Page 27 of Vow of Revenge
“Do you like him?”
“Hell no! It was just sex. Like you and Betty,” I joked.
“You mean, Brett.”
“Eh, yeah.” I snickered as her hand swatted my ankle.
“I think you like Kaleb a bit more than you’re letting on, Freya.”
I took a second to process her statement. “It was just sex. Fucktastic sex with a stranger. No lovey dovey bullshit. I’m not into that, and after his little clean up visit,neither is he.” I emphasised the answer, affirming to myself that it was indeed, just mind blowing, earth shatteringcasualsex.
Syrah joined me at eye level and rolled onto her belly. “I’m glad you’re okay. I had an amazing night too. Brett was the perfect dirty gentlemen. I really like him.” She inhaled deeply, almost sucking up all the oxygen in the room and letting it out in a controlled stream of air.
“Play it cool, Syrah. Guys like him eat a different girl for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”
“I know. He said he would call me today. I really hope he does. I’d like to invite him to the Gala.”
My head tilted towards her delicate touch. I loved it when she stroked my hair. “You’re not taking, Danny?” I wasn’t really shocked, but she needed to end things with him first.
“Not if Brett gets in touch.”
“Syrah, you’re asking for trouble.”
She groaned loudly. “If Brett wants to take me then I’ll end it with Danny – Okay?”
“Okay. I’ll be flying solo. Thank goodness. Normality.” I sighed happily, content in the knowledge that I had no expectations of my one-night stand, nor any wish to arrange a date for the Magazine’s Christmas Gala in a few weeks. Kaleb De Courcy was the ultimate sex god fantasy – best kept in my memory and not in my life. We shared an evening of fun and unbelievable sex, yes it truly was a cosmic sexual experience, but it was all down to the drugs.
Syrah shifted, leaning up on her elbow. “I hate to break it to you, sister, but Dad is coming down to Dublin today. He wants to meet us for lunch.”
Holy Shit.
“Please. No. Can’t you put him off, Syrah? Tell him I have a deadline or something,” I pleaded.
She threw hers legs off the bed and jumped up to stand. “I tried, but he’s nearly here.”
This was the last thing I needed the day after the night before. My drug and alcohol ‘come down’ left me sickly pale, with deathly bruises under my eyes. I could give zombie’s a run for their money in the freaky department.
To make things worse, I had the evidence of a rough sexual encounter dotted over my arms in blackish hues, indentations of Kaleb’s firm hold.
Syrah tried to help pull my head out of my ass with tea and toast. A cold shower was hateful, like skinny dipping mid-winter, but the toast, ugh! It morphed into cardboard as my achy jaw strained to chew, turning it into a sticky paste that coated my teeth.
As expected, Cal arrived outside the penthouse on schedule. I overdid the makeup a little, hoping the thick layer of under-eye concealer and splash of bronzer would bring my pasty complexion back to life. It helped lift me from barely alive, to still breathing.
The moment I entered the black town car, I could smell the familiar spicy musk that permeated the air wherever my father occupied. He was the only male influence I had growing up, and I considered him a true father figure. My birth father was a victim of his own fate, dying young in a motorcycle accident one month before I was born.
“Freya, darling, you look made up today?” Cal stared at me. The wrinkles on his brow furrowed, his deep-set emerald eyes followed my face when I kissed his cheek.
“I’ve been writing lots, spending more time in front of a screen than in the daylight. I wanted to make an effort for you.” I smiled warmly; his concern was sincere.
“Now, Freya. I’ve told you this before, young lady. You are a Beaumont, and Beaumont’s can buy their own magazine empire.” He sighed and tapped his forefinger on the tip of my nose. “I do value your work ethic, sweetheart – just not at the cost of your health.” He ran a hand over his short hair, riddled with more grey than chocolate brown, highlighting his chunky golden ring that was a permanent fixture. Syrah hitched up her already short skirt and slide along the leather upholstery.
“I know. I enjoy writing. It’s cathartic. If I owned a magazine the whole dynamics of writing would change into editorial decisions, budgets and staffing. It would stamp out my passion and incinerate it in one stressful poof.” My fingers opened and closed trying to give him a visual image of my passion poofing into the air.
Cal’s throaty laugh sang in my ears. I loved to make him smile, to hear the pleasure in his voice. So often he was ice cold, a businessman on a higher plain alongside like-minded men, unscrupulous men who would shaft him quicker than shake his hand. I was privy to the softness in his eyes and the joy that whispered from his heart.
“My Freya, you are a dramatic soul. Now, Syrah, what have you been up to, my dear?” His eyes cut to my sister who was gazing at her freshly polished nails.
I could sense her hesitation. “I’ve just been working at the shop and giving the owner ideas of what styles to buy in from Italy. Although, they don’t pay me enough. I used my whole months’ salary in the same store yesterday. It was gone in one purchase, but the jacket is gorgeous. I love it.” Her narrow shoulders pulled up to her jaw, and she pulled the lapels of her fitted blazer.
