Page 135 of The Home Grown
“Yeah,” I reply, cool and clipped. “But you can run that past Greg if you need to.”
I turn to Danny with a polite smile I barely manage to hold. “Excuse me—I just need the ladies.”
I don’t wait for a reply.
My heart pounds as I step away from the bar and cross the lobby, already unlocking my phone.
I scroll straight to Mike’s name and press call, lifting the phone to my ear as the empty foyer swallows my footsteps.
Brr-Brr.
Brr-Brr.
Brr-Brr.
I’m about to give up when the tone stops and the voice of someone trickles down the line.
“Hello?”
Except, it’s not Mike. It’s a woman.
BETTSY
One last lookat her and I realise that no matter how shit things are, I’d rather cut off my dick and feed it to the pigeons than let Rochelle anywhere near me again.
I turn and head for the hotel exit, and the fresh air hits me, clearing my mind and reminding me I’ve done the right thing.
She doesn’t get the message.
I stride away, as fast as I can. Two streets later she’s still following me, randomly calling out insults as she walks.
Apparently, blocking her number wasn’t a nice thing to do. Nor was ignoring her at Liam’s stag do. Not that I really saw her—she tried to get into the VIP area in the club we ended up in, but Johnny cut off any chance of her worming her way inside.
Long live the captain.
As she trails behind me, through the empty side-streets, there’s no Johnny. It’s just me.
Just me and my resolve and what I need is for her to fuck off and leave me alone.
Maybe I can call Danny, get him to come and meet me and—where the fuck is my phone?
I dip my hand into my left pocket, but it’s not there. Nor is it in my right. Nor inside the jacket—which, I realise, is where I should have put it.
I come to an abrupt stop. Turning and facing the direction I came from to see Rochelle still trailing along behind me but with a phone that looks familiarly like my own, clutched in her hands.
When the hell did she take my phone? How could I not have noticed?
“She hung up on me,” Rochelle says, looking down at the screen in disgust.
“What the hell are you playing at?” I say. “Why do you have my phone?” I stride forward and she moves away, holding my phone a little out of reach so I’m forced to close in.
“Talk. To. Me,” she fires. “If you want your phone back. Talk to me first.”
And I’m reminded of the turmoil, the demands, the controlling attitude.
But I’m done.
Done with her shit.
