Fallen for Rock (22 page)

Chapter Thirty-Four

‘Ugh.’

I opened my eyes but saw nothing but darkness. My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth, and my teeth were covered in fur. My head pounded painfully, and every joint in my body throbbed with a dull ache. On the plus side, there was a delicious residual heat between my legs that left me suffused with joy. What a mixed bag of emotions. If only the fog in my head would lift, perhaps I could work out what exactly had happened to me.

Carefully, I rolled onto my side and let my arms dangle over the side of my bed. The movement dislodged my tongue from my palate, and I gagged. I would have to get up and brush my teeth, maybe have a drink of water and perhaps a couple of painkillers while I was at it.

I contemplated this course of action for a moment while I continued staring into the darkness. Quite unexpectedly, I could see a glass of water hovering in mid-air. The vision was so vivid that I could count the beads of condensation running down the side of the glass. The water had to be ice-cold. I licked my lips eagerly. Was I hallucinating or meditating? Or both?

My bladder interfered before I could get to the bottom of this cognitive conundrum. Where thirst hadn’t managed to propel me out of bed, the need to relieve myself did, and at some speed too. I rolled onto the floor with a resounding thump and got to my feet unsteadily. The room was cold, and I shivered. Perhaps I was ill?

Oh God. Not ill, but certainly naked, I diagnosed as I flicked on the bathroom lights. It wasn’t like me to sleep in the nude. What on earth had I been up to?

I washed my hands and splashed some cold water on my face. I brushed my teeth, too, and managed to dislodge the worst of the fur. Next, I grabbed my dressing gown and padded into the kitchen to get some water. A most peculiar sight greeted me.

The sink was filled with soapy water in which two saucepans and a frying pan had been left to soak. The draining board was laden with clean dishes and glasses. On the table stood a bottle of tequila—half empty—alongside a bottle of sparkling wine—empty—and two bottles of ordinary wine—also empty—flanked by two shot glasses. Two, mind. Two glasses, four bottles.

A voice murmured in my head.
Golden slammers. Are you sure you’re up for this?

‘Mike.’

The events of the evening came crashing back to me. I breathed hard to suppress a wave of nausea—damn him for being right about that hangover—and poured myself a glass of water. I sat down cautiously while I sipped gingerly.
Mike
. We had dinner. And shots. And sex.

Lots of sex. At least two lots. Possibly three. I grew dizzy trying to recall. After the first few shots, we had gone to the lounge, where we had sex on the sofa. Then we went to have a shower, and we almost flooded the bathroom when Mike accidentally let go of the showerhead whilst pushing himself home. So to speak.

When, amid much giggling, we finished mopping up the excess water on the floor, we repaired once more to the kitchen where we—well, I—tidied up in between more shots.

I frowned, trying to remember how many more rounds we had done then. Three? Four? There wasn’t much left in the bottle, really. Did that mean we had loads of shots, or had they been big shots each? Had Mike had more than me?

I clung to that idea gratefully. I was sure he probably had two shots for every one of mine. That would explain why there were three empty wine bottles.
Three!
I shuddered and swallowed down another bout of bile. My tummy was roiling spectacularly, but I wouldn’t be sick. No way, José. Not me, not this night. Emily Trenden would prove to herself that she could hold her drink.
Breathe, Emily, breathe, and think of something else
.

After the third bottle of wine was empty, we went to bed. I frowned. Was that it? Maybe it was. Because I couldn’t for the life of me remember anything else… Oh no. Hold on.

I had a vision of me sitting on top of Mike, pretending to ride a horse—I winced—and swirling my previously discarded bra over my head in lasso-wielding cowboy style whilst Mike’s hands had assumed vital brassier-type functions until the friction between my hips and the pommel—yes, pommel, had we
really
called it that?—of my ‘saddle’ became too much and… Yeah, well.
Oh God
. No wonder I felt like I did. But oh, what an experience. So totally worth it! I felt purged of the demons of my unexciting youth.

Purged
.

That was exactly how I felt. My mind latched onto this notion and wouldn’t let it go. It was as if I had made up, in one spectacular night, for all the crazy drinking sessions I had never taken part in at uni, and for all the mad irresponsible wanton one-night stands I had never had. Luckily for me, I had chosen a kind man, and there would be no bad blood. I had chanced upon a fantastic, generous and—let’s face it—
big
man. A really,
really
big man, and a rock star to boot, one with a golden voice and with plenty of experience of giving pleasure, but with no romantic expectations, no strings.

And now I was done. My one wild night had freed me from the obsession that had grown during the few snatched moments on tour. I had lived the dream of Emily Trenden, wanton sex goddess and multiple seductress, woman of wild, if out of character, excess in all areas, and that would do. I giggled.

‘Talk about getting it out of your system, right?’ I joked to myself, suddenly feeling a whole lot more alert than when I had first woken up. And I stopped as if frozen. Because that was exactly
it
. I had needed to get something out of my system, and that was what I had done. Maybe I was going through some kind of pre-midlife-crisis.

W
hat would that be called,
I wondered idly, momentarily sidetracked by the notion;
quarter-life crisis? Nearly-thirty-crisis?

Either way, what my crisis or not-crisis might be called was irrelevant. The point was that after spending most of my twenties focusing on building my life for security and stability, I had tried a different me, if only to make sure that I wasn’t missing something. And yes, I had enjoyed myself tremendously and in previously unimagined ways, there was absolutely no denying it. But still, the feeling of purged-ness was showing me the ultimate home truth loud and clear. Much as I had enjoyed finding some weird, if shallow, revelation in drink and sex, this different me wasn’t really me after all.

My mind boggled from all this introspection. Gradually, one thought rose to the surface clear as day. Well, actually, it was a whole family of thoughts. What I wanted
was
, in fact, security and stability. I wanted a good job, but I also craved excitement and creativity.

Moreover, I wanted love and a steady, happy relationship. Yes, I wanted sex, but it had to be love-sex, not mad-animal-passion-sex. Fireworks were great, but they were exhausting. Nobody and nothing could burn that bright for any length of time. It was an illusion. It was a trick. No wonder the French called it
feu d’artifice
, a ‘trick fire’. But I didn’t want a trick, I wanted something real, something solid. I wanted Nate.

And so I came full circle at my kitchen table in the middle of the night in the company of four bottles, two glasses, and a sleeping rock-star-cum-sex-god next door. I had realised that I still loved Nate a few minutes before I succumbed to Mike for the first time, and put my realisation on the backburner in view of Nate’s blatant—if entirely understandable—lack of interest in me. I had taken a journey of personal exploration and discovery. I had given myself over to reckless—if fantastic—sex with another man, indulging myself in dribs and drabs at first but culminating tonight in an all-out two-person orgy. I had emerged on the other side intact but subtly changed. And at the end of it all, I still wanted Nate.

‘Now what, Emily?’ I challenged myself. ‘Do you really think Nate will want you back simply because you’ve had the epiphany of all epiphanies? He doesn’t know. He wouldn’t care if he did.’

True.
Very true. Undeniably, painfully true. But! I held up a stubborn ‘be quiet’ index finger to my realistic self and argued back.
You don’t know if he ever got any of your messages. You don’t know
what
happened to Nate. Until you’ve actually seen him or spoken to him, you can’t be sure. Anything’s possible. He might have been hit by a bus and suffered from amnesia.

I laughed at myself. ‘Probably not.’

Yet I had a point, and I conceded it gladly. I would simply have to try and see Nate face to face. Only that way would I know, one way or another, for certain. I would try to do so first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, I had better go back and grab some more sleep. I switched off the lights and tiptoed back into the bedroom.

Of course, Mike was still in my bed, snoring ever so softly. I smiled. I hoped that things wouldn’t be too awkward in the morning. After fumbling for my pyjamas and putting them on, clumsy in the dark, I crawled back into bed beside Mike and planted a little kiss on his sleeping face.

‘Thank you for setting me free,’ I whispered. ‘You’re a star.’

Chapter Thirty-Five

‘So.’ Mike stared at me hard over his coffee cup. ‘I sense a sea change in you. You’re not cross with me for last night, are you?’

‘Who, me? Don’t be silly.’ I took a sip of coffee to stall for time while I tried to organise my words in my head. We had woken late, and my brain was trying to get used to the fact that I was at home on a Tuesday morning, having a lazy breakfast with a gorgeous, if no longer madly desired, rock star.

‘But?’

‘But nothing, as such.’ Damn Mike and his keen perception all over again. ‘It’s just…’

‘Aha! There is a but!’ Mike laughed as he pounced. ‘Go on. Spill. You love me truly madly deeply, but you don’t want my babies. Have I got it in one?’

My turn to laugh. ‘Almost. I don’t want your babies, and I don’t love you truly madly deeply. I love you, a lot, as a friend, but…’

‘Ha!’ Mike gave a drumroll on the table. ‘And the lady issueth the “but” after all.’ He grinned and nudged me gently. ‘It’s all right, sweetie, I thought we’d already done the whole “friends” talk.’

‘We did?’

‘Didn’t we? When we said goodbye in Bristol?’

I frowned and tried to recall our exact conversation. ‘I don’t remember saying that in so many words.’

‘You said you’d follow me on Facebook.’

‘Yes, that I did.’

‘So that means we’re friends.’

‘Duh.’ I poked him in the ribs. ‘Only in the loosest sense. But hey, you’re digging me a hole here. I do want to be friends. I’d like that. Very much. It’s just…’

‘You
still
love your ex?’

I inclined my head and didn’t answer, fearing I would burst into tears instead. Mike cupped his chin in his hands and looked me deep in the eyes.

‘Quite apart from the fact that I am crushed, simply crushed, that you should use me and cast me away like…like…like a spent tissue, how come you’re still hankering after the man who hasn’t bothered to return any of your calls for weeks?’

‘Ouch.’ I reeled, unsure how to respond. ‘Mike, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to use you or hurt you. It just kind of happened.’

He erupted in a gale of laughter. ‘Silly moo, I was only teasing. We said “no strings”, remember? We’re both consenting adults, if
slightly
under the influence. I was only teasing you!’

‘Oh. Ah. Well. Good.’ I scratched my head. ‘Right.’

‘But your ex,’ Mike prompted. ‘How come you’re still subjecting yourself to this whole unrequited love thing?’

‘It isn’t unrequited. Well, it wasn’t, until I threw him out. I still… I love him. Yes,
still
,’ I insisted before he could question me again. ‘I need to talk to him. I don’t know if he even got any of my messages. And last night, or rather, earlier this morning, when I needed a pee and a glass of water, and I ended up sitting in the kitchen looking at those four bottles, and I thought about everything that happened, and I realised—’

‘Slow down,’ Mike interrupted. ‘Take a breath occasionally. I can barely follow what you’re saying.’

I breathed as instructed and collected my thoughts. ‘It’s simple. I need to talk to him. I won’t believe that he won’t hear me out until and unless he actually physically tells me that. To my face. Until then, I’ll always wonder.’

Mike nibbled at his toast. ‘He’s a lucky man, your ex,’ he muttered thoughtfully. ‘I hope somebody will love me like that one day.’

‘Oh my gosh, Mike, of course they will. When you’ve met the right person, you’ll know. And, of course, you’ve got to be ready. Right?’

‘You what?’

‘You’re not ready, right? You’re not in that space. You told me yourself. You said you were in lust with me, not in love. And that you’re an opportunist.’

I was fairly sure that was what he had said.

‘You’re right. But of course, I did also say that if we’d met under different circumstances…’ Mike hung his head and put on a crestfallen face. For a moment, he had me convinced, but I saw that mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth. I tossed my napkin at him.

‘You’re pulling my leg again.’

Mike deftly caught the napkin before it landed in his coffee mug and threw it back at me. ‘Course I am. But can we be friends? Despite last night?’

‘Absolutely,’ I declared staunchly. I meant it, too, even though I had no idea how that would work out. ‘I insist on it. And you can stay here as long as you like. I’d love to help in any way I can.’

I paused, unsure of what I was promising. ‘I mean, I don’t know how I
can
help, but I’m good with numbers, obviously, having worked in a bank. And I have a way with words and maybe… I dunno. Maybe I could be your PR girl, or something.’

He looked up sharply. ‘Where’d that come from?’

‘No idea,’ I confessed. ‘I was making that up. But isn’t that what PR is all about, making it up?’

‘Among other things, yes.’ Mike smiled wryly. ‘Offer of help gladly accepted. I don’t know how or where or what, but I’m sure there’s something you can do. You were pretty good at handling that Dexter bloke.’ He grinned briefly at the recollection. ‘But first of all, you’ve got to sort out that thing with your ex. What’s the plan?’

Ah. The plan. The one I didn’t have. I sighed. ‘I thought—I think—maybe if I go round to his place again.’ I had a brief flashback to my multiple rounds of driving by Nate’s building and amended my plan. ‘You know, actually park up and ring the doorbell, try to see him face to face…’

‘Hm. Doesn’t sound like much of a plan,’ Mike commented truthfully.

‘You got a better idea?’

‘Does he still work? Didn’t you say he had a day job?’

‘He did. He does. I tried ringing him there, but they wouldn’t put me through.’

‘Well, when does he get back home? Or better still, where does he hang out for lunch?’

The coffee shop in Covent Garden
. I looked at the oven clock. Just after eleven a.m. If I left now, I would probably have enough time to get there and install myself at his favourite table.

‘Mike, you’re a genius. I gotta go. Make yourself at home. Bring as much stuff as you want. The guest room is yours. There’s a spare key on the pegboard in the hallway.’ I jumped up and flapped about gathering up my purse, phone and keys. Mike looked slightly bewildered at my sudden burst of action. I placed a quick kiss on his cheek before I rushed out. ‘Wish me luck!’

‘Good luck, Emily,’ he said obligingly. ‘Go get him!’