Page 20 of London’s Calling, Part 1 (London’s Calling)

Chapter Twenty

Roni

I slept like shit last night and having stayed at my father’s house all day, hiding out in my room, I needed to get out of the house and away from him. If I thought he was furious before Carl interrupted him last night, it was nothing compared to his mood after meeting with Marvin Kerr.

Another of my father’s associates, Marvin owns a small collection of sister hotels to my father’s.

They went into business after Dad and Kurt parted ways.

From what I overheard when I snuck downstairs to grab some water, Kurt managed to secure another property Marvin and Dad were hoping to add to their portfolio, some property in Whitechapel.

Carl wasn’t happy when I asked him to drive me here, telling me my father had expressly told him I was to remain in the house. But when he left, informing me he’d be away for the weekend, I told Carl my father would never know.

Of course, I know that’s bullshit. Carl isn’t the only loyal man my father has on his payroll.

Every member of staff in that house has something to lose if they cross my father, so it’s a sure thing someone will tell him.

Regardless, Carl drove me here, so I guess he does have a conscience after all.

I can’t decide what hurts more as I enter the lift to my apartment.

My ankle protests with every step I take, and my backside smarts with each brush of the joggers I’m wearing.

Then there’s my ribcage which screams with each breathe.

My ribs aren’t broken, just bruised, but it doesn’t lessen the pain any.

I lean against the railing as the lift climbs to the third floor, my head hanging down as I prepare to walk once I arrive. The lift jolts as it stops on the third floor, and I close my eyes, taking a deep, painful breath as the door whooshes open.

I gently push up from the railing and step forward only to be hit with a familiar scent that has my body locking up.

Shit!

Ignoring the pain as my muscles tense, I raise my head and open my eyes.

I’m ready for him—not really but… But when my eyes meet his, expecting to see the raging bull I know Mickey to be, I wasn’t expecting to see concern or worry.

Oh, there’s anger there, but I get the sense it’s not aimed at me—not directly anyway.

“What the fuck happened? Who did this, Roni?” he demands, stepping into the lift and throwing an arm around my waist.

I cry out as his hand grips my side. “Argh! Fuck!”

He releases me immediately and begins tugging at my sweater, lifting it to just below my bra.

“Fucking hell, Roni,” he exclaims as he gets a look at the bruise marring my ribcage. “You better fucking tell me you fell down some stairs or some shit before I lose my fucking head and murder someone.”

“Mickey, I fell down some stairs,” I say with a smile as he watches me. But he’s not smiling. Not even a little bit. I push his hands, which have been gently resting on my shoulders, off and walk, although with a limp, into the apartment.

“Roni, start talking,” he growls as he follows.

I head for the bedroom, climbing the stairs slowly, needing to get these joggers off. “Nothing to talk about. I told you, I fell down some—”

“The fuck you did!” he grits out between clenched teeth. “Who hurt you? Clayton, right? I’ll fucking slit the cunt’s throat.”

I stop as he stands in front of me. “It wasn’t Clayton.

Now, if you don’t mind, I need to…” My words trail off, unsure what I’m meant to say I need to do.

Because telling the truth is only going to infuriate him more.

Not that I understand his anger. He hates me.

Right? Why does he give a fuck if someone laid a finger on me?

“What? What do you need to do?” he asks, placing a finger under my chin and raising my head till my eyes meet his. He scans my face, every inch of it, and heat blooms everywhere his eyes touch. “Roni… God!”

I grab his wrist, pulling his hand away from my face. “I’m fine. It’s nothing, just a small bruise. Nothing’s broken.” Nothing physically anyway. “Now, I need to change, so if you’re done with this caring bullshit…”

I can’t handle the way he’s looking at me, looking inside me, searching my soul for something. A lie? A truth neither of us are ready to admit to. Because whether I like it or not, Mickey Rawlins is under my skin.

But I can’t trust that, can’t trust my feelings at the moment. I need to keep him close but gain some distance.

He crosses his arms, planting his feet shoulder width apart, not planning on leaving any time soon.

With no other choice and desperately needing to get some relief from these joggers on my sore arse.

I heel my trainers off, then hook my fingers in the waistband of my bottoms and slowly slide them down my body, carefully lifting them away from my backside.

I try so fucking hard not show how much pain I’m in, but I fail miserably as a tear trickles from my eye. I suck in a sharp breath as the dam I built slowly erodes.

“Shit!” I whisper as I peel the joggers from my aching ankle.

“That’s it!” Mickey bends, snatching hold of the joggers. “Hold on to me,” he orders.

I do as he says, too weak and in too much pain to argue with him.

“Where else are you hurt?” he asks, tossing the joggers away, before taking hold of my hands and standing straight. “Your ankle is swollen. Anything else?”

“Please, just leave it. Go home, Mickey.” I bite my bottom lip while I pray he’ll just do as I ask. The Mickey Rawlins I know would have laughed his way back to his apartment. But this version? I don’t know this guy.

He frowns. “What are you not telling me, Roni?” He releases my hands and takes hold of my biceps instead, and I raise my chin, determined not to give in to him.

“Strip. Take this sweater off,” he says, tugging at the sleeve.

At my shock, he says, “If you won’t tell me, then I’ll check every fucking inch of your body myself. ”

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” I laugh, pulling up short as my ribs protest. “God damn it!” I mutter, laying a hand over my side.

While I’m distracted, Mickey steps round me, and it’s too late for me to hide what I know he’s seeing.

I was expecting some outburst, lots of curse words, some fucking reaction.

And again, he surprises me when he says nothing.

I feel him staring at the burns on my arse cheeks, feel his rage, anger I’d like to think is on my behalf, but I just can’t wrap my head around any of this.

I’m tired and in pain. All I want to do is flop onto the bed and sleep this nightmare away.

His silence is actually scaring me more than if he’d lost his shit.

“Take your top off and lay down on the bed on your stomach. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Before I can protest or ask where he’s going, he’s gone. I hear him run down the stairs and clatter around in the kitchen. Knowing he isn’t going to just fuck off and leave me, like I asked, because why would he, I think with a roll of my eyes, I remove my sweater and lay down on the bed.

I feel ridiculous just lying here wearing nothing but my underwear. He’s gone more than a couple of minutes, and by the time he returns, I’m sleepily dozing.

“Jesus!” I hear him groan as he enters the room.

I crack one eye open and see he’s carrying a bowl. As he nears the bed, the scent of honey and something like porridge fills my nostrils.

“What is that?” I ask, my words slurry thanks to my face being squished against the pillow.

“Something to help.” He places a small tube of something on the bedside table, but I can’t see what it is from this angle, then he climbs onto the bed on his knees and straddles my legs.

“Is this some kind of kink I don’t know about?” I ask.

“No.” That’s all he says before something cool and thick meets my left arse cheek.