Page 1 of Gideon (Finding Home #3)

The thought that I could be dying runs through my head in a dreamy sort of way

Gideon

I sit in the back of the limo and blink to clear my eyesight. Jesus, that last drink was strong. I think I should probably be concerned, but instead I take a huge swig from the bottle of tequila in my hand. There’s nothing like a hair of the dog that bit my eyes.

I look idly at the two men curled up in a corner of the backseat beside me, their mouths and hands all over each other.

Normally, it’d be hot, but not much seems to excite me at the moment.

I swallow hard as the car takes a sharp bend and vomit rises in the back of my throat.

There can’t be much left in me, as I evacuated the contents of my stomach all over a flowerbed a few hours ago before we went into the nightclub.

I frown. Was it a few hours ago, or was it when we came out of the club?

I squint ahead, ignoring the throaty groans coming from the couple next to me.

Then I shake my head. Who cares? I’ll probably throw up again soon, so I might as well make it worth it.

I nod and, taking another swig of the drink, I feel the alcohol burn a path down to my stomach.

It swirls uneasily in there, reminding me that I really ought to eat something.

I haven’t felt like eating since I got over a bad bout of flu a month ago.

It’s left me feeling like hollowed-out shit and shows no sign of getting better.

The wardrobe mistress had pinched my waist last week and muttered curses as she took my costume in again.

The car slows to a stop, and when I peer blearily out of the window I can see we’re at the hotel. “Oi,” I say, nudging the man on top with my foot. “We’re here.”

He looks at me, his eyes heavy and his mouth swollen. “Shall we just fuck in here? I can’t be bothered to go upstairs.”

Ah, Christian, my current hook-up. He’s a model who seems to have cornered the market in pouting and drinking.

He’s so laid-back he should be lying on the pavement, and he’s magnificently lazy.

He could also outdrink Peter O’Toole in his heyday.

I remind myself that he’s also a discreet fuck and only interested in how I spend my money on him. Just my type.

I shake my head. “Better not fuck in here. The bill for valeting this car is starting to approach the cost of Donald Trump’s hairspray.”

His companion snorts and I stare at him, wondering what his name is again. We’d picked him up in the club tonight. I shrug. Who fucking cares? I’ll never see him again after tonight.

Christian slides off the other man’s lap and straightens his shirt. “We’ll see you in there. Yeah?”

I nod, tossing him the room key card.

“Why isn’t he coming in with us?” the other man asks.

“Because there might be press about. The driver will take the car round the block and drop him off in a few minutes,” Christian says patiently.

“Okay, we’ll see you later,” the man says brightly.

I nod. “Okay–” I come to a stop and both men stare at me. “Erm.” I look at Christian for enlightenment but it’s obviously hopeless as he hasn’t got a clue. “Yes, in a bit, Eddie.”

“That’s not my fucking name,” Eddie starts to say and Christian snorts.

“Do you honestly care if we know your name?”

He looks at the two of us slowly and grins. “Nope.”

“Wait,” I say as they go to open the door. I lever up and remove the plastic baggy from my back pocket, tossing it to Christian. “Take that and get it ready, will you?”

He smiles, his eyes lighting up as he pushes the coke into the pocket of his jeans. “Baby, of course I will.”

They spill out of the car, laughing, and then blessed silence falls.

I take another swig from the bottle as the privacy screen slowly lowers and the lined face of Russ appears.

He’s been my driver since I started in films, and I always insist in my contract on having him.

My manager, Frankie, can’t stand him, but I adore Russ.

He’s got me out of more trouble than I can remember over the years, and consequently appears to view me as some sort of problem child.

I don’t need a crystal ball to know he’s going to give me some shit tonight.

“Round the block?” he intones in a gloomy voice.

I nod. “Yes, please.”

The car moves off slowly. He examines my face in the mirror. “You okay, sir?”

I look up, surprised. “Of course,” I say abruptly. Then I ask, “Why?”

He shrugs, returning his attention to the road. “You don’t look so good, Mr Ramsay.”

“Oh Russ, you old charmer, you,” I drawl, slugging some more tequila. “What’s with the ‘sir’ and ‘Mr Ramsay’ business anyway?”

He ignores the question. He’s more passive-aggressive than Taylor Swift. “You haven’t eaten properly for a few days now,” he says instead in a concerned voice.

“I have eaten,” I say crossly.

“Tequila and vodka aren’t any of the major food groups.”

I shrug. “I had a Pop-Tart this morning.”

“You had that yesterday and very charmingly regurgitated it into a jasmine bush earlier on.”

“I’m fine,” I say dismissively.

“I surely hope you are,” he says wryly. “Because you’ve got your hands full tonight.”

I shake my head, thinking of the two men I’m about to get into bed with and looking down at my very disinterested cock. “Russ, you’d need a medium and a séance to bring my dick back to life tonight.”

He laughs loudly and then sobers. “Maybe you should call it a night then. Go to bed on your own for a change, sir.”

“Okay, Nanny McPhee. And maybe I’d be better with a box of tissues and a wi-fi connection.” I sigh. “Actually, that sounds a lot quieter.” I stare blearily at the back of his grey head. “I hope you also know that tagging the word ‘sir’ on the end of a sentence doesn’t make it any less bossy.”

“I am aware of that,” he says tartly. He pauses before saying in a rush, “Why don’t I get them out of your room for you? You can get an early night. And see a doctor in the morning,” he adds sternly.

“I don’t need a doctor,” I say peevishly.

“Yes, you do, Gideon. I’m telling you now that you are not well.”

“I’m fine.” We pull up to the hotel and I wave him off as he goes to get out and open my door. “I think we’re far past the point of ceremony, Russ, when you’re lecturing me on my choice of bedmates.”

“Choice isn’t the right word,” he mutters. “Conveyor belt is more like it.”

I get out but stagger slightly and lean back in, resting my hand on the roof of the car for balance. “What the hell? Have you been speaking to Frankie?”

He makes a moue of disgust at the sound of my manager’s name. “Of course I haven’t. I don’t work for him. I just know he’d be right here if he knew what was going on.”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Okay, only a complete meltdown. Nothing to see here, folks.” He glares at me.

“Gid, you’ve been destroying yourself for a long time, but this last year you seem to have stepped up the effort.

You’ve got a lot worse very quickly. Frankie hasn’t spotted what you’re doing to yourself yet, but either he or the press will.

I hope for your sake that it’s Frankie.”

I wink at him. “I’m not doing it to myself. That’s the whole point of the evening.”

He sighs and shakes his head as I give him a half salute which goes slightly awry when I forget where to put my hand.

I give up and wave to him as I stumble blearily into the hotel. I blink. Jesus Christ, it’s fucking bright in here. I feel the ever-present headache start to throb painfully and take another sip from the bottle as I wonder where I put the ibuprofen I had to buy earlier.

A member of staff approaches me. It’s the man from reception who has made it subtly clear that he disapproves of me. “I’m so sorry, Mr Ramsay,” he says officiously. “Would you mind if I took that bottle off you?”

“I would, actually,” I say, hearing the slur in my voice. “I’m not big on sharing my things so you should get your own.”

“It isn’t our policy for guests to bring their own alcohol into the hotel.”

“I’ll give you three hundred pounds if you leave me alone,” I say, digging in my pocket, and he hesitates.

Then he politely says, “Of course, sir,” taking the bundle of cash I thrust into his hand. I’m pretty sure there’s more than three hundred quid in there but I honestly can’t be arsed to check. “Maybe you’d like to go to your room,” he says smoothly.

I smile at him, taking another drink. “You sound just like a matron,” I offer.

A smirk plays on his lips as he presses the lift button and it arrives as quietly as everyone and everything seems to move around here. The place is like heaven, but with chocolate on the pillows and bribable staff.

I slump back against the mirrored walls of the lift as the door closes.

Three or four Gideons look back at me. Pale and sweaty with big circles under their eyes.

I look closer. Shit, I do look terrible .

Sweat rushes up my body and my stomach seems to turn over.

I suck in air. Fuck, I don’t need to be sick in another bloody lift.

Luckily, it arrives at my floor and I stumble out of it, knocking into the door as I leave and dropping the tequila bottle. The corridor seems to stretch ahead of me and move like something from The Shining . If I hear a tricycle coming, I’m getting the fuck out of here.

I fumble in my pocket, looking for the other key card. It seems to take a long time as my fingers appear to be three times their normal size, but eventually I find it.

“Honey, I’m home,” I say as I come into the expensive suite. The only answer I get is a chorus of groans. I come round the corner and grin as I look at the couple writhing on the bed. I admire the long lines of their naked bodies against the pale gold of the sheets.