Chapter Fourteen
Millie
M y head is too heavy. And every time I move, I'm rewarded with shock waves of hurt that echo through my brain like a pulse. I keep trying to lift my head, but then the pain defeats me, and I settle back down on the pillow. Whimpering, I find my throat raw and gritty. I also have a growing awareness that I'm not in my bed at Roisin's. The mattress is too firm, the sheets too crisp, and the air smells unfamiliar. My heart races, and I shoot up suddenly, crying out at the stabbing in my skull.
I glance around the room. It's modern, the walls a shocking white but decorated with monochrome photos and ebony furniture. I'm breathing rapidly when I turn my head, seeing through the gaps in the blinds that I'm high above the city. I lean back into the bed. Each movement finds something else that hurts.
Fear grips me, numbing the pain of the hangover for a moment as I try to process where I am and how I got here. And, more importantly, who brought me here?
On the bedside table next to me, I spot a large glass of water and a packet of painkillers. A small Post-it note attached to the glass reads, 'Drink me.' The cursive handwriting is elegant and old-fashioned, as if I were in an Alice in Wonderland-inspired horror story. I'm about to drink when I stop myself. As tempting as the water and painkillers look to my parched throat and throbbing head, it's not a risk worth taking.
Next to the glass is my phone, which someone has plugged in to charge. I check it briefly and cringe at message after message from a panicked Roisin. I send her a quick apology text and a promise to explain later. Then I switch off the phone before the inevitable call that would come as soon as she'd read my message.
There was nothing more from Chloe after she sent me the message before they left.
I lie back down in the bed, trying to stop the building panic and my racing heartbeat. How had I got here? Who's flat was this? I fought the temptation just to bolt out of the room and out of the building, but I had no idea who was outside that door. And what they wanted. The thought made my blood turn to ice.
Millie … just breathe.
Slowly, I try to take my mind back, step by step, to piece together what happened last night, putting the broken images together until the full puzzle picture emerges. The club comes back to me, the smells of spilt alcohol, stale aftershave, the sticky dancefloor and the heat of the lights beating down on me. Of Chloe, Marnie and Samira.
They'd left me.
The thought feels like a punch to the gut. It makes me feel small like my skin is too tight for me, itchy with shame. Then, steel eyes slam into my mind. That smile. That potently charming smile. Those dark, silky strands falling across his forehead I'd desperately wanted to run my fingers through.
He'd kissed me.
My hand goes automatically to my lips as those sepia-toned memories soften the shards of my fear. His hands gripping my waist, the way his lips pressed against my ear as he spoke to me. I shiver.
Jackson. His name was Jackson, and he'd brought me here.
I remember the sense of being left, of icy wind and alcohol working on me as I sat outside the club. The faint memory of unimpressed-looking bouncers, of feeling ashamed and scared, but those were feelings felt through a vacuum. Like echoes of feelings. Jackson helping me into the car, us stumbling through the loud, echoing hallway, his strong arms holding me up. The first boy I'd felt a connection with in forever, and what had I done? I'd got so drunk he'd had to chuck me over his shoulder fireman-style because I was too messed up to walk.
I bite my lip hard, hard enough to taste blood and run my hands through hair that was knotted, the roots greasy. Who was Jackson Mort? As the memories of our talk at the bar return, I think of the contradiction of him. The perfect slick smile, the lies bursting like fireworks in his eyes. But then the mask had slipped. A softer man, a warmer one, had cut through. It was this Jackson I'd felt a connection with. It was him I trusted.
But which one had brought me here? And who needs to go to such lengths to conceal themselves? To hide their soul? My mind rolled and coiled like a wave, battling against my gut. I couldn't trust myself right now, not in this state. I certainly shouldn't trust a stranger, no matter how good a kisser he is or how good his intentions may be.
Groaning, I sit back up, looking down at myself. My shoes are gone, and I faintly remember wearing an oversized jacket, but that's gone, too. I'm still wearing the dress, though it hitched high on my thighs, and I have a sickening memory of Jackson glimpsing my underwear. Heat rushes to my face.
I notice an open door in the corner of the room leading to a gleaming white bathroom. I faintly remember running into that bathroom, my knees hitting the cold tile as I threw up the remains of my stomach. With a moan, I drag myself out of bed and into the small room. When I switch on the bright light, my reflection makes me cry out.
My hair is wild, pieces shooting around my head like a frizzy halo. My red lipstick is smeared across my mouth, and my eyes are sticky and small with black makeup. Another Post-it is stuck to the mirror. It reads 'You look gorgeous'. I roll my eyes. If this is his attempt at early morning cuteness, it's failing on me. I screw it up and throw it pointedly into the bin.
Trying to clean myself up, I wash away the day-old makeup and struggle to tame the rat's nest on my head. The cold water, as it hits my face, is soothing. After around ten minutes, I look close to presentable, or at least I look less like a creature from a horror film.
Back in the room, I eye the pile of belongings, mainly mine, on a chair in the corner. There’s another Post-it; I don't even bother to read that one. The pile contains Mum's leather jacket, a men's pair of joggers and a large white T-shirt. As much as I'm still unsure about Jackson's intentions, looking down at my tight, itchy dress, I feel grateful for the change of clothes. If nothing else, it'll be easier to make a getaway. Wearing fresh clothes and having cleaned up, I know I need to face him. Grimacing, I take one last look in the mirror, feeling like I'm heading to my doom. Or, depending on his intentions, maybe his.
Stalking carefully through the long hallway, my feet sink into the thick silver-grey carpet as I take in the photos hanging from the walls. I try to keep myself sharp, aware that I have no idea what I'm about to face, but I can't help it. They fascinate me. My own interest in photography is more about people than architecture, but the photos are beautiful. The way the light shatters through the harsh lines of the buildings. The modern glass structures are next to historic ones. I've never left England, and the photos are of shapes and lines rather than complete buildings, but I think the images are of Paris. I spot lines that remind me of the Louvre, crumbling gargoyles from Notre Dame, and the engraved padlocks from the Pont des Arts bridge.
I stop to stare at a photo, finding myself taken to Paris, imaging that dawn light hitting me at that very spot. Mum always wanted to go to France. Roisin had planned to surprise her, but then the cancer had advanced, and the tickets went unused. I feel the familiar ache in my chest, like every time I thought of Mum. I didn't just remember that she'd died. I never really forgot, but I had to feel her dying all over again.
The symptoms of my hangover seem to return with full force as I take steps toward the growing sound and sweet smells of a kitchen. The noise of pans hitting a surface, of loud sizzling and humming.
Of Jackson humming.
I'm at the end of the hall. As the sounds and smells increase, so does the tension in my stomach. My heart hammers in my chest like a power drill. I glance around, looking for something, anything, that might make walking into that room feel like a more sensible idea. A chunky metal lamp rests on a black side table next to more photos of Paris. Still not a single shot of a person. No awkward family photos, no candid holiday pictures. Nothing.
It makes my mind up for me.
As silently as I can manoeuvre, I unplug the lamp. It's heavy, awkwardly so, but I'm pretty sure heavy is good for smashing in a potential attacker's skull. I close my eyes and take one deep, calming breath. I have one thought repeating in my mind—please don't be an arsehole.
The beating in my chest speeds up as I step out of the hallway and into a large open-plan front room and kitchen. Like everything I've seen so far, the place is modern and styled in black and white. A large window that makes up the front of the flat shows a vast expanse of the city. The kitchen is on the far side of the flat. Sleek black tiles coat the wall, broken up by flashes of red kitchenware. Pots and pans hang stylishly above a centre island of more black tiles. Everything here was thoroughly thought about. The Jackson I'd spoken to at the bar was charming—charming enough for me to know that he could make anyone believe anything he wanted them to. I couldn't help but feel the person he was convincing with this stylish space was himself.
I grip the lamp tighter, holding it against my hip. The thick carpet muffles my footsteps, slowing them down.
He was cooking, frying something in a pan. With his back towards me, I could tell from the gentle nod of his head that he was singing to himself. The sight made me want to smile, even as I was focused on being cautious. And the sight of his pale grey T-shirt straining across the muscles in his back made me want to do a lot more than smile.
“Morning, I wasn't sure if I should wake you up?” He turns his head and shoots me one of those adorable smiles; then his head dips, and he spots the lamp. I feel ridiculous but also entirely justified. My lips tighten as he tilts his head. “I wasn't expecting the lamp… you didn't spot the Post-it on the cricket bat, I take it?”
“What?” I snap. The foggy feeling of my hangover was stalling my brain, making any response feel like it's being dragged out of treacle. My resolve is cracking. That smile of his … but Mum didn't raise a girl dumb enough to trust a man just because of a cute smile. But I wish I could just give in to my instinct to trust him.
“Why am I here? What … happened?”
He sighs, the smile dipping slightly. He turns back to his cooking, pausing before speaking.
“You were drunk, your asshole friends left you. I tried to get an address out of you, but …” He turns back, meeting my eyes, and I see doubt. Fear. It makes my grip on the lamp loosen slightly. I can resist the charm, but his vulnerability? That is something I can't resist. “I should have taken you to the police station. That's the usual policy … I'm sorry, Millie. I messed up. I didn't mean to scare you.”
Swallowing, I make a point of meandering to a nearby table to place the lamp down.
“I remember enough. I know nothing happened. I just …”
“You don't know me. That's fair.” I hate how much I've softened in the few moments I've stood here talking to him. My body feels awkward, my limbs like jelly, and I fidget on my feet, wrapping my arms across my chest. I'm making it too easy for him, and I won't have that.
“And the Post-its were dumb.”
He laughs at that, a deep belly laugh that's irresistible and infectious. My cheeks heat, and I glance down at my feet. I like making him laugh. I really like it.
“Thank you for looking out for me last night.”
He smiles and then nods, his eyes still lingering on me, making me feel like I'm under a spotlight—but in a good way.
“You're welcome. Are you hungry? I'm making pancakes.”
I nod and amble to the kitchen, slipping onto a stool by the centre island, which gives me the perfect view of Jackson's toned shoulders as he cooks. I notice a plate before me—a steaming pile of golden pancakes with small bowls of chopped fruit by its side.
“You do this for all the girls you have over? Strawberries? Honey?” I look over at the array and smile at him. He watches me as I pop a strawberry between my lips. I was teasing, but his eyes are looking at my mouth hungrily enough to make me blush.
“Still going to give me a hard time, huh?”
“Still avoiding questions, huh?”
He laughs again. Oh god, I could get used to that laugh.
“OK, OK. I have been known to make breakfast … why? You impressed?”
Shrugging, I pretend to focus on the food. I'm not na?ve enough to think I was the first person he'd done this for, but I can't help but wish I was. As he continues to cook, I stand up and walk around the room, taking in more photos of Paris, lots of beautiful architecture but still no photos of family or friends.
“Is it Paris you love? Or just architecture?”
“Un homme ne peut-il pas aimer les deux?”
I turn and look at him. He's placing more pancakes on the pile and watching me.
“Sorry, I don't … you speak French?”
“I am French, or I was. I lived in Paris a long time ago. I said … can't a man love both?”
Maybe it's the smog created by my pounding head, but something about what he says doesn't make sense to me. I can sense how carefully he's considering what he's saying. I can feel the absence between the words.
“How old are you?” I watch him as he places more bowls of fruit on the island and pulls out a stool for me to sit down. The move is seamless. I can't tell if he's being an old-fashioned gentleman or just playful. His eyes are sparkling as if he can read my mind.
“Twenty-one. Come on, sit.”
I walk over and sit down, marvelling at the lavish spread and suddenly aware of how empty my stomach feels. Suddenly, he dashes back into the kitchen, returning with glasses and juice.
“Something tells me you didn't drink the water I left you?” He grins as he places it before me and then pours the bright liquid into my glass.
“Of course not.”
He chuckles and shakes his head, still grinning.
“Thank you. This looks amazing. You've obviously had a lot of practice.”
He raises an eyebrow, and I fail to stop my lips from quirking. I pile chopped bananas, nuts and syrup on my pancakes and dive straight in.
He watches me for a moment, the corners of his mouth curling.
“Sorry, I'm starving.” I laugh, though I know my cheeks are flushed pink.
“Enjoy it. There's probably not a lot left in your stomach …” His eyes crinkle mischievously, and I groan, putting my head in my hands.
“Please tell me you didn't see me throw up? It's bad enough knowing you had to carry me up here.”
He laughs, and it's a musical chuckle.
“No, but the walls here are pretty thin.” I put my head in my hands, not wanting to look at him.
“Ughhhhh. Anything else you want to tell me? Can we get all the humiliation out of the way in one go?”
“You had too much to drink. It happens. Don't beat yourself up about it.” He shrugs casually and pops a piece of fruit in his mouth.
“Thanks, but it wasn't exactly how I wanted my night to go.” I smile at him, and he looks at me long enough and hard enough for me to turn away.
“But it goes that way more often than you'd think. Trust me, I see it every night at Worship.”
I quickly swallow a mouthful of pancakes, hurriedly wanting to ask a question that has been bothering me.
“How does a twenty-one-year-old own a nightclub? Or live somewhere like this?” I raise my hands, my eyes looking around the lush space once again.
He smiles, his teeth straight and white. He leans back in his chair, entirely comfortable and unaffected by my questions.
“I don't own Worship alone; it's a joint venture … so to speak. And the reason I own a nightclub is the same reason I live here. I work for my family's company, and it's a successful company. It makes money, so I make money.”
He says all this with such nonchalance that we may have been talking about the weather. He wasn't bragging, nor was he being humble. I liked how easily he spoke about his wealth. Like it was just a fact, like the colour of his hair.
“What does the company do?”
“Ummm … funerals. We're in the business of death.”
For the first time, there's a flicker of distaste on his lips even as he makes his joke. My stomach hardens, and I can't help but think of Mum's funeral. Exactly how she wanted it, yet not really anything to do with her at all.
“Funerals aren't for the dead. I'd say your business is for the living.”
He smiles sadly at me, nodding his head in approval.
“That's true, I suppose. Though only people who've lost someone tend to realise that.”
He's looking at me, those metallic eyes almost black in their intensity. I don't want to talk about Mum, but at the same time, she's the only thing I want to talk about.
“My mum passed away at the beginning of the summer. She was sick for a long time, and I was her carer. And I don't … I don't really know what I'm supposed to be doing now.” I laugh, but I can feel the prickles of tears behind my eyes. I don't look up at him straight away. I want a moment before I look into the face of another person who's awkwardly trying to think of the right thing to say or, worse, knows precisely what to say because they've rehearsed it.
“I'm sorry Millie.” His voice is soft, sincere in its sadness. When I look into his eyes I see pain, his own or a reflection of mine I'm not sure, but it's deep and heartfelt. I feel genuinely better for having told him and it's a new feeling. I smile or try to.
“Thank you, Jackson.”
He nods and clears up the empty plates. I watch him for a few moments, just allowing the grace of his movements to distract me from the crushing sensation in my chest that's warring with the hangover.
When he speaks, he does it with his back to me, his voice slightly pained.
“People will tell you it gets easier, or the pain gets less. It doesn't. It's more that you'll get stronger, that you'll use that strength to build a shell around the pain. Time doesn't change anything; it's you who changes.”
He turns to me, his face serious and haunted.
“Who did you lose?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“My maman.” His lips curl at the corner, a smile that makes his face even sadder. “I was thirteen. My dad left after I was born, so it had always just been us.”
“I'm so sorry, Jackson.” My heart breaks for him. I want to get up and pull him into my arms. I ache to touch him, but I don't. Something stops me. “Is that when you moved to England?”
“Not long after.” He shrugs, and with the plates all cleared, he turns to me, leaning against the gleaming marble of the kitchen surface. The glossy grin has returned, and I know our conversation about his mum's death is over. I won't push. I don't need to know more. I already know how he feels.
“I think it's time for me to drive you home then, gorgeous.”
I smile, though it's forced. “Yeah, I should probably get going.”
As he turns away to grab his car keys, my face drops. I'm not ready to go. I'm not ready to leave him yet.