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 definitely 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 u
sually 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?”
“I said get the fuck off me.”
She slid from my lap and the instant I was free, I raced to the door. Bursting out onto the street, I looked side to side, but it was empty both ways.
Fucking hell!
“Alyssa!”
I ran to each corner and looked up every street in the vicinity, but she was gone.
God, you’ve fucked it up royally this time, Reede!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: MURPHY’S LAW
JUST AS I’D planned before my night out, I didn’t go to sleep that night, but for entirely different reasons than I’d hoped.
Instead, I crawled into my last bottle of whiskey and took up residence there. I sat on the couch and drank swig after swig until the bottle was dry. Like I always did when I took comfort in a bottle, I tried to make my head as empty as the bottle. Only, it didn’t work. I just kept seeing image after image of Alyssa’s pain: her hands over her face as she fled from the bar; her terror as I shouted at her to get out of the apartment; her tears when I’d told her goodbye before I left Brisbane. There was no point going to bed while these images danced in my head. I’d learned that lesson the hard way years earlier. It was always useless. Even if I could silence my mind long enough to fall to sleep, I would just be haunted by the twisted arsehole that was my psyche.
There were only three ways I could possibly get a restful sleep: tablets, a sufficient quantity of alcohol to make me black out, or a combination of the two. The fucking alcohol hadn’t worked, and I didn’t have any sleeping tablets. Hadn’t for so long.
It was a relief when I finally heard the alarm going off upstairs. It meant it was time to do something. Action meant that for a brief moment, I could push all of the thoughts out of my mind and focus on what I needed to do. Dragging myself to my feet, I staggered up the stairs to turn the alarm off. Then I jumped into a quick cold shower to shake off the sleepless lethargy that had settled over me. I hoped it would also sober me up a little, but I worried that it failed on both counts. I gathered all the used towels and sheets, throwing them in the hamper for Danny’s year-round maid service to deal with. At least it meant washing and cleaning was one less thing I had to worry about before I left.
For the trip home, I dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of sweats—nothing fancy. It wasn’t like I had anyone to impress, and I didn’t really care to try. Once I was dressed, I threw some essentials, including my sunnies and hat, into my carry-on bag and roughly shoved everything else back into my already packed suitcase.
By the time the taxi arrived, I was ready and waiting out the front of the apartment. The driver joked that people usually looked like shit when they got off the plane, not on the way to the airport. In a trial of patience worthy of Mother Theresa, I bit back the “fuck you very much,” that rose in my throat. Once we’d arrived at the airport, I slumped my carry-on over my shoulder and rolled my suitcase toward the check-in counter.
“Window or aisle?” I was asked. Outside of that, the clerk didn’t seem interested in conversation—which I was incredibly fucking thankful for.
The only thing that ran through my mind when the question came up was that Alyssa had been in the window seat on our last journey. The thought sent my mind wandering. Did she prefer a window seat or was she just placed there by sheer luck? What would our return trip have been like if we’d been able to take it together? If I hadn’t reacted the way I had to the photo, would I know the full story now?
“Sir?”
I glanced up at the clerk. “Aisle,” I coughed out. My voice was hoarse and sounded like I’d spent the whole week puffing down on cigarettes.
The clerk nodded and finished checking me in before handing me my boarding pass. “Have a nice flight.”
Fucking doubt it. “Thanks.”
Just like I had in Sydney and Hong Kong, I had some time to kill between check-in and needing to get through security so I found a cafe and crawled inside a coffee. I fucking needed it like oxygen. My brain was already starting to tick with the beginnings of a hangover, or possibly a fatigue headache. Either way, caffeine would help it, at least temporarily.
Sipping my latte, I heard an unfamiliar female voice at the counter ordering a caramel macchiato. Even though I knew it wasn’t Alyssa, my gaze travelled in that direction as wishful thinking overtook me. A red-haired woman, whose clothes were practically painted on, was the offending orderer. I fought the urge to scowl at her for not being the person I wanted her to be. Instead, I picked roughly at the chocolate doughnut that had seemed like such a good idea when I’d been at the counter, but was currently making me nauseous.
While I sat finishing my coffee, I tried not to think about anything. Especially not Alyssa, and double especially not Phoebe. Most of all, I was trying desperately to avoid thinking about the last flight I’d had—the one shared with Alyssa—and the evening that followed it. Even as I tried not to think about it, I felt myself harden at the memories and the image that my own mind had conjured up that had been haunting me since. The one of Alyssa using her vibrator to fuck herself silly with my name on her lips.
Fuck, I was so hard. I wondered if I had time to knock off a quick one in the airport toilets. Even though I was completely disgusted, as I adjusted myself I realised I had little choice. My cock had a hair trigger and the sweats weren’t designed for the concealment of large objects.
I moved to stand, but the redhead who’d ordered the caramel macchiato slid into the booth beside me. Her hands were empty and her drink was nowhere to be seen. The tiny silver top she wore captured the light, and practically hung from her nipples. Almost nothing was left to the imagination, and I figured if I looked under the table it would all be on show. She tilted her body toward me, grazing my arm with her tits. Once, that might have excited me, but I was too filled to the brim with thoughts of Alyssa.
“I think you and I have some unfinished business,” the red-haired stranger purred at me from across the table.
“How’s that?” I asked, frowning in confusion.
She smiled wickedly and giggled a little. “It’s Tillie. From the club. Remember?”
I looked at her blankly. Was I supposed to know who the fuck Tillie-from-the-club was?
“You made me famous. I mean, how often do people like me get on the Gossip Weekly cover?”
Oh fuck me.
She giggled. Straight-up sc
hoolgirl giggled. Once, I would have found that shit sexy but it just made me realise how much I didn’t want to deal with games and random hook-ups.
“We could finish it now if you like?” She raised her eyebrow at me in what I guessed was supposed to be a seductive way but just ended up looking a little pathetic.
Oh God!
Her hand dropped under the table and she pushed it up the length of my thigh and into my already hardened crotch. I pressed myself back into the seat a little. I needed to think before my head became too clouded with . . .
Oh Christ, what is she doing?
She slid from the seat, her whole body lowering under the table. Glancing up at me, she licked her lips in promise before her head disappeared out of sight. Not that long ago, I would have jumped at the chance. At that point, I couldn’t think of anything I wanted less.
Holy fuck.
Her hands brushed across the top of my dick through my pants. She gripped it firmly before her fingers played with the waistband, trying to get inside. I quickly pulled myself onto the seat and climbed over the table, grabbing onto my sweats as I went to make sure I didn’t lose them.
“I’m sorry, Tillie, I just can’t.” I reached under the table and grabbed my carry-on from beside her disappointed face. Once I had it, I turned and fled out of the cafe as quickly as I could. My erection rubbed painfully against my sweats as I walked as quickly as possible without drawing attention to myself. I was probably pitching a tent out front if any wandering eyes cared to look down there, but there was fuck all I could do about it. Making a beeline for the men’s toilets, I jumped in a cubicle and ground one out to get rid of the bulge in my pants.
Wanking in a toilet—what have I been fucking reduced to?
I felt no relief when I was finished, just nausea. Just fucking hungover and sick. Ignoring my reflection in the mirror, I washed up and moved on to security.
As I was putting my things on the conveyer, I saw a woman ahead with hair the exact same dark shade of brown as Alyssa’s. At first, I thought I was seeing things, but the more I watched the girl, the more convinced I became that it had to be Alyssa. I just wanted to make the fucker doing security hurry the hell up, but he pulled me to the side, saying something about random fucking bag searches or some shit. Wasn’t that what the fucking X-ray machines were for? I kept my eyes on the back of the girl’s head for as long as I could, but realised my mistake fairly quickly when she walked into the first class lounge. Even if by some miracle Alyssa was on the flight, she’d be in premium economy class like me. I laughed at myself for being such a fucking idiot to think we could possibly be on the same flight together twice. It was purely wishful thinking on my part.
Declan Reede: The Untold Story (Complete Series) Page 28