by Teagan Kade
“Surely what they’re got on you can’t be that bad.”
I saw, heard most of what was said, but not everything, columns obstructing my view. “What did they give you, when you said you weren’t their dog?”
“Nothing.”
I push him. He hardly moves.
The wind picks up, my hair whipping Medusa-like around my face. “The ten-thousand pounds, the bet. You want to tell me about that? Is it true?”
“Yes,” he admits.
“So everything you’ve shared with me, the kiss? That was all bullshit, wasn’t it? It was all to get into my pants, right?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I push him again, hard as I can, the bike wavering behind him.
“Stop it.”
My eyes are growing hot. I knew it. I knew it from the fucking start, but still deep down I believed in that fairytale—that maybe, just maybe here was a guy unjustly accused, someone with potential I could be with, but no. He’s exactly like Johnathan.
“Fuck you, Spencer.” It slips out easily. I barely have to form the words.
He takes it on the chin, can’t even be bothered to respond, not even willing to fight.
“You were protecting me back there. That was noble. I know there’s more to you than you’re letting on, but if you’re not going to be honest with me, if you can’t even give me that, there’s never going to be anything between us.”
I put my hand out. “Do you have a phone?”
Concern covers his face. “Of course.”
“Good. You can call Dumb and Dumber to come pick you up. Where the fuck are they, anyhow?”
“They’re bodyguards, not babysitters. Why, what are you going to do? I’m not leaving you out here alone at this hour.”
“No, I’m leaving you. Give me your keys.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not giving you the keys to my bike.”
I’m over his shit. “Give me the fucking keys, Spencer!”
He drops them into my hand, stepping away from the bike. I take his helmet off the handlebars. It’s still warm inside. It smells like him, lime, a hint of spice, like something comfortable, but I can’t think about it now.
I turn the bike over and twist the throttle hard, a “fuck you too!” at my back as I enter the motorway. I watch him disappearing in the mirrors until he’s gone—nothing.
My head’s a mess as I ride. I concentrate on the lines of the road instead, what I know to be right—one following the next, over and over. No chaos in it, simple.
You should never have agreed to this assignment. You were almost raped back there for Christ’s sake.
I’ve got it all on my phone, maybe enough to write it up and get the fuck out of this hole.
I park the bike in front of the hotel, right where he can find it. I leave the keys with reception. It’s not until I get into my room I allow myself to cry, to let all the emotion pour out, and I feel weak for doing it, for becoming ‘that girl’ who cries over a guy. It’s fucking pathetic.
I take out my phone. I don’t know what time it is in the States, but I could call Amanda, tell her it’s still not working. I stare at the screen trying to decide when it suddenly starts ringing with a private number. Instantly, the anger swells up. I hit ‘answer’.
“If you fucking think—”
“Grace! Whoa, calm down.”
“Johnathan? How did you get this number?”
“It doesn’t matter. Look, I need to see you.”
I almost wish it was Spencer. “I can’t do this now. I’m sorry.”
“Grace, wait. I can—”
I hang up. Things are going from worse to worse. I’m signed into the hotel under my real name, too. It’s only a matter of time until he finds me here.
I notice a bottle of Dom Perignon on the dresser, twelve pink roses. Fucking perfect.
I lie down on the mattress and pound my fist into it. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
I lie there, pillow wet, until I fall asleep.
*
I stay in bed all day. I turn my phone off, don’t even bother opening up my laptop. Knocks on my door go unanswered, calls to the landline beside my bed left well the fuck alone. Late in the afternoon I hear him out there, pleading for me to let him in. It’s scary how much it reminds he of Johnathan, but there’s a difference. Back then, when we were together, Johnathan would have kicked the door down. He was powerful when he was on something—too powerful. He was dangerous.
After half an hour Spencer leaves and I curl up under the covers again unsure what to do. I eat only from the minibar, too scared the moment that door opens one of them is going to come bursting in, one of the many suited specters from last night.
I barely move, think.
I watch shitty British reality shows until my eyes burn.
*
I wake up the following day feeling different. I take a shower, order room service. By nine I’m ready to face anything.
Grace is back, bitches.
Fuck all of them. I’m in London, one of the greatest cities in the world.
I open the door, a smile on my face, but it’s gone as soon as Spencer slumps to the floor.
I look down trying to not to kick him in the head. “God, Spencer. How long have you been sitting against my door?”
Marcus pokes his head around the corner. “All night.”
I start to shut it. “Move away.” But he stands holding the door open.
“Five minutes,” he begs.
I look to Marcus. He shrugs.
I shake my head. Seems I’m doing a lot of that lately. I hold the door open. “Come in, but don’t expect any damn tea.”
I stand with my arms crossed, foot tapping on the carpet like an angry parent. “Well?”
Something about Spencer’s a little off. He’s looks hella tired, the walking dead.
I take note of the suit, bowtie. “A bit formal for an apology, isn’t it?”
“I like to look my best. It’s good to see you.”
“Did you get your bike back?”
“I did.”
“So?”
“I want a second chance.”
“No, no more chances.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong, Grace.”
I turn to the window. “Where to start.”
“I can’t be responsible for the Club’s actions.”
I spin, stabbing my finger at him like a knife. “The bet? Come on. Admit it—you see me as a conquest, nothing more.”
I look to Marcus and Richard. They’re really eyeing off those cornices. I don’t care. Let them hear it too.
Spencer leans into me. “Do you want to talk about this privately, perhaps?”
I shake my head. “No. You want to say something to me, you say it in front of them.”
He nods. “As you wish. I’m sorry you were dragged into that. I care about you, Grace, honestly. I have feelings for you. and I don’t know what to do about them. How about that?”
Richard starts whistling. I don’t think this could get any more awkward.
“I don’t know how to respond.” It’s true, I don’t, but my body does. Even my heart, that damn oversized elastic band, is yearning for him, to see what would happen if I just let myself go.
“Don’t say anything.” He takes me by the shoulders. “Grace, forget the Chaos Club. Forget all that. I’ll tell you everything in time, but for now I only want to keep you close. I need you safe. Please.”
Again, I’m shaking my head as I agree. Maybe it’s because I really don’t feel safe. Maybe it’s because, as damaging to my wellbeing as it is, I want to be close to him again. Maybe Zoe is right. Maybe all I need is a good fucking.
Ah, no.
Spencer lets his hands fall back to his sides. “I have a polo game today. Will you come? Marcus here can help you find a dress.”
I look at Marcus. Given his background, he’ll have me in a ghillie suit.
I breathe out. It’s
too early for this shit. “I’ll come, on one condition.”
Spencer’s eyes light up. “Anything.”
I see the hope there. I can’t be the one to stamp it out.
I lift up onto the balls of my feet and whisper in his ear. He looks at Marcus and nods. “Okay.”
“You’ll tell them?”
“I will.”
“I guess I’ll see you at the game then.”
“You will.”
Spencer and Richard leave, Marcus extending his arm out. “My lady, are you ready to go shopping?”
I take his arm. It’s hard as a fucking rock. “There’s something very Pretty Woman about this, isn’t there?”
Marcus raises an eyebrow. “I’m not Richard Gere, but I do know a thing or two about fashion.”
“Really?”
He stops and scans my body. “What size hessian sack do you take?
*
A polo game. I almost can’t believe I’m standing here under this canopy watching a bunch of men in tight whites wrangling horses and sticks around a field. On second thought, perhaps it’s not so bad at all.
I spy Spencer in the middle of the field. He’s well engrossed in the game, hasn’t even seen me yet.
Marcus and Richard swan over. With their dark sunglasses and ear pieces they look every bit the bodyguard cliché.
Marcus, as always, is the first to speak as they stand beside me. “You look ravishing, Miss Everett.”
I must say, he does have good taste. We settled on a strapless Versace summer dress shifting from white to black to peach in a subtle gradient. Marcus wouldn’t allow me to look at the price tag, told me he “didn’t want anyone dying of a heart attack on his watch”. He even helped me pick up some shoes, told me it was all at Spencer’s expense, so I should “shop up”.
Spencer hooks the horse around. He’s good—I think.
“He’s not bad, is he?” Marcus is smiling by my side.
“On a horse or in bed?” I taunt. “I don’t want to get between you guys and your giant dildo.”
Marcus is still grinning. “Funny, you Americans, with your celebrity politicians and all that.”
I’m focusing on Spencer. “Has he been playing long?”
“Almost his entire life. He contributes to a bunch of animal charities, amongst others. Got a real affinity with the things.”
“And kids.”
“Same thing,” Marcus mocks.
“He told me he volunteers at a soup kitchen.”
Marcus nods. “St John’s, Ealing, amongst others.”
“Why doesn’t the press report it?
“When they could be writing about baby scares and Cabo threesomes? You tell me.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to convince me there’s a human being under all that bravado and muscle.”
Marcus laughs. “You’ll need a long shovel to dig that deep.”
“Grace. Grace Everett, isn’t it?”
A young man in a white suit is coming over. I don’t know his face, but I definitely remember the voice. Marcus and Richard step in front of him.
He puts his arms out wide. “Marcus, Richard, so nice to see you.”
“I’m afraid Spencer is on field, William,” says Marcus, turning to me, “and Miss Everett is occupied.”
“Come now, boys. There’s no need to be so formal.” He goes to push between them, but Richard puts a hand flat against his chest. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.”
This William’s demeanor changes. “Get your fucking hand off me, Robocop. What the hell’s going on here?”
Both of them begin to push him back. Marcus speaks. “Spencer wants nothing to do with you or your pen pals, and truthfully? I’m really going to enjoy knocking your smug little block off if you try to get past us.”
William makes eye contact with me. “Fine, let him have his American whore.”
Richard delivers him a swift blow low and hard into the chest. He crumples in half, Marcus hooking an arm over his shoulder and leading him over to this seat. The whole thing happens so quickly not a single soul has noticed.
Marcus lets him down into a chair, gets right into his face. “You are going to wait here for thirty seconds and then you’re going to piss off. Nod if you understand.”
He does.
William’s holding his stomach, face red, wheezing to get the words out. “You’re going to regret this.”
Marcus simply smiles back. “I sincerely hope so. Now fuck off.”
Both bodyguards start to walk back over. They seem almost a little too pleased. I’m actually surprised Spencer agreed to my demand to cut off all ties with the Chaos Club.
“Everything okay?” I query.
Richard can’t stop smiling. “Let’s just say I’ve been wanting to do that for a very long time, ma’am.”
“Marcus, is that you?”
An older gentleman wearing some sort of military uniform holds Marcus up, Richard turning to join the conversation.
I take a champagne flute off a waiter and return to watching the field.
I watch Spencer pounding down the field, hammer thing in hand. Can’t say I’m much of a polo expert. It’s always looked so hard. Not only do you have to know how to ride a horse, but do so while carrying a medieval mallet around. Spencer seems to take it in his stride, striking the ball and sending it sailing to the opposition end. He turns and beams at me, a gesture that does not go unnoticed to my satin-clad friend on my right.
She drifts over like a pearled-up apparition. I question whether she has legs at all under that strapless. “Wonderful, isn’t he?” She extends her hand, the other holding her champagne flute far too high. “Abigail Hanover.”
I take her hand but only seem to connect with the bony tips of her fingers. “Grace Everett.”
She ponders on this. “Everett, Everett. I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with your family.”
“I’m American.”
She raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of her champagne. “Oh.”
An awkward silence follows before she turns to the field. “How do you know our Spencer?”
Our Spencer. Get over yourself. This chick is rubbing me up entirely the wrong way. “I’m actually putting together a piece on him for the New York Times.”
She smiles at this, pleased no doubt to place me as a fish out of water, a peasant.
“Wonderful,” she beams, drawing closer and speaking quietly. “Of course, you won’t find any shortage of material when it comes to Spenny.”
Spenny? She’s in on that too? Jesus. “You know each other?”
Her perfectly manicured fingernail starts to tap against the stem of champagne flute, another British habit it seems. She says, matter-of-factly, “We dated, had some fun,” confiding, “and the rumors are true. He is very well endowed.”
I’m hoping she doesn’t see me swallow back the big lump of coal that has risen up in my throat.
“Half of England has had their share since, but Spenny will marry soon—a spouse of suitable upbringing, naturally. As much as the press will say otherwise, there won’t be another rags-to-royal in our time. Too much… sentimentality.”
I know precisely what she’s getting at.
There’s a ruckus on the field, Spencer’s teammates trotting over and slapping him on the back. Seems he scored while I was busy being schooled by Abigail Bitchface. He looks my way again and nods.
“My, my,” says Abigail, “he is taking an interest in you, isn’t he?”
“The article will be intensive, access all areas. We’re working very closely together over the next two weeks. Very closely,” I repeat.” Suck that, unable to believe I’m stooping to the same, childish level.
Abigail smiles, but it’s so fake you could rip it right off her face. “Well, just keep your knickers on, my dear. The last thing Spenny can afford is another scandal. I mean, especially after what happened at the Foundation Ball last night.”
“
Ball?” It slips right on out.
She feigns shock. “You weren’t there? Shame, such a glamorous event, the absolute top end of society. Spencer… such a laugh… he had a little too much to drink and… well, here, take a look.”
She pulls out her phone and brings up a photo on the screen. It’s Spencer, undeniably, one girl kissing him on the lips, another sitting on his lap.
I look away.
“Such a laugh, isn’t he?” she says, and with that, she saunters off.
I hand falls on my back. I turn so fast I almost take Spencer’s head off.
“Whoa, what is it?” He smells of grass, dirt and leather. God, he looks sexy, straight out of a Ralph Lauren commercial, but now’s not the time, not after what I’ve just seen. No, I’m going to play this cautiously, smart, even though all I want to do is claw his eyes out.
He sees Abigail. “Ah, I see the serpent’s introduced herself.”
“You were at a ball last night?”
He doesn’t deny it. “I was.”
“You didn’t feel the need to invite me, access all areas and all that?”
“You weren’t exactly answering my calls. Besides, I didn’t want to bore you to death with introductions to the hundred lords of London. Trust me, the only thing you’d learn from the Foundation Ball is how to sleep standing up.”
“But you lied. Why?”
The pause that follows is heavy with guilt. He’s thinking about my rules. “I wouldn’t exactly call it lying.”
“Open communication, Spencer. That was our deal.”
“I can’t have you in every area of my life, Grace.”
“Why? Because I’m not a blueblood like your friend Abigail? She told me all about your little incident last night.” I’m fishing, hoping it will pay off. “She had a delightful little picture. You looked very cozy with the two girls in it.”
He plays with his collar. “I was drunk. That was a setup. I was practically attacked by those vultures.”
“That’s no excuse.”
He nods, eyes cast to his boots. “You’re right.” He starts to walk away.
“Spencer!” I shout, once again arousing Abigail’s attention.
I don’t call a second time as he disappears into a sea of silken color.
Let him go, my head pleads, so I do.