Page 69 of Worth Every Penny
I floor the accelerator, guilt running through me because I wasted time with Kate when I should have been on the road. But there was no way I could deny her when she was standing outside my room in that stunning underwear.
I probably shouldn’t be driving this fast, but I’m agitated. The speed provides something close to the release I denied myself earlier.
I shut down thoughts of Kate, of her soft moans and the desperate way she clung to me as she came, focusing instead on the task at hand. I call my PA again from the car. It’s antisocial, but fuck it, she has the details and I need to be prepared.
She stifles a yawn. “Mr. Hawkston. How can I help?”
“I’m on my way. What happened?”
“He spray-painted a vehicle. Graffitied all over it. A neighbour found him and called the police.”
None of it makes sense.
“Did the police call you?”
“No. Charlie did. He was trying to get through to you.”
My brain is slow to compute. “Why would he call me instead of his mother?”
“He says he doesn’t want to see her.”
Shit. That doesn’t sound good. “Okay. Thanks. Sorry to wake you.”
“No problem, Mr. Hawkston.”
I’m not sure I’m any calmer by the time I park the car outside the police station—a vast concrete block on the edge of a roundabout. It’s fucking ugly. How is this the culmination of my evening? It feels like a bad dream.
I take a breath, stalk up to the doors and push my way inside. The station is brightly lit and smells like bleach. There’s a female police officer behind the desk, but otherwise, the place is quiet. One of the strip lights in the corner isn’t working, and it flickers in my peripheral vision like the beginnings of a migraine.
“I’m here to collect Charlie Hawkston,” I announce.
When she looks up at me, her eyebrows disappear into her hairline. Whatever she was expecting, I’m not it. She drops her eyes to scan through some documents in front of her.
“Nico Hawkston,” she says, tapping a piece of paper. “Are you the father?”
“Uncle.”
She presses a buzzer, and when a voice responds, she instructs that Charlie be brought through to the front desk.
“The owner isn’t pressing charges,” she tells me. “You’re free to take him.”
Charlie slouches out between the two officers, his head hanging low. He’s wearing huge baggy jeans and an oversized t-shirt with Bart Simpson on the front. The outfit makes him look skinny and younger than his fifteen years.
“You were lucky this time,” one of the officers, who looks so fresh-faced this could be his first night on the job, tells him.
Charlie shrugs and ambles towards me, not meeting my eye. I’m not equipped to deal with a teenager going through an existential crisis. Then again, I’m not sure Matt would be that much better.
“Can I stay with you?” he asks when he reaches me.
Fuck, no. I’m not living with a teenager.
“Get in the car,” I say, nodding my head towards the door. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”
Charlie slumps in the seat beside me. He hasn’t spoken since we left the station. The drive to central London is quick at this time in the early morning, so I don’t have long to get to the bottom of what’s going on. We’ll be at his house in fifteen minutes, andI need to know what I’m going to say to Gemma when we get there.
And what I’m going to tell Matt.
“Why didn’t you call your mum? You can’t hide this from her.”