Chapter 29
Kara - Present
“People rarely have the talk straight after sex. Was it that bad?”
He smiles and shakes his head. “You know that’s not the case.”
He stands, holding his hand out to me.
“I’m not sure I can move yet; my legs are like jelly.”
He raises one eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curving into a slow, self-satisfied grin.
“Don’t look so smug with yourself.”
I grab his hand, and as he pulls me up, liquid pools between my legs. Our chests meet, and he reaches between us, his fingers moving between my legs where he runs his hand through the come.
“I’ve missed your cunt.”
“When did you get such a filthy mouth on you? I can’t remember you being so uncouth.”
“It’s called growing up, Cookie.”
I tilt my head back on a moan, my hands going to his shoulder for support as his fingers delve in deeper. “This isn’t talking,” I say breathlessly.
“Talking is for idiots.”
My eyes roll back, arm dropping to his waist, my head flops forward onto his shoulder as I start to undulate my hips against him.
“No. No.” I push back and pull myself away from him. “You’re right.”
He pouts, then draws his fingers to his mouth and sucks.
“You’re going to be the death of me.”
“I could well be yet,” he says.
I clench my jaw and shake my head slowly. And just like that, we are back to reality.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I want a minute to really answer that question and unpack what just happened, because that isn’t something I’m used to.
This isn’t something I’m used to.
The emotion.
I break things, I don’t break down. But all I can think about is that gravity has kicked in, and the fun we’ve had is making its way out of me and will either A, drop on the carpet, or B, drop down my leg.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t run, Cookie.”
“I’m not running, but your come is running right out of me. I’ll be right back.” I reach down and grab my leggings and thong that Owen discarded on the floor, and head to the ensuite.
I’m never really sure how we end up in the situations we do. Fucking that is. Not the whole death by assassination element.
I take a breath and clean up.
What are you doing, Lucy? I ask my reflection. Maybe she knows what the fuck I’m doing, because right now I don’t. Not a Scooby Doo. I told Andrews this was a bad idea. I told him I couldn’t do it. And here I am, cleaning up after fucking Owen…again.
Having not cleared the air, having not come up with a plan, still being as completely distracted as I have been since accepting this sodding job.
I’m going to end up getting shot again, or he will.
Okay.
I’ve got this.
Totally.
I exhale and roll my eyes at my stupidity. I so do not have this.
I push off the countertop and head back into the bedroom where Owen is now sitting in a pair of jeans, bare feet and bare chested.
What is it with men in just jeans?
Actually, scrap that. I think Owen could make a bin bag look magnificent. I stand by the doorway, hands shifting at my side as a wave of self-doubt crashes over me.
“Lucy.” Owen stands and collects me from the door. “You’re being ridiculous. You know you did this exact thing the first time we slept with each other.”
“That’s because I was an awkward teenager.”
“Well, you’re not an awkward teenager anymore, so stop being weird,” he says, dragging me to the bed. “Get comfortable. I’m going to get us a drink.”
“Whiskey, in the library, with Andrews.”
“Why did that sound like a Cluedo guess?”
“Shut up and get me a drink. I’m being a weirdo and need the courage for whatever this chat is. I’m on a fucking rollercoaster with you, I swear.” I mumble the last part as he disappears to find the alcohol.
I get comfy on the huge, beige, queen size bed that sits in the centre of this huge bedroom and wait. I also listen, to make sure Owen and Andrews don’t go at it again, but hopefully he’s calm now. Having just fucked the badger out his arse.
“Here.” Owen reappears, passing me the whiskey. “Andrews was asking where the hard drive is. I gotta say Luce, the fewer people who know about it, the better. Can we really trust him?”
“We can.” I nod, taking the drink and resting it on the covers.
“Don’t you dare spill it in the bed,” he chides.
“Jesus, what am I, a child?”
“You used to always leave crumbs in my bed.”
“Yeah, that’s crumbs, not liquid, bozo. Where’s the hard drive?”
“Safe.”
I frown. “You’re not even telling me now? After everything we’ve been through?”
He stares at me, and sighs. Walking over to the single cupboard in the room, he reaches on top of it, pulls it down, and throws it on the bed.
I pick it up and really look at it.
“It’s normal looking.”
“With enough AES encryptions to challenge the world’s best hackers.” He reaches over and turns the slick, black box over in his hands before dropping it back onto the bed.
“Have you seen what’s on it? Like all of it?” I ask one of the many unanswered questions I have, even though the question why still burns on the tip of my tongue.
“Yes,” he replies stoically.
“And…” I probe, but he doesn’t say anything, he just shakes his head.
“There are some things that are better left unsaid. It will all come out, and I don’t want to put you at more risk.”
“Put me at risk? You know what I do for a job, right?” My eyebrow quirks and turns quickly into a frown. He’s still trying to protect me, even though I’m the one who needs to protect him.
“I know. But still.”
“How can I protect you if you don’t tell me everything?”
“How will knowing what’s on the hard drive enable you to protect me more?”
“Because I will know how bad it is.”
“You don’t need to see what’s on the hard drive to know how bad it is. You have seen how bad it is. They blew up a charity dinner, Luce. They will do anything to stop this getting into the wrong people’s hands. Do you have a plan?” Owen asks, and I take a sip of whiskey. Good question. Do I?
Andrews thinks we can’t hide Owen away, not when he’s trending on most social media platforms and is an active member of parliament.
So maybe going back to Westminster is the best play. His office at the Houses of Parliament will have the best security, especially as they will up the threat level at all government buildings in response to the attack.
Being in the thick of London politics won’t necessarily be a thing, it will however make it harder for me to get access.
Double the security, double the security checks.
Sure, I could fake some documents, hack into whatever systems do the background checks and make an entry, but some things like time stamps are harder to forge.
“We’ll go back to the Soho safehouse, only we know it exists. We need to act normal; we need to get you back to your wider, grand plan of becoming the next Prime Minister.”
“I never said I wanted to be Prime Minister,” he says, suddenly defensive.
“But you launched an independent party?”
“I did, but that doesn’t mean I want to be PM. I want to make a difference, but I don’t need to be PM to do that. I can’t think of anything worse to be honest.”
I’m genuinely confused, my frown lines making Owen laugh.
“Why do you look so adorable when you’re confused?” He leans over and kisses my forehead, running his thumb over the creases.
“I am confused,” I say, grabbing his hand in mine. I link my pinkie round his and sit cross legged in front of him, while he does the same. “I thought your end game was Number 10?”
“No. Far from it. I’m better off causing noise from the bench. I don’t think I even want a cabinet position. I want to help influence those who are in those positions, whisper from the side lines.”
“Okay,” I reply, because I’m not entirely sure what else to say. “I think I get it.”
He tilts his head back and laughs. “You don’t get it. You still hate that I’ve become the thing you despise, but I appreciate you not being your usual, less than supportive self about it.”
“Ouch,” I say, dropping his hand. “No need to be a bastard about it.”
“No, no, Luce, I’m not. Let’s not forget you’re still pissed at me for taking money from Luca. Let’s also not forget that we need to have a conversation.”
“What have we been doing for the past few minutes?”
“Talking around the thing that we need to be talking about. I swear, you have all the makings of a politician. Misdirection seems to be a natural talent for you.”
“I’m not misdirecting.”
He raises an eyebrow at me, and I roll my eyes, sighing.
“Okay, Fine. Maybe I am slightly, but I need to plan. I need to keep you safe. I need to—”
“I need to tell you what happened, why I left.”
I pause, mid-sentence, how can I reply? This is what I’ve been wanting the answer to. The very simple question of why.
“Before you say anything more,” I say clumsily, “can I just…can I just say I don’t blame you.”
“You do, Cookie,” he says through a tight smile, meeting my eyes briefly before dropping them down to the amber liquid in his crystal glass that he swirls around.
“It’s okay to blame me. I blame me, but I know it’s not my fault.”
I don’t say anything, I just listen and watch the emotions play out on his beautiful, stupid face.
“It took me a long time to come to terms with that. When you told me what happened earlier—”
“I shouldn’t have told you how I did,” I admit, shame washing over me.
“No, you shouldn’t. But you wanted to hurt me.
” He shrugs. “Andrews isn’t the only person who can read people.
And you forget, Cookie, I can read you the best. You wanted to hurt me, and you did.
You fucking ripped out my heart when you told me, and I went straight back to blaming myself.
I will always blame myself, even as half of my brain tells me that it’s not my fault. He’d have found a way eventually.”
I can’t meet the intensity of his eyes this time, so I drop his gaze, picking off an invisible lint from his jeans. Not from my own leggings, because still, even as he lays himself bare and starts to tell me the thing I’m desperate to hear, I can’t not touch him.
“I would have done everything in my power to stop him—”
“And you would have gotten yourself killed.”
“Probably.” He shrugs. “But being dead is better than the guilt and what ifs I’ve spent years asking myself. If I knew he would take it that far, I’d have gladly killed him.”
“Do you know what happened to Maria?”
Owen stares at me, biting his lip.
“What?”
“She’s doing well.”
“You see her?”
What. The. Fuck.
He holds out his hands to placate me, but anger rushes through me. Hot and acidic.
“Calm down, Luce.”
“You sought her out, but not me.”
Why am I angry? I didn’t search him out, either.
“Fuck’s sake.” He pinches his nose. “Of course, I fucking did. You’re always so quick to attack!” he snaps and gulps down the whiskey in one swallow. “Why do you always make me the villain? Is it easier for you?”
“Fuck off,” I say, scrambling off the bed as gracefully as a jellyfish. “You left me,” I spit.
He drags both hands through his hair, gripping at the roots before dropping them like the weight of holding them is too much to bear.
“You need to stop. You need to stop blaming me. Stop repeating the same shit because you’re too fucking scared to talk to me like an adult.”
His voice cracks slightly before he pulls it back, anger sharpening every word.
“We need to have this fucking conversation, regardless of how uncomfortable and shitty it makes us feel.”
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t storm out or raise his voice. He sits there, every muscle tightly coiled like a spring, ready to explode. Jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together with nothing but willpower.
And his eyes burn into mine—begging me to meet him halfway, but knows I won’t
And me? I do what I do best.
Attack, block, and run.
I stare at Owen, at the man he’s become, and catch my reflection in the mirror.
We are complete opposites. He has turned the pain of the past and made peace with it.
Maybe that’s why he found Maria. But I didn’t.
I may tell myself I buried Lucy. Sure, I did, but I didn’t put her to rest. I just literally buried her, pretended she didn’t exist, and threw myself into my new life.
I never came to terms with what happened, never dealt with it, never had closure.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I can’t do it.
I can’t have this conversation, because hating him is easier for me. I can’t face the demons of the past. I can’t, not with him sitting on that bed judging me.
“Lucy. Please.” His eyes search mine, watching the turmoil run over my face as I inwardly argue with myself.
I do need to hear what he has to say.
I do need to listen.
I do need to have this conversation regardless of how uncomfortable it makes me feel.
Because I do need to leave the past where it is—the past.
But I can’t.
I’m a fucking coward. Because the fear of finding out the actual truth terrifies me.
What if it was because of me? Because of us sleeping with each other? Maybe he got sick of everything, including me.
What if, what if, what if.
“Cookie.” His voice is soft, beseeching, but I’m shaking my head. I’m taking steps back away from the bed. Owen shifts. He’s on his knees, reaching for me, but tears are in my eyes, emotion is clogging my throat, and I’m backing away like a timid cat.
A stray, timid, broken cat. A scraggly one that no one wants.
I belong with Andrews, in this life. Not with Owen in bed. Where its light, and beige, and comfy.
I belong in the shadows.
Where I can attack, block, and most importantly, run.