Chapter 35
Chapter thirty-five
Katie
“To my best friend in the whole world,” Amy slurs as the final dregs of the third bottle of champagne slide down our throats. Her hand sways as she attempts to pour the invisible final drops into my glass.
“Thank you, darling.” I give her the best smile I can muster, then lean forward to kiss her cheek. The high stool I’m sitting on wobbles precariously as I try to balance. Failing miserably, I fall to the floor onto my knees.
“Fuck,” I hiss. “That bloody hurt.”
Luckily, we’re in my apartment in Covent Garden, London. Amy moved with me into the area of theaters and artists. For once, I’m financially secure enough to splurge my money on a nice place. And I want a London base, no matter how much time I spend in New York.
Amy couldn’t afford to split the rent, but I told her to come with me, pay what she can, and look after the dogs when I’m gone. To be honest, she’s welcome company. I don’t like the idea of being on my own.
“I still can’t believe you’re a fucking published author,” she screams.
“Shhh! We don’t want to piss the neighbors off,” I whisper. Her tongue between her lips lashes back. I love being back with my friend. The past few months have been incredible, traveling the world, but there is something comforting about the familiarity of being here.
My phone buzzes with a message. I swipe for it, missing by miles.
God, I’m drunk.
Amy picks up the phone and squints at the screen. “You’ve got a message,” she says, eyebrows touching the sky. “From Lance.”
I flush red, my heart skipping a beat. This is something I’ve been keeping from my friend. I haven’t told her about my meeting with Lance or the fact I’ve been keeping in touch with him daily.
She would disapprove, considering I’m with Brad.
Nothing romantic has happened, but my heart yearns for him.
He’s the one I want to call me. He’s the one I want to send me a message.
Not the man I’m meant to be planning a future with, or at least the man who seems to be planning mine.
It feels as if I barely have control of my own life again, and so quickly,hat each part is now orchestrated by him.
Where I’m interviewed. Where I eat. The social events I attend. Returning to London has been a breather from it all. Time for just me, not Brad and Katie.
“Lance?” she says again, confused. “I thought your boyfriend’s name was Brad?”
I don’t say anything.
The penny drops. “Lance?” she shrieks. “The hot soldier? When? What? Why? Tell me everything now,” she demands. Greedy fingers grab the next bottle of champagne, and she holds it tight against her chest, crossing her arms over it protectively. “No more fizz until you spill the beans.”
I giggle, pissed with alcohol and anger.
“Okay. I ran into him in Edinburgh.”
As I recount the story, my cheeks burn. She listens to me, pupils almost crossed as if trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together in her drunken stupor. By the time I’m finished, she just stares, as if in a trance, fixated on a screen.
“So let me get this right.” She pauses to collect her thoughts.
“He drove from Aviemore to Edinburgh with his new son, who was left on his doorstep, to see you. You met him in your hotel room, but didn’t fuck him.
You’ve been speaking to each other every day since, as friends.
” She lifts her hands and makes quotation mark signs at the word friends.
“That’s about it.” I sip the empty glass, wanting to do anything but look at her.
“What about Brad?” Her tone clipped as expected.
“Nothing has happened,” I squawk.
“Yet.”
“Amz, he’s in Scotland with his kids. And I’m traveling the world. Nothing’s going to happen. I don’t want to discuss it.”
She tuts, but says nothing further. That surprises me. Amy normally will continue with a line of questioning, whether you want to or not. Internally, I praise myself for being strong enough to make her stop. It’s that, or she doesn’t want to talk about it either.
Our conversation returns to neutral topics such as my book and her fuckwit ex-husband. We polish off another bottle of wine; our voices rising with each glass.
Half an hour later, the room is spinning, and I announce, “I’m off to bed.”
My phone has been winking at me since Lance’s message popped up, but I haven’t read it, not wanting to seem too keen in front of Amy. I give her a kiss on the cheek and head to my room, opening the message as soon as I step through the door.
Evening, Katie. How was your day? Been anywhere exciting? Lance xoxo
A grin spreads across my face like a Cheshire cat’s.
I fall back on my bed, reading the simple message again.
No romance. No seduction. Just genuine interest in me and my day.
Not asking for anything other than conversation, that was why I was always drawn to him.
Lance made me feel like I was what was important, not what I could do for him.
Now, what to respond?
The same debate goes through my head every time a message lands in my inbox, me not wanting to give any false signals but needing the connection. No signals could be false, though; his friendship is everything to me. He is important to me. I hit the reply button.
Amy and I have downed multiple bottles of plonk tonight. We’re celebrating me being home for a change. Girl chat and glitter… How are you? And the kids? xoxo
We send messages back and forth for an hour. The conversation is platonic, but I love hearing about every aspect of his day. Hannah keeps him on his toes. David is the apple of his daddy’s eye, and I suspect Lance is loving every minute of being a hands-on dad.
I haven’t told him about Brad yet. I should, but the right time never seems to come along. Even when we spoke on the phone a few nights ago, I bottled it and didn’t tell him, terrified it would shut the door we’ve just began prying open again between each other.
Changing into my pink silk nightie, I crawl into bed. The ringtone I’ve allocated to Brad to warn me of his calls echoes through the room. Shit, I forgot to call him earlier. The call rings out and diverts to voicemail. Maybe he won’t call again, but I know he will. He never doesn’t.
The music starts again; I admit defeat and answer.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Brad growls. “I’ve called you multiple times today.”
“Sorry,” I stutter. “Amy and I were busy sorting out the flat.”
He scares me when he’s angry. Even when he’s barking down the phone, he makes me nervous. The veiled threats. It’s what he doesn’t say that’s more unnerving. The mentions of my career and what he can or can’t do.
“Katie,” he shouts, every word biting a little deep. “You’re mine. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Brad,” I mumble, feeling two inches tall.
“What we have is an agreement. A contract. You do as I say, and I’ll continue to help you. When two people like us partner up, the risk of fallout is always greater for one.”
And there it is again. The hint. The arm-twisting. The not so subtle warning that he has the power.
“I’ll respond in the future,” I whisper. “Immediately.”
I know I should stand up to him. Not let him talk to me like that.
But he’s one of the most loving and generous people I know when we are together.
Then when we’re apart, he’s controlling and intrusive.
He expects me to check in with him multiple times per day, as well as provide him with a schedule for my week ahead.
He says it’s so we can synchronize plans and coordinate phone calls.
No one knows what he’s like—everyone thinks I’m so lucky to have him.
But I’ve been here before, at the mercy of a man more powerful than I am. Last time I stayed because, being young, I didn’t realize who he was until I was financially trapped.
This time…I stay because my newfound success is connected to him. A smokescreen of independence that he could scatter in a single phone call. End it as quickly as it began, because he has connections and isn’t afraid to remind me. I can’t take the risk. Not at my age, not at this stage in my life.
Being with him is better than being alone. He’s a catch. And I should be thankful he cares as much as he does.
I can manage him. I know I can. We just have to learn to get along. That’s what I tell myself anyway.
“Katie, I’m coming to London. I’m bringing you back to New York. No arguments. I need you here with me by my side. You’re my partner.”
I stare at the phone, speechless.
“Pardon,” I splutter. Then the ghost of the woman I was becoming before I met him peeks out from her hiding place. “Brad, I can’t. Not now. I’m busy with writing, with promotions, and I’ve only just got home.”
“Home?” The word burns my ears. “Your home is here now. With me.”
I wince.
“You don’t even need to work or answer to a publisher. I can fund it all, here with me.” His voice changes from uncompromising to pleading. My resolve wavers. The nerves in my brain relaxing as the pressure lifts. The headache that was threatening recedes.
“We can talk about it,” I mumble. Not wanting to upset him further.
“My flight’s tomorrow,” he says, softly. “I’ll be with you in the evening.”
Before I can protest, he wishes me good night and cuts the call. He’s coming—whether I want him to or not. Brad, once again, is planning our schedule.
***
The following night, I sit at the kitchen island nursing my glass of wine. My gorgeous, wealthy boyfriend is flying from the States to see me, to try to convince me to return with him. I should be ecstatic, but I’m not.
All I feel is dread, a warning coiling in my stomach. Even before he arrives, his presence in my space is intoxicating.
When I left Knobscratcher and came to terms with the separation, my freedom was the greatest gift I received.
The ability to do what I want, when I want, and not have to discuss it with anybody.
Not have to run an idea past someone before I execute it.
Just being able to live the way I want and keep myself happy.
I don’t think Brad means to be controlling.
It’s a survival tool. He’s a man who is used to getting his way, but I’m finding his overbearing demands difficult to handle.
His need to be in charge horrifies me. I find myself comparing him to Lance.
Another alpha male for certain, but he can make you feel heard, that your opinion is as important as his.
My mind is wandering to Lance regularly throughout my days, and I find myself wanting to contact him all the time.
I want to ask his opinion or just to hear his voice. I trust him.
But deep down I know Brad is the right option. Lance is an infatuation. A young man with a family who doesn’t need to be held back with an older woman like me. Brad is who I suit; we stand beside each other at events and complement the scene. He is the man I need, and he needs me.
I didn’t understand it at first, his obsession with me.
Now, I do. In his fifties, he wants a companion in his golden years, but one who can accept his flaws and his business commitments.
Someone who looks appropriate on his arm, a woman who suits his status without overshadowing it.
As a mid-life up-and-coming author with a quirky style, I suppose I tick all those boxes.
And well he, for me, has opened doors while loving me thoroughly. Almost too much at times.
The apartment door buzzer sounds, and I wander across to the control panel by the front door. Brad squints up into the camera. My mood drops. He’s here. He paces in a tiny circle, waiting for an answer. I stall. He presses again, his lips twist, annoyed. I answer.
“Hello,” I say, tone bright. Too bright, if I’m honest.
“Hey, gorgeous, it’s me. Let me up.” Brad’s strong voice blares from the speaker. Without answering, I press the button to unlock the door. He appears in the apartment within seconds. “Where are you?” he calls, not even fully in the apartment.
“Here.”
On seeing me, he strides over, then takes me in his arms. It doesn’t feel loving, but carnal, as if his need to possess me overwhelms him. An over-enthusiastic mouth locks on mine; his tongue claiming mine, almost beating it into submission.
“I need to be inside you, Katie,” he growls in my ear, biting my neck hard enough that I jump. The way a dog would to a bitch in heat.
That’s going to leave a bruise, I think to myself, sullen. The last time we were apart for a week, he bit me so hard on my neck I had to wear a scarf. It was mortifying when the make-up artist noticed. She blended half a tub of concealer to hide it.
“Where’s the bedroom?” he grunts, grabbing my ass and pushing himself against my stomach. “This is for you, but you need to be a good girl.” My skin crawls.
I knew that he’d expect sex as soon as he arrived, and I can’t help but feel used. Accepting that this is going to happen, I take his hand and lead him to my bedroom.
If I play along, this will go quicker; he’ll be happy to have his fill of me and go to sleep. Hopefully, my sweet man will be here tomorrow. He tends to reappear once the beast is satisfied. And I love him.