Page 3 of It Was Always You

Someone to come home to. Someone to talk to at the end of the day. Someone to just exist with. It’s the little things.

I honestly don’t know what I would have done without Abbie these past few weeks. Since the moment I showed up on her doorstep with vodka and Chinese takeout, she’d been there for me in every possible way. Before I even said anything, she had the drinks poured, food plated up, and her sofa converted into my makeshift bed. Everyone needs an Abbie.

However, as fun as sofa crashing and being roommates again was, staying in her one-bed apartment wasn’t an option long-term. So with her help, I found an affordable one-bed apartment, had her get my stuff from my old place and made short work of making my new place a home.

Lately, though, aligning schedules with Abbie has been impossible. When I’m off work, she’s buried in family duties or volunteering at the local animal shelter, Pals for Paws. My social circle has always been small, so now, I often feel quite alone. But thank fuck for work; it’s kept me sane.

If someone had told me that at twenty-two, I’d be freshly single and working full-time as a bartender with no future aspirations, I’d have scoffed and called them a liar. I had a full ride to university and plans to get an apartment with Abbie all lined up. Life, however, had other ideas. The call that came right after packing up our dorm still haunts me. After only spending summers and Christmas together, Mum was on her way to pick me up, full of hopes and dreams for our summer together, when she was involved in a hit-and-run. By the time the ambulance was on the scene, it was too late for them to do anything but break my heart and take her to the morgue.

Everything was a blur of action after that. Somehow Abbie got me to the hospital while Owen took care of getting our things to Abbie’s house, where I spent that summer going through the motions in a haze of grief and shock.

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I’d be an orphan at seventeen.

When reality came knocking in the form of bills that needed to be paid and a house I couldn’t bear to set foot in, I did the only thing I could think of. I sold my childhood home and used that money to pay off the funeral expenses before moving in with Corey and getting a full-time job, putting my future on hold.

Nearly five years later the grief still eats away at a part of me that’s never felt whole since that fateful day. It’s dug its claws in bone-deep and refuses to let go of me, but life keeps spinning, and I’ve learnt to live with it. Mostly, anyway.

Getting a job at O’Neill’s, a restaurant in the heart of the West End of London that caters to rich businessmen, was meant to be a temporary stopgap between healing and my future. Yet here I am, a trusted key holder, bartender, and occasional waitress, rumoured to be the top candidate for the open supervisor position, according to our group chat. Personally, I’m just relieved that this job pays enough for me to manage comfortably without stressing over my uncertain future.

Coming home every night to a quiet, dark apartment might sound like a dream come true, but as someone who has never lived alone, it’s eerie, strange and not something I’m thrilled about at all.

Some might put that down to a lack of independence.

I blame the abandonment issues that having a deadbeat Dad and a Mum that went far too soon caused.

“Hey Cora, are you done?” Carla, one of the supervisors, calls out to me as I finish tidying up the kitchen.

“Yeah, just gotta wipe the counters down and grab my stuff, and then I’m good to go,” I shout over my shoulder, grabbing the spray to do the counters. O’Neill’s may be all about dark woods, dim lighting and secluded booths to set the ambience but back here, it’s like every other kitchen—stainless steel surfaces everywhere. All of which need to be gleaming before we leave here. Tonight, I’ve also covered our sick kitchen porter’s clean- up duties.

Wrapping up, I join her and Jay, a flirtatious waiter at the front. “You coming out with us tonight, love?” he asks me, raising a dark eyebrow.

“Nope, I’ve got a hot date with my spicy romance book and whatever leftovers are in my fridge.” I laugh, shrugging on my coat and letting my wavy dirty blonde hair down. One thing no one tells you about working in a restaurant is how much of a headache constantly having your hair tied up causes.

“Are you sure we can’t convince you? It’s been ages since you’ve joined us.” Carla pouts, grabbing her stuff and turning off the lights.

“Positive. Life is kicking my ass lately, but next time, I promise.” With that, I hug them goodbye and make my way home. Hitting a club after being on my feet for twelve hours sounds like hell on earth.

Deciding to take the fifteen-minute walk home instead of dealing with the hustle and bustle of a packed tube because it’s Saturday night, I hum and walk down the familiar streets. Soon, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and a chill runs down my spine, sensations that have become all too familiar. A quick scan reveals nothing unusual. I lower my head, trying to ignore the ominous feeling and focusing on reaching home. The faster, the better.

As I’m turning down Shaftesbury Avenue, the feeling of being watched increases profusely. The sound of tyres screeching and doors slamming makes me jump and whip around, but as I turn, a body slams into me, sending me crashing to the ground. I land with a thud and a grunt, and the man who knocked me down lands too, straddling me with his legs and pinning my shoulders with his arms. All I can see is black.

Black hoodie, black gloves, black mask, dark eyes. It’s enough to make me petrified.

“Who the fuck are you?” At my tone, he tightens his grip on my right shoulder while reaching for something behind him. A gun. Fuck.

Dying on this street is absolutely not on my agenda today, so I start thrashing and kicking, trying to break free. Next, I scream as loud as I can, praying someone will hear me. Attempting to headbutt him, I only end up whacking my head off the ground, while he dodges my movements. Fucking hell, that hurt.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch.” He growls, jamming his gun against my neck while tightening his grip. Finally, I hear salvation in the form of pounding footsteps. Cursing, my attacker shoves his gun into his waistband and clutches my neck, making me wheeze for breath.

As my vision fades to black, he snarls, “Tell Johnny boy, Angus says hello.”

Who the fuck is Johnny boy?!

Chapter 2

Groaning and wincing from the considerable pain in my throat and head, I open my eyes, only to freeze in shock. As my vision clears and I push past the headache, I realize I’m surrounded by three huge-ass, tattooed, strange men. Hell no. I’ve seen enough crime documentaries to know this isn’t the ideal position to be in. I need to get the hell out of here. Pronto.

I don’t get much further before I’m stopped by a tattooed hand pushing me down.

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