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The woman peers at us both from over her glasses, frowning. “What are you doing just standing there?” She demands. “Stop clinging to that young lady and help me to the bathroom. I need someone to put down the ramp for me. I don’t know why they insist on putting stairs everywhere, it’s very inconvenient.”
Luke nods. “Of course, Mrs Smith.”
I squeeze his wrist. “We’ll get you a drink,” I promise, trying to unsubtly twist my legs together.
He pulls a face. “Don’t bother,” he mutters. “I’ll probably be a while. She likes to talk.”
“Chop chop!” Mrs Smith shouts at the top of her lungs. Luke inclines his head and follows her as she powers down the aisle towards the bathrooms.
Zack snorts, wrapping an arm around my waist. “Poor sod,” he says, giving me a cheeky grope. “C’mon. Let’s get you a drink. You look a little warm.”
I’m too turned on to protest, so I just let him drag me away. There’s a refreshments table set out along one side of the hall, full of finger food and drinks. It’s already attracting a horde of people, but they naturally make way for Zack’s huge body as he edges his way through the crowd.
“Champagne?” Zack asks, sliding a hand over the curve of my bum. “Punch?”
“You’re getting a punch in a minute,” I mutter, slapping him away. “Stop feeling me up, I’ll start dripping on the tiles, for God’s sake.”
He groans deeply, picking up the ladle for the punch bowl. “Here you go, love,” he murmurs, pouring a very generous amount into a crystal glass. As I reach for it, he brushes his stubbly cheek against mine. “We’ll stay a couple hours, then I’ll take you upstairs and set you right, yeah? We’ll be back in time for dinner.”
My mouth dries. Ignoring the fluttery pinch between my thighs, I take the glass off him, swilling it back in one gulp. Sweet peach juice floods my senses.
“Another?” Zack asks. He reaches out and touches his thumb under my bottom lip, wiping away a rogue drip. “God, you’re so gorgeous. C’mere. Gimme a hug.”
“What? I’m supposed to be here with Luke—” I trail off as he pulls me close, and I feel the hard bulge between his legs.
Jesus. My breath hitches as he rotates his hips slightly, pressing his hard-on against me. It’s the tiniest little touch, but it makes stars burst behind my eyes. My entire lower stomach aches with wanting. He bends, his breath ghosting over my cheek, and drags my bottom lip into his mouth.I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I kiss him back.
“And who do we have here?” a voice suddenly comes from behind us, and I jump away from Zack, breathing hard. I know that voice.
Bracing myself, I turn to see the bride and groom coming towards us. Amy’s eyes flick between me and Zack, disapproval all over her face.
***
FIFTY-FIVE
***
LAYLA
Rob looks even more like Josh up close. He’s smiling brightly, and I can see he has the same dimples as his brother. But it’s not him that I’m focussed on.
Amy winds her arm through Rob’s and studies me assessingly, her expression blank. A trickle of cold goes down my spine as she narrows her eyes at me.
“Layla Thompson,” she says slowly. “What on Earth are you doing here?”
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
Rob grins, slapping Zack on the back. “Thanks for coming, man. Didn’t expect you to make it, if I’m honest.”
Zack laughs. “I never miss an open bar. Congratulations, guys.”
The two of them start chatting happily, but I can’t focus on what they’re saying, my eyes locked on Amy’s. Memories are rolling over me in waves.
I haven’t told Luke this, because I know he’ll just blame himself, but Amy was one of the cruellest teachers back at Emery High. Once the bullying started, I used to spend most of my lunch breaks in her office, practically begging her to help me.I remember once I went to the office to see her, wet and crying, after one of the guys had poured water all down my shirt. As I walked into the staff room, I overheard her talking to the other teachers. That Thompson girl wants to see me again. I don’t know why she’s even bothering with her A-levels — that’s a girl that’s bound to end up on a pole, if ever I saw one.
It wouldn’t bother me much now, but when you’re a sixteen-year-old goody-two-shoes, hearing the head teacher of your school say that about you is scary. And so unbelievably embarrassing.
I swallow thickly, forcing myself to meet her gaze. “Hello, Mrs Martins.”
