2. Lockheart
LOCKHEART
SIX YEARS EARLIER…
The birds are chirping as I wake with a smile on my face. I spent the entire weekend licking, sucking, nipping and kissing every inch of Nicole’s skin, and I’m not sorry about any of it. The only part I regret is it being over.
We’ve fallen into a comfortable routine over the past two months. We see each other nearly every night during the week and any weekend I don’t have football. We’ve talked about everything. Even had the awkward conversation about contraceptives seeing as I didn’t use any during that first time.
I’ve never done that before, but I guess I got lost in the moment. Thankfully she’s got an implant, and we’ve both tested negative for STIs, so we don’t have anything to worry about.
Once we got that little uncomfortable bit out of the way, everything else has been easy.
I’ve told her things I’ve never told anyone before.
We’ve also shared what our childhoods were like, favourite colours, and all the bits in between.
I know her dad’s British, her mum's American, and she only moved back to England with her dad after her mum died.
Our shared grief bringing us even closer together, I let her fully into my world when I told her how alone I felt after mine died. My mum was all I had.
Her dad sounds like a waste of fucking space. An alcoholic, gambling addict who treats her like shit. When she told me about him, I wanted to kill him. But then she did a thing with her tongue, tracing each of my piercings, and I forgot my own name.
I trust her. I’m normally so sceptical about people, figuring everyone’s got an angle, something they want to gain from being seen with me.
But when I look into her eyes, I know there’s nothing like that on her agenda.
For some unknown reason, she likes my grumpy arse and not my bank balance.
She doesn’t want fancy things bought for her, isn’t interested in going out to the most expensive restaurants, she just wants to spend as much time with me as she can.
My mum's voice whispers in the back of my mind, ‘When you know, son, you just know.’ And with Nicole, I know.
I roll on to my side with a frown on my face when I realise Nicole’s side of the bed is empty. Shooting up quickly from the mattress, I scan the room for any hint she’s still here. When the sounds of the shower running catch my attention I breathe a sigh of relief. She’s still here.
As the panic subsides, I run my hand over my face and blow out a relieved breath.
Every time I wake and find her not next to me I think she’s left.
I’m constantly waiting for it all to go wrong.
And I need to stop. I don’t fully believe in all that manifesting crap like Marcello does, but I’m worried my constant negative thoughts may put some bad juju in the universe when it comes to us.
I mean, it doesn’t help that apart from her name and where she came from I don’t know a lot about her life now.
She’s told me about her past, but her daily routine when she’s not with me is unknown.
I don’t know where she lives or where she works, just that she’s a receptionist whilst trying to get her writing career off the ground.
And whenever I ask to pick her up from work or home, she makes an excuse.
I figure it’s because she works in a dump and lives in one too.
She’s proud and doesn’t want me to see where she temporarily is in her life because she wants more.
And while I admire that, I’ve also explained I was raised by a single mum.
My dad was never on the scene, slithered back to Spain like the snake he was as soon as he knew my mum was pregnant with me.
She scraped by on a minimum wage job before I made it big.
There’d be no judgement from me, but I understand why Nicole feels embarrassed.
It kind of makes me respect her even more.
A faint buzzing sound coming from the floor of the room distracts me from my thoughts and I realise it’s her phone.
“Nico, your phone’s ringing.” I don’t know if she can hear me or not, but after a few seconds the buzzing stops and I lay back on the pillows and reach over to the dresser to grab my own phone.
A message from my agent grabs my attention and I click the link he sent.
I sit up straighter as I’m redirected to a trashy newspaper article.
I’m about to rip Phillip a new one for sending me drivel, when my name catches my eye.
Fuck. I scroll down and see another fucking story written about me.
But this time it’s all bullshit. Some woman claiming she slept with me two weeks ago.
A scoff leaves my lips as a sudden panic grips me. Shit. I need to show Nicole and let her know it’s all bollocks.
I scramble out of the bed and rush into the bathroom. “Nico.” My voice is urgent and she pokes her head out of the shower, concern flickering over her features as droplets of water fall off her lashes.
“What’s the matter?” She switches off the shower and steps out, wrapping a towel around her body—a body I’d normally be devouring but right now I’m ignoring because the fear in my heart that she’ll believe this garbage outranks my need for her.
“Phillip just sent this through. That piece of shit wrote another story about me. But this time it’s a load of fucking rubbish.
” Thrusting the phone into her hand, I step back and run my hand through my hair, tugging on the ends as she inhales sharply.
“Nicole, you have to believe me, it’s all a load of lies.
I’ve never seen this girl before in my life.
” My eyes plead with her to believe me and my tone’s desperate, but I don’t care. She has to believe me.
The colour drains from her face, her bottom lip’s tucked between her teeth and my shoulders sag with the realisation I’m losing her.
“I—this—It’s not possible.” Confusion laces her tone and my head snaps up to look at her.
“It never happened. I swear.” Taking a step closer to her, I’m relieved when her eyes finally focus on me instead of the screen.
“Owen, I know you didn’t do this.” The breath whooshes out of me as I reach out to grab her, but instead she places the phone in my outstretched hand and ducks around me to walk into the bedroom.
Stalking after her, I’m about to ask what the fuck is going on, but I freeze when she drops the towel and strides around the bedroom naked.
My mouth goes dry at the sight of her round arse cheeks but I quickly snap my attention to the fact she's collecting her clothes that are scattered around the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting dressed. I forgot I have a gynae appointment this morning.” She casually throws her jeans on, her top following.
“You’re leaving? Are you sure you’re not mad?” I fold my arms over my chest trying to overshadow the vulnerability in my voice with my actions.
“Owen, I’m not mad with you, I promise. But I do need to leave.” She’s fully dressed, kissing my cheek and out the door before I can do anything.
And instead of pouting, I dial my agent to find out what the fuck he’s doing to fix this shitshow.
Spending an hour on the phone with Phillip didn’t help anything.
It did, however, give me the push I needed to fire his fucking arse and ask Mavericks Elite Sports agency to take me on.
But that’s not enough to soothe the rage flowing through my veins right now.
It’s why I’m outside Mr. Moran’s office, about to storm my way in to tell him I’m suing his motherfucking arse for writing a false story about me.
I should leave it for my lawyers but where’s the fun in that.
I want to see him squirm when he’s face to face with me.
A familiar female voice makes me pause for a second, but a loud shout has me pushing open the door.
“Ah, Mr. Lockheart. What a pleasant surprise. Are you here to give your version of the story?”
A sneer crosses my lips when I take in the smarmy man in a badly fitted suit standing in front of me, figures Mr. Morgan would have no fucking dress sense as well as moral standing, but I’m more shocked to see my Whiskey Girl standing closer to him than I’d like.
Directing my attention to her, my voice is confused but hard. “What are you doing here?”
“I—”
“What a very odd question. She works here. Some of her best stories have been about you. Take this morning’s one for instance—”
I don’t know what else he’s saying, his voice becoming white noise to the pounding in my heart.
She can’t be. My brain searches through all the information it can find, but it’s all jumbled.
Flashes of our meeting, the coincidence of it all, her never letting me know where her office was, our bodies tangled together… it was all a lie. This was her angle.
“Nicole Morgan—Nic Moran. I’m a fucking idiot.” Her eyes snap to mine, begging me to stop, but I ignore her. The power she once held over me with those amber pools is long gone. “You’ll both be hearing from my lawyers.”
Turning my back to them, without another word I storm through the building and out into the open space.
Dragging air into my lungs, I struggle to cope with the realisation that my whole relationship was a fucking lie.
Serves me right for trusting someone. I drag my hand through my hair, straighten up and head for my car.
Once I’m inside, secure in the fact the blacked out windows will shield me from anymore stories being written about me, I rest my head on the steering wheel and let the anguish out in a silent sob.
The passenger door opening and closing grabs my attention as Nicole sits next to me. “Get. The. Fuck. Out.” Biting down on my molars to keep my emotions in check, I refuse to look at her.
“Owen, please. It’s not what you think.” Her voice is filled with anguish, her eyes flashing fear and her hands are clasped together, pleading for me to listen to her, and it all makes my head hurt even more.
A scoff dripping in disdain leaves my mouth as I stare out the windshield. “So you’re not a journalist?”
“Yes, I am.” She wrings her hands together and blows out a breath.
“And you don’t work for this newspaper?” I motion to the building outside of my window, still refusing to meet her eyes.
“Owen, look at me. This is ridiculous. Yes, I do, but—”
“Nope. Butts are for sitting on. I don’t want to hear it.”
Clutching the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles turning white, my heart thuds in my chest as I focus on the anger instead of the pain.
I’ll handle that later. “You got me twice. Once wasn’t enough huh?
” She furrows her brows and opens her mouth to speak but I shake my head and continue.
“You know what makes me laugh more than anything though?” My words are filled with venom now and she doesn’t miss the change in my tone.
She flinches but doesn’t say a word. “You played such a good game. Pretending you didn’t know who I was.
All that talk about your dad and how you felt safe in my keeper hands—”
A laugh dripping in scorn falls from my lips as I meet her eyes for the first time, recognising that we’re close enough to touch but neither of us daring to.
“You’re a fucking good actress, I’ll give you that.
But to call yourself a journalist when you’re nothing but a common whore is what really pisses me off. ”
I miss her hand flying through the air until it connects with my cheek, but I don’t miss the pain in her eyes before she opens the door and climbs out of the car. Before she closes it she looks me in the eyes and shakes her head. “One day you’ll regret this.”
She slams the door and storms back into that fucking building. I’ll regret this? How the hell is she able to make me feel like I’m the one in the wrong when she’s lied to me the whole time. Manipulative fucking woman.