Page 18

GEORDIE

Jenna’s head rests in the curve of my collarbone as if someone has hand-sculpted our bodies for a perfect fit. I doze, comfortable with the gentle rise and fall of her breath on my chest as it tickles the hairs. She snuffles a little, almost a snore and it’s so fucking adorable I ache with an overwhelming need for her.

Not the type of need that got us here, into her bed, allowing our mutual lust to drive our connection. There’s a deep, desperate craving for her just to be with me, to want me not for the sex but for what I could be for her. It seems like she’s never had a good guy in her life before. I want to be the first; and—fuck it, is it too soon to say this? The only.

I want to take care of her, ease her worries, soothe her fears. I may not be the most subtle of men, but I see there’s plenty lying underneath the face this woman shows to the world. She’s strong for everyone. She’s always looking out for her dad—at the party last week, supporting him in facing the crowd when their grief is obviously still so damn raw; fussing around him at the lunch stop; bringing him drinks in the bar—showing she’ll always step up for him. The phone calls I overheard while working in her office suggest she’s totally there for her clients, too. I want her to understand I can be strength for her; be the one person who she doesn’t have to worry about, but know I’m there to offer care and comfort for her. She’s incredible, and she deserves that.

I let myself drown in imaginings of Jenna and me like this in the future—her tucked in safe with me and my lonely heart safe with her. Sleep grabs at me, and I let it take hold, happy for it to pull me under, knowing she will fill my dreams; and when I wake this real-life woman who is so much more than any dream will still be here.

I’m woken abruptly, immediately bolt upright. I throw back the bedcovers. In an automatic response to years of drills, my feet hit the floor and in the pitch dark I scrabble blindly for clothes as the fire alarm’s piercing scream assaults my ears. Then, as it rips away the fog of sleep, I remember where I am—and who I’m with.

I flick on a light. Jenna jolts up to sitting; hair wild, her face distorted in response to the painful wail surrounding us, the tone and volume deliberately designed to repel.

“Quick, we need to get out,” I yell.

The words are unnecessary as a mechanical voice cuts across the blare.

‘Attention hotel guests. A fire alarm has been activated. Please leave your rooms immediately and proceed to the nearest emergency exit. Do not use lifts. Do not return to your rooms to collect belongings.’

Jenna reaches for the white fluffy dressing gown lying discarded on the floor, where I unwrapped her from it. There’s no time to admire her still sex-sated, drowsy face as I buckle up my jeans and pull on boots. No way am I accompanying her outside wearing only a bathrobe. It’s probably going to be very obvious what’s been going on between us, but no point in labouring the point by appearing wrapped only in a piece of towelling.

Tugging on my Scotland rugby jersey, I head for the door. With practised hands I sweep across the flat wood-panelled surface but feel no trace of heat. I sniff the air, but there’s no tang of smoke. I edge it open to be sure, and then yank it wide, confident that whatever has triggered this rude interruption, it’s not out here.

The shrieking alarm rises from uncomfortable in the room to painful as I open up to the corridor.

“EVACUATE THE BUILDING,” the voice commands.

My hands automatically clamp over my ears, fingers pushing deep inside in a useless attempt to dampen the pain. There’s no sign of fire or even a whiff of smoke.

As I emerge from Jenna’s room, I scan left and right, but there’s no one else in sight. Our secret is safe for now. The rest of the team, and more importantly Jenna’s father, are well away from here in a completely different wing of the building. Chances are those stairs at the end of the corridor, with the giant green ‘FIRE EXIT’ sign, also lead to a different door out of the hotel. If luck is on our side, we can separate at the bottom and filter into the assembly area out front from different directions. Hopefully, none of them will work out we’ve come from the same place.

I’m just about to turn back into the room to hurry her along—my head is starting to ache from the onslaught of sound—when the door from the one other room on this floor flies open.

A guy in the remains of a suit bursts into the corridor. He stands paralysed at the sight of me. He’s lost the jacket and his vest hangs loose. A striped tie dangles around his neck, the collar undone—in fact, his shirt is half unbuttoned. The white cuffs of his shirtsleeves flap at the wrists. He’s so baby-faced he looks like he’s been playing dress-ups in his dad’s wardrobe.

One hand is clamped to an ear, and the other presses a phone to his head. He’s screaming into it, which is rather pointless given the wall of sound trapping us. There’s no way anyone could hear above that. As if realising this too, he pulls the phone away, ending the call with a frustrated stab of a finger.

Noticing he’s got company, he mouths a word at me. I knot my brows in a confused frown. I think I know what he said, but that can’t be right.

“Sorry.” He bellows the word again.

My frown deepens as I stare at him, totally baffled. Why the hell is he apologising to me? Has this guy chosen to burn down the building in some fit of insanity, and now he’s apologising before we’re all incinerated?

“No fire,” he yells across at me. I can’t hear the sound, but I’m sure my lip reading is accurate as he carries on. “There’s no fire. You don’t have to leave. We’re not.”

“There’s no fire?” I scream back at him.

“No,” he yells. “Just this.” He gives an embarrassed shake of his head towards his room, pushing the door wide open. I can see the room opposite is a mirror of Jenna’s, a suite; a bridal suite.

But unlike ours, in this room there really is a bride. A dark-haired woman, her elaborate up-do coming apart, her face contorted in what could be pain, fury, or embarrassment, stands hands on hips glaring at her husband. Sheathed in white fabric, she’s all gleaming curves, lit up in a blaze of candlelight .

Candles top every piece of furniture in the room. Their jaunty flames flicker off walls and ceiling, bathing the room in golden light. Small wisps of smoke spiral upwards. Petals are strewn across the carpet and the bed. There’s an open bottle of champagne.

“I was trying to be romantic,” he yells across at me. “But I set the fucking alarm off.”

I’m impressed by his effort to set the mood for their wedding night. He did well except for the bloody candles.

Seeing the actual flames reminds me of Jenna, and how fearful she is of fire. I need to reassure her there’s no danger. I’m about to turn and check she’s on her way out of the room, when she arrives, colliding full force against my back. Her arms slide around my waist.

“What’s up?” she yells against my ear.

“It’s OK,” I bellow back. “There isn’t a fire.” I grin down at her. “This is so fucking funny. You’ve got to see it.”

I drag her across the corridor, positioning her in the doorway with one arm wrapped around her waist and her hand clasped in mine, knowing she’ll find it hilarious. I rest my chin on her shoulder, speaking directly into the shell of her ear.

“Poor guy,” I chuckle, “but you have to give him a ten for trying.”

The groom has retreated. Slumped on the bed, his face flushes as he glances up at us, standing in the doorway.

The bride, tears now sliding down her cheeks, tosses us a desperate look. I feel kind of bad taking pleasure in their wedding night disaster, but I’m betting she’ll forgive him soon enough. What will it take? A day, a week maybe, and they’ll laugh about it for the rest of their lives .

Jenna’s hand tenses under mine, her whole body stiffening. I straighten, glancing down at her face. She’s staring at the bride, cheeks drained of colour, and her brown eyes wide and stormy.

Does she know this woman? Or this man? I’m not sure what the hell is happening here.

Jenna scans the woman head to toe and her face crumples. That beautiful mouth turns downward and tears sparkle in the corners of her velvet brown eyes. It’s definitely the bride who has triggered this response.

The girl stares back at her, a puzzled expression creeping across her face, her dark brows furrowing. Jenna swallows hard, and in the next breath, although I can’t hear the sound over the fucking alarm, I feel the vibration of a huge strangled sob ripple through her body.

She breaks free of me and rushes from the corridor, back to her room, and shuts the door with a silent slam, the sound submerged in the still insistent alarm. I abandon the unfortunate pair and follow.

Faced with the blank door, I pause, uncertain what to do. Mercifully, at that moment, the alarm cuts off. The silence is ominous.

I have a choice to make here, and neither option seems attractive. Either I take this as a sign that for some reason, despite what’s happened between us tonight—or maybe because of it—Jenna doesn’t want me near her, and I should head back to my room. Or, I risk tapping on the door, hoping she’ll open up and let me in to face whatever lies beyond it.

One thing I know, if I go, I won’t sleep, consumed with worry, while she lies up here alone and hurting. I need to get into that room.

My phone chirps to life in my back pocket, and I wrestle it free. Nathan. There are three texts, two earlier unnoticed, ignored. I was busy .

Nate: Empty bed. So you’re not coming home tonight, I take it? Didn’t know you’d take the warning about my snoring so seriously. Should I be hurt you don’t want to share with me pretty boy?

Nate: Good on you mate. She’s got it bad for you. Just don’t let her father see you sneaking out of her room in the morning.

Nate: Where the fuck are you Geordie. Is Jenna with you? We’re all out front.

I stab out a quick message back.

Me: All good. Yes she’s with me.

That’s all anyone needs to know for now. Maybe Nathan will cover for us. But on second thoughts, he’s not the most imaginative bastard. Maybe I should feed him a story.

Me: We were in the back bar.

It’s not a lie.

Nate: At this hour. Yeah right. And I’m the fucking Pope. Ok I’ll tell Razor. Better hope he believes you mate because I sure as hell don’t. You dirty dog. You fucking lucky dog.

I don’t reply. At this point, I’m beyond caring about anything apart from the immediate situation. Jenna is crying in her room and I’m going back in there to find out why. As far as anyone working out that it’s two a.m. and we’ve been together this whole time, I’ll deal with the fallout in the morning. I close my eyes and reach for the handle. There’s an unyielding clunk.

It seems, with the alarm switched off, the door locking mechanisms have all come back on. Fucking wonderful. With only my own key card in my back pocket, I have no way of getting into this room.

I tap on the door and wait, but there’s no response. While I don’t want to bully Jenna when she’s obviously really upset about something, I’m going to need to be more demanding. Curling my hand into a fist, I give three sharp raps and put my mouth to the door.

“Jenna, let me in. Please.”

I stand there resting my head against the door; the seconds ticking by in time to my heavy breaths, as I wonder how I’ve managed to fuck this all up. One moment lying wrapped around her beautiful curves dreaming of what comes next, the next out here in the corridor with all my hopes dashed.

I jerk upright at the click of the door handle. The door swings open a little, and Jenna’s there, in the white dressing gown, her back to me as she walks away, heading straight for the bed.

I enter the room cautiously, pulling the door closed with a soft thud, and lean against it, unsure what to do.

Jenna’s already back in bed, head covered by the sheets. Muffled sobs hiccup from the tangle of bunched up white fabric. I have absolutely no fucking idea what’s brought her to this; what I did, what I didn’t do.

In fact, I sense that while I may well be part of the problem here, I’m not actually the problem. Something to do with that bride has Jenna spinning out. I’m good at screwing things up, but this time it’s not my screw up that has her lying there crying her heart out.

I also have no fucking idea what to do. I’m not one to make a girl cry. Me, I’m the guy who listens, checks in on how she’s feeling, works to keep her happy and laughing, stops her ending up this way before it happens.

Crying women weren’t part of my upbringing either. Mum is stoic. She needed to be—married to my prick of a father, although I never saw his wrath fall on her. Any time he turned even a mildly disapproving face her way, it evaporated with one of her smiles.

Rachel, his golden girl, met his moods with compliance if his demands coincided with hers, and defiance when they didn’t, but even when they clashed, there were never tears. Rachel doesn’t cry in front of people. It was only me he could reduce to a snivelling mess, my sister the comforter.

So, I’m ad-libbing here. The only thing I’m sure of is that standing by doing nothing makes me an arsehole.

Jenna’s sobbing subsides and a new sound takes its place, half wail, half moan, like an animal in distress. It cuts me like a blade, and I feel her pain in every cell of my body.

I take small quiet steps towards her, buying time, unsure of what I’m going to say. I advance like one of those negotiators stepping toward the guy standing on the ledge, knowing that one wrong move and it will all be over. But unlike the professional talkers, I’m an amateur, with no well-practised script or experience to draw on. All I’ve got is a heart swelling with both love and sadness for this woman, and a determination to free her from this pain.