Page 22 of London’s Calling, Part 1 (London’s Calling)
Chapter Twenty-Two
Roni
Warm water sloshes over me, and I close my eyes as shampoo streams down my face.
Running my hands up and over my head, I continue to rinse shampoo from my hair.
I already showered once early this morning before Mickey woke, washing off the crusted paste he applied to my burns last night.
Once I’m finished, I switch the shower off and get out, wrapping a towel round me.
I walk into the empty bedroom, but his scent lingers, in the air and the messed-up bed sheets.
An image of me riding Mickey less than an hour ago flashes through my mind as I stare at the bed.
Shaking my head, I flip through my wardrobe for something to wear that isn’t going to irritate my burns, which are feeling better after Mickey’s magic paste.
Pulling out a knitted jumper dress, one of many colours and styles I own, I pull on a thong and a strapless bra before slipping the black dress over my head, carefully tugging it down over my backside. I wiggle, then do a test walk the length of the room to ensure it’s comfortable.
I half dry my hair before plaiting it, pulling the braid over one shoulder.
I don’t bother with make-up as I’m only going back to my father’s.
Not that I want to. I’d stay here and never go back to that house if I had a choice, but I don’t.
My phone buzzes with a message. No doubt it’s from Carl hurrying me along.
I pick up the phone ready to let him know I’m on my way, but the small smile I was wearing slides away when I see who the message is from.
Dad
Where the fuck are you, Veronica? Clayton is at the house and you’re not there?
Thinking quickly, I type out a reply and press send.
Me
I had to pop to the campus library and return some books. I’m almost home. I wasn’t aware Clayton was coming by otherwise I’d have made sure to be there.
I reconsider the no make-up plan and hurry through applying some eyeliner, mascara and blusher, grabbing a tinted lip gloss to put on in the car.
I don’t have time for anything else. I grab a pair of ankle boots, wincing as I slip my foot in, and a handbag, then I pick up my phone. It begins to ring as I head downstairs.
“Carl, I’m coming now,” I say, pushing the button to call the lift.
“You father is blowing up my phone wondering where you are.”
“I know, I’m sorry. He just messaged me too. I told him I had to go to campus but we’re almost home.”
“Fucking grand,” he says before the line goes dead.
He’s pissed I lied because now I’ve put him in an awkward position. If I get caught out in my bullshit, so will he.
When I get outside, Carl is there waiting and cursing.
“Get in the fucking car, Veronica. I can’t believe this shit,” he snaps, opening the rear door for me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know Clayton was coming to the house.”
“Clayton is at the house?” I nod. “Could it get any worse.” He slams the door shut before I can say anything more.
“You could be me,” I mutter as he rounds the car to get in the driver’s side.
When we arrive at my father’s, Carl opens the car door for me but doesn’t wait for me to exit before he’s jumping back in the driver’s side, preparing to go and park.
I close the rear door and stride into the house.
“Where have you been?” demands Clayton as he appears from the lounge, marching toward me.
I sideline the part of me that wants to rage at him for being such an arsehole and instead slap a smile on my face as I look up him.
“I had to drop some books off at campus. If I’d have known you were coming, I’d have made sure to be here for you, babe,” I say, laying a hand on his forearm for effect.
He brushes my hand off with a scowl. I can tell he’s trying to work out if I’m being serious or not.
“Can I get you a drink?” I call over my shoulder as I walk toward the kitchen.
He stomps after me. “No. I have an event tonight at the Kerr’s and I want you with me.”
No asking if I’d like to attend, just a straight up order. With my back to him, as I grab a juice from the fridge, my words are in complete contrast to the expression on my face.
“Of course. What’s the dress code?” I keep the charade going as I turn back to face him, appearing happy to join him.
“I don’t fucking know. Just wear something appropriate. Nothing slutty.”
I almost spill the orange juice I’m pouring at his words, and it takes incredible effort not to react.
“And you’ll need this too.” He slams a small box on the counter beside my glass. I don’t need to look to know what it is. A fucking ring—an engagement ring!
Slowly I set the carton down and pick up the ring box while Clayton rests his hip against the counter beside me, watching me expectantly.
Taking a deep breath, I open the box and take in the extravagant single solitaire diamond rock—there’s no other way to describe it.
I like pretty things, but this is an over-the-top monstrosity, a ball and chain around my neck, meant to let everyone who sees it know I belong to Clayton Simmonds.
Of course, the warning isn’t for my benefit, it’s for his.
Ensuring no male within our social circle, or otherwise, will so much as dare talk to me.
Swallowing down my revulsion, I turn to him as I pull the ring free. “Oh, Clayton, it’s beautiful,” I faux gush, and the only thing genuine about my words is the choked-up manner in which they are delivered.
He takes the ring from me. “Cost a small fortune, so make sure you look after it,” he says, snatching my left hand and shoving the thing onto my ring finger.
It’s like someone just placed a tonne weight there, pulling my hand down, gravity doing its best to put me on the ground where men like Clayton believe women should be—on their knees worshipping their husbands.
Before I can catch my breath over the hideous thing now adorning my left hand and how the hell he managed to get the size right, Clayton grabs the back of my head and pulls me forward, his lips meeting mine.
It’s a crushing kiss, not in the good way, but his teeth smashing against my closed lips as I try to compose myself and not knee him in the bollocks.
My scalp throbs as he tangles his fingers in my hair, pulling me closer. I’m just about to push him away when he breaks the kiss, tugging on my hair and arching my neck so I can’t move.
Looking down at me with contempt, he says, “That was pathetic, Veronica. I know you can do better than that. And you will. I’ll make sure of it.” Releasing me, he strides toward the door, then says, “Be ready at seven.”
The second the front door closes, I swipe my hand across the counter with a screech. My orange juice goes flying, soaking the counter and floor, before the glass shatters into a million pieces on the tiled floor.
Footsteps echo down the corridor a second before Ms Rixon appears in the doorway.
“Miss Hart, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I snap as she carefully steps into the kitchen, eyeing all the glass and juice. “Thank you,” I say, softening my voice and tone. “I’m sorry for the mess. Let me help you.” I move toward the cupboard where I know she keeps her cleaning products, but her hand on my arm stops me.
“No need. I have it.” She smiles sympathetically. “You just worry about yourself,” she adds, giving me a pat on the forearm before moving away.
I leave the kitchen and trudge up the stairs to my room. I wish escaping my life was as easy as walking away from the mess in the kitchen.