"Peter. Are you drunk?"
There was silence. "Absolutely pickled. Who is this again?"
"Peter. The guy you work for."
"Peter," she said as recognition dawned. How drunk was she?
"Where are you?"
"I have absolutely no idea," she laughed, her words slurring slightly. "I can't do anything right now. I'm kind of drunk."
"I can hear that." Suddenly Peter was amused. He normally didn't think there was anything more distasteful than a drunk girl, but this was Miss Cool-and-Prudish McPherson. "What have you been doing?"
"Dancing."
"You know you have to work in the morning."
"It's Jess' birthday. She wanted to go out."
"Who's Jess?" He could hear that she was walking; he could hear traffic.
"My friend. The girl I live with. But I've lost her. I think she hooked up with a guy somewhere."
"And you didn't?"
Shay laughed, which was different from how she'd react sober. "This dude hit on me, but he had a goatee."
"And you don't do goatees?"
"Would you? What is that? Why’s there a tuft of hair on your face? Strangely enough, I can find a beard attractive on a young guy, but not a goatee."
"Lacks a certain commitment."
"The goatee guys think their all deep and introspective, when they're just arseholes."
"Can't have that."
"I don't know why I'm talking to you about arseholes; you're the king of arseholes."
"Fair comment," Peter said. He slid down further into bed and looked up at the ceiling again. "But I get what I want. Maybe you're a little into this goatee guy, because believe me, women love an arsehole."
"Urgh," Shay said. "I don't."
"Really, cause it sounds like goatee got you all hot and bothered."
"Screw you," Shay said, accentuated with a prhf sound. "He thinks he's so hot. He's not. All hot guys are arseholes."
"Since I am the king of arseholes, does that mean I'm hot?"
"You are and you know it. Good luck getting me to repeat that when I'm sober. It would take copious amounts of alcohol to get me to overlook your personality."
"Women never complain about my personality." Alex had, but mostly women only objected when they didn't get what they wanted. If it's what they want, they put up with literally anything.
"What women? There are no women in your life."
"They come and they go."
"Good for screwing and nothing else," Shay said.
"I'm just not the settle down kind of guy. And honestly, women don't want nice guys. The more despicably you treat a women, the more she comes back."
"I am so glad we had this conversation. I feel like my life is complete now."
"Where are you?"
"I'm on a bench somewhere."
"You shouldn't be out alone in London."
"I'm a big girl."
"It isn't safe."
"Weren't you just the one saying we love being treated like crap?"
"If you tell me where you are, I'll come get you."
"Hell no," Shay said. "You are the last person I would trust."
"I'm hurt." She did have a point; if she was here right now, he'd have her out of her clothes in minutes. "What are you wearing?"
"Are we really going to have that conversation? I'm pretty sure that constitutes sexual harassment."
"Except you won't remember anything of the conversation in the morning."
"Probably not, but I'll still wake up angry at you for some reason, not able to understand why, but then that probably just par for the course."
"Do I make you angry?"
"Do we need to revisit the arsehole discussion?"
"I thought that made me hot."
He could almost hear her smiling. 'You fishing for compliments?"
"It wouldn't hurt."
"I don't think anyone thinks you're as hot as you do."
"Ouch," Peter said, smiling. "What else?"
"You're shallow and conceited. You're so self-absorbed there isn't room for anyone else in your life."
"My life is pretty full."
"Full of what, I don't know."
"Beautiful women, good wine and fast cars."
"Are you referring to me, the coffee I get you and your wheelchair?"
Peter smiled again. He didn't normally have conversations like this. Women normally complimented him—either trying to get him to sleep with them, or they were paid to be non-problematic. "I work with what I have."
"You're not working with me."
"Technically … "
"Shut up."
"You started it," he accused.
"I did not. I'm drunk and you're taking advantage of me."
"If you were here, I probably would be."
"You're a pig."
"And you're a hot mess."
"So I'm hot now?" she asked. Peter let it hang there. There was a certain attraction to her cheap clothing and unapologetic attitude. She gave the finger to status, and he adored her a little for that. "I suppose I am. I am, after all, wearing my fuck-me-good-and-hard-boots and guys just can't seem to get over them. I even got complimented on them tonight by this guy on the dance floor. Bye, Peter."
Shay hung up and Peter flicked the phone down on the bed. There was something deeply pleasurable about bantering with Shay when she was drunk, especially if he imagined her in the borderline trashy outfits the club girls seemed to go for. And those boots that would wrap so nicely around a guy's waist, and she had taunted him with them. Underneath her inhibitions, Shay McPherson wasn't as clean-cut as she made out—in fact, she was bit of a tease.
Chapter 13
* * *
Shay felt like crap. Her head was pounding and everything was too loud. She'd thrown up as soon as she woke and had started feeling a little better for it, but the bus to work had been crowded and she'd had to stand next to a guy who smelled.
So far, she hadn't managed to eat anything, but was savouring a coffee, which made her feel marginally better. Why had she done it? She knew why she'd done it, but why did she have to drink so much. It had actually been a good night and for some reason she'd ended up kissing this rather cute guy on the dance floor. At least she'd had enough sense not to run off with him, but she had lost Jess somewhere during the night. There had been a scribbled number of some guy named Ryan on a piece of paper shoved in her pocket.
There was also a disturbing, fleeting memory that she'd spoken to Peter. Pulling her phone out as she sat in front of the coffee stop, she checked her call log. Shit, they'd spoken for close to half an hour, but at least she hadn't called him. That would be a terrible development if she started drunk-dialling Peter.
After paying for some headache pills from the pharmacy, she made her way up to Peter's apartment.
"Hello, sunshine," he said when she walked in. He was sitting in bed in the grey, stretchy pants and a cream-coloured jumper. Even in that ensemble, he looked good, like a catalogue picture of perfect relaxation. He checked her out. "You look like hell."
Shay sat down heavily at the dining table. "I don't feel much better."
"And where did you end up last night?"
"I think you know where I was."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "Actually, you had no idea where you were, but apparently you think I'm hot."
Shay groaned and covered her eyes. Why was it so damned bright? And why hadn't she left her phone at home?
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
"I bet you're not." He couldn't be more right. "Why don't you go down and buy me a panini from the café across the road?" Shay nodded and got up, taking the credit card from him when he held it out to her. "Get a paper as well. And a coffee. You look like you could use one, too."
Standing in the elevator, she closed her eyes. She was still so very tired, but this was her punishment. Her rule was: she could go out, but she went to work the next day, no matter what. The idea was that it kept her in check a
nd punished her for not keeping things together.
The café was busy and Shay walked back with a tray of coffees in one hand, a bag with a panini in the other, a paper under her arm and a credit card in her mouth.
Peter took the coffees from her and the bag. "Come here," he said. "Have a look at this?"
Shay sat down and looked over the magazine he was showing her. It was a car, sleek and brown. "It looks like chocolate."
"Everyone loves chocolate. That head looks sore."
"I am being punished."
"You deserve to be punished," Peter chuckled. "Lie down."
"No," she said, but her body did anyway.
"Let's go have a look at it this afternoon."
"What?"
"The car."
She heard Peter change the channel. He was in a good mood, apparently.
Shay was enveloped in the smell of Peter again. She heard rustling of paper and woke—in Peter's bed. Without meaning to, she'd fallen asleep—on the job, in the client's bed. "I'm the worst nurse in the world," she said, sitting up.
"I drew a big cock on your forehead."
"What?" Shay said, scrambling up and running to the bathroom. There was nothing on her forehead. "Very funny." She did kind of deserve it. She had been completely unprofessional. "It was my flatmate's birthday. It went a little far."
"Considering you ended up in my bed; I'd say."
Shay closed her eyes and leaned on the bathroom counter. At least she hadn't properly ended up in his bed last night; that would have been disastrous. "Why did you call me?"
"Maybe I wanted see what kind of debauchery you get up to when you're not here." The memories of her kissing that Ryan guy returned. Apparently there was some debauchery involved.
"So you were just keeping tabs on me?" And that was creepy.
"I wanted you to get some supplements for me—stuff that will help me heal."
"You could probably use some Vitamin D." She actually did feel better after that sleep, but she could probably use some vitamins herself considering what she’d leeched out of her body last night. "I'm sorry I'm in a sub-optimal state this morning. It is inexcusable."
"You probably do need to get your act together a bit," Peter said and Shay felt terrible.
"I'll check your wounds."
"They feel okay."
"I'll just have a look. I can't afford to be even more unprofessional by not ensuring your wounds are healing well." She grabbed her medical bag and returned to the bed, sitting down on the other side where his fixed leg was. He pulled the pants down, leaving the sheet to cover him. The wound looked good, but it would leave a scar on his skin when it was properly healed, not that a few scars would look terrible on him. Still, she cleaned around them and applied new dressings. "You have more mobility now," she said. She didn't have to undress him anymore. "We're going for a check-up tomorrow."
"Maybe the doc will finally let me go back to work."
"I should think so; you're doing really well." It would mean the end of this assignment, but that was how it was supposed to be. She'd learned a great deal from this first assignment, not just on the mechanics, but also related to the complexities of real clients. The case studies she'd had and the work experience hadn't really prepared her for the reality of dealing with Peter.
"Now, we're going out."
Shay remembered him saying something about him wanting to see the chocolate car. He checked his watch. "I've ordered a car."
"Okay," Shay said as Peter awkwardly got up from the bed and he walked over to the wardrobe. "Have to look the part." He pulled out a dark suit and hung it on the door, pulling the jumper over his head and he wore nothing underneath. Muscles strained along his bare chest as he moved. He really was ridiculously attractive.
Pulling on a crisp, white shirt, he did up the buttons. Shay tried not to watch, but she couldn't help herself—until he pulled the pants down. She quickly looked away because she knew he still wore nothing underneath. Forcing her eyes to stay on the view out over the city, she listened to him groan as he stepped into his pants. "Do you need some help?"
"I can manage."
She didn't look back until she heard the belt-buckle sliding in place. When she looked back, he was pulling the jacket on, doing up the single button in front. It was an expensive suit and it looked awesome. His shoulders looked broader than his hips and he just looked scorching. Shay cleared her throat and got up again. It was disconcerting seeing him like that. It reiterated how different he was from her; how he was a kind of person she didn't know.
"You ready?" he said.
"You sure you're up to it?"
"Yes. I'm sick of lying in bed and I need a car."
Shay took his elbow. He still needed a bit of assistance as he walked really slowly, but he didn't need to lean on her like he used to. She kept hold of him as they went down the elevator. A car waited outside, a modest Bentley and there was a driver wearing a suit and a cap, who held the door open for them. "Where to, sir?" the man said.
"Let's do the Porsche dealership on Cardinal Drive in Earl's Court."
"Of course," the man said and closed the door after Shay got in the car following Peter. It had light brown leather seats and it smelled new. This wasn't some tacky hens-night limo, this was the upmarket version, inconspicuous luxury.
Shay felt out of place. This wasn't her world. This was his world and she didn't fit in it. She certainly didn't look the part in her white jeans and olive-coloured military-style jacket. She looked like what she was: the hired help. Not that she minded; she knew what she was and she didn't try to pass as anything else. She just wished she'd passed as a better nurse than she apparently was. That was hard to face. She had to be better at this.
"You alright?" Peter asked.
"Just musing on my professional limitations."
"That is always an issue you can do something about."
Shay nodded and leaned back, watching the scenery go by as they drove across Westminister Bridge. "Have you ever been in there?" she asked, indicating to the Parliament building.
"Yes."
"What's it like?"
"Old. Very British."
"What does that mean?"
"Old, reverent, self-important, wheeler dealer with a dab of hypocrisy."
"How so?"
"It's politics for one, and mostly, they're drunk. There are sixteen bars in there, did you know?"
"It's got its own entertainment district?"
"It's quite a place in the evenings. In those bars is where the real business of running this country is done. Of course there are strict rules about who is allowed to enter which bar."
"I don't know if that is as funny as it is disturbing."
"It is British. You have to know how the game is played."
"And what is your game?"
"Advertising."
Shay already knew that, but she didn't know anything beyond that. "And what do you do?"
"I manage large accounts. Get new ones and make sure we keep our clients happy."
They obviously paid him well if he could go shopping in the Porsche shop.
Shay watched as the Thames passed by. They drove for a while until they reached the shop enclosed in glass and chrome. The showroom was indoors and scattered with sleek, curvy cars. Peter slowly walked around the showroom, seemingly interested in a dark grey one. "What do you think?"
Shay shrugged.
"Let's go for a drive."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"It isn't my driving leg that's injured and I wouldn't have to move my spine. It'll be fine. I’ll switch it to automatic. Mostly."
"I'm not sure."
"Are you going to wrestle me to stop me? Get in."
The sales man pressed a remote and a large section of the glass wall move aside. Shay hesitated. She really couldn't stop him and if she went she could take over if it proved too much. "I'm still not sure you're ready."
"I'm ready."
The
engine roared to life. With an eye-roll, Shay got into the passenger seat and Peter drove out of the showroom. "What do you think?"
"I don't know. Looks like you're making up for inadequacies."
"You know I'm not."
Shay burned red again. She wished she didn't do that so easily, because she knew he did it on purpose.
Peter tore down the road, turning sharply around the corners. "So smooth. No one quite matches the engineering."
Rolling her eyes again, Shay looked around in the car. It was beautiful leather, slick seats and all testosterone. The seats had deep wells with high sides, in case one slid off, Shay reckoned.
They drove around the block and down the main road to Hammersmith before returning to the store. Without further consideration, they got back into the chauffer driven car and headed back toward central London, stopping at another car showroom.
They looked at two more cars in different showrooms—a Maserati, which was a bit of a fuck-you-I'm-rich kind of car, then an Audi which was all black and sleek like a crouching cat. Peter would walk around them, his eyes taking in the curves and features, before they went for a drive.
"Which one did you like?" he said when they were on their way back home.
"The Audi, I think. I don't know."
"Conservative."
"Maybe I'm a conservative girl."
"Somehow I don't think so." Peter was tired; she could tell by the way he was sitting. He was so keen to get back to his normal life, he pushed himself to the limit. Shay reckoned he was close to it now. He leaned heavily on her when they got back to the apartment and he lay down after taking his suit jacket off, asleep within minutes.
Shay sighed and sat down next to him. "I'm going to take your temperature."
He didn't say anything, only grumbled. Putting the thermometer to his ear, she took a reading, which was all normal. As he was healing so well, it was likely that the doctor would clear him for work, but Shay suspected her would push himself too far.
Staying where she was, she watched him for a few minutes. It would be time for her to go soon, but she would cook him dinner before she left. She had an urge to stroke his head like she had in recovery, but she'd gotten snapped last time. Their time together would be over soon and she needed to start turning her mind to the future, like he was.
The Gem (D'Arth Book 4) Page 7