Not The One (London Lovers #4)
Page 1
Copyright © 2015 Amy Daws
All rights reserved.
Published by: Stars Hollow Publishing
ISBN 13: 978-1-944565-00-8
IBBN 10: 1944565000
Content Editing: Stephanie Rose
Line Editing: Angela Pratt www.facebook.com/LilyRoseEditing
Contributing Proofing: DragonEditing4U
Cover Design: Amy Daws
Cover Photography: Megan Daws
Cover Models: Callie Wilson and Ethan Roepke
Formatting: Champagne Formats
This book is licensed for personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author. The only exception is by quoting short excerpts in a review. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, then please go www.amydawsauthor.com to find where you can purchase it.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
THREE YEARS EARLIER
CHAPTER 2
PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
THREE YEARS EARLIER
CHAPTER 5
PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 6
THREE YEARS EARLIER
CHAPTER 7
PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
THREE YEARS EARLIER
CHAPTER 10
PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
THREE YEARS EARLIER
CHAPTER 13
PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
SIX MONTHS LATER
CHAPTER 43
THREE MONTHS LATER
CHAPTER 44
ONE YEAR LATER
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A BROKEN US - CHAPTER ONE
Dedicated to Kelly.
Your patience with me is astounding.
Thank you for London Lovering with me, always.
I met my first best friend when I was a twenty-three-year-old grad student. Most people have half a dozen best friends long before they turn eighteen. Not me. I was hell-bent and determined to not let anyone get too close. I liked my space.
However, the massive chip on my shoulder, and my weird loner tendencies weren’t a problem for Marisa Clarke. She was going to be my friend whether I liked it or not. Thankfully for me, she was one of those people that you were drawn to, even if you swore you hated all bubbly blondes who giggled at everything. Her heart was so full of genuine honesty, love, and happiness that you couldn’t help but want that around. She just made you feel good.
We were randomly paired together as roommates the first year of our masters program at Oxford. We clicked instantly over the lyrics to a song called Love Life by an American hip-hop band named Atmosphere. She was the only Brit I knew who had ever even heard of the Midwest rap duo. Our first night together in our dorm, we spent hours dissecting every lyric in the song, and eating our weight in Jaffa Cakes.
Looking at us, you’d never believe we were friends. We used to call each other Yin and Yang. Where she had white blonde hair and fair skin, I was dark haired and olive toned. Her entire appearance was luminous. Mine was dramatically darkened by my inked collarbone and shoulder. She was sweet and bubbly. I was straight forward and snarky. Even our clothing styles screamed opposites.
As our friendship blossomed, Marisa began texting me these epic rants about whatever was bothering her that day. It varied from her stance on overpopulation, to how a person walked their dog on campus. I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at the texts in the middle of class because they were the best part of my day. I would literally have tears streaming down my face in the middle of a lecture because of her rants. They weren’t even funny…that’s what made them so laughable. She was so passionate and ferocious and adamantly serious about nothing. It was delightful.
I used to wrack my brain trying to figure out how to one-up her, because she deserved it. She deserved to feel that simple act of random positivity that she radiated out to everyone else in the world.
Marisa was perfectly traditional but gloriously unpredictable. Everything I wasn’t.
Even my own mother loved everything “Marisa.” She would visit us at Oxford and rave about how wonderful she was. She would even say things like, “Oh Marisa, you have the loveliest skin…so perfect. Like Snow White!” Of course, my mother would have to ruin the compliment by bringing the subject back to my miraculous existence. She would add, “You should have seen Reyna as a baby. That’s why her middle name is Miracle. She was the cutest, tiniest, most perfect creature. Her skin was so—”
“Mom! Stop talking about my skin!” I’d scream like a petulant child.
She wouldn’t even flinch. Her reaction to all of my outbursts was always just a proud smile. Even when I was a teenager and telling her that I hated her and wished she would die, she would never crack.
Marisa pushed me to be kinder to my mother. She pushed me to try to understand her better. And I’m not an idiot—I knew I was horrid. But I couldn’t stop. I was a grown-ass woman and still begging for a reaction from my mother that wasn’t her typical approving smile.
I wanted my mother to see me the way Marisa saw me. Flawed. Human. Not just the perfect miracle she named me after. If only she would get mad at me. Be disappointed in me. Yell for once! Lord knows I had done plenty of things to elicit such a reaction.
But she never did. She just continued to shoot that infamous Dr. Miller megawatt smile. It was the same one she served to all of her fear-stricken patients.
Even in times of complete distress, she carried a beam of hope and pride in her twinkling blue eyes.
She was perfect.
So was Marisa.
They were both so good to me.
And I hated it.
I didn’t deserve it.
Because in my version of reality, I truly believed that goodness wasn’t meant for me.
“Name?” the man barks while pouring a pint of beer from behind the large stainless steel bar.
“Reyna Miller,” I answer, shifting on the cold metal barstool.
“Sounds American,” he huffs and takes a long drink.
“That’s because it is.” I’m momentarily distracted as I notice the perfectly symmetrical crease nestled between his two red eyebrows. A perfect, mirrored pair of S’s.
“Christ, not another,” he exhales heavily after chugging half the be
er down. The bar is completely empty and apparently this is how they conduct job interviews here. He sets down his glass of amber liquid and strolls over to me. He’s a tall, slender man with a mane of bright red hair that stands straight up on his head. It’s coarse and curly and pairs well with the smattering of freckles across his cheeks.
“What brought you to London, love? Fancy getting wet?” he asks with a spicy smirk.
My eyes narrow. This guy is either a pervert or he’s talking about the rain in London. I’m inclined to think perv. “A plane brought me,” my face and tone serious.
“A smart arse on a job interview? Not bright, America. Not bright at all.” He grabs his glass and takes another swig.
I cringe and look down. Damn, maybe I read him wrong. My sarcasm isn’t always well received and it has a tendency to let itself out before I can think better of it.
Clearing my throat I add, “My mother’s a high-risk neonatal surgeon. She got a job offer at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital when I was a teenager.”
“How old are you now?”
“Are you allowed to ask that?”
“I’m the one asking the questions here!” he shouts out of nowhere and slams his hand down on the bar.
I’d flinch at his outburst if it wasn’t so damn funny. I bite my lip to conceal my giggle. It’s glaringly obvious that laughing is not what this guy wants me to do right now. His tiny nostrils flare as his brown eyes bore into me. Someone really should tell this crazy red head that he is failing miserably at being intimidating. I may only be 5’4” compared to his six foot, but I’m certain I could take him if he came at me in a dark alley.
“You’re probably trying to come up with a way to sue me right now, aren’t you, America? Bloody hell, Lariza is going to kill me,” he murmurs to himself. The lilt of his accent sounds posh, like he comes from an affluent area in London. He places his elbows on the bar and cradles his chin with his hands. “Come now. Be honest. Are you going to sue me?”
My face splits into a wry grin. I’ve got him right where I want him and honesty suits me best anyway. “First of all, I don’t even know where to begin to look for an employment law barrister. Secondly, all of it sounds expensive and a huge pain in my ass. I’d rather just sit here and get the job instead.”
“Are you blackmailing me to get the job?” His eyes widen with worry as his mouth drops into an O. “Fuck me…Do you even have bartending experience?”
“Yes,” I answer, feeling a twinge of anxiety. “But continuing the honesty train…it’s been a while since my last bartending job.”
“How long is a while?”
“Three or four years-ish,” I mumble that last part.
“Ish.” He rolls his eyes dramatically. “So you take a break from bartending for three years and now you come crawling back to it? What’s the story there?” He crosses his boney arms over his chest and looks down at my resume as if he’s trying to crack the code. “You have a masters from Oxford? Are you joking?”
Contemplating how I want to respond, I pull my lower lip into my mouth, tasting the chalkiness of my deep purple lipstick. Releasing it quickly, I retort back. “You just asked me two different questions. Which one do you want me to answer?”
He rakes his hand through his hair and it springs straight back up to life. “Fuck me! You do have a degree from Oxford.”
I sigh heavily. I didn’t want to include my education on my resume, but it killed me to leave it off. Plus, this is a highly coveted job in the service industry and I hoped that it would get me noticed. I nod subtly, confirming his suspicion.
The red head suddenly whoops with laughter, clutching his narrow waist. “What is it with you Americans jumping the pond with your drama? You’ve got drama, don’t you, America?” he asks, attempting to compose himself.
I glare at him. “Who doesn’t?” My voice is flat and emotionless. God, I hope he doesn’t press this.
“Touché,” he replies, cocking his head to the side.
“Plus, the pay here is worth it from what I hear,” I add, knowing full well that Club Taint is one of the highest paying nightclubs in London.
“Club Taint isn’t your typical English Pub. I hope you realize this, Oxford.”
“I do. I’ve been here before. I also know this isn’t a gay bar.” I rattle out the information I found online after deeply researching the establishment’s history. This club has mistakenly been labeled a gay bar all over London for years.
His expression morphs from angry to impressed. “Oxford! You’ve put that education to good use, haven’t you? I feel like I’m supposed to hate you. But, when you say accurate, lovely things like that, you make it bloody hard!”
I chuckle at the idea that such a simple research act could make this man’s opinion of me change so abruptly. “Want me to insult your clothes so you can go back to hating me?” I ask as my eyes trail down his red lumberjack plaid shirt and land on his canary yellow skinny jeans. His clothing isn’t a dead giveaway that he’s gay, but it certainly doesn’t help.
His face falls. “What is it with you Americans?” he shouts. “I suppose your all-black grunge look is supposed to be chic?”
I glance down at my choice of clothing for this interview. I dressed for the job I’m applying for. It is typical bartender attire—a black racerback tank, black skinny jeans, and black ankle boots. I slapped on a leather wrist cuff and bronze necklace, but other than that I wouldn’t call it “grunge.” When I washed my hair, I even curled my nearly black locks and left them loose and flowing down my back. It’s far better than the messy way I typically wear it.
“Americans have absolutely no sense of style. Why the bloody hell do I always find…” He’s mumbling to himself as he moves down the bar and lifts the partition up to walk over to me. “I think I’m back to hating you already. Let’s get on with this shall we?”
He extends his hand in a motion for me to walk out onto the wide-open dance floor. The dreary London daylight is pouring in through the industrial skylights. There are several white techy-looking dance pedestals stationed throughout. I’ve seen go-go dancers and drag queens perform on them the few times I’ve been here so I know they illuminate several different colors when they are turned on.
“Since you’ve already got the job, I shall introduce myself,” he sighs heavily. “I am Frank McElroy. My mate Larry Liza Minnelli, or Lariza, as I often call him, is the owner of this fine establishment. I am currently managing it for him while he’s away on medical sabbatical.” He cups his hand and stage whispers, “Lipo!”
I conceal a giggle as he continues. “As you already know, Club Taint is not the gay bar most stuck up west Londoners would like to believe it to be. It’s what we refer to as a Welcome Bar. We welcome all people and we do not tolerate any type of discrimination. We are diverse, and we appreciate and celebrate snarkiness, sarcasm, and bantering. Think you can handle that?” He winks at me playfully. “Also, we are not a fan of the word bullying. It’s turned into an overused, over-rated, sensitive-sally sensation of a word that exhausts the fuck out of me. We’re adults for Christ’s sake.”
“Duly noted,” I reply, taking in his exasperated tone. “I’m a straight shooter and bluntly honest, so I think I should fit right in.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Oxford. Why don’t you tell me first what happens the other twenty-three hours of the day?” He gestures down to the pocket watch tattoo I have on the inside of my wrist.
My hand instantly covers the offending design that’s connected to an entire sleeve of ink, which snakes up to my shoulder on my left arm. I’ve had this collage for two years now and it still doesn’t get any easier when people ask about the meaning behind everything. The truth is, the design came to me in a dream, so that’s weird, in and of itself. I clear my throat and reply with the canned generic answer that I give everyone.
“Life,” I smile politely. It’s the only answer that isn’t a lie but doesn’t force me to dive into the truth.
>
He nods and his eyes drift up the rest of my sleeve. “Yes, 4:03 does seem like a good time to rest on. Shall we continue?”
We move through the club and into a long hallway on the far side with several red doors. Frank explains that Club Taint is a nightclub that has different hired acts perform on the pedestals each night. The performers vary from professional modern dancers, to street dancers, to drag queens. They even have one night a week for amateurs to perform. He’s extremely insistent on the fact that no one ever strips. I honestly wouldn’t have cared if they did.
He shows me the hair and makeup rooms, the master control room for sound and lights, and Lariza’s office. At the end of the hall, he pushes through large metal double doors into a back alley.
“This is where you will take your breaks, smoke, whine about your drama, maybe finish designing your other sleeve.”
“Um, no actually. This side is done.” I touch my collarbone on my right side where I have only three black roses and cursive text that says “We All Die Young” woven intricately inside.
He nods his head approvingly. “It’s stunning.”
“Are you being nice to me, Frank?”
“Christ no! I’m just still smarting about that lawsuit drivel.”
I laugh and we head back inside to Lariza’s office. He sits me behind the desk and dumps a bunch of paperwork on my lap. “I’ll be at the bar. Come out when you’ve finished.”
When the door closes behind him, I bite my lip to restrain the triumphant scream I want to shout. Damn, I need this job. I can’t keep sponging off of my mother, even though I know she’d give me money no matter what. This job is hopefully a means to an escape for me, a way for me to gain a little financial independence and try to forget about how crazy my life has become.
Just as quickly as the excitement comes, a pang of disappointment slides in its place, snuffing out my moment of celebration. I’m twenty-eight-years-old and cheering over a bartending job at a place named after a piece of skin within human anatomy. In fact, the name of the place is rather fitting considering I taint nearly everything I touch. How the hell did I let my life take such a dismal turn?