rooms registered in that name.”
Fuck.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it hadn’t been Alyssa. There was no one else who would ring me from a hotel in London though. Maybe she was staying there under another name, which could be fucking anything. It was a long shot, but it was also a possible lead. I knew it would sound suspicious if I asked Caroline for the address when I’d just admitted to not knowing who
was there, so I finished the call with her with a polite, “Thank you for your help.”
I hung up and then pressed redial, hoping I got someone different.
“Suncrest London, this is Suzette.”
“Suzette, would you be able to give me your street address please?”
She gave it to me. It was too late to be making a polite visit to the hotel, but I had a plan to go first thing in the morning. It was my last hope. My only hope. I climbed back up the stairs, set the alarm beside the bed for five the following morning, dressed in just a pair of sweats ready for bed, and then grabbed a towel from the bathroom. Fuck the randoms; my hand would just have to do the trick again for another night.
FIVE A.M. was far too fucking early.
There should be no reason in the world to be up at this time of the morning unless it was a fucking race day. Then again, it almost felt like a race day. It felt like I was racing toward Alyssa. Toward answers. I still didn’t know what I would do once I got those answers, but I knew I fucking needed them if I wanted any semblance of sanity. Realistically, going to the Suncrest was my last chance at finding her while I was still in London. In thirty-six hours’ time, I would be on a plane and heading back to the fuckery that was my normal life. At some point during the night, I’d decided for certain that I wouldn’t chase Alyssa to Brisbane. I couldn’t. If she tried to contact me again, I’d be willing to listen, but part of me still thought both she and Phoebe would be better off without me forcing my way back into their lives.
The hotel was my only chance for answers. I decided that if Alyssa was trying out a law firm, she would presumably leave the hotel early. With that in mind, I was ready and waiting near the front by six thirty.
My location of choice was a bus stop about fifty metres away from the hotel entrance. I watched the face and body of every woman with dark hair, keeping an intent eye out for Alyssa. Everyone was so rugged up against the cold as they stepped outside that it was hard to see much of anyone. I did see one potential candidate and followed her halfway down the road before she disappeared. I’d been calling Alyssa’s name, but the girl didn’t turn around. Of course, that didn’t mean it wasn’t Alyssa. She might have just been deliberately ignoring me.
I slid the photo of Phoebe in and out of my wallet as I waited and watched. I couldn’t decide whether to confront Alyssa with it or without it. I wondered if she’d want it back eventually. If that was the case though, why had she left it with me in the first place? Was it designed to seep away the last fucking remnants of my sanity? Was that the reason she’d given it to me? I wondered if Alyssa honestly enjoyed fucking with my mind. Having me sit patiently waiting for her like a fucking lap dog must have been a heady drug.
For the entire fucking day, I sat at the bus stop and never saw another prospect. No one else that looked even remotely like the one I wanted to see. I finally returned to the apartment at a little after nine that night. My entire being was completely shattered, and I was fucking exhausted. I was due to leave on a fucking flight at eight the next morning, so once more I’d need to be up at five. Only it wouldn’t be to get answers. It would be to leave, most likely leaving any chance at peace behind.
I set the alarm and grabbed the remaining bottle of whiskey, swallowing a big swig. I threw everything I had back into my suitcase and then took it downstairs to the living room. When I was set, I glanced around the empty apartment. The first day I’d arrived, the place had felt like home. For the last five days, it had felt like an empty fucking prison cell. Nothing there drew me in, nothing fucking called to me. I couldn’t fucking figure out what the difference was.
It was a little after ten when I decided that I was going to go out. If Alyssa wouldn’t even fucking talk to me when I’d dragged my arse all the way up town to see her, then she could go fucking fuck herself. She had the equipment. On that thought my fucking dick stood firmly to attention.
Fuck, I need to get laid.
I would get some fucking sleep on the plane.
THE TAXI beeped out the front. I raced downstairs in the outfit I’d planned to wear the previous evening—my black slacks and grey team shirt. I climbed into the cab and—once I realised the driver was a young, red-blooded man like myself—asked him where was the best place to go for an Aussie to score a root. He drove me to the nearest Uluru Inn. Apparently they were the Aussie bar in the UK. I found it mildly amusing that in Sydney every second fucking pub was Irish, and yet the UK seemed flooded with Aussie bars.
We hadn’t gone very far when he pulled up, maybe three kilometres. I could fucking walk home, provided I was lucid. That was good. It gave me a fucking exit strategy that didn’t rely on waiting for a taxi.
After tossing the cab driver some cash, I went into the bar and ordered a beer. When I took my first sip, I thanked my fucking lucky stars that it was cold. There was nothing worse than drinking warm beer. Settling in to a stool at the bar, I scoped around at the talent in the place. As was habit, my gaze immediately brushed over every brunette in the place. They weren’t going to cut it for me. I couldn’t do that shit, not with my brain supplying constant fresh images of Alyssa fucking herself.
In one corner, taking up two tables, there was a large party of pretentious fucking snobs. All of them dolled up in power suits, even the fucking women. I ignored them. Women in power suits don’t do random fucking against club walls, and that was all I needed at that point. I wasn’t going to fucking take anyone home after all. I needed a screw—that’s it.
I saw a possible candidate alone in the back of the bar. She was a bit plain, but then everyone was in comparison to Alyssa. Her short-cropped jet-black hair was just different enough to please me. Surrendering my seat, I moved to sit on the stool next to hers. Once I had her attention, I flagged down the bartender and ordered another of whatever she was drinking. She gave him her order and I heard the unmistakeable twang in her accent that told me she was an Aussie too.
She smiled shyly at me, then she glanced up again and her recognition was clear as day. Her eyes widened into saucers and her face flushed.
“Holy fuck!” she shouted. “You’re fucking Declan Reede!” So she was an Aussie, and a fan apparently.
“You could be too, if you play your cards right.” I winked at her before giving her a panty-dropping grin and waiting for my statement to settle into her alcohol-addled brain.
Her gaze settled on mine, the light brown colour a little too close to the one I really wanted. Why did that one simple thing have to remind me so much of Alyssa? I was about to turn away when her hand came onto my thigh and quickly grazed over my dick. God it felt good for someone else to touch me again. It was the wrong sort of touch, not exactly the way I liked it, but it was enough to distract my focus from her gaze.
I shot her a wicked grin and then asked her name. Not that I cared or it even mattered; I wouldn’t remember it in the morning. However, I knew from experience that women were more likely to fuck you if you at least knew their name.
She whispered it into my ear, taking the opportunity to lick the lobe as her mouth was close. Talk about fucking shooting fish in a barrel.
“It must be amazing to drive a V8?”
My grin became a smirk. I fucking loved it when women knew what I did, because it gave me the chance to pull out the usual shit about the power of the car, the roar of the engine, the vibration of the seat—that one usually got chicks hot.
Her fingers stroked long lines up and down the length of my thigh as I spoke, and I was ready to go. I didn’t want to make small talk with this random stranger any longer. I put my hand to her face and caressed her cheek for half a second, pretending to hesitate in anticipation of the kiss. Girls went fucking nuts for that shit. I’d done the whole routine enough to know precisely what to do to have them eating out of my hand, or more precisely sucking on my dick.
I pressed my lips to hers, slipping my tongue straight into her mouth without any hesitation. If she had any qualms about moving fast, she definit
ely didn’t show it. After humming into the kiss, she moved off her stool to straddle my lap. I brushed my fingers into her hair, and she moaned. It was easy, but it was wrong. The taste was off, the feeling wasn’t there.
With the recent reunion with Alyssa branded onto my brain, all the things that usually made the encounters less than perfect were magnified to make it almost a turn-off. With just one night, Alyssa had ruined me. Instead of letting it destroy my night, I tried to push her out of my head. It might not have been exactly what I needed, or wanted, but it was just a chance for a random screw, just like it always had been. A chance to find momentary relief and nothing more.
The air around us shifted as someone came up to the bar to order a drink, but I didn’t open my eyes or break off the kiss. Why should I? If the fucker had never seen kissing before, well, maybe they could learn a fucking thing or two. My hands slid up the inside of the random’s shirt and played with the straps on her bra. A promise of things to come.
A warm breath brushed my earlobe and a thrill ran through me. The right kind of thrill. My eyes snapped open and I broke off the kiss with . . . whatever the fuck her name was.
“Well, I see some things never change,” an icy voice that sounded desperately close to tears whispered in my ear.
I turned to see one of the women from the group of pretentious bitches in the power suits running for the door. Her dark hair was swept up into a bun and her hands covered her face, but there was no doubting who it was.
Fuck.
Miss Random, who was still straddling my lap, peppered small kisses all over my face, even though I was clearly no longer into it. She probably figured she could draw my attention back to her by grinding her hips against my dick. Pulling my face away from her, I tried to push her off gently, but she didn’t move.
“Get off,” I said, glancing back at her without feeling.
She stopped her kissing. “What?”
Decline (Declan Reede: The Untold Story #1) Page 17