Chapter 18
You think about me?
Rafe
“Bloody hell,” I muttered as the pounding on the door started again. To my annoyance, Clara, who had been snuggled into my side like a kitten, sat bolt upright on the sofa. “Ignore it,” I told her, wrapping my arm around her to encourage her to lie back down against me.
“What?” she squeaked, her eyes flying wide as the banging started again. “You can’t just ignore it!”
“Buggering bollocks,” I snapped. “Listen, I can ignore it if I know exactly who it is. It’s nearly midnight on a Saturday night. She can bugger off.”
“B-b-b-but—” she stammered, looking between me and the living room exit.
The small slither of fear that entered her expression made my chest tighten with anger.
The forgot-her-key-again door banger was scaring Clara.
“I’m going to kill her,” I muttered under my breath as I stood from the sofa, lifting Clara with me and then taking her hand to pull her to the front door.
After another string of bangs, which had Clara flinching at my side, I typed in the security code, flipped the lock and yanked open the solid wood all one-handed, keeping Clara’s hand securely in mine.
But then I had to let go of Clara’s hand in order to catch the mad whirlwind of blonde hair and sequined dress that flew at me through the front door.
“Careful, mate,” Rory Wallace’s deep voice with his distinctive Scottish accent sounded from my front steps behind the whirlwind. “She might vomit again. I’ve already had to pay the taxi driver off with a hundred quid after she nearly upchucked all over his upholstery. She’s a fucking mess.”
Poppy’s eyes blinked open as she tried to focus on me, then her face went pale. “Oh God!” she muttered.
“Rafe, she’s gonna blow!” Rory shouted.
I deftly turned Poppy away from me to face a priceless vase on a shelf next to the door. Rory moved forward automatically to take her from my arms to his and held Poppy’s vast amount of blonde hair out of the way as she vomited into the vase.
“Christ alive, what the fuck did you do to her, Wallace?” I asked.
“What did I do?” snapped an exhausted-looking Rory. His tie was askew and his suit jacket rumpled. “You need to keep her on a tighter leash, Sterling. She’s completely out of control. Poppy partied too hard, just like she always does.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, mate? Poppy never—”
“Oh, don’t bullshit me, Rafe, I’m far too fucking tired. Poppy always parties too hard. You forget I knew her when she was a teenager, and I’ve seen the articles about her in the years since. Don’t make her out to be some sort of teetotal saint.”
“She’s not teetotal but she certainly doesn’t get in this state, ever.”
“I’ve held her hair back before when she was in this state.”
“That was when she was seventeen, you bastard. People are allowed to be dickheads when they’re seventeen. How many times did you vomit at the same age? We all go through it.”
Rory snorted. “Don’t think I haven’t seen her flashing her knickers at the paparazzi.”
I knew Rory held a grudge against my sister for an interview he gave her after the Rugby World Cup five years ago. I tried not to let it affect our decades long friendship. But this was beyond the pale.
Before that bloody interview, which I still maintain was Rory’s fault anyway, he’d seemed to like Poppy.
In fact, she used to be one of the only humans with the ability to make the dour bastard crack a smile.
But now, when he did see Poppy (which wasn’t often, seeing as she avoided him like the plague), he was cold and dismissive – not an attitude many people adopted with my sister, and certainly not one she was used to.
“You bastard,” I hissed. “She was mortified when that happened. You’ve no idea.”
Poppy groaned. “Honestly, Rafe, just leave it. He’s not gonna believe you anyway and I am something of a fuckwit. We all know that.” She was slurring now but at least she’d managed to stop vomiting.
“Poppy, darling, you’re not a fuckwit,” I said gently as I scowled at Rory and moved to take Poppy from his arms, but for some reason the stubborn bastard wasn’t letting her go.
“If she’s such a fucking inconvenience, Wallace, let me look after her and piss off,” I told him.
“Sh-sh-she’s hurt,” I heard Clara’s voice from behind me. Rory’s gaze shot from Poppy to Clara, and his eyebrows went up in surprise. “Y-y-you hurt her,” Clara’s voice was rising now, and I could hear the fury in her tone despite her stutter.
“What?” Rory frowned, shaking his head. “I dinnae––”
“She’s hurt!” Clara shouted, shocking the absolute shit out of me. I abandoned Poppy to turn to Clara, who was bright red in the face. Her arms were straight down by her sides with her hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles were white.
“What?” Rory asked in confusion. “She’s not… oh Christ!”
I turned back to Rory and Poppy. He was still holding her up with one arm, the other coming up to stroke her hair back from her face.
There was a small trickle of blood now seeping from her hairline onto the pale skin of her cheek.
It was at that point that I’d had enough.
I used the opportunity of his loosened grip around her to pull her away from him, holding her up in my arms instead.
“What are you playing at, Wallace?” I snapped, my voice rising. “You bring my sister home in this state and you didn’t even know she was hurt—”
Rory stepped towards us, his face stricken and reached for Poppy again, but Clara leapt in front of me and Poppy, bristling with anger.
“Get away from her!” she shouted, standing toe-to-toe with Rory now, her small fists still clenched at her side.
She was shaking, whether it was from anger or fear I couldn’t tell.
The absurdity of tiny Clara facing off with Rory Wallace, who was six foot four and had played rugby for Scotland for over ten years, was beyond ridiculous, but she looked fully ready to throw down to protect my sister.
“Clara, it’s okay,” I said softly. “Rory’s not going to hurt Poppy. She’s safe.”
“You don’t know that!” Clara was still shouting as she turned to me, but her voice was shaky and there were unshed tears in her eyes now. She spun back to Rory. “You hurt her,” she said louder now.
“I dinnae hurt or touch her, lass,” he said. “I promise I looked after her. I dinnae know she’d been hurt.”
“Out!” she shouted, trying to puff herself up in the face of their size difference, but it was clearly a losing battle. “You shouldn’t hurt people! You shouldn’t… she’s bleeding!”
“He didn’t hurt me,” Poppy slurred. “S’okay, hun.”
“Clara, darling, come away from the door,” I said, still in a soft, careful voice. “Rory, I think you better leave.”
“Her head,” Rory said weakly. “I – Rafe, I’m sorry, I dinnae know—”
“I fell and hit a table,” Poppy said, “because I’m a fuckwit.”
Her voice was weird and slurred. I was beginning to really worry now. This kind of thing hadn’t happened with Poppy for years. I hadn’t been lying when I said she barely ever drank like this nowadays.
“Poppy, I just—” Rory started but I was done.
“Just fuck off, Rory,” I said.
“Please let me know she’s okay,” he pleaded, catching my arm as I went to close the door. “Just text me or something. Let me know she’s alright.”
I knew full well the disdain Rory held for Poppy. He wasn’t going to trick me with his fake concern. He’d already turned up here and bitched about what a burden she’d been, as if she was still just the fuckwitted teenager she once was.
“What do you care? You’ve made it clear over the last five years that Poppy’s the last person you give a shit about. Just leave Rory.”
I slammed the door in his face then and Poppy’s body slumped against me as she let out a small groan. “Rafeeeeey, I feel all squiggly,” she sing-songed.
“Oh, Pops,” I said as I made my way through to the kitchen, half-carrying my sister with Clara following behind us. “What on earth happened, darling? You can’t stand Rory. And you never get drunk nowadays.”
“Sorry,” Poppy sniffled, as a tear made its way down her cheek. “I was nervous. You know how Rory makes me nervous.” I put her down into one of the kitchen chairs and she slumped over the table, then looked up at Clara. “You must think I’m a total loser.”
“Of course I don’t,” Clara said fiercely, squatting down in front of Poppy and taking her hand. “I would never think that.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and stared down at my sister.
There was a twelve-year age gap between me and Poppy.
And at twenty-five, she was still considered the baby of the family.
We all loved and indulged Poppy to an almost ridiculous degree.
Of course, that meant she could have grown into a spoilt nightmare, but my sister never behaved like that.
Yes, she lived her life as if she was the main character and the world revolved around her, but not necessarily in a bad way.
Poppy was the kindest girl I knew. She’d had a wild phase in her late teens, but it had all been exaggerated by the papers.
The paps always seemed to catch her at bad moments and would make all sorts of stories up about her.
But, Poppy being Poppy, she’d turned all that media attention into a vehicle to benefit the Sterling Foundation, our family’s charitable trust. There was nobody who could organise a party like Poppy.
The more famous she got, the more opportunities came her way.
She now split her time between event organising for the foundation, and interviewing celebrities for all the broadcasters that used to pan her.
“Do you have a first aid kit?” said Clara softly as she stood up to face me, still keeping Poppy’s hand in hers.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “Pops, you’re not going to be sick again, are you?”
“I’m fine, Rafey Bafey,” muttered Poppy as she rested her head back against the chair. I patted her shoulder a couple of times and then moved away to go and grab the first aid kit, leaving Clara to keep an eye on her.
Bloody hell, this was not how I envisaged this evening going.
After Clara had finally relaxed into me in the office and let me hold her, we’d sat like that for a long while before I heard her stomach grumble.
There was no way I was going to let Clara go hungry, not with how underweight she still was.
So I lifted her up in my arms and carried her into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” she’d asked. “I can walk.”
I’d grinned down at her. “I know, but this is quicker. Your legs are too short.”
She smacked my chest and frowned up at me. “That’s bloody rude,” she said as I popped her onto one of the kitchen stools.
“I know,” I said, kissing her nose. “Now sit here, shorty, while I make you dinner.”
“You can cook?” she asked, her eyebrows going up in disbelief.
“I’m a very good cook,” I said indignantly. This was a lie. I could heat up Martha’s food and I could boil pasta, but that was about it. Luckily, I had pasta and a jar of pesto – a meal even I would struggle to fuck up.
“Lord Sterling,” Clara called tentatively, “can I ask you a question?”
I held back a sigh. After what we just did in my study, I had hoped she might be a little less shy. Asking permission to ask a question and not even using my first name was not exactly progress.
“Clara, baby,” I said, moving over to where she was sitting on a kitchen stool and then spinning the stool to face me.
It was a sudden movement and caused her hands to fly to my chest to steady herself which worked perfectly to my advantage.
“I think now you can stop asking permission to speak. And, for the love of God, please, please call me Rafe.”
She bit her lip. “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, Rafe,” she whispered at my chest.
“Now, what was your question, sweetheart?”
“Er… right. I just… I’m not sure what this means… between us.”
I reached up, cupping her face with both my hands at her jaw to tilt it so her eyes met mine, as my fingers went into her soft hair. “I really, really like you, Clara. That’s what this means. Those dirty little fantasies you had about me––”
“Gah! I really shouldn’t have told you about––”
“Baby, times those fantasies by a factor of a hundred, add in a lot more creativity and you’ll have something approaching the torture I’ve endured. I think about you all the time. It’s inappropriate as fuck, but I’ve gone way beyond caring about that now.”
Her eyes were wide as she stared up at me. “You think about me?” she whispered, and I smiled.
“All the time,” I whispered back before pressing a soft kiss on her mouth. “Now, stop distracting me, woman, and I’ll feed you.”
The banging started after I’d fed Clara and convinced her to snuggle into my side on the sofa.
Considering all of that took a great deal of effort and persuasion, I was not best pleased to have my peace disturbed.
I’d known it was Poppy; she was renowned for forgetting her key and for coming back here to stay if she was on a night out and didn’t want to wake up Granny (Poppy lived in a wing of Granny’s house and whilst the property was vast, my granny had bat ears).
But now, with blood trickling down my sister’s forehead, my annoyance was replaced with concern.
“Okay,” said Clara quietly as she settled the first aid kit next to Poppy on the kitchen table, took out the surgical spirit and dabbed a sterile cotton pad with it. “This will sting a little bit, Poppy, alright?”
“Hit me, babe,” slurred Poppy. “It’s fine.”
She flinched slightly as Clara gently cleaned the crusted blood away from her scalp.
“This is good,” said Clara. “You won’t need any stitches for this. It’s really small, and the edges are opposed. You’ll have to be careful washing your hair, but otherwise you should be fine.”
“You a nurse as well as a teacher, babe?” asked Poppy blearily.
Clara laughed. “Not a nurse, I just… well, I’ve patched up a few people in my time.”
That comment got my attention. I gave her a sharp look, but she was too busy cleaning up my sister to notice.