Page 10 of Take My Breath Away
“Is any of your stuff here?”
“A bit. Not much. I didn’t have a lot, but—” He stops and gasps, and I’ve no need to ask why. He’s not the only one who’s heard the flat’s front door open and slam closed, and footsteps coming down the short hallway.
“What are you doing here — and who the fuck are you?”
I turn around to face the bulky, dark-haired man standing in the living room doorway. I grin, and it feels like my skin’s about to tear apart.
“Hello Grant.”
Chapter Five
PERRY
“What have you done with my books? The ones from my granddad? I don’t care about the money, but where are my books?” I’m shouting, and shaking with shock and rising anger, at the smirk on Grant’s face. I do care about the money he’s stolen from me, but it’s nothing compared to the loss of granddad’s books.
“Sold ‘em on eBay. There was a little matter of unpaid rent.”
“Unpaid rent?” He’s fleeced me of money, locked me out of my home and forced me to live in the basement of the office where I work, and he talks about meowing rent?
Fury bursts from me, and I go to fly at Grant. He’s big and burly, he could swat me away like a fly, but I don’t get anywhere close as I’m pulled back with a hard tug.
“I’ve come with Perry to collect his belongings. Which don’t appear to be here. It’s been a tedious journey across London, and for that reason alone we’re not leaving empty handed.”
I look up at James, his bored drawl shocking me out of my rage.
“What the fuck are you on about? Whoever you are, get out of my flat.”
Grant squares his shoulders and juts out his chin as he glares at James. A shiver of apprehension runs through me.
Grant’s heavy set. I’ve had more than a few pushes and shoves from him in recent weeks, and I’ve felt the force of them. There’s nothing here for me. My books have gone, my clothes too, whether in the bin or a charity shop I don’t know. All I want now is to get away, as far away from this dingy flat, this vicious and vile man, and the shit storm my life’s turned into. But what I also want is for James not to get involved and risk getting hurt, not for me.
“Come on,” I mumble to James. “There’s no point being here.” I tug at his arm, to pull him away, but he doesn’t budge an inch. He’s as immovable as a mountain.
“Compensation is in order, wouldn’t you agree?” James says, ignoring me. He’s looking around and when his eyes alight on the guitar standing in the corner, he smiles — and I shiver.
There’s something dark and dangerous in the way his smile widens to a grin, and in the glint in his eyes. He’s stock still but looks ready to pounce, like a cat watching its prey. James, little more than average height if that, and compact, he’d be easy to dismiss up against Grant’s brawn, but the tingle lighting up my nerves and prickling at the back of my neck whispers that it’d be a very, very unwise assumption.
Grant makes that assumption.
“You think you’re going to take my guitar, that you’re even going to touch it? Just fuck off, the pair of you.”
“It’s a Gibson. Very expensive. Good condition, too. Would have set you back a good five thousand. I assume you used Perry’s money rather than your own?” He takes the couple of steps to the guitar, not taking any heed of Grant.
James’ voice is light, almost conversational, but his grin is stretching, growing wider, displaying bared teeth that are ready to bite. But Grant, his face angry and mottled, doesn’t see it, doesn’t see it at all, doesn’t realise the wrong and dangerous choice he’s making as he lunges for James.
I stumble back as James’ arm shoots out, his hand bunched into a fist which lands square in the middle of Grant’s face. There’s a crunch, and blood splatters over Grant’s T-shirt. James doesn’t make a sound, but Grant’s anger, pain, and shocked bellow fills the room, bouncing off the walls as he falls with a heavy thump onto his arse, his hands clamped to his face.
“Wh…?” It’s as far as I get. My head snaps from Grant, wailing and groaning on the floor, rocking back and forwards, to James, cool and self-possessed as he gazes down at Grant, his nose wrinkling as though he’s smelling something bad.
“Is there anything left here that’s yours?”
“I—I don’t… No…” I try to think, but my thoughts are slow and dense.
My eyes land on the books I’ve thrown around. Two or three of them are mine, either missed by Grant or not bothered about. But they’re mine, and I’m taking them with me. I dart over and grab them up.
“Right, then let’s take the guitar and leave.”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t want it.” I could sell it, I could eBay it, the way Grant has my treasured adventure stories. But I don’t want it, I don’t want to be like Grant. I’ve got damn all else, but I have some pride left.
