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“There you are,”a soothing voice whispers. I can feel water on my forehead, a soft material. A towel maybe? I let my eyes open. My hands are by my sides, I don’t recognise the room I’m in, and hang on. Why am I shirtless?
“You okay there, Baines?”
That voice is harsher. It’s Terry, my poor long standing security guard who deserves every raise and bonus I’ve ever paid him for the shit I put him through. I nod.
“What happened, mate?” I ask. Trying to ignore my quiet voice. Scared.
“You collapsed. I think you were just a bit overwhelmed. It’s been a while since you were in the spotlight, mate.”
Is he just being dignified? Trying to protect my damaged broken ego.
“Did the Paps see?”
His dark eyes find mine; he looks grieved, but he nods. “Preston is sorting it. They won’t print fuck,” he assures me, and I let out a loud breath. I’m supposed to be proving I’m not a mess to this country. To the fucking world, but here I am fucking up at the first hurdle.
“Can I get you a drink, Mr Baines?” The pretty red-head sitting on the leather couch next to me says. She’s the girl from the airport but she looks softer now, like she cares about me more than she wants to, fuck me. That or she just feels sorry for this sad bastard.
“Please, babe, it’s Max.” I try to smile at her, wink even. Try to lose the images in her head that I’m a clearly a fucking charity case.
She just smiles, but it’s a ‘poor you’ smile rather than a ‘fuck me’ kind of smile. I need to try and make her see me differently. If I can’t do that then how will the rest of the world react to me?
“What’s your name, sweet cheeks?” I smile, cock an eyebrow. Flex my muscles. I mean I am shirtless.
“Milly,” she giggles, her eyebrows raising but she is smiling now. “I’m Preston Miller’s assistant.”
“Oh, you are?”
She giggles again, her voice is kind of sexy. I think she’s a fair bit younger than she actually looks, she has that dreamy far-off look in her eyes. She’s not been in this industry long enough to see the grime behind the glamour.
“And he’s a good boss? Treats you well?” I put my tongue in my cheek, watch her blush and hope she can read between the lines of what I’m saying. Yes, I’m trying to flirt with her. I don’t want her, I just have this sick need for her to want me.
“Are you asking if I sleep with him?” She raises her eyebrow right back at me. She gets it.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I smirk, watching her teeth scrape along her bottom lip. “Why, do you?”
I know for a fact Preston’s married, but I don’t think that stops guys like him.
“Get your desperate English arse away from my PA, Baines,” Preston booms with laughter as he enters the room. His New York accent is like something straight from the Sopranos. If they were skinny suited white dudes and not massive mafia dons. I stand up from the leather couch.
“Preston!”
“Max!” He strides across the room with his hand held out
“How’s it going? Good flight?” he asks. I’m aware he must know what just happened. I’m also aware he’s not the kind of guy to dwell on it after. He’s a good guy.
“Yeah, great man, thanks,” I assure him, trying to knock any worry from him.
“We’re so glad to have you back, Max. Finally!” he assures me. I used to think him a slimy fucker, but I am really starting to like him. “At bloody last as you Brits would say.”
“Yeah, sorry. I know Titch said the paperwork was a killer after last time.” I hang my head, resist the need to wring my hands.
“DUI will do that, Maxxie boy! But no drama. It’s worth it and that’s Titch’s problem not ours,”. He says things like this all the time. About him and me. Me and him. Me against the world. But it still makes me shudder. DUI. Driving under the influence killed my mum. Somebody else killed my mum. And I was so fucking selfish I could have done the same to someone else’s family.
“Max!” Preston says. I think he’s been talking the whole time, but I must have zoned out.
“Sorry, Pres. Long flight,” I assure him. Although its fuck all to do with the flight. I’ve flown in and out of this country enough over the years to have learnt some form of resistance to jet lag. Or flying hangovers as Tom calls them even if I am desperate for a shower.
“I was saying, later tonight. Party.” He looks at me, eyes shining almost wildly. Like he’s the devil or something. Like he’s trying to tempt me to the dark side.
