Page 107 of Into the Dark
“Kev.”
“What’s he done?”
He gives me a look, considers what he’s about to say, and then lets out another of his loud, exhausted sighs. “He was messing about with one of the barmaids. Two of them, actually.” Another shake of his head. “One of them found out about the other one… Sounds like it got out of hand when one of them confronted him.”
“Christ. What a mess.”
“I need to go see her—Rachel said she wants to call the police…”
My eyes widen. “What did he do?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out. He’s fucked off somewhere. Why don’t you come with me? It shouldn’t take long. Then we can go home.”
“Okay. If you want me to.”
The paying of the bill—heavily discounted thanks to Nick and the “wine issue,” and thanks to Jake paying cash—takes all of five minutes, and then we’re outside looking for a taxi. The hot summer air of today has dissipated, leaving behind something chillier and nippy. Since I neglected to bring a jacket or coat, Jake drapes his own suit jacket over my shoulders and pulls me close as we walk north up Bruton Street.
I’m certain the restaurant would have called us a cab, but that may have taken longer, and Jake is tense and agitated and clearly keen to get there. At the end of the street we spot one for hire on our side of the road coming toward us, and Jake steps out off the sidewalk to stop it with a wave.
Inside, he gives the driver the address of Surgery, followed by a brief set of directions that he explains is the quickest way to go. Brave, since London cabbies don’t tend to take too kindly to directions from mere mortals on how best to get around the city. Jake appears to be the exception to that rule, however, because the driver simply nods, mutters his agreement, and then proceeds to do exactly as he’s told.
With his hand resting high up on my thigh, Jake pushes me back into the seat and drops his mouth to the side of my neck, pressing a kiss to my skin. “I can’t fucking wait to get you home,” he whispers.
The shiver runs from the back of my neck, down my spine, to the very tips of my toes. I turn my head to catch his mouth, kissing him hungrily.
“Mmm. Is that so you can fuck me long and hard like in your fantasy date with me?” I whisper very quietly against his ear.
He growls softly, burying his nose in my hair. “Yeah. Exactly that.” He moves his hand a little further up the outside of my thigh, slipping it just under the hem of my dress to squeeze my butt as he pulls me closer. I feel the faint outline of his erection against my body. It makes me lightheaded. I’m not drunk at all, but I feel it. A warm hum of intoxication. His mouth and his touch and the lingering heat from the sun today have sunk deep into my bones, and it’s a heady combination. With his fingers under my chin separating our lips, he tilts my head back to stare into my eyes, keeping his mouth tauntingly out of reach of my own. The streetlights outside flicker across the green of his eyes, making them look alight with tiny flickers of bright silver.
“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” he asks.
He’s told me he loves me before, of course—many times before. And I remember every detail of every single one of those times. I remember the tone of his voice and the look in his eye, and I remember how each time he said it I fell a little bit deeper in love with him.
I’ll remember this time too. I’ll remember the smell and sound of the engine, the dull crackle of the driver’s radio, the distant prattle of some yapping northern-accented DJ. Right now, all those things seem to take on a faint romantic quality as the man I love and the father of my child, the center of my entire world, tells me he loves me again.
I’ve always wondered why my whole life, despite being happy and blessed and loved, despite never wanting for anything, I’ve always felt empty of something. As though there’s some part of me missing.
I understand it now. It was him I was missing. It was him I was empty of. How did I ever think I’d loved and been loved before this?
“I have some idea.” I smile. “I feel exactly the same.”
The heat of his stare burns through me for a silent moment. “Didn’t even need the Dorchester or a love letter either…” he says proudly, a slight smirk tickling the side of his mouth.
We step out of the taxi at Surgery a short drive later. The streets of London are as busy as always, but it seems Jake’s directions were as exactly as promised: the faster, more direct route. He gets out first and helps me down onto the pavement before going to the driver’s window and handing him some cash, telling him to have a good night. Then he’s leading me through the wrought iron gate up to the front door of the busy entrance.
As always, two queues of well-dressed, over-preened Londoners are chatting, smoking, and laughing loudly in an orderly fashion on each side of the door. As we get closer, I notice it seems to be the same doormen who were guarding the entrance last night: a burly guy dressed in all-black telling a story with lots of hand gestures and overexaggerated facial expressions, and a smaller bearded guy laughing loudly, his shoulders heaving with the effort. The instant they spot Jake coming toward them, though, they stop conversing, stand up a little straighter, and then break out into wide smiles and shouts of greeting. Their attention only moves to me when Jake retakes my hand and pulls me closer to him, their expressions a kind of leering curiosity.
“All right, guys, how’s it been?” he says in a serious, businesslike tone.
They fill him in while I listen, stealing the odd glance in my direction as if trying to place me.
“Listen, lads. Talk in a bit, yeah?” Jake says, ending the conversation with a casual abruptness and leading me toward the ornate double doors.
Inside, the entrance is just as busy, and I spot a tall guy who reminds me of Kyle from opening night. When he turns fully in my direction I see it’s not him, but I wonder if Kyle still works here. Then I wonder if Gemma still works here. Then some tall, authoritative blonde, who may or may not be the same one from the night I came here with the girls, shouts Jake’s name loudly and rushes over. Despite the fact he’s still holding my hand she throws a tanned, bare-skinned arm around him and plants her mouth on his cheek. Seriously? Am I invisible? Also, he’s her bloody boss. I give her the politest look of disdain I can muster, but she’s not looking at me.
“I had no clue you were coming in tonight!” She beams. Her accent is one I can’t place. Australian, maybe, or Kiwi. A cold, sharp notion slices through me that sounds like—
Oh god, not her too. Please not her too.