Page 2 of London’s Calling, Part 1 (London’s Calling)

Chapter Two

Roni

“Prick,” I mutter as Mickey walks away, ignoring the sting of his words. I use the hurt to fuel my hate for him. He and his bastard of a father deserve everything coming their way.

Daddy gave me the CliffsNotes version of what went down between him and Mickey’s father years ago, but it was enough to birth an inherent hate for the Rawlins family and everything they stand for.

Now, I’m happy to carry the torch while denying my body’s reaction to him. Lust I can deal with. What I can’t deal with is my father’s disappointment.

Pushing my way back through the crowd to the bar, I order a shot of tequila. The barman delivers it with lime and salt but fuck that. I need the burn. He raises a brow when I slam the empty shot glass on the bar.

“Hit me again,” I say as a shiver travels the length of my body. He obliges, but this time I lick the back of my hand, sprinkle salt and down my shot before picking up a lime wedge and sucking the sharp, sour juice into my mouth.

I watch as the barman’s raised brow morphs into a hooded look full of desire for me to be sucking something else. I slow my movements, emphasising each lick and suck before seductively pulling the lime wedge from my mouth. Dropping it to the tray, I make a performance of sucking each finger clean.

“So, you want—”

I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “Sorry. Not my type,” I say, tossing a twenty on the bar. “Keep the change,” I call over my shoulder as he laughs behind me, and I disappear into the crowd.

I spend another hour dancing with Robyn, periodically joined by a guy or two, who quickly disappear when they realise it’ll take more than a bump ‘n’ grind and a few slurred whispers in my ear to get me in bed, before heading home.

Quietly letting myself in, I slip my shoes off and tiptoe to the kitchen. I’ve barely taken two steps when a voice echoes in the silent foyer.

“Veronica, where the fuck have you been?”

I wince, closing my eyes, and take a deep breath before facing Franklin Hart, my father. “Daddy—”

“You’re not five anymore, Veronica. Cut that doe-eyed daddy shit,” he barks, cutting me off and stepping out of the shadows. “You slipped your security again. Do you have any idea—”

Emboldened by the alcohol and frustrated, I let my mouth run away with me. “How many enemies you have. How dangerous it is for me, blah, blah? Yes, and yes! But as you so eloquently pointed out, I’m not five anymore, Daddy.”

Grim-faced and jaw ticking, he takes measured steps towards me until he’s towering over my five-foot six frame. The strike when it comes is quick and hard. My head snaps to the side, and the sting blooms out like a drop of ink in water.

“Remember your place, daughter. Go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.” I flinch as he clasps my head in both hands and presses a kiss to my forehead.

Turning my back on him, I climb the stairs. The second I close my bedroom door behind me, a sob breaks free, and I touch my cheek, feeling the burn of his slap.

Disappointment.

So much for Carl covering for me. At least I know who not to trust in future.

I take a minute to feel sorry for myself, then I push off the door, swiping tears from my face.

Stripping out of my dress, I stand in front of the mirror in my ensuite, tilting my face left then right and assess the damage.

It’s nothing a good layer of make-up won’t cover. I got off lightly this time.

“Stupid. So stupid,” I reprimand my reflection.

It wasn’t worth the trouble, not even the frisson of arousal from exchanging insults with Mickey, I think to myself, as I take a wipe and gently clean off my make-up.

I’ll be twenty-one in three weeks and next month I’ll graduate with a degree in journalism, and my life will be over if Daddy gets his way.

He humoured me allowing me to go to university to study journalism and have a semblance of a normal life for a girl my age.

I shiver at the thought of which one of his acquaintances sons he’s planning to marry me off to.

All for his benefit, of course. Just like he’ll find a way to use my degree to his advantage.

Feeling empty, I trudge to my dresser and grab an over-sized T-shirt and throw it over my head, pushing heavy arms through the sleeves, then dragging it down my body.

I aimlessly wander to my bed and climb in, tugging the covers up, hiding beneath them as if it will make me invisible and save me from my fate.

But that’s an impossible dream because there’s no escaping fate for the daughter of hotelier and property mogul Franklin Hart.