Lovestrong

by Nikki Groom

  “Get out,” I bark harshly, swinging the wheelchair around as fast as it will turn, making her jump and causing the coffee in my cup to slosh and spill in my lap.

  She tries to placate me, but hurt and self-pity take form as rage.

  “Get out, and don’t fucking come back.” I throw the words at her with reckless anger, not caring that she doesn’t deserve this tirade.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. King, I didn’t mean to−”

  “To what? Undermine me? Make me feel like shit? And it’s Preston, for fuck’s sake. PRESTON,” I yell, feeling rage hurtling through me. My hands shake as I grip the mug, and I take fast, shallow breaths, fighting to regain control, battling to grasp on to a tiny piece of rationality. I come up blank.

  Sue stands still, not knowing if she should stay or go. She’s probably been trained to deal calmly with situations like this. Like me. Difficult, uncooperative patients. Well, I’m sick of being a patient. I pin her with a sharp glare, telling her that she needs to get the fuck out of my apartment before I lose my shit.

  “What’s the problem? Your legs stopped working?” I let out a bitter laugh that stings my throat as I realize the irony of my rhetorical question. “I told you to get out. Get. Out.”

  She picks up her purse from the coffee table and makes her way to the door, keeping her head down and her distance as far from me as possible. It makes me feel like even more of an asshole. I never meant to make her wary of me. I didn’t want to frighten her or anything like that, but not only has she caught me on a bad day, she was so invested in doing her ‘job’ that she forgot that I’m a human being. A human being with a broken back and a shattered heart.

  I take myself back out onto the balcony again, settling in the far corner and I stare across the expanse of Las Vegas. It’s starting to get busy now. It never really sleeps, but there are busier times than others. There’s always so much life, so much action, and I wonder if I will ever fit in to this world again. Maybe I need to be someone else to survive here. Maybe Lottie had the right idea, getting out when she could. Starting her life over and leaving her pain behind. Only I’m not sure ‘us’ and everything we were, is something either of us could ever leave behind completely. Just as the rest of Las Vegas comes to life and the sun starts to warm my skin, I cry. Every single tear that slides from my eyes is for Lottie. For every one of her beautiful smiles. For every time she kissed my lips. For every time my heart beats achingly for her.

  Chapter 6

  “So,” Torran starts, placing a coffee and the biggest slice of chocolate cake I’ve ever seen down in front of me. He takes the chair opposite me and rests his elbows on the table. “What are you doing here?”

  “Having coffee and cake with a friendly stranger.” I shrug nonchalantly. He contemplates my answer before shaking his head with a laugh.

  “I guess I am a complete stranger to you, yet you still asked me to go for coffee with you. You’re gonna have to toughen up, firebird, if you’re going to survive in London.”

  “Well, that’s where you read me wrong. I’m perfectly tough, thank you very much. I’m actually military trained and could take you out in a second.” I raise my chin defiantly but struggle to keep from smirking.

  “I’m sure you could.” He rolls his eyes playfully. “So, are you going to tell me what you’re doing in London? You on holiday?”

  “Vacation,” I correct him in jest.

  “Same difference,” he fires back.

  “Honestly, I’m not really sure what it is. It’s a vacation, I suppose, but it’s indefinite.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, that sounds cool. How far have you travelled?”

  “It feels like a million miles,” I sigh. “Vegas. I lived in Las Vegas.”

  “Awesome!” he comments, his eyes lighting up. “I’d love to go to there. Never really travelled very far, never had the chance, but I’d love to.”

  “I hadn’t travelled much until now.”

  “So what made you?” he asks before taking his coffee cup between his inked hands.

  “Life,” I reply, stopping that line of conversation. I grab my coffee and take a huge gulp, keeping my eyes down at the table in the hope he won’t ask my anymore. He’s too easy to talk to. I’d probably end up in a pool of tears and tell him everything right here in the middle of this coffee shop if I don’t move this conversation on from here. Thankfully he mirrors me, drinking his coffee and not pressing me for an answer. “Do you live in the city?” I ask.

  “I live in a city. Not this one though. I live on the coast, in Brighton.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “Having coffee and cake with a fiery little redhead.” He mimics my earlier comeback with a wink and dips his finger into the creamy middle layer of my cake. I’m not sure if it’s innocently playful or if he’s flirting with me. Whatever he’s doing, however genuine he seems, being here, with him, suddenly sits awkwardly in my gut. I fight the urge to flee out of the door. It’s ridiculous that even though I’m free and single, I feel guilty for having coffee with a man. Yes, I suppose he’s cute, in a rugged, tattooed, pierced kind of way. He’s tall, probably six foot four plus, and he’s slim. The opposite of Spike’s shorter, stockier build. But there’s something about his gentle nature that reminds me of Spike and this is what stabs guilt deep in to my heart.

  “I own a tattooist’s. Came up to town to see a friend of mine and get some new ink.” He pushes his right shoulder forward, indicating where he has a new tattoo.

  “More ink? Do you have anywhere that’s uncovered?” I immediately regret that question. “I don’t want to know. I do not need to know the answer to that.” I shake my head rapidly and try to pretend that I did not just ask that question.

  Please, ground, you can open up and swallow me whole now.

  He laughs at my waving hands and dismissal of his impending answer. “Despite what you might think, I’m not completely covered in tattoos. They’re carefully placed and all have a meaning and a memory of sorts. Do you have any?”

  “Noooooooo,” I say and shake my head vigorously as if my verbal answer isn’t enough. The thought of someone driving needles into my flesh at high speed leaves me feeling queasy.

  “You don’t like them?”

  “It’s not that. It’s because I’m a baby.”

  “What? You? The SAS trained firebird?” he teases.

  “Look here, macho man, I’ve watched grown men cry while they’re being tattooed. I’ve seen people pass out and not able to complete the tattoo. I have no desire to inflict pain on myself and walk around with a half-finished mistake on my body.”

  “You’re funny,” he laughs. “It doesn’t hurt that much. And if you choose something small for your first one, it wouldn’t take long.”

  “No and no.”

  “Fair enough. But if you change your mind while you’re here on ‘vacation’.” He uses air quotes and I laugh at him. “You come and see me, yeah?” He slides his card across the table before taking one last gulp of his coffee and getting to his feet. “I gotta go, got a train to catch and a shop to lock up. I’d better make sure no one’s passed out today or has half a tattoo that needs finishing.” He winks and I feel a touch of disappointment that he’s leaving so soon, which in turn makes me feel guilty, again. I’ve got to get over this. Spike isn’t here. Spike doesn’t want me. It’s okay to talk to other men, even to enjoy their company. It isn’t like I kissed him or … “It was nice meeting you, firebird.” He holds out his hand for me to shake.

  I stand and place my small hand in his, and he closes his intricately tattooed fingers around mine. The action feels too formal after our easy, friendly conversation. It feels like we’ve known each other a lot longer than an hour, but I also don’t want to hug him. It’s a weird middle ground feeling that makes me feel happy that I’ve met someone like him on my first day here, but oddly reminiscent of what I’ve lost and how it actually feels to be single.

  I’m just a single girl, no longe
r one half of a couple. I’m forcing myself to feel hopeful and free because I have no choice, but in reality, my heart isn’t yet in it; Spike still has it with him in Las Vegas.

  After realizing the time, and feeling like all I want to do is sleep, I’ve pushed my stubbornness aside and have decided to take the hotel room that Ari kindly booked for me. It makes no sense to let a perfectly good hotel room go unused. That would just be a kick in the teeth for her and a hassle for me.

  I check in at the desk and they hand me a key card for my room.

  “You have a studio room, with a view over the river, Miss Miller. The lift is just to the left. If there is anything you need, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  “Thank you.” I wheel my case behind me, heading for the ‘lift’ as they call it here. My feet are getting heavier with every footstep. Jetlag is a bitch.

  I navigate corridors lined with plush black carpet and pearlescent white wallpaper, and it doesn’t take long to find my room. But I fight to get the keycard to work, and no matter how many different ways I turn it around, it’s not happening.

  “Here, may I?” a voice says from over my shoulder and I jump so hard, I nearly knock the tray right out of his hand.

  “Oh, shit. Sorry. You scared the crap out of me.” His composure doesn’t slip, and he just smiles kindly before taking the card out of my hand and unlocking the door with ease.

  He steps forward and holds it open, “After you.” He gestures me in with a nod of his head and I study his face for a second before moving. He has a cute baby face, and he smiles genuinely at me. I’m guessing he’s no older than twenty. He has wavy blonde hair that comes over his ears and looks more surfer dude than city boy. If I’m honest, I’m a little pissed off with him for making it look so damn easy to open the door when I was probably making it look a million times harder than it actually was. I really want to stomp past him and slam the door in his face, but that would be very rude of me and I just don’t have the energy to give it away on something as trivial as that just to keep up my bitch card. Thinking about it, I seem to have lost my edge completely today. I’ve given money to a boy that tried to mug me, had coffee and cake with a stranger and now I’ve actually made a conscious decision just to be grateful for a little help from this kid. “You coming in, or would you like me close the door so you can try it again?” he asks, with just a touch of sarcasm in his voice. And this time when he looks at me, he smirks, and I smirk right back.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Luke.” He glances down at his shiny name badge which clearly states ‘LUKE’ in capital letters.

  “I see. Well, thank you, Luke.” I step in, and move aside to make room for him to leave. But he surprises me by closing the door and walking right past me. “Uh, excuse me?”

  “Lottie, right? I’ll leave this over here for you.” He places the tray, which holds a bottle in an ice bucket and one champagne flute, on the glass table next to the window. “You get the best view from this room, and there’s a switch for the lights on the balcony just here.” He indicates the switch just behind the curtain. “And if you need anything, call down to reception. There’s no charge to you for the minibar or anything you order, so I would take advantage of that if I were you.” He winks and walks past me again to leave. For once I have nothing to say. I don’t know who he is, what he’s doing here, how he knows to call me Lottie as I’m booked in as Charlotte, or why he’s being so nice to me. I’m beginning to think that Torran must have put something in my coffee as I’m starting to feel a little emotional. “Are you okay?” He frowns and tilts his head.

  “Uh, yeah, I’m fine.” I think. “What’s that?” I point at the tray.

  “It was requested when your room was booked.” He smiles kindly, making me feel a little more at ease.

  “Oh. How do you know my name?”

  “It’s on the envelope,” he answers simply. Yep, I need to sleep.

  “Oh.” I start to chew on my thumbnail, not really knowing what to say next.

  “You say that a lot.”

  “What?” I frown at him and he smiles.

  “Oh,” he mimics me teasingly.

  “Oh, do I?”

  He chuckles. “Yes, you do.”

  “I’m tired,” I offer as way of explanation to both him and myself. That must be my problem. I need to sleep off this jetlag.

  “I’ll leave you to get some rest.”

  “Thanks, Luke.”

  “You’re welcome.” He nods. He leaves with a kind smile and closes the door quietly behind him. I drop my case on the floor right where I’m standing. I’m so tired, I can’t even be bothered to unpack right now. I want a shower. I want to eat, and I want to sleep. In that order.

  I check out the view from my window. Very impressive. The balcony is small, not even big enough to seat a table and chairs out there, but plenty big enough to stand out there and watch the world go by. I bet it’s spectacular at night. When I turn away from the window, I notice the envelope that has my name on it on the tray. I pick it up and peel the flap open slowly. There’s just a small slip of paper in there.

  Enjoy your adventure. Stay safe. xx

  I lift the bottle out of the ice bucket and see through blurry eyes that it’s Prosecco. Exhaustion and reality hits me at once and instead of trying to be strong and fierce, I let it out. My chest heaves out a burst of noisy sobs, my mascara-blackened tears wet my cheeks in a constant stream that runs off my chin and drops on to the piece of paper in my hand. I’m making my own way, finding out who I am all over again, and although it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done and pretty terrifying to a home girl like me, I know I need to do it. I need to go through every emotion before I can start to put the pieces of myself back together. They might not fit back in the order they once were, but I have to believe that life will work out for the best in the end.

  Chapter 7

  I feel like an asshole. Again.

  Once more, I’ve pushed away someone that was just trying to help me. Sue was just trying to make my life a little easier, and I took my frustrations out on her. I know I was in the wrong. I know I am sensitive to every little gesture, comment or remark, and I know it’s all totally unreasonable and I need to get with the real world and pull myself the fuck out of it.

  The trouble is, I can’t.

  I’ve tried. I’ve tried to see the positive. I’ve tried to focus on the future. But all I see is a great big fucking hole that swallows me up every time I try to see past it. It would be much easier if I was ignorant to these mixed feelings. I would much rather feel like crap and be done with it. Instead, I get to feel like crap and feel guilty about it.

  I wheel into the kitchen and open all of the cupboards looking for the only thing that might make me forget. I want to forget. I need to forget. I want to erase all of my cares. Fuck it, I want to erase all of my feelings so I feel numb throughout my whole body, not just my legs. I want to get so damn annihilated that I don’t even know who I am. Maybe then I’ll find some peace in my head.

  But, no. No alcohol in the whole damn place. Denham must have cleared it all out when he had this place modified for me. Fucking modified. Even the lowered countertops, designed to make life easier for me, ironically make me feel fucking useless.

  I swing the last cabinet door shut with a bang and slam my fists down on to the countertop with a strangled cry. God, this is so frustrating. I can’t seem to quell the constant churning in my stomach. It never settles, never lets me rest. Especially since Lottie left.

  Lottie.

  My heartbeat.

  Gone.

  I need a drink. It has been weeks since I went anywhere on my own. I break out in a cold sweat from every pore in my body at the mere thought of leaving this room. But I need to forget. I don’t care that it’s only ten in the morning. I need the oblivion, and I’m willing to push my stress levels to the max to get it.

  I manage the hall and the elevator without too much of a rais
ed heart rate. The end goal is firmly set in my mind and the craving gets stronger until it’s almost like an obsession that I have no control over.

  The elevator doors open and I’m suddenly exposed to the noise in the lobby. It’s a different world compared to the easy ride getting down here. After eight weeks of being holed up in my apartment, the hustle and bustle is a shock to the system. No one notices me. No one even cares that I’ve made it this far. I don’t know what I was expecting. But in the split second it takes me to make a move forward, several people have tried to cram themselves past me and in to the small spaces beside me in the elevator. No one seems to care that I’m trying to get out. This is what it’s going to be like for me. I’m not even a person to them anymore, I’m an obstacle. Frustration climbs through my body until I can’t take it any longer and I push forward with a jolt, making a young couple jump out of the way. The guy immediately puts his body between me and the girl, an instinct I doubt he even questions, before swinging his head around to me with a scowl on his face. He’s fiercely protective of his girl, probably newly in love by the looks of them, and no doubt only momentarily annoyed at the sudden intrusion of their little Las Vegas bubble.

  “Sorry,” I mumble under my breath and he immediately stands down and takes his girlfriend’s hand before continuing to walk ahead and disappearing amongst the flurry of people. I can’t help but smile bitterly at them. So in love. So blissfully happy. Then I laugh. I never had to be fiercely protective of Lottie. She was fierce enough for the both of us.

  Fuck, I need that drink.