Chapter 20
Blake
Running my hand through my hair one last time, I raise my fist and knock sharply upon Calla’s door.
I swallow back the nervous butterflies in my stomach flipping upside down and back to front, the ones that have been pestering me all week leading up to tonight, reminding myself there’s no need to be.
I’ve counted down the days until I can see Calla again, replaying the image of her falling asleep on video chat together over and over again in my head. She looked so peaceful.
Maybe if she hadn’t been so tired having to stay behind after work because of fucking McAvoy, we would have stayed up chatting to the early hours of the morning…
I clench my teeth, feeling my jaw tick, when I think about the smarmy prick.
How dare he.
It boils my piss, knowing he gets away with murder because of who his family is and he knows it too. God—
“It’s open!” I hear her call from inside her apartment.
Finding the door unlocked, I tread inside, finding Calla at the kitchen island pouring an amber coloured liquid into two shot glasses.
“You found me!” She grins, moving to the refrigerator and bending to grab something from inside. “How’s your week been without me?”
I can’t answer, my tongue too busy sticking to the roof of my mouth because holy shit.
A strapless ruby red floor length dress clings to Calla’s figure.
Paired with her artfully curled blonde hair, a mouthwatering red glossy lip I have the sudden urge to reach over and smear with my thumb and a small pair of gold hoops in her ears; she looks fucking good enough to eat.
I don’t know what I did to deserve this but I’m the luckiest fucker alive getting to be her date.
“Calla… you look fucking incredible.”
A pretty pink blush creeps into her cheeks. “Thank you, Blake. You look very handsome yourself.”
Stepping closer, I inhale the sultry scent of Calla’s perfume.
“I actually have something for you.”
“For me?”
Nodding, I reach inside my suit jacket, pulling out the rectangular black velvet box I purchased two days ago.
Calla’s eyes widen, her lips parting in wonder.
“Blake…”
“Open it.”
She takes the box from me, our fingertips grazing one another, and slowly opens her gift.
Inside, upon on the cream satin lining, lays a silver charm bracelet. Most of its links are empty, ready for charm to be added, all except for a single link which contains the charm I picked out myself.
It’s a simple red heart, nothing too fancy, but as soon as I saw it in the jewellery counter in the department store, I knew I had to get it for Calla.
“Do you like it?”
Calla beams up at me, her eyes slightly glassy. “I love it. Thank you so much, Blake. Will you help me put it on? I wanna wear it tonight.”
I hold my breath as I take the charm bracelet from the box, clasping it around her delicate wrist.
I stare down at it for a second, her hand still encased in mine, before I move to cup her jaw, unable to help myself, and gently, ever so gently, place my lips on hers.
She melts beneath me, relaxing into my other hand banding around her waist, parting her lips to allow me to tangle my tongue with hers.
My heart is ramming up against my ribcage when I pull back, stealing a mouthful of fresh oxygen and peering at the mess I’ve made of Calla’s makeup.
“You’ve got lipstick all over you,” she giggles sweetly, dabbing at my lips with her fingertips.
“I don’t mind. I rather like the idea of being all marked up by you.”
Calla’s cheeks flush even deeper, until they match the colour of her dress.
“I thought,” she says, spinning in my hold without going far, “we might need some liquid courage to help us get through tonight. Or, at least, until we can take full advantage of the free bar. What do you say?”
My face scrunches up of its own accord. “Is that tequila?”
“Sure is. The very drink that brought us together.”
I laugh at that, peering over Calla’s shoulder as she haphazardly slices into a lime. “Where’s the salt?”
“Top cupboard.”
Sprinkling a little onto each of our hands, I accept the shot and my lime wedge.
“Eyes on each other, remember? Otherwise, it’s ten years bad sex.”
Keeping my gaze on Calla’s, I raise my hand to my mouth, lick off the salt, knock back the tequila and shove the tart lime between my lips. “We can’t be having that, can we?”
Calla follows the same routine, her kiss-bitten lips pursing, lines bracketing her mouth as the bitterness sets in.
“No,” she all but chokes out. “No, we can’t.”
After reapplying her lipstick, Calla and I catch a tube to the large hall where the charity gala is being held on the outskirts of Soho.
Keeping a steady hand upon the base of her spine, we duck into the grand entrance, which is swathed in opulent gold furnishings and expensive looking artwork, the imposing stares of unfamiliar dukes and other royalty peering down at us.
We’ve hardly been waiting a minute or two before a dapper looking gentleman appears, crossing Calla’s name from the list in his hand and leading us to our seats with a well-practised smile.
The inside of the great hall is just as expensive looking as the outside; the flooring polished until I swear, I can see my own reflection. Golden archways, decorated with sculptures of cherubs and the apostles, leading off to darkened corridors.
I slide into the chair beside Calla, noticing the nametag resting on the luxurious violet coloured tablecloth in front of me.
Mr Blake Millen.
Calla turns to politely greet the woman sitting to her left and when I’m sure nobody else is looking, I make a grab for my nametag, stuffing it into the pocket of my suit jacket.
I don’t want any attention tonight, not if I can help it.
A small hand grazes my upper thigh, pulling me back to the here and now, the waft of Calla’s perfume, familiar and spicy, tickling my nose.
“Dinner isn’t going to be served for at least another hour yet. Do you want to grab a drink at the bar?”
I nod, taking her outstretched hand.
Inquisitive stares burn into the back of my head, and I fight the urge to shrink back, to make myself smaller, to get them to stop looking. Instead, I squeeze Calla’s hand and stand tall, my spine straight, chin up.
What’s that saying? Fake it until you make it?
At least the grin on my lips isn’t faux when Calla introduces me as her boyfriend to the handful of people milling about the bar.
I order a whisky on the rocks and Calla a fruity looking cocktail, before I strike up a cordial conversation with a man, whose name I’ve already forgotten, when Calla presses her tight body against mine, her lips inches away from the shell of my ear.
“You’ll be okay if I leave you for a second, won’t you? The girls—”
Peering over my broad shoulder, I find a group of well-dressed women standing in a circle, a space leftover for Calla as they wait for her to join them.
“I’ll be fine,” I promise, taking a small sip from my glass of whisky. “Come find me when you’re ready.”
A quick peck to my lips, a reassuring hand tightening around my upper bicep and Calla is gone, replaced by businessmen in tight fitting suits and comb overs to hide their already thinning hair.
They launch into a conversation I have no real interest in – stock market this and bitcoin that – leaving me in the dust. At least, I try to nod and hum and appear interested in all the correct places, for Calla’s sake, but boredom sets in, leaving me with nothing to do but sip at my whisky until it’s almost all gone.
I order another from the free bar, only realising one of the men must have asked me something when the rest of them fall silent, each looking at me, waiting for my answer.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“I said,” repeats one of the younger looking gentlemen. He can’t be much older than me. “This might seem a bit strange, but you have an uncanny resemblance too—”
It’s happening.
“—that swimmer. Millen somebody or other. The one who almost made it to the Olympics but fell from a ski lift months before and tore all his ligaments? Do you remember? It was hot in the press because they were speculating he was on shit, coke I think, to make his reaction time slower and—”
If it wasn’t for the cool bar top beneath my forearms, I’m sure I would have toppled over by now.
I clench my hands into fists, feeling the cold glass of whisky and ice bite into my right palm, to stop myself from lashing out.
I shouldn’t, I know I shouldn’t, but it isn’t that easy when someone is talking so flippantly about something that isn’t true, something that almost destroyed my family, something that almost broke my little brother until he was never completely the same.
“Was he really on coke?” another asks, only fuelling my anger higher. “Because—”
“No. He wasn’t,” I grit out. “My brother would never have done anything to jeopardize his pro swimming career.”
“So, he is your brother?” confirms the idiot who spoke up in the first place. “I thought he must be some sort of relation because you look so similar. Can I have a photograph?”
I hold his weak brown eyed stare as I take a sip of my drink. “Strangely enough I don’t keep photographs of my brother on hand.”
Unperturbed, he continues, “Can I have one of you, then?”
I glare at him. “Me? What could you possibly—”
A camera clicks in my face, following by a bright flash that causes silver spots to dance behind my eyelids.
“Thanks, mate. I really—”
“Hey,” a hand slides up the length of my spine until it sits between my shoulder blades, “you okay?”
I glance along to find Calla peering back at me, lips twisted into a soft smile.
I swallow down the pang of panic that tells me she overheard, winding my arm around her waist instead and bending down to press my lips to hers.
Parting her lips, Calla kisses me back without hesitation, pressing her tight body into mine. I can’t get enough of her – touching her, tasting her, feeling her move against me just as high on desire as I am.
Pulling apart, I peer down noticing the mischievous glint in Calla’s pretty green eyes.