That One Moment (Lost in London #2)(9)
The horrid animal weighs nearly 140 pounds now, and his big head reaches all the way up to my waist. He’s got a half white face with a mahogany brindle covering his right eye. The rest of his body is spotted with various shades of black, brown, red, and tan amongst his white fur. “I’m going to get you into classes one of these days, Bruce. You mark my words.” His enormous tongue flicks out and licks his nose as he continues to stare at me expectantly. Two streams of drool hang from his chops as he awaits my command.
“All right, all right,” I groan. “Let’s go have a walkies.” He leaps up from his spot and rushes into the kitchen and grabs his lead, dragging it across the white slate flooring. He may not be well-trained for greetings, but he sure as shite knows how to get a walk. I clip the leash onto his collar and head out to let him relieve himself. It’s a lot like leading a small horse rather than walking a dog. The looks I get are rather comical considering the bugger weighs more than I do.
This area of town is quite busy with tourists and shoppers, but anywhere you live in London you’ll always find a quiet, green oasis amongst all the hustle and bustle. These tiny parks are my favourite part of London. And the park I take Bruce is extra special because it has an entire area just for dogs.
Once we return, I lead him into the kitchen to refresh his water and feed him. I then pop into my en suite bathroom to get ready for the evening. Bruce eventually resumes his post at the bathroom doorway, watching me the entire time with those sad puppy-dog eyes that say, “You look like you’re going out for the night…I hope this means you’re taking me. And oh, can you scratch my back while you’re at it, pretty please?”
“Not this time, Mongrel,” I say, patting his head and applying one last layer of mascara. I give myself a final once-over in the mirror. I’ve always been the thinner, ganglier, awkward type—like a young girl who still hasn’t hit puberty. Leslie used to say I had a runway model’s body, but I’d much rather have a bit more meat and some curves than the spindly frame I inherited from my mother. It’s easy to develop a complex over thin legs when you have footballers with massive muscular thighs for brothers.
Still, this dress makes me feel like I actually have curves. It’s a diamond white, sweetheart strapless, fit-to-flare cut dress. I curl my platinum blonde locks into loose, soft waves and pin them off to one side so they trail down the front of my exposed shoulder. My minimal makeup allows my bright blue eyes to carry the show. Add a layer of peach gloss and I think I’ve actually achieved the perfect sun-kissed look I was going for.
Tonight, I feel different. Tonight, I feel ready for anything.
HEAR ME NOW
My eyes blink slowly against the spotlights, searching for the clock on the far wall of the ballroom that I saw when I came in from the back. I know I have a watch on my wrist because I never go anywhere without it. But for some reason, I feel the need to confirm the time on another clock every place I go.
To ensure that the time continuum hasn’t failed.
To ensure that where I’m standing right now is real life.
To ensure that I am still alive.
And to ensure the fact that my incessant wish to erase moments from my past still hasn’t come true.
I know it was crap for me to skip the mingling portion of the fundraising event, but I am too f*cking nervous to be able to sit with everyone and visit like it is just a normal Friday night. This night is anything but normal. I’ll talk to everyone afterwards. Lord knows I’ll need to. They’ve all been texting me like mad to ensure that I’m okay. My mum, my younger sister, Daphney, my brother, Theo, and even Leslie. I shoot a quick text back to Leslie to let her know that Marisa was fast asleep when I left her with the sitter at their flat. I ignore all the others.
Touching the inside of my wrist concealed beneath my dark brown leather cuff, the texture of the ridged scar sends a churning through my stomach. Before I have a chance to close my eyes and slip back to that moment, I hear the master of ceremonies announce my name.
“And now, a word from one of our generous benefactors, Mr. Hayden Clarke.” The woman’s voice cracks on the end of my name and I bite back the growing urge to roll my eyes. This woman knows I’m not one of the actual benefactors, my parents are. This woman also knows that I’m considered the tragic, wayward son whom everyone watches like a ticking time bomb. They’re all bloody terrified of what I’m about to say.
Maybe they should be.
I stride across the shiny wooden stage, adjusting my thick black Windsor tie and fastening the button on my navy tuxedo jacket. I left it undone on purpose to give my hands something to do. It’s a small attempt at feigning a level of confidence. Power. Intimidation.
Don’t let them see you shake. Don’t let them see you falter. Don’t let them see you weak. You’re not weak anymore. You’re different. You’re healed.
The woman’s plump cheeks widen, making me cringe at the fake warmth she’s radiating. She offers me a curt British smile. The British are always polite. Always controlled. And always on guard. Maybe that’s why I always feel oddly around them…like I don’t belong.
I’ve always hated surface shite.
That fact alone is also probably why last year I fell hopelessly in love with the dark and ominous American dust storm that is Reyna Miracle Miller. Reyna whited out everything around me. She kept me in a dark vortex where I could see nothing but her and us and the misery that we lived in every time our bodies connected. The desolation in which I lived in with Rey felt real and right at the time. It felt like home. I was exhausted by the superficial airs that were so common in my family. Reyna was anything but surface. Reyna was dark and twisted and sad and just as f*cked up as I was. I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.