Page 8 of The Twelve Days of Christian
Chapter 4
Day One
When you have anelderly fur kid, your ears become as attuned to the sounds of them as those of new parents with a young baby. In the night, lying in my king-size bed, with Tully and Mularkey taking up more than their share of it, I always sleep lightly, subconsciously monitoring their presence. Most of the time it’s companionable snuffling, as they snuggle into their hollows in the covers. Although more frequently these days, those softer sounds morph into raucous snoring. I’ve learned to zone it out for the sake of waking up a functioning human being the next morning.
Doggie dreams sometimes intrude on my own too, as they scrabble with wonky legs that no longer work well in real life. Hearing them relive long gone frolics and the thrill of the chase always bringsa smile. I love that they still have this pleasure available to them, even if it’s only while asleep.
Tonight the dog noises don’t trigger comfort. Half an hour after she dragged herself up beside me, I’m concerned about Tully. She’s gone from the odd quiet whimper to actively in distress. She’s panting—even though it’s not warm—and drooling. A couple of times she’s retched but nothing’s come up. Normally I’d be pleased the dog didn’t actually puke on my bed, but not tonight. I sit up and trail my hands carefully across her stomach. It feels distended. When I flip on the bedside lamp, I read an expression of pain in her dark eyes.
Deep-chested dogs like Tully are more prone to bloat, and it’s a killer. If it’s what I think it is—and I’m fairly certain, having seen quite a few dogs present like this at the clinics I’ve worked in—she could be dead by morning. I need to get Tully to a vet and I need to do it now.
But no cabbie will take me and two dogs; I can’t leave Mularkey here alone. The only option is Ollie’s car, his pride and joy: a Porsche 911. A GT2 RS to be as precise in naming it as he is.
I always maintain fame and money haven’t affected my brother, and that’s ninety-nine percent true. The other one percent is the outrageous German sports car parked in the garage. At least beyond the aggressive exterior, it harbours a rear seat of sorts. Designed for stuffing in a few parcels or a gym bag, it will be tight, but I think the girls will fit.
However, there are two large problems with this plan. One, I don’t usually drive. And two, even if I dared to try, how would I manage in this situation? With me, an unlicensed novice, white-knuckled and trembling in fear, plus two dogs, one whimperingin pain, the other restless with concern at her friend’s distress; it would be an accident waiting to happen. Or, at best, attract a confrontation with an irate police officer and a stiff fine. Neither outcome would see Tully to a vet in time.
I have no choice. It’s Christian or nothing. I tiptoe to his door, aware it’s almost midnight, giving it a tentative tap with the back of my hand.
“Christian.”
There’s no answer. I knock again, with a little more force. Repeat his name. Still silence. Another whimper from my room decides for me. I’m going in, invited or not. The risk of not getting help for Tully is a thousand times more terrifying than the prospect of Christian Steele’s displeasure.
He’s lying with the sheets tossed back. He hasn’t bothered to pull the heavy blackout drapes, and streetlight filters through the filmy curtains, picking out his shape in a surreal half-light. I’m transfixed.
It’s as if we’re in some wintery faery forest, painted in greys and gilded with silver. I’ve stumbled across the elven king, slumbering in a tumbled nest of pale ferns (in reality an expensive set of Garnet Hill sheets). My gaze follows the curves of his naked upper body, pale and beautiful in contrast to the deepest indigo etched on it in a glorious riot of patterns and plants. I’ve seen his tattoos before, of course, but always at a distance; from the side of the stage, or front row VIP seats. Generally, it’s only his forearms and hands exposed, and the v of his neck. And ogling him in the magazine, I’d focused on the whole man, the very attractive body, not the extra decoration.
As I edge closer, almost reluctant to wake him when he looks so peaceful, I see higher up, on his biceps and beyond, animals peep through the foliage. A wolf stares back at me from one shoulder, alifelike gleam in its eyes. There’s a fox and a badger. A squirrel and a tiny field mouse. It’s as if Christian invited the same artist who created my precious Liberty Christmas bauble to use his skin for a canvas, and it’s enchanting.
There’s an unexpected gentleness in the subject matter. It’s the innocent feel ofThe Wind In The Willows. Even the wolf has a benign expression, not the snarling beast one might expect on an angry young musician. He really is a contradiction. Farm boy turned rock star. Formidable tattoos with secret softness.
I’m hoping there’s a similar softness inside of him now, as I reach over, laying one palm against his shoulder. It’s cool and smooth and I shiver a little at the contact.
“Christian.” I shake him gently and he startles awake.
“What the fuck?” Then, as recognition strikes, he relaxes. “Shit, Haley. Sorry, you gave me a fright.”
“Yeah, I’m not the best sight to wake up to.”
He gives me a strange look, before reassembling his features.
“What’s up?”
“It’s Tully. Christian—” My voice breaks. “I’m so scared. She’s sick. Really sick. She needs the vet. I think it’s bloat.”
“Bad in cows. Worse in dogs, right?” Of course, growing up on a dairy farm in Cheshire, he has a practical knowledge of animals.
“Often fatal.” I choke on the words. I’m hoping we can get her there before her stomach flips. Gastric torsion. Then the odds of saving her drop away to a frighteningly small number. “Can you drive us?”
“Of course.” He springs from the bed, totally unashamed of his nakedness. I look away. He might not be embarrassed, but I am definitely uncomfortable with his lack of inhibition.
“Oops, sorry.” He snatches at the sheet on seeing my discomfort. I’m heading for the door, anyway.
“Ollie’s got a car here?” He calls after me over the rustle of clothing.
“Yeah, the Porsche.”
“Yes,” he hisses. “All right.” He sounds pleased at the prospect. “Well, we won’t need a police escort to get us there in a hurry. That baby can go.”
