Page 20 of Pretty Mess

I tune out the fucker, squashing it into silence so it won’t be heard again.

One Week Later

I look around, still unable to believe that I’m here. I’m standing in a large, high-ceilinged room of a mansion in Mayfair. I couldn’t believe it when the taxi pulled up outside the place.It’s like something you’d see inDownton Abbey—four storeys of cream-painted brick and black iron railings that’s set opposite a small park. You could practically smell the money oozing from the brickwork.

I think the room I’m in was originally a dining room. It has scarlet wallpaper and lots of portraits of stern-looking men and women in historical dress looking disapprovingly down at us. The air is full of the scent of cigar smoke and low-voiced conversation as waiters in uniforms dart amongst the crowd delivering drinks on silver trays.

Young men wearing expensive suits like mine are all positioned around the edges of the room. Occasionally, a man will approach them and exchange words, and they’ll leave the room together. None of them have come back yet. I hope that’s not a bad omen.

The young men are, without exception, gorgeous. Their faces are all set in pouty lines and their bodies lounge in studied grace. None of them are talking. I’d tried to strike up conversation with a couple when Julian and I had come in but had been instantly repelled. Their shocked looks had made me feel as though I’d exposed myself, rather than asking their names.

Their focus is entirely fixed on the table in the centre of the room. Sitting around the large poker table are a group of men. They’re wearing suits which probably cost five times the price of mine and have drinks sitting at their elbows. The crystal glasses catch the lamplight and send little lights dancing over the table. Conversation is soft and full of low laughter. They have differing appearances—their facial features, their hairstyles, their stature—but they all bear the signs of immense wealth. It’s in their posture, their air of supreme confidence that seems to say they were labelled rich at birth. I imagine turning them over and finding a hallmark stamped on their bottoms and bite my lip to hold in a smile.

“Are you actuallygrinning?” comes an outraged hiss behind me.

I groan. “I can’t help it. My mouth wants to make that movement sometimes. It’s good for you.”

Julian comes to stand next to me, shooting me a disapproving look. “Not in here.”

He’s right. The atmosphere is not one of joy or happiness. There’s a palpable undercurrent of expectation and excitement. Lust perfumes the air, smelling of expensive cologne and new wool. I must stick out like a sore thumb.

My collar is suddenly too tight, and I slide a finger in it, working the fabric until it no longer appears to be strangling me.

Julian sighs. “Stop fidgeting.”

“Are you the fidget police now? I can’t help it. It’s too tight.”

“When I bought you that suit, I didn’t know it was going to adorn the body of a hyperactive monkey.”

I look down at my outfit. The suit’s fabric is a navy so dark it’s almost black, and the fine wool feels like money brushing my skin. It’s entirely different to anything I’ve ever worn or probably will wear. Julian and his tailor had decided on a white shirt and a cherry-red tie as accessories, as well as shoes so shiny I could see my face in them.

“I still can’t believe this cost you so much. I don’t think I spent that much money on my entire wardrobe.”

“That I canwellbelieve.”

I can’t stop my laugh this time. I didn’t think it was particularly loud, but everyone turns to look, their expressions so shocked it’s like I’ve farted in church.

“Oh mygod.” Julian sighs. “Lord, please take me now.”

Everyone returns to whatever they were doing—playing poker, chatting, or whatever the rich and chronically bored do. I go to lean against the wall but straighten like I’ve been cattle prodded when I catch Julian’s gimlet gaze.

Suppressing a sigh, I force myself to stand still. Against my will, my gaze drifts to a man at the poker table, as it has all night. He’d caught my attention as soon as I came into the room, which is hardly surprising. He’s beautiful, with high cheekbones, a thin mouth, and thick black hair that seems almost blue in the lamplight. His skin is as pale as moonlight, and he’s wearing a black pinstriped suit. An amber-coloured tie is the only colour about him. He reminds me of a crow that’s settled amongst brighter and more cheerful birds.

However, it’s his aura that makes him interesting enough to keep me watching. While the other men talk loudly in boastful tones, he maintains an air of disinterest that doesn’t seem like artifice. Even the poker doesn’t appear to keep his attention. He seems tightly controlled and very locked down, but his movements have a grace that he can’t conceal.

Once, on a school trip, we went to the National Gallery, and my interest was caught by a portrait. It was small and barely noticeable amongst the other more famous paintings, but I’d returned to it again and again until, finally, my teacher had dragged me away. The subject was a priest, his face thin, ascetic, and cold, but the artist’s brushstrokes hinted at a passion that seemed to burn in him like a flame. This man reminds me of that portrait.

As if sensing my stare, his head comes up, and before I can look away, his eyes lock on mine. I inhale sharply. His eyes are the fierce, beautiful blue of a piece of tanzanite. There’s an intensity there as we look at each other. Then he blinks and looks back at his cards, and I sag, feeling like a lighthouse beam just lighted on me and moved away.

“Good evening, gentlemen. How are we tonight?”

The husky voice drags my attention away from the mystery man, and I find a tall, redheaded man standing before us. He’s wearing an expensive suit, but his tie is crooked, and hiscurly hair is untidy. He has a mischievous look and an air of merriment just under the surface that’s very attractive, and I smile at him.

“Hello.”

Julian stirs next to me. “Wes, meet Fox Walker. He’s the owner of the club and he facilitates our contracts. He’s also the wickedest man in London.”

“Only London, darling? I must be slipping.”