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“Good point, don’t want a paparazzi shot of your backside. Take them off. The car isn’t far.”
“I hope you meant my shoes.” I pull my heels off and run along the road after him, hoping there’s nothing nasty on the ground.
In the car, I rub my feet and examine them for injury.
“Sorry, you didn’t hurt yourself, did you?” he asks.
“No. Why run out like that? We weren’t getting hassled.”
“Because this way we don’t have to slink off home straight away when we leave. They’d target us if they noticed, so the quicker we left, the better. This would be an exclusive for them,—Dylan Morgan and Sky Davis together again.”
I touch his cheek, as if grounding myself into his reality. “Dylan and Sky.”
He takes my hand and kisses my palm. “Where should we go? Do you like clubbing?”
I snap my head back. “Dylan. Do you even know me? What do you think the answer to that is?”
“Well, the library isn’t open or I’d take you there.”
“Ha ha.”
“Okay, let’s just drive and see where we end up.”
The car crawls along the London streets, through Soho. As we pass a line of nightclubs, Dylan slams the car brakes. I follow his line of vision and spot an altercation outside a building lit by huge blue neon lights. The Viper Room. Several photographers surround a man who’s flailing around in the middle of the crowd.
“Shit. Jem.”
Dylan pulls the car over and jumps out. Heart in my mouth, I watch as Dylan wades into the middle of the scrum. Jem’s fist makes contact with a face and one of the photographers falls back heavily, landing on his back. Dylan grabs Jem and pushes his way back out, all the time cameras flashing to capture every image.
Dylan gestures at me to open the door; I lean backwards and pull the catch. No way am I getting out of this car. He bundles Jem into the back of the car, and as the press swarm over the car like killer bees, Dylan climbs inside and accelerates away.
Jem groans and through the rearview mirror I can see his split lip, which I think is karmic after the pain he’s caused us.
“What the fuck, man?” yells Dylan, glancing in the mirror at Jem too.
“Fucking look at me! The bastard punched me!”
“Unprovoked?” sneers Dylan.
“Yeah, I might have smashed his camera.”
“You punched him back you idiot. Nice one—criminal damage and assault. Call Steve.”
“Oh, man… No. Wait till we get home.”
“Home?”
“Take me back to yours? It’s closer.”
His face appears between the seats. “Little lady Sky won’t mind, will you?”
I gag at the strength of whiskey on his breath. Meeting Jem again wasn’t something I looked forward to, and a drunken Jem in close proximity to me isn’t pleasant. I turn away and shift toward the window in case he touches me, accidentally or deliberately.
“Were you on your own tonight?” Dylan asks Jem as we pause at a red light.
“Nah. The rest of the guys were inside.”
“What were you doing on your own then?”
“There was this girl. And this guy who thought I was hitting on his girl and I kinda asked him to take things outside.”
Dylan gently hits his head on the steering wheel. “Fuck, you idiot. I think you got set up.”
“My mouth fucking hurts.” He lifts his head to check himself in the mirror.
I hunch down in the seat, checking the side mirrors expecting to see others in pursuit. No one. Perfect end to a perfect evening.
