Take My Breath Away by Ali Ryecart

Chapter Two

PERRY

“Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

My head feels like somebody’s taken an axe to it and as I try to push myself up to sitting, the room spins and all I can do is collapse back down and clamp my eyes shut.

If I lie here, just for a minute… It’s warm, and comfortable, the sheets are silky soft and the duvet as light and fluffy as marshmallow. I prise open my eyes, and look around but it hurts. My eyeballs are too big for the sockets, every movement a colossal effort. The chink of light coming through a gap in the curtains is enough to confirm the creeping suspicion that I’m not where I expect to be.

The huge bed, the high ceiling, the plain painted walls. The blond wood freestanding wardrobe. The open door by the big window, showing a glimpse of a claw footed bath. There are no stacked boxes of musty files, no blanket and flat pillow bundled up behind them. This isn’t the basement of the office block where I work, stuffed full of crap nobody goes to investigate from one year’s end to another. No, this is—

“No! Oh, Jesus Christ!” I slap my palms over my face, and wince as a shot of pain sears through my shattered head. It all comes back, every horrible, excruciating moment of it.

Half a bottle of rum. Beer. Tequila.

James.

Oh, bloody, sodding, frigging hell.

James, pushing me into a cab, pulling me out of a cab. Me, raging and crying, and raging again. And flirting with him. And trying to kiss him. Was that before or after I threw up? Because I’m sure I threw up. The taste like a decomposing rat in my mouth tells me I threw up.

There’s an odd whimpering sound, and it’s coming from me. It’s not a sound to be proud of, but pride’s the last thing I’m feeling. I’m in his spare room. He’s put me to bed — and I freeze. The sheets are beautifully soft against my bare skin.

Oh, no, please don’t say he undressed me…

Pulling my hands away from my face, which is throbbing with cringing embarrassment, I pick up the duvet, peek underneath — and let out a relieved breath. I’m wearing my underwear, so I’m not totally naked which is one good thing. The other is that I’m not wearing the ones covered with cartoon fluffy sheep, which my friend Alfie sent me for my last birthday. Pulling the duvet up and over my head, I have to work out how on earth I’m going to face James.

A soft knock, and a slight creak as the door opens tells me I’m going to have to face him a lot sooner than I thought.

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty, I know you’re awake.”

James’ voice, a low and growly purr like a classic car, is edged with amusement. I’m glad somebody’s laughing because it sure isn’t me.

If I just stay very still and pretend…

The duvet’s tugged away from my head and I gasp as I stare up into James’ face. A crooked smile’s pulling at his lips and one brow’s raised. He doesn’t look angry, which is something I suppose.

“Errrggg…” What’s meant to be the start of an abject apology is nothing more than a strangled, incomprehensible moan.

“Feeling that good, eh?” James’ arched brow moves up another notch, towards his short, steely hair. “There’s a glass of water and a couple of aspirin on the side, here. I’ve also brought you some clothes to wear. They won’t fit but they’ll have to do. Your own are a — little mucky. Everything’s been washed, but they’re not dry. Once you’ve had a shower, come downstairs. I think we need to have a talk.”

Before I can even think what to say, he’s gone.

I stare up at the ceiling, my head hammering and my heart matching it thump for thump. Oh, God. A talk. It’s the last thing I want to do but somehow I don’t think James is going to give me any choice in the matter.

Swallowing the tablets, I stand up, but have to plonk down on the bed again as the room tilts. A minute, I’ll make my way to the shower in a minute. The minute up, I stagger and lurch to the en-suite and into a shower I reckon is bigger than the whole bathroom where I live.

Correction. Where I used to live.

Turning the lever, the hot water falls in a torrent. I lean against the tiled wall and slip down into a heap on the floor, wondering how the hell I’m going to explain.

* * *

I’m half way down the stairs when the salty, savoury aroma of bacon hits me. My stomach’s been churning, in protest at the booze from last night and how I’m going to be able to face James with at least a scrap of dignity (big clue about that one: I won’t be able to), but the smell of fry up is an instant comfort blanket. My nose twitches and my mouth waters at the same time my stomach rumbles. It’s Saturday morning and I haven’t eaten a thing since Thursday night. I’ve existed on coffee, alcohol and self-pity.

Like a dog, I follow my nose, which leads me to the kitchen at the back of the house.

“Hello,” I mumble, as I poke my head around the kitchen door.

James swings around from the large stove where he’s frying enough bacon to feed an army. The skin at the outer corners of his eyes crinkles as he smiles, and his dark green eyes sweep over me.

“How are you feeling? What’s the score on the Crap-O-Meter?”

“If it’s out of ten, then I’m at a solid eleven.”

James laughs, the sound rich and assured and filling every corner of the huge, sunny kitchen. I’ve a vague, unformed memory of being led in here last night, and can only hope and pray that this wasn’t where I chucked up.

James peers at me, and I shift from foot to foot, acutely conscious that I’m wearing his clothes.

The tracksuit bottoms, T-shirt, and hoodie are too big for me, just as he said they’d be, and I feel small and puny in them. It doesn’t help that I’ve lost weight recently, which I can ill-afford to do. James is taller than me, not by a huge amount, but he’s got more muscle on him. But, I’m glad of them, because my own clothes…

“Thank you. For the lend of the clothes. I’m so sorry, I—”

“Sit down before you fall down.” He slices across my words, stopping dead the start of what is sure to be my stumbling apology. “Breakfast first, and then you can say sorry as much as you like, but to be frank I’d rather an explanation as to why I found you on your own in the middle of Soho and blind drunk — and why you claim to be living in the basement of Elliot’s office block.”