Chapter 10
JADE
Wrapping a fluffy purple bath towel around me, I stalk back to my room, grumbling. Fuck Sebastian. He’s trouble with a capital T.
I can’t believe I asked if I’d see him again and then simpered when he touched my cheek. Cringe. And him turning up naked in my shower!
It’s bad enough that I have to deal with living in the past without developing a crush on a bloody horny devil.
I need to stomp firmly on any lovey-dovey notions I’m forming.
Tonight will definitely be the last time I see him.
Maybe I’ll scratch him a little, piss him off, and he’ll go away.
But seeing how he liked my roughhousing on his cock, he’d probably enjoy that.
When I’m dressed in my nod-to-the-’80s all-black outfit, I follow my nose to the kitchen, where I’m greeted with a pink-and-white tablecloth laid with plates and cutlery. A slim girl with a bouncy high ponytail is frying something in a pan on the stove.
She turns as I enter the kitchen, and a pair of gentle brown eyes peer at me from under a lightly teased fringe. ‘Morning, Jadey!’ she chirrups and leaves her station to give me a hug. She smells like sugar and flowers.
This must be Rach.
Fingering the ends of my wet hair, which I’ve hastily combed, she tuts. ‘Why didn’t you use the shower cap? You can’t go into work on your first day with wet hair. Never mind, I’ll dry it and crimp it for you after breakfast.’
‘Ah, thanks, Mum,’ I reply as she pushes me into the nearest seat.
Rach smiles and returns to the stove. ‘Breakfast is almost ready.’
A delicious savoury smell floats from the pan, making my mouth water.
Perhaps I’m spacing out from the lack of food, but this all feels really surreal, like I’m in a waking dream.
This girl seems like she’s from a different planet, so sweet and homely.
She cooks! I wonder what she does for work.
Or does she float around the house all day, adjusting cushions?
‘Where’s Kiki?’ I ask as Rach slides two perfectly cooked pieces of French toast onto a brown-and-white flowered stoneware plate and sets it down in front of me.
Rach waves a hand. ‘She said not to wait as she’s doing her Jane Fonda workout in the lounge. So please, dig in.’ Not needing to be told twice, I add a chunk of butter to the hot toast and pour over a generous dollop of syrup from a glass jug.
It’s weird, I feel completely at ease here, but also like I’m in a stranger’s body and flat. The food is real anyway. Sebastian was right: French toast is my favourite. The first melty mouthful makes me groan out loud.
‘Good?’ Rach glances over her shoulder with a pleased look on her face.
‘Sooo good. Thank you.’ With a sigh, I cut up the fragrant golden-brown toast, stuff several pieces into my gob, and chew contentedly.
I could get used to having a proper sit-down breakfast every morning.
Or maybe that’s what Sebastian wants: to tempt me into being a glutton, as well as having sex with him.
What other deadly sins are there besides lust and greed?
I’m sure one of them is wrath, and I may have already succumbed to that several times since meeting him.
Not to mention lying about being a virgin.
Rach joins me at the table with her own breakfast and clocks my pensive frown. ‘You look lost in thought over there. Worrying about your first day?’ she asks kindly.
‘Yes, something like that,’ I reply, watching as she cuts a dainty slice of butter and trickles a suggestion of syrup over her toast. How did Sebastian arrange all this? And how did he know about me liking French toast? Is Rach in cahoots with him?
I can’t believe I’m thinking that; she’s way too sweet and innocent to be a devil’s pawn.
Another thing I’m reluctant to admit Sebastian is right about is me wanting to be a journalist. I’ve always wanted to be one. I’m the kid who interviewed my Barbie dolls when I was 10.
But a pop star journalist is cutting it a bit close to the bone.
My father was a member of an ’80s band, and my mother was some groupie he slept with.
Both of them are now recovering alcoholics and drug addicts.
I say ‘recovering’, but with all the falling off their respective wagons they do and simultaneously attempting to prop each other up, I tend to keep away from them as much as possible.
They live in a semi-detached in Brixton and are much too busy with their own fucked-up lives to worry much about me.
A horrific thought hits me as I’m getting ready to leave the flat. And it’s not the fact that I have to be seen in public with crimped hair. I don’t know much about Dad’s rise to fame or who he talked to back then. I only know his band, Echo Ministry, made him a millionaire at a young age.
I groan out loud. Surely I’m not going to run into my own father like some bad Back to the Future remake? That would be the kind of thing a mischievous devil would do, but it wouldn’t be cool—it would bite big time.