Filthy English

As if something horrible was about to happen.

Maybe I should have stayed and kissed her on those lips and told her to forget her stupid contract.

But I didn’t.

Because I was fucking scared of the power she held over me. She made me vulnerable.

The cashier sent me a quizzical look and handed over what I’d ordered. I shoved money at her and peeked inside to see donuts, biscuits, and muffins.

Good. At least I’d been coherent.

The entire way back, I considered and tossed away different things to say to her when I got back.

I was going to tell her—fuck, what was I going to say?

That we are impossible? That I wasn’t worth the time? That she’d get tired of my shenanigans? I mean, I didn’t even know how to be a real boyfriend. Hell, I didn’t even know what I was going to do after college.

A few minutes later, I still hadn’t decided, but I knew something had changed between us and we had to sit down and address it. And then make love again.

I entered the hotel, hopped on the elevator, and punched the button for her floor. The door pinged opened, and I nodded at a passing guest as I headed down Remi’s hall.

I halted, my skin prickling. Her door was open. Chad? I turned my walk into a full-on run, juggling the bag and drinks in the carrier.

But I froze at her door.

Air got sucked out of me and a brick hit me square on the chest.

What the—

Hartford stood with his back to me, wearing a Whitman shirt, his arms wrapped around Remi’s waist as they kissed. Her hair was wet and hid her face. But her hands—her hands were around Hartford’s shoulders. Holding him.

I inhaled, my body itching to rip him off her and pound him into the wall.

She was mine. She’d never be his.

“Remington, babe, I need you,” Hartford murmured, his hands slipping under the robe she wore.

She said his fucking name, and pain sliced into me like an axe to the heart.

I flipped around and bolted down the hall until I came to the stairwell, slamming it open and tearing down the stairs two at a time. Out of breath and sweating by the time I got to the bottom, I found a trash container at one of the floors and chucked everything from the bakery.

For half a second, I’d let myself believe—fuck it. I was done with her.

“Sod it all, you’re rat-arsed,” Spider muttered as he tried to steer me into his flat. I weaved and fell into the foyer wall, knocking over the umbrella stand and a picture of Spider with his band. I cursed as it clattered across the marble tile. The sound of glass shattering hit my ears.

“I’ll replace that,” I slurred. “I’ll buy you a hundred of them.”

He exhaled, holding onto my shoulder. “No need for that kind of extravagance, cousin. Just put one foot in front of the other until we make it to the den.”

He managed to get me to the couch where I crashed down, the entire room spinning like a top. I squinted at the rustic-style light fixture above me, the twinkling lights running together in one big blob. I blinked, trying to clear my vision.

Probably shouldn’t have had that last vodka.

He’d found me at Knights, one of the bars in the West End we went to on a regular basis, which had a VIP room for clients who preferred to be away from the regular crowd. They also provided any extra entertainment if you desired. I had.

The club was intimately lit with dark paneling and full of ritzy clients. I’d waltzed in with one objective: to erase Remi from my brain. I’d tossed Spider’s name around like a football and because the owner remembered me, I’d ended up in private room with two expensively dressed call girls. Maybe. They might have been cheap strippers from the bar across the street. I really don’t know.

The three of us had had a party in a private room with loud music, red leather couches, and a whole lot of vodka. At some point, Spider had shown up and proceeded to wrangle me in his car. Guess the owner had called him. I hadn’t cared at that point.

“What you doing?” I muttered at him, raising my head up from the arm of the couch.

“Taking your ugly-arse shoes off.” He sounded annoyed as he untied the laces.

I laughed. “This is bloody rich. You’re taking care of me.”

He shot me a dark look—I guess. It was hard to judge a person’s emotions when you’ve been throwing back drinks for the past three hours.

He tossed my shoes over his shoulder, and a few minutes later I felt him stuff a pillow under my head. “You think you’ll be sick?”

“Hell no. Bring on the Grey Goose from the cabinet.” I slung my head back toward the kitchen, and immediately got nauseous.

“Uh-huh, I think you’ve had enough for one night.”

“Said Spider never.” I laughed.

He disappeared and came back with a small stainless-steel trashcan. “Just in case. Don’t want you to ruin my hardwood.” He smirked, his face softening as he stared down at me. “Remi’s called me a dozen times looking for you and every message she leaves for you gets a bit shittier. You better have a damn good explanation for me being your bloody secretary.”

“Remi—she’s—we’re over.”

“I didn’t know you’d begun.”

Neither had I.

“Did you pop your London cherry tonight?” he asked.

I peered up at him. “What?”

“Did you get laid at the bar? You had two girls all over you when I walked in,” he said, enunciating his words slowly.