Falloir (Passion Noire Book 2) (38 page)

‘That’s a very strong handshake you have there,’ she says but I can’t take my eyes off her hair. It’s so bright in the light coming from the bulb above us. ‘And a strange name. The Kid? Why are you called that?’

I can feel my face getting hot. I panic. She’s cuter than cute and I can’t bear her to call me The Kid. She seems really nice. Not scary like I’d thought. She’s friendly like Jones. But cute.

‘That’s just Veuve,’ I say, shrugging because I don’t know what else to say.

‘Verve?’ she says. ‘I thought her name was Viv. Does everyone have odd names around here?’

I want to tell her that Milly is pretty odd but I can’t. She’s too nice to be rude to. I shrug again, feeling like an idiot. I want to get back inside my room because this is so embarrassing but I also want to talk to her some more. It’s weird.

‘My real name’s Jax,’ I tell her, hoping that Jones won’t mind. She’ll most probably be gone before he gets back. He won’t know.

Her eyebrows go up and she does this massive smile that makes her whole face change. She’s got big brown eyes like those chocolate buttons that Veuve likes, only her eyes are shiny and chocolate’s not.

‘That’s a cool name,’ she says and I can’t describe the feeling in my chest ... or is it my stomach? It feels like I’ve just eaten a bowl of soup or something. It’s a warm and sloshy feeling. It would be Heinz tomato soup ... my favourite.

‘Thanks. Milly’s a really cool name too,’ I tell her, it doesn’t matter that it isn’t. Or is it? I think it might be cool after all. What do I know? She seems very cool.

‘So what is there to do around here?’ she asks, doing this weird jerky thing with her head so her hair flies out and almost hits me in the face.

I shrug again before I can stop it. She’s going to think there’s something wrong with my shoulders. ‘Not a lot.’ I don’t know what she means anyway, but suddenly it’s really important that she knows I’ve been to the pub and that I drink beer ... well, lager. ‘I sometimes go to the pub down the road and sit in the garden if it’s hot. A cold pint of lager is really good.’ I’m glad Jones isn’t here to laugh and say real men drink beer and boys drink lager. I can’t help it that beer makes me feel sick.

She pulls a funny face, twisting her mouth to one side. It’s cute. ‘Shame. I’m only seventeen and I can’t get served anywhere since I look about twelve.’

‘You don’t look twelve,’ I say quickly, without even meaning to. ‘You look older than that.’

She giggles. ‘What, thirteen?’

There’s something about the way that she’s laughing. It’s like Veuve when she’s making a joke so I just laugh. She laughs louder and I get a fizzy feeling in my stomach, like there’s a can of coke in there.

‘So you’re eighteen? Or older?’ she asks and then she does this thing with her lips, like Veuve does when she puts lipstick on. She rolls her lips inward and then rubs her lips over each other ... I can’t take my eyes off them as they slide across each other. I can hardly remember what she’s asked me.

‘Uh ... yeah,’ I say, watching those plump, pink lips and, from nowhere, I wonder what her lips would feel like pressed against mine. I’ve seen people kissing on TV and I couldn’t see the point but now ... now I want to try it. I wish I could just do it, lean forward and kiss her. Those lips look so soft and so ... oh crap, she’s staring at me. I want to look away but I can’t. We’re just standing here staring at each other and I can’t help but wonder what the rest of her looks like and ... fucking hell, I don’t believe it ... my dick’s getting hard and she’s going to see and ... fuck!

Without a word, I turn and race back to my room, closing the door behind me. My heart’s thumping like mad in my chest. What the fuck just happened? She’s going to think I’m a complete fucking weirdo. That’s it. There’s no way I’m leaving my room again today. I’m going to tell Veuve that I want her gone.

But I don’t.

Yes, I do.

Oh, I don’t fucking know.

I WAKE FEELING CALMER and more positive than I have since Jones went AWOL, despite being stretched out on the sofa. I pick up my phone to determine the time then curse when I spot it’s gone four. I need to shower and get my arse over to Vouloir—there’s nobody to take the brewery delivery at half five now that Gabe’s thrown his toys out of the pram and fucked off. I can’t even get hold of Dean. I was going to offer him a job—not as the manager but as a regular presence behind the bar. Gabe was the only full time member of staff at Vouloir—it’s hell without him.

I jump in the shower quickly but, as I’m drying myself off, I feel bad about disturbing Milly if she’s still asleep. I’ve no idea how well she’s slept in a strange bed after the emotional couple of weeks she’s had. I tiptoe into my room and see that she’s still flat out. I grab some clothes, my hairdryer and my make-up bag and creep out again. To avoid disturbing her, I get ready for my stint at Vouloir in the living room.

Before I leave, I write them both notes, telling them that I’ll be home when I can and giving them my mobile number, should they need to speak with me. I don’t know why I’m bothering—they’re teenagers. They’ll probably rot in their beds for the rest of the day but I’d rather try to avoid either of them freaking out if I’m wrong so I leave the notes outside their doors. I hear my phone making the low battery chirping noise and remember that I was listening to music before I slept and so I throw my charger in my bag. I’ll charge it when I get to the club. I see my ‘hope’ necklace on the arm of the chair but I’m late so I slip it in my pocket. I’ll put it on in the cab.

I step outside and notice that the prolonged spell of settled, sunny weather has finally ended. It’s cloudy, cool and looks like it could rain at any second. No matter, my cab’s waiting at the kerb. I open the back door and slide inside, noticing that it’s not one of my regular drivers but it is one of the regular cars. Big, juicy raindrops begin to bounce off the windscreen. That was well-timed.

‘Hi,’ I manage, sounding more cheerful than I feel. I’ve not yet had enough caffeine to make me truly sociable after my sleepless night and daytime nap. ‘Do you know where you’re going?’

He catches my eye in the rear-view mirror and nods before pulling off. We haven’t gone far before I realise that he’s going the wrong way. What is it with taxi drivers? They all think they know a shortcut—a shortcut which miraculously ends up taking twice as long. I’m not stupid, I know it’s most likely a ruse to fatten up the fare. I know from experience that it’s pointless calling them out on it. I pull a face out of the window, knowing that I’ll get to Vouloir a little later than necessary but if I start a row, I’ll almost certainly make it worse.

However, ten minutes later and we’re stuck in traffic heading away from the club. He’s just taking the piss now.

‘Hey, you do know the address, don’t you? We’re going in completely the wrong direction.’

Those eyes stare at me before he nods again. ‘Accident,’ he says, in a heavy accent that I can’t place from just three syllables.

‘Oh terrific! An accident during rush hour—I may as well get out and walk,’ I quip, although I have no intention of doing so. Not from here, in this rain—in these heels.

‘No,’ he says a little too harshly for my liking. ‘No walk.’

Okay, mate. Don’t get your boxers in a knot. Here’s somebody else who needs a shot of caffeine to improve their interpersonal skills.

Another ten minutes goes by and we’re still crawling. I’m going to miss the delivery if this doesn’t clear quickly. And a bar with no beer is not what I need, especially when I’m minus a general manager. I pull out my phone to call the brewery. I see those dark eyes in the mirror watching my every move. He’s starting to get on my nerves—I’ll request that the cab firm don’t send him again. I dial the brewery and get the delivery driver’s number. I thank them and dial it.

‘Hi, this is Veuve from Vouloir. Are you there yet?’

‘Yes, I’ve just pulled up. I take it you’re not.’

‘No, sorry. Thanks to that accident, my cab’s taking a detour and we’re stuck in hellish traffic.’

‘Accident?’ he says. ‘What accident? The roads around here are no worse than usual at this goddamn time of day. Well, maybe slightly now that it’s raining. I’ve not heard of anything major on the radio, not around here anyway. Where are you coming from?’

‘Oh.’ I feel those beady eyes on me and the hairs on the back of my neck start to stand to attention. My phone bleats that the battery is dying but something tells me to stay on the phone. The car crawls to a stop at a pedestrian crossing, usually the bane of my life but today I’m grateful. I release my seatbelt and pull on the door handle. Nothing happens, except that the cab driver’s head whips around.

‘Let me out now,’ I demand, much to the delivery driver’s confusion—I can hear him asking me what I’m going on about but I’m more concerned with getting out of here. The cab driver reaches across towards the passenger side and I think he’s going to press a door release control but I don’t hear the telltale sound of the locks releasing.

I reach over and try the other door. Locked. I feel panic building now.

‘I’m in a taxi but the driver won’t let me out,’ I shout into my phone but I hear it make the disconnect noise, followed by the shutdown jingle. The cabbie is turning in his seat as I jab my finger on the window control to lower it so I can reach outside and open the door from the outside whilst screaming to members of the public that I’m being abducted.

My brain knows that’s what’s happening just as it knows that the window is also locked down. I bang on the window but I feel something sharp, like a wasp sting on my thigh. I turn and look down to see the driver turning back to face the front with a syringe in his hand. He pulls off again with me banging on the window, screaming at ignorant passers-by on their hurried walk home from the office as they battle along with their umbrellas over their heads. Nobody’s looking over—they’re all too busy watching where they’re going and trying to stay dry.

My arms are already growing heavy as my head feels increasingly light and floaty. I prepare to lunge forward in desperation, trying to make him crash or sound the horn or something. Anything. But I can hardly get my feet under me. I can’t lunge. I can barely move. Yet I can feel the panic that’s welling up inside me into sheer terror. I slump sideways when he turns a corner and I can’t get back up. I picture a face, crowned with blond hair and pierced with pale blue eyes. Cruel, cold eyes that make my blood run cold. I’m heading for hell. I know I am. I’ve escaped hell once and I’ve been running from it ever since.

I think my luck just ran out.

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