Page 12 of London’s Calling, Part 1 (London’s Calling)
Chapter Twelve
Roni
Returning from the bathroom while Clayton took care of the bill, he’s waiting for me, but he’s not alone.
The waitress that served us is standing with him, a little closer than necessary.
I pause just out of sight and watch them for a couple of minutes, and for the first time tonight, I notice how friendly they seem, how intimate they appear to be.
I really shouldn’t be surprised. Clayton has a reputation with the women almost as infamous as my father’s within the property business.
I can picture the two of them smoking cigars and drinking champagne while they discuss their conquests—and I don’t mean in real estate.
When she lays her hand on his forearm, I decide now is the best time to show my face. I don’t give a shit if he fucks half of London because while he’s busy with other women, he’s not bothering me. Yet I don’t need to be here to watch.
The waitress sees me coming and immediately removes her hand from Clayton’s arm, straightening her posture and returning to the professional waitress she was when we arrived.
“Ah, here she is, my beautiful fiancée. Everything okay?” Clayton asks as I reach them, his hand instantly snakes around my back, and he grips my hip, pulling me closer.
“I’m fine, just a little tired.”
“Let’s get you home then.” Clayton thanks the waitress, who he calls Brittany, then steers me toward the door, his grip on my hip tightening the closer we get to the exit.
“You think you’re funny, Veronica?” He opens the door, moving his hand from my hip to my bicep.
“When you’re my wife, you’ll learn how to behave in public and be a good little wifey. ”
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” I hiss, yanking free of his hold and hurrying a couple of steps ahead so he can’t reach me.
Carl steps from his car, and for a second, I hope he’s going to intervene, but I should have known it would be too good to be true.
Carl is not my friend, he’s not there for me, other than to ensure I don’t die, and that’s only because my father doesn’t want to lose his opportunity for revenge on the Rawlins family.
Carl is my father’s man, his wages come from Franklin Hart’s deep coffers and not mine, so that’s where his loyalty lies.
Feet stomp behind me a second before Clayton meets my back, forcing me forward in the direction of his own car and away from Carl.
“Seems Veronica here can’t handle her drink.” Clayton’s driver has the car door open already, and Clayton doesn’t wait for Carl’s response before he’s shoving me in the back of the car with him hot my heels.
My shins smack into the rim of the car, sending pain splintering up my legs, and I land sprawled over the backseat. Not wanting to be in such a vulnerable position, I scramble to the other side of the seat as the door closes.
As the driver pulls away, Clayton slides over to me, pinning me against the door.
Bringing his mouth to my ear, he whispers, “I don’t give a flying fuck if we are married yet or not, but you will never embarrass me like that again.
When you’re out with me, you will do what I say, eat and drink what I fucking tell you. Do you understand me?”
I slowly turn my face toward him and look him in the eye, but I stay silent. His hand flies forward, smacking against the window behind me, and I wish I could contain my flinch.
“Answer me!” he bellows in my face, baring his teeth like a savage dog before it attacks.
“You don’t own—” My words are cut short as he grasps my chin, gripping to the point of pain.
“Your daddy says otherwise. And I don’t need a ring or a piece of paper to own you.
” He slams his mouth to mine. Between his firm grip of my chin, his vile tongue forcing its way inside my mouth and one arm trapped against the door, I have no chance of stopping him.
I can taste the bitterness of the champagne, and my olfactory senses are assaulted by the overpowering and sickly scent of his aftershave.
I screw my eyes tightly shut and hope he stops soon. No such fucking luck.
When he tugs at the bandeau top of my jumpsuit, trying to free my breasts, I’ve had enough.
I wait for the perfect moment. After another foul probing swipe of his tongue, he draws back a little, giving me enough space to catch his tongue between my teeth.
I bite down at the same time I use my free hand to shove him away.
He releases me with a roar of pain, but my momentary victory is shattered a moment later when he slaps me across the face, sending my head careening into the window with a thump. My vision fades in and out, and my breath seizes in my chest.
“Fucking bitch! I can see breaking you is going to be so much fucking fun.”
The car comes to a stop, but it doesn’t ease my nerves. If Clayton decides he wants to come in with me, that’s what he’ll do. There won’t be a damn thing I can do about it.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ll fight, because my spirit isn’t broken yet, despite years of verbal and psychological abuse from my father, but it’s obvious Clayton has no hangups over hurting me physically.
Why would he? He’s been abusing women for years and getting away with it, protected by his father and numerous high-ranking friends.
Men like Clayton Simmonds believe they are untouchable.
When he comes at me a second time, I somehow manage to hold back the flinch thrumming behind a trembling shield, and I wait for what’s coming.
“I’ll pick you up on Friday at seven.” He leans closer and whispers in my ear, “Wear a dress, something sexy…” He retreats, a wicked smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. His implied but unsaid words play over in my mind.
With easy access.
My door opens and I climb out, but not before Clayton slaps my arse. I bite back any retort, not wanting to give him any reason to change his mind about coming in.
I thank the driver, who gives me a nod and a weak smile. I imagine the man has seen some things but keeping his job and not ending up with a cracked skull are what keeps his mouth shut.
Carl’s car pulls up behind Clayton’s, and I feel his eyes watching me as I make my way to the front door, my legs a little shaky and my face and head smarting from the strike.
“See you Friday, sweetheart,” Clayton calls far too cheerily from the open window of the car as they drive away.
“Not if I can fucking help it,” I mutter as I enter the main door and head for the lift.
Inside the apartment, I begin undoing my jumpsuit as I climb the stairs, desperate to remove the outfit.
I plan to burn it later. I don’t want anything that man has touched.
Forgoing the ensuite shower, I seek out the main bathroom because I know there’s a deep bath in there.
I’d love to just climb into bed and hide from my life, but I refuse to allow Clayton to soil anything else, including my bed sheets.
Once the bath is ready, I slip into it, allowing the hot water to work its magic and burn the evening from my skin. It will never remove the black mark on my soul. A spot I fear is only going to grow until it swallows me whole.