Chapter thirty-four #2
On the last page, a small red app sits alone with a simple “T” in the center of the icon in black. He taps it, and a map of London opens. A few little blue dots are scattered over the streets. Most are marking what is clearly The Level. I glance up at him, but he doesn’t look at me.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Depends what you think it is.” His thumb taps the search bar, and he types “Co.” The name Connor pops up. The map immediately zones into an area close to the river known for bars and restaurants. “See, I told you, he’d be drowning his sorrows.”
“Do you have me tracked?” I ask him, knowing damn fine the answer is yes.
“You? No. Your phone, however…”
“Controlling unhinged arsehole,” I mutter, wriggling from his grasp.
“Not just me. This app has five user logins,” he tells me with a deep chuckle. “You’ll always be safe with me, Trouble. I’ll always know where you are.” He runs his fingers across my lower back. I will my body not to respond, but like the treacherous bitch she is, my nipples pop hard.
“Not if I leave my phone at home,” I jibe. He spins me to face him, holding my arms by my sides. My neck cranes as my chin rises to look at his darkened face.
“Deliberately leave your phone at home, and I’ll install a tracker in your arm. Fucking men like us will bring you enemies. Being loved by men like us can be a death sentence.”
He cocks his head, astute but slight wild eyes running over my face.
“I told you before. No matter what happens, you’re now ours.”
“What bar is that?” I ask him, signaling to the phone crammed next to my skin with my eyes. He takes the bait and releases me, his attention moving back to where his brother is. Possessive idiot.
“I don’t know or care. A shitty one. Come to bed. Connor’s loss will be my gain. Why should our girl lose out tonight because he’s had a bad day?”
There it is again, that phrase: our girl.
Russell uses it more and more, and it gives me a tentative hope that we could sort out some arrangement. If only Connor would compromise, too.
“No, I’m going to find him. Something has happened.” I pull my remaining arm from his grasp. “Stay here and jerk off, or come with me and help.”
He rolls his eyes, then turns and walks off in the direction of his bedroom.
“Where are you going?” I call to his retreating back.
“To get some fucking clothes on. What does it look like?”
I watch as he strides away, his tight ass gorgeous in the silk.
“Sometimes I wonder who’s fucking in charge here.”
When he returns, he slides his arm around my waist before leading me to the elevator.
We step in, but he looks furious at the inconvenience and doesn’t speak.
“Do you want the answer to that question?”
“Which one?”
“Who is in charge?” He scowls and I step forward, placing one foot between his. “I am, Russ, because I could hold out a hell of a lot longer than you. Amenable men are much more enticing to pleasure than arseholes.”
“I would love to pleasure your arsehole,” he tells me.
***
Russell
The Union Jack Bar, London
The temptation to lift her onto my waist, hit the stop button, and fuck Trouble to hell and back in that elevator had been hard to contain. But she also questioned my ability to hold out, and as hard as it was, I didn’t want to prove her right within five minutes.
So now we’re standing beside a back street tavern that’s heaving with drunkards on a Friday evening. They spill out onto the streets, staggering around as if it were the early morning hours already. Sam, unfazed, weaves through the crowd toward the bar; I follow her like a puppy dog.
The bartender is tall and dressed in a grimy white T-shirt with jeans.
His blonde hair is slicked back as if it hasn’t been washed for days or a whole tub of hair gel was emptied on it this morning.
Perhaps both are true. His mouth widens when he spots Sam at the bar, exposing yellow teeth and raw red gums.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he drawls, spit oozing between his cracked lips. I step up beside her, and he glances at me. “Brought yer rottweiler with you, doll?”
“Show some respect for your patrons,” I growl.
“My pub, my rules. And yer no a customer if you’ve no paid. Take yer fancy suit and fuck off.”
Sam glances up at me and shakes her head before focusing back on the cunt behind the worktop.
“Sorry about my friend,” she says, her voice meek.
Her tone is nothing like I’ve heard from her before.
The use of the word friend as a descriptor pisses me off too.
I squeeze her hip, and she nips the skin on the outside of my hand between razor-sharp nails.
“We were hoping you could help us. Check the phone app, Russ.”
“He’s here,” I say, looking around the chaos, but my brother is nowhere to be seen.
“Our friend has gone walk about. His ‘find my phone’ app says he’s here. Have you seen him?”
She pulls her own mobile out and shows the guy a photo of Connor and her in front of the London Eye.
I wonder if she has any pictures of the two of us on her phone that she flashes at people.
“He had bad news at work, and we want to ensure he’s okay.”
“Guys like that don’t come in here, sweetheart. Look around.” He gestures with his hand at his clientele. “But feel free to check, as long as you buy a drink.”
I drop a fifty-pound note on the counter.
“No drinks required,” I say. “Come on, Trouble. This is good for locating someone within ten meters. He can’t be far.”
We follow the little blue dot that marks Connor’s position; it brings us to the bathroom doors.
We both stare at the dark wood with the tattered yellowed signs designating men and women. “You look in yours, and I’ll do mine.”
I step through the door, pushing on the gold finger plate, and my hand sticks to the surface. On entering the bathroom I immediately wash my hands.
“Connor,” I say loudly. “Where are you, bro?” I half expect to find him passed out in a stall. A few minutes later, Sam appears behind me. “This is the gents,” I tell her.
“I’ve been in worse,” she replies, then starts kicking each cubicle door open. “He’s not here.”
“But his phone must be,” I mutter, now genuinely concerned about where the fuck he is. Sam is ripping the lids off the toilet cisterns one by one. Within seconds, she holds up two handsets, both of which I recognize as my brothers.
“Shit,” I say, stunned that we haven’t found him and panicking at what the outcome of our little search could mean. We have more enemies than I care to admit. My brother missing and his phones stashed can only mean something bad is happening. “I’ll call the others.”
Samantha walks over and passes me the two mobiles. Her face tells me she’s terrified. I place my hand on her cheek in an attempt to manage her building fear, but the next words from her lips are like a punch to the gut.
“I can’t lose him,” she whispers, choked with emotion. “I love him.”