Page 39 of London’s Calling, Part 1 (London’s Calling)
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Mickey
I pull the collar of my coat up as I walk along Tower Bridge, the wind whipping around me like icy fingers around my neck. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I’m surprised to see the caller ID.
“Ike, thank you—”
“What do you want, Rawlins? I already told you I’m not interested.”
“Okay, I heard you. But hear me out. What can I do to change your mind?”
His mocking laughter rings down the line. “This smacks of desperation.” He pauses. “I’ll tell you what, give me a couple of days to consider what it is that could possibly make up for the disrespect your father showed me, then I’ll get back to you.”
Before I can say more, the line goes dead. “That went well,” I mumble as I reach the centre of the bridge. At least he didn’t flat-out say no this time. I just hope he comes up with something my father can get on board with—something not completely and ridiculously over the top.
I lean on the side and watch the party boat pass beneath the bridge, and it reminds that I could have been with Priest and Fletch watching a band instead of standing on this bridge and freezing my fucking nuts off.
A car horn splits the air behind me, and I spin around to see a limo drive by, one passenger hanging out the top and hollering at the top of their lungs.
I check my watch to see it’s almost ten past ten and still no sign of my mysterious caller.
I’m giving it five more minutes, then I’m out of here.
This shit is too cold, and I have better things to do.
I turn back to face the river as a couple head toward me.
Their laughter as they draw nearer has me looking back at them and smiling.
I look away as they kiss, shaking my head.
Something hits me in the side, almost knocking me to the ground, and I spin to see a dark figure running down the bridge.
“Arsehole!” I bellow just as a sharp, burning pain tears through my side. Bringing my hand to it, I feel something warm. When I pull my hand away, it’s slick with…blood, glistening in the car and bridge lights. “Fuck! Son of a bitch.”
I try calling Fletch and Priest, but neither of them answer, even my father isn’t answering. I can’t go to the hospital—and I don’t want to—stab wounds draw the attention of the cops, and I have a feeling this is something I don’t want them involved in. This was obviously a set up.
I make my way back to my car, finding a shirt in the boot and tying it around my waist to stem the bleeding, then drive toward home, hoping I can get hold of one of the guys or my dad by the time I get there.
Only they still aren’t answering, and I’m certain I’m about to pass out any minute.
When I get to my apartment, I know if I don’t get some help, I’m fucked, so I push myself to keep going, climbing two more flights to the fourth floor and into Roni’s apartment.
I thank the fucking lord she hasn’t locked the guest room door again as I make my way down the hall, crashing into the wall, legs barely holding me up.
“R-Roni,” I call, my voice breaking, as my knees give out, and I hit the floor.
“Shit! Mickey, what happened?”
Her voice is like fucking heaven if it were a tangible thing. “Hey…Ice Queen, miss me?”
I hear her mention hospital, but I quickly cut her off. The next thing I remember is her undressing me before everything goes dark.
The acrid and bitter smell of antiseptic floats through the air, burning my sense of smell. A memory of Roni and being undressed causes a groan to rumble from my chest—or maybe it’s the pain on my right side talking.
What the hell happened?
My thoughts are halted as voices seep into my mind.
“Is he going to be okay?”
“There’s no internal damage, luckily for him, but he lost a lot of blood.” There’s a click, then the rustle of clothing. “What’s the plan here, Veronica? He can’t stay here. If your fath—”
“But he isn’t going to find out, is he, William?” Roni’s voice takes on an edge of warning, and she speaks again before he can agree. “Because we both know you have your own secrets my father doesn’t need to know.”
I slowly peel back an eyelid, catching Roni’s threatening glare and arched brow. It’s aimed at a man just out of my limited range of sight.
He coughs, stepping into my view a fraction, only offering me a partial side view. “Of course. He won’t hear it from me. But I assume a mutual silence is agreed.”
Roni nods. “You have my word.”
The man is silent for a moment, then he nods and leaves the room.
Roni doesn’t move until she hears the front door close, even then her only reaction is a deep exhale.
Sensing she’s going to look my way, I close my eye, keeping up the pretence of sleeping.
No longer able to see, I hear her move closer to the bed and feel the heat of her stare.
“What am I doing?” she whispers a second before her fingers brush along my cheek.
It takes immense restraint not to react, not to lean into her touch like a damn pussy-whipped fool. Her touch disappears, then I hear the shower running.
Opening both eyes this time, I take in the IV attached to my left hand and the blood-stained gauze and empty packaging littering the bedside table and floor. Testing my movements, I attempt to sit up only to be slammed with a shooting pain through my side.
Taking deep breaths, I push through the pain and manage to haul myself to a half upright position. It’s not perfect and certainly not comfortable but at least I can see the full extent of the carnage.
My entire abdomen is bandaged, my clothes lie in tatters among blood-soaked medical supplies and the carpet is smeared with blood. Scanning the room further, I see a bloody handprint on the door frame.
“Christ, it’s a fucking blood bath,” I mutter, dropping my head back against the pillows.
“You should see the hallway,” Roni says, entering the room wrapped in a towel. “Not to mention the guest bedroom, and I’m guessing the stairwell to your apartment looks much the same.”
“It’s going to be a bastard to clean up.”
“No kidding,” she grumbles as she drops the towel, giving me an uncensored view of her arse, and digs out some clothes from the wardrobe.
I look away, aware that getting a hard-on right now is not only inappropriate but likely to be painful considering the unlikely possibility of getting any relief. Given the amount of blood I’ve lost, who even knows if there’s enough to flood my dick. Either way, I don’t plan on finding out.
I stare out the window and see an orange glow signalling sunrise. “How long was I out?”
“A good six or so hours,” she says, stepping into my view, now sporting a pair of joggers and a baggy jumper. She extends her hand toward me. “You need to take these before the morphine wears off.”
I groan and wince as I take the tablets from her. “Think it already has.” She hands me a glass of water, and I swallow the painkillers with a good mouthful of water.
She takes the glass from me, placing it back on the clean bedside table this side of the bed, then she stands there, arms crossed and clearly waiting for me to say something.
“I’m sorry—”
“Sorry!” She scoffs. “Forget the fucking apology, Mickey, what the hell happened? You almost died!” Her voice rises on the last part.
“Yeah, but you saved me, Ice Queen,” I say winking and trying to make light of my near-death experience.
“This is not a damn joke, Mickey.”
“You think I don’t know that? I’m the guy with a hole in his abdomen.” I look up at the almost empty IV bag and begin removing the tape from the cannula.
“What are you doing?” Roni asks, hurrying around to the other side of the bed to stop me. “You need to finish the bag.”
I pause. “No, I need to get home and speak to my father. He wasn’t answering his phone last night, and I need to check on him.” I continue removing the tape, tossing it on the floor, but as I go to pull the cannula out, Roni stops me, gripping my wrist.
“Stop!” She pins me with a I dare you to argue with me look. “Just finish the bag, then you can go.”
Seeing she’s not going to back down and too exhausted to argue, I nod.
She releases me tentatively in case I rip it out as she as she lets go.
“In the meantime…” she says, moving to the dresser and picking up something before returning to my side.
“Call him.” She holds out my phone and the screen lights up with a dozen or so messages and missed calls as I take it.
She shakes her head, reading my thoughts as to whether she’s read them.
“I haven’t fucking read your messages. I was too concerned with the arsehole bleeding out in my bed.
” She spins on her heels and storms from the room, muttering about making food for said arsehole.