“I should start asking you for rent money if you decide to stay on top of me any longer. You’re not light, Alex,” I grunted softly.
He laughed and slapped my ass playfully again, rolling on the bed, pulling out of me gently.
“You should. I’d pay good money to stay in this position.” He went for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, but I put my hand on his arm, stopping him. Our eyes locked.
“We’re sharing a room now. I wanted to tell you earlier, when you lit one up, but I was too busy with the Craig thing. You can smoke on the patio. Not here.”
“Is this a joke?” he said, looking incredulous. It didn’t matter that he paid for the room. I was the one who was going to need to pay for the medical bills when I got cancer from all the secondhand smoke.
“I’d like to believe my sense of humor is better than that,” I replied.
He stood up, still butt naked, and walked to the balcony with his pack of cigarettes. His dong was swinging from side to side, and it would look ridiculous and embarrassing on anyone else, but not on a rock star. No. Alex looked perfectly confident and horrendously cool.
“Wear something!” I called out from the bed, wrapping my chest in a white sheet.
He whirled and walked backward, smoothly opening the giant glass door as he flashed me a wolfish grin, canine teeth galore.
“Why, I’m wearing the most beautiful thing one could wear, darlin’. My smile.”
The problem with the world is when you’re having fun, days seem to stick together into lumps, but when you’re miserable and alone, every day is a year, an island, a padded room you cannot get away from.
Three days had passed since I’d gotten into Indigo Bellamy’s panties. Three days in which I’d made it a point to drive into her in every position, angle, and location in Greater London.
We shagged in the Jacuzzi—twice—taking a shower—three times—in bed—four times—and in a black cab—one time—and I’d had to stuff her face with a Mind The Gap shirt while she was sitting on top of me wearing a long dress. We went sightseeing. We visited my old Clapham neighborhood, and other times we just stayed in our room, fucking or watching reruns of The Mighty Bush and Never Mind the Buzzcocks—both of which she thoroughly enjoyed. Fallon always thought my favorite shows were stupid.
Though, to be completely honest, Fallon was the least of my worries in London. For the first time in years, I actually enjoyed myself. I even answered Blake’s calls, though I did keep it professional and curt. Alfie dropped by our hotel room one day and brought Afghan food, which we all ate on the floor, watching Shaun of the Dead. I couldn’t be mad at the tosser. He literally had the social awareness of a chapstick.
Then, on the fourth day, Indie nudged me. “Your parents. We need to go visit them.”
Right.
I didn’t know what bothered me more. The way she’d included herself in the plan to go and see them—why wouldn’t she, you wanker? She’s your babysitter. It’s strictly business—or the fact she would actually meet my train wreck of a family. I rang my mum up while Indie was in the shower that morning, and, of course, she was delighted with the news.
“I saw you were in the UK in them tabloids, luv. Was wondering whether you were going to ring us or not. I’m glad you did.” She snapped her gum in my ear.
I didn’t dwell on the fact she hadn’t bothered to call me, even though she’d known I was there. As long as I threw money my family’s way every now and again and stayed out of their way, they were all right with my existence. I exhaled loudly and tossed myself on the bed, staring at the chandelier.
“I’m not coming there alone,” I warned. My way of telling her she needed to behave for a change. My parents cheated on each other all the time. It was such an ordinary thing, cheating might not be the word I was looking for. I could count at least six times in which Mum and Dad aired their dirty laundry—literally—in front of the entire neighborhood, on the street. They lived in a semi-detached on a busy Watford road where everybody knew everybody. They loved yelling at each other at the top of their lungs with people gathering at their windowsills and doors, peeking through curtains. If you ever wondered who those people who go on Ricki Lake, Jerry Springer, and Jeremy Kyle are—they were my parents. That’s who. The worst part was they’d cheated on each other with local folks, too, so it was all a big, hot mess of middle-aged people who looked like they’d missed every single dentist appointment ever booked for them.