Canada Square (Love in London #3) (16 page)

“I haven't said I'm coming yet.”

“You haven't said you’re not, either,” he replies. “And now you have to be there, it might be the only way to save my job.”

“I can save your job by tying you to your desk.”

“It really is my birthday.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Honestly, Amy, I really will be sensible. A few drinks and a good dance, okay?”

Though every sceptical bone in my body protests, I nod my head and try to look agreeable. “Okay, I'll be there.” Whether it's a birthday party or his last hurrah, only time will tell.

16

“Two Peronis, a vodka tonic and a glass of water, please.” I lean across the bar, a twenty pound note between my middle and fore finger. The bartender has to stoop to hear my voice, which is croaky from hours of shouting above the noise. The DJ is playing tracks at ear-pounding volume, and by this point in the night the choice is dance or go home. I'm tempted by the latter option.

I shove the open beer bottles into my waistband and scoop up the glasses, pushing my way through the throng of people. It's sweaty, the temperature a few degrees above unbearable, and my hair curls damply around my neck and back.

When I reach the side of the dance floor Charlie is holding court, so I push the glass of water into his hands. He raises it to his mouth, top lip beaded with perspiration, and takes a long, cool sip.

“Thanks.”

In a moment of unprecedented maturity, I cut off his champagne two rounds ago, and Charlie was surprisingly relaxed about my intervention. He gave up after one tiny attempt at arguing, even agreeing to alternate between beer and water. It's only when I look at the lights reflecting off his face that I realise why. There's a tell-tale residue of white powder on the rims of his nostrils, which he wipes away with the back of his hand.

Shit
. I immediately feel my skin crawl when I realise how naive I must look. After all, I’ve seen drugs before. Luke used to regularly light up on a Friday night—much to my disgust—but none of my friends have ever been into coke.

Until now.

I've heard stories, of course. Tales of long, boozy lunches with clients followed by a nice sobering snifter of blow. Or the anonymous partner who has a courier deliver his weekend stash every Friday afternoon, and pays for it by bank transfer. It's not quite accepted in the city—and I'm pretty certain Diana Joseph would have a conniption fit—but it's pervasive and it's easy to get hold of. All a matter of who you know.

It would also explain why Charlie's able to stand up straight and speak without slurring.

“Are you amped?” I whisper into his ear. Charlie turns, a quizzical expression on his face.

“Why, do you want some?”

“No I bloody don't. And nor should you. This place is heaving with people from work, if they catch you you'll be dust.”

He laughs. “Dust. See what you did there.”

“Seriously, Charlie.”

He mimics me, in a high tone. “Seriously Charlie.”

People continue to brush past us, dancing and gyrating, and in spite of the vodka my buzz has well and truly worn off. Then Caro Hawes bumps into me as she reaches out to Charlie, and he passes her a tiny bag of powder without a word.

When I was at school, we read a short story by HG Wells, about a man who enters a country full of blind people. He's certain he's going to become their ruler, because he can see and they can’t. But then, the blind people capture him and remove his eyes, believing they're cancerous lumps. I feel a bit like that guy now. I seem to be the only sensible one around here. It's hard work swimming against the undertow when everyone else is having fun beneath the surface.

“I'm heading out.” I shout in order for Charlie to hear me. He inclines his head towards me, a bead of sweat running down the bridge of his nose.

“Don't leave yet. It's not even twelve.”

“It's been a long week and I have to babysit tomorrow. I'll see you on Monday.”

“C'mon, just share one little line with me.” He grabs my hand, pulling me into him. His shirt is sticking to his chest, outlining a surprisingly firm torso. I vaguely remember him saying he was on the row team at university.

“I don't do drugs.” I hate the way that makes me sound like a whiny goody-two-shoes. “Thank you anyway.” Oh, and polite, too.

“Let me buy you another drink then. Or we can dance. Whatever you want to do.” He sweeps the hair out of his eyes and it stays slicked back from his forehead. “Just stay here for five minutes, okay?”

I close my eyes, feeling the blood pumping through my veins in time to the beat of the music. I wasn't lying when I said it had been a long week. The late nights in the office were exacerbated by Callum’s absence, which has been more poignant than I care to admit.

I miss him.

“I'm going to call a cab,” I tell Charlie, unwilling to face the underground alone at this time of night. “Walk with me, okay?”

He trails me to the entrance, and the cool breeze of the night-time air hits us as soon as we walk past the bouncers. It takes my ears a moment to adapt to the sudden drop in volume, and for a minute all I can hear is the pulsing in my head.

When I take out my phone and slide the screen open, I see two missed calls and a text. Fearing the worst, I glance at the numbers, wondering if something's wrong at home.

They're from Callum. Of course my reckless heart does some kind of galloping dance, hammering against my chest and making me breathless. I assume it's a similar sensation to the one Charlie's been getting from his secret stash, except this is all natural.

“You want me to call one for you?” Charlie asks. “I've got a number here I think.” He reaches into his pocket, tugging out his iPhone, and a tiny bag flies out, the contents dusting the pavement like a miniature snowstorm. “Oh shit. Fuck.” He drops to his knees, frantically scooping the white dust in a futile attempt to get it back in the bag. I look behind to see one of the bouncers frowning at us.

“Charlie,” I whisper-shout. “We need to move.”

He says nothing, still running his palms across the concrete.

“Charlie, people are watching.”

He continues to ignore me. Sighing loudly, I reach down and pick up the cellophane bag, curling my hand around it. With my other hand I grab his shoulder in an attempt to pull him away. “Let's go, okay?”

Finally he stands up, the expression on his face distraught. “Fucking hell, that cost me a grand.”

I'm about to answer when I feel somebody standing behind us. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and my breath escapes in a whistle.

The half-spilled baggie of coke is still in my hand.

I twist my head in a slow, torturous fashion, afraid that it's a security guard, or even worse a policeman, who’s spotted us scrabbling around on the floor.

But instead of a navy-blue uniform, I see a pair of cool, mossy green eyes.

“What the fuck's going on?” Callum's accent gets stronger when he's angry. His lips twist as he stares down at the powder-coated paving slab, taking in the detritus Charlie's left behind. “What's that?”

“I don't know,” Charlie says, his voice tremulous. I think it's finally dawned on him what an idiot he's been, and the possible consequences of his action.

“Amy.” Callum's tone is quiet, but it's edged with steel. There's a coldness to it I haven't heard before. “Is that yours?”

My muscles seize up. I can't breathe, I can't move. I definitely can't work out how to answer his question without landing one of us in it. That's why I stay silent, gripping the baggie tightly.

“Are you going to say something, or do I need to call the police?”

I look over at Charlie, who's staring back at me. His face is almost as white as the powdered floor. He shakes his head slowly at me.

“Don't call the police,” I say, my hand aching from holding the packet so tightly. Any minute now it's going to cramp, and everything will be revealed.

For a moment I think about throwing Charlie under the bus. I could tell Callum exactly who's responsible for this clusterfuck of epic proportions. But then I remember Charlie's kindness, the way he's included me in evenings out while the other interns have mostly ignored me. He's a decent guy. Easily led, but nice.

Somehow I find the strength to raise my eyes to Callum's. “It's not ours. We just found it here.”

“Liar.”

He's looking at me as if he hates me. There's a twitch on the side of his jaw that is rapidly pushing at his cheek.

“Callum, I...”

He grabs my wrist, his fingers digging into my skin. His ferocity scares me.

“You're doing drugs,” he hisses. “Do you know how stupidly fucked up that is? I thought you were better than that.”

Tears spring to my eyes. “You're hurting me.”

He steps back, wincing as if I've slapped him. My wrist throbs from its newfound freedom. Charlie is completely silent, looking back and forth at the two of us. He seems totally out of his depth.

Callum exhales slowly, rubbing his face with agitation. “Just tell me what the fuck's going on.”

I'm not sure what makes me do it. It could be the haunted look on his face or the desperate tone of his voice. Whatever it is I find my fingers slowly unfurling, revealing the crumpled, now-damp bag of coke. Callum follows my gaze, and his expression hardens into something unrecognisable.

The next minute he's grabbing hold of my sleeve and dragging me away, while Charlie mutters something about going back inside. Then Callum takes the baggie from me, his breath coming in shallow, irregular gulps.

He pulls me around the corner of the building, then stops, pushing me against the cool, brick wall. Leaning close, he rasps out a question.

“How long have you been taking it?”

I shake my head, my voice surprisingly strong. “I'm not.”

“Don't fucking lie to me,” he roars. “Tell me how long you've been inhaling this shit and then we can do something about it.”

“Like call the police?” I scoff. “Well, thanks, but I don't need your kind of help.” The fact I haven't explained myself hasn't escaped me, but his accusations are cutting. My fear of a few moments ago is morphing into a white-hot anger that matches him scowl for scowl.

“Do you know how irresponsible you are? People die from this shit. You don't know where it's come from, you don't know what's in it, yet you're stuffing it up your nose on a regular basis.”

“You know nothing,” I yell back. “With your stupid assumptions and blind accusations. I told you it isn't mine, and it isn't. So you can fuck off.”

I rarely use that word, but it tumbles out before I can swallow it down. Callum holds the bag in front of me, shaking it so the scant contents fall down the cellophane.

“If it's not yours, what the hell are you doing with it?”

“I don't have to explain myself to you.”

“That's what a liar would say.”

I straighten my back as much as I can. Then I open my mouth, my eyes flashing with ire, and attempt to speak without wanting to kick him in the balls.

“It's your choice. If you believe I spend my Friday nights snorting coke off a toilet seat, then maybe you don't know me at all.”

He's still agitated, tugging at his hair with his fist. I watch as his expression changes from angry to confused.

“I know you,” he whispers.

I nod. “You do.”

He leans closer. “But why have you got the coke?”

I shake my head. “I can't tell you.”

“Was it Charlie's?”

“I can't tell you.”

He comes closer still, until his face is inches away from mine. His skin is pale in the glow of the moonlight, his eyes fierce and bright, and he's never looked more beautiful.

“Then tell me it's not yours.”

I exhale slowly. “It's not mine.”

“Thank God.”

He's silent, and near enough that if I move a step forward our lips would touch. Instead we stare at each other, still as statues, our heart rates slowing. It’s only then, as the moment calms into something less frantic, that I remember his wife, the way she died.

No wonder he was so angry. I look up at him, my expression soft, an apology about to tumble out.

“Fuck it.” He closes the gap, pressing his mouth to mine, his lips moving as if in silent prayer. It's tough and angry and everything I'm feeling inside, and I kiss him back twice as hard.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers into my mouth. “I'm so sorry.” I don't know if he's apologising for his accusations or for kissing me, but it doesn’t really matter. His tongue runs along the seam of my lips and I part them, moaning softly. Then he slides inside and it turns everything upside down. I wrap my hands around his neck, pulling him closer, until his hard body is pressed against mine. Little pulses of pleasure shoot down my body, making me ache with need, and I curve myself against him, feeling his growing excitement as the length of him presses against my stomach.

“Christ, Amy.” He pulls back, still cradling my head with his hands. “What the hell are you doing to me?”

I grab his tie and jerk him back down, desperate to taste him again.

There are kisses and then there are
kisses
. Callum Ferguson knows how to move his lips until every cell in my body sings. My toes curl up and my fingers tingle and another sigh escapes. This time he captures it, letting my breath linger in his mouth, his tongue sliding against mine, sweetly.

His firm, thick thigh parts my legs, and I unashamedly rub myself against him. I'm slick and hot, aching for sensation, and judging from the frantic glint in his eyes, so is he.

“You're beautiful,” he says, when we pause to catch our breath. “I've thought about you every fucking day I've been away.”