Denied
Page 56
‘Where have you been?’ He takes my hand from his stomach and pulls it to his mouth, kissing it sweetly.
‘Nan.’ I give one word, knowing my simple reply will halt further questions. But it doesn’t halt him from turning over to find my eyes.
‘Is she okay?’ He’s timid. It magnifies the pain in my chest and swells the lump in my throat. I don’t want him to see my sadness, so I hum my answer, hoping the restricted light is hindering his vision of me. ‘Then why are you sad?’
‘I’m okay.’ I try for a reassuring tone but manage only an unconvincing whisper. I won’t ask him about the picture because I already know that anything he tells me will be agonising.
His face is dubious, but he doesn’t pressure me. He uses the last of his drunken energy to pull me into his chest and envelop me completely in his strong arms. I’m home. ‘I have a request,’ he murmurs into my hair, squeezing me further into him.
‘Anything.’
We’re briefly bathed in a peaceful silence while he sprinkles kisses in my hair before he softly whispers his wish. ‘Never stop loving me, Olivia Taylor.’
His plea requires no thought. ‘Never.’
Chapter Seventeen
Morning greets me a split second later, or that’s what it feels like. It also feels like I’m restrained, and a quick assessment of the position of my limbs confirms that I actually am restrained. Tightly. Shifting a little, I monitor his peaceful face, watching for any sign of disturbing him. There’s none, and the heavy odour of stale whisky tells me why. My nose crinkles and I hold my breath, edging my way out of his hold until he rolls onto his back with a grumble. I check the clock, seeing it’s only seven, then quickly throw my clothes on and hurry for the front door. I won’t even bother attempting to make him a coffee to his liking. There’s a Costa Coffee around the corner. They can make it for me.
Taking Miller’s keys from the table, I leave him in bed and automatically head for the stairs, hoping I can return before he wakes and serve him coffee in bed. Aspirin, too. Echoes ring around the concrete walls of the stairwell as I dance down the steps, flashbacks of a lost little boy jumping all over my mind, dragging me back to sorrow. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to kick them to the back of my brain; the memory of Miller’s face in that picture is too vivid. But the thought of being able to make up for lost cuddles – lost things – fills me with purpose.
I crash through the exit door into the lobby and wave a hand over my shoulder to the doorman when he greets me, breaking into the fresh morning air feeling breathless. I don’t let my laboured breathing hold me back, though, and jog down the street, landing in the bustling coffee house in no time at all.
‘Medium Americano, four shots, two sugars, and topped up halfway,’ I gasp to the young guy behind the counter, slapping my purse down. ‘Please.’
‘Sure thing,’ he replies, a little alarmed by my flustered form. ‘Drinking in?’
‘Take out.’
‘And four shots?’
‘Yes, topped up halfway,’ I reiterate. If I knew how it should taste by Miller’s standards, then I’d take a slurp to test it, but I can only imagine that it tastes like coffee beans have been grinded to a pulp and that it resembles something close to tar.
He gets straight to work at the coffee machine, and I find myself counting the shots as they are added to the cup. He isn’t going fast enough, but my manners prevent me from chivvying him along, so I shuffle impatiently instead, glancing over my shoulder on a frown when that strange sensation settles over me. I feel like I’m being watched again, but when I scan the coffee house, I find only businessmen and women with their faces in laptops, slurping and tapping, so I shrug off the strange feeling and return my attention to the dithering server. Now he’s taking his time wiping the steam pipe, whistling as he does.
‘Would you . . .’ I pause, halted by the return sense of being observed, but this time I have the cold chill across my shoulders and raised neck hair to accompany it. A shiver reverberates through me, gliding slowly down my spine.
‘What did ya say?’
I look blankly at the guy, who has turned from his task and is looking at me expectantly. What did I say? ‘Nothing,’ I breathe, reaching up to run my palm over my nape, unease settling over me like a blanket. I shake my head mildly and he shrugs, returning to the coffee machine.
I look around but only find other customers waiting impatiently, nothing out of the ordinary, yet my body’s screaming that something isn’t right.
‘Three-twenty, please.’
I drag my wary eyes to the counter, finding Miller’s coffee and a hand being held out. ‘Sorry.’ I shake myself back to life and fumble for my purse, taking for ever to locate a fiver before shoving it into his hand. Scooping up the take-out cup, I slowly turn, my eyes darting everywhere looking for something, but I haven’t the first idea what. I feel stifled by anxiety. Claustrophobic. My steps are careful as I make for the exit, my eyes measuring every person I pass. None of them return my gaze. No one seems interested in me. I’d brush off my discomfort as paranoia, if my internal alarm bells weren’t still ringing like crackers.
‘Miss, your change!’
The muffled yell of the server doesn’t make my steps falter. My legs have switched to automatic and seem hell-bent on carrying me away from the source of my distress, even if it’s not obvious what that source is. I break free of the confines of the coffee house, hoping my freedom will restore some rationality and calmness. It doesn’t. My legs take off down the street at a steady jog, and I glance over my shoulder repeatedly, every time finding absolutely nothing. I’m frustrated with myself but can’t seem to convince my legs to slow, and I’m not sure whether I should be grateful or frightened by this. The increasing coldness of my skin tells me frightened. My strides quicken, my breath instantly drained as I weave through the passers-by, stupidly careful not to spill or drop Miller’s coffee as I do. My relief is immense when Miller’s apartment block comes into view and a quick check over my shoulder reveals . . . something.
A man. A hooded man chasing me.
And that confirmation registers in the part of my brain that’s feeding the instructions to my legs. My pace rockets, and I return my focus forward, my mind oblivious to my surroundings. The vision of someone hooded bursting through the crowds behind me is all I can see. The pounding of my heart is all I can feel.
I rush into the lobby and head for the lift, autopilot not taking me to the stairs this time. Now autopilot is desperately trying to get me away from my cloaked shadow.
‘Lift’s broken,’ the doorman calls, pulling me to a sharp halt. ‘Engineer’s on his way.’ He shrugs before returning to his desk.
I growl my frustration and dart towards the stairwell, trying to gather some level-headedness. The door bashes against the wall behind me and I hit the concrete stairs, sprinting up them two at a time. The combination of my heavy breathing and pounding feet combine, ricocheting loudly off the walls around me.
Then a loud crash from below brings me to an abrupt halt on the sixth floor.
I freeze, my legs now refusing to work at all, and listen as the echo of that crash travels up the shaft of the stairwell, eventually fading to nothing above my head. I hold my breath, listening carefully. Silence. My lungs are screaming for some air, but I refuse them, concentrating on the stillness around me and the continued anxiety coursing through my cold veins. Long seconds pass before I brave a step forward, craning my neck to peer down the shaft, seeing nothing but steps, stair rails and cold, grey concrete.
‘Nan.’ I give one word, knowing my simple reply will halt further questions. But it doesn’t halt him from turning over to find my eyes.
‘Is she okay?’ He’s timid. It magnifies the pain in my chest and swells the lump in my throat. I don’t want him to see my sadness, so I hum my answer, hoping the restricted light is hindering his vision of me. ‘Then why are you sad?’
‘I’m okay.’ I try for a reassuring tone but manage only an unconvincing whisper. I won’t ask him about the picture because I already know that anything he tells me will be agonising.
His face is dubious, but he doesn’t pressure me. He uses the last of his drunken energy to pull me into his chest and envelop me completely in his strong arms. I’m home. ‘I have a request,’ he murmurs into my hair, squeezing me further into him.
‘Anything.’
We’re briefly bathed in a peaceful silence while he sprinkles kisses in my hair before he softly whispers his wish. ‘Never stop loving me, Olivia Taylor.’
His plea requires no thought. ‘Never.’
Chapter Seventeen
Morning greets me a split second later, or that’s what it feels like. It also feels like I’m restrained, and a quick assessment of the position of my limbs confirms that I actually am restrained. Tightly. Shifting a little, I monitor his peaceful face, watching for any sign of disturbing him. There’s none, and the heavy odour of stale whisky tells me why. My nose crinkles and I hold my breath, edging my way out of his hold until he rolls onto his back with a grumble. I check the clock, seeing it’s only seven, then quickly throw my clothes on and hurry for the front door. I won’t even bother attempting to make him a coffee to his liking. There’s a Costa Coffee around the corner. They can make it for me.
Taking Miller’s keys from the table, I leave him in bed and automatically head for the stairs, hoping I can return before he wakes and serve him coffee in bed. Aspirin, too. Echoes ring around the concrete walls of the stairwell as I dance down the steps, flashbacks of a lost little boy jumping all over my mind, dragging me back to sorrow. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to kick them to the back of my brain; the memory of Miller’s face in that picture is too vivid. But the thought of being able to make up for lost cuddles – lost things – fills me with purpose.
I crash through the exit door into the lobby and wave a hand over my shoulder to the doorman when he greets me, breaking into the fresh morning air feeling breathless. I don’t let my laboured breathing hold me back, though, and jog down the street, landing in the bustling coffee house in no time at all.
‘Medium Americano, four shots, two sugars, and topped up halfway,’ I gasp to the young guy behind the counter, slapping my purse down. ‘Please.’
‘Sure thing,’ he replies, a little alarmed by my flustered form. ‘Drinking in?’
‘Take out.’
‘And four shots?’
‘Yes, topped up halfway,’ I reiterate. If I knew how it should taste by Miller’s standards, then I’d take a slurp to test it, but I can only imagine that it tastes like coffee beans have been grinded to a pulp and that it resembles something close to tar.
He gets straight to work at the coffee machine, and I find myself counting the shots as they are added to the cup. He isn’t going fast enough, but my manners prevent me from chivvying him along, so I shuffle impatiently instead, glancing over my shoulder on a frown when that strange sensation settles over me. I feel like I’m being watched again, but when I scan the coffee house, I find only businessmen and women with their faces in laptops, slurping and tapping, so I shrug off the strange feeling and return my attention to the dithering server. Now he’s taking his time wiping the steam pipe, whistling as he does.
‘Would you . . .’ I pause, halted by the return sense of being observed, but this time I have the cold chill across my shoulders and raised neck hair to accompany it. A shiver reverberates through me, gliding slowly down my spine.
‘What did ya say?’
I look blankly at the guy, who has turned from his task and is looking at me expectantly. What did I say? ‘Nothing,’ I breathe, reaching up to run my palm over my nape, unease settling over me like a blanket. I shake my head mildly and he shrugs, returning to the coffee machine.
I look around but only find other customers waiting impatiently, nothing out of the ordinary, yet my body’s screaming that something isn’t right.
‘Three-twenty, please.’
I drag my wary eyes to the counter, finding Miller’s coffee and a hand being held out. ‘Sorry.’ I shake myself back to life and fumble for my purse, taking for ever to locate a fiver before shoving it into his hand. Scooping up the take-out cup, I slowly turn, my eyes darting everywhere looking for something, but I haven’t the first idea what. I feel stifled by anxiety. Claustrophobic. My steps are careful as I make for the exit, my eyes measuring every person I pass. None of them return my gaze. No one seems interested in me. I’d brush off my discomfort as paranoia, if my internal alarm bells weren’t still ringing like crackers.
‘Miss, your change!’
The muffled yell of the server doesn’t make my steps falter. My legs have switched to automatic and seem hell-bent on carrying me away from the source of my distress, even if it’s not obvious what that source is. I break free of the confines of the coffee house, hoping my freedom will restore some rationality and calmness. It doesn’t. My legs take off down the street at a steady jog, and I glance over my shoulder repeatedly, every time finding absolutely nothing. I’m frustrated with myself but can’t seem to convince my legs to slow, and I’m not sure whether I should be grateful or frightened by this. The increasing coldness of my skin tells me frightened. My strides quicken, my breath instantly drained as I weave through the passers-by, stupidly careful not to spill or drop Miller’s coffee as I do. My relief is immense when Miller’s apartment block comes into view and a quick check over my shoulder reveals . . . something.
A man. A hooded man chasing me.
And that confirmation registers in the part of my brain that’s feeding the instructions to my legs. My pace rockets, and I return my focus forward, my mind oblivious to my surroundings. The vision of someone hooded bursting through the crowds behind me is all I can see. The pounding of my heart is all I can feel.
I rush into the lobby and head for the lift, autopilot not taking me to the stairs this time. Now autopilot is desperately trying to get me away from my cloaked shadow.
‘Lift’s broken,’ the doorman calls, pulling me to a sharp halt. ‘Engineer’s on his way.’ He shrugs before returning to his desk.
I growl my frustration and dart towards the stairwell, trying to gather some level-headedness. The door bashes against the wall behind me and I hit the concrete stairs, sprinting up them two at a time. The combination of my heavy breathing and pounding feet combine, ricocheting loudly off the walls around me.
Then a loud crash from below brings me to an abrupt halt on the sixth floor.
I freeze, my legs now refusing to work at all, and listen as the echo of that crash travels up the shaft of the stairwell, eventually fading to nothing above my head. I hold my breath, listening carefully. Silence. My lungs are screaming for some air, but I refuse them, concentrating on the stillness around me and the continued anxiety coursing through my cold veins. Long seconds pass before I brave a step forward, craning my neck to peer down the shaft, seeing nothing but steps, stair rails and cold, grey concrete.
