Page 33 of The Making of Jonty Bloom
Yes, he is.
You know what a bad judge of guys I am. Look at Brad.
He’s nothing like that prick.
Jonty had a pain in his chest now. A sharp pain. He felt terrible. He was shivering with cold as if he was still in the water, his breathing ragged and noisy.
“You’re a little cunt.”
Jonty’s eyes snapped open and he froze. “Brad,” he whispered.
No one was there. No one had actually called him a cunt. But it took a moment or two to convince himself he was alone. He’d heard the words so clearly. A moment later, he was wracked with violent tremors.Brad. Brad. Brad.He gulped as the guy’s name formed over and over in his head. Jonty kept breaking his rule. Never think his name, never speak it.
Stop panicking.
Stop breathing so fast.
Stop shaking.
Stop all of it.
He put his hands over his ears.
“But you’re my little cunt.”
No! NO!Jonty could hear someone whimpering. He didn’t want it to be him but knew it was. “Dev…an!” The word came out as a whispered croak and yet Jonty still hoped somehow that Devan could hear, even all those floors away, that the word would be carried through the hotel’s pipes and timbers and somehow find him, and even if he couldn’t hear, he’d sense Jonty needed him. Why didn’t he sense that? Why did no one ever sense that? Devan had found him in the sea.Find me now!
Call his room.
No.
Then you have to fight this.
Jonty’s heart hurt so much he thought it was breaking apart in his chest. He slid his hand inside his shirt and twisted his nipple piercing as hard as he could.Harder. Oh shit, shit! That hurts.Pain brought him back. His fingers were wet and when he pulled them out of his shirt, he saw blood.Oh God.When his breathing started to speed up again, he held his breath and counted to ten before he allowed himself to inhale.
Gradually, his world calmed and he was twenty-five-year-old Jonty again, with a fucked-up shirt and probably a fucked-up piercing. He stood on shaky feet, took off his tie, then fumbled with his buttons. The piercing was still in place though he’d broken the skin on one side. There was a sink in the corner where staff made drinks, and he held his shirt under the cold tap to wash off the blood.
When the stain had more or less gone, he dried it with the machine in the toilet. A glance at the damage he’d done to his skin and he chewed his lip. That had been stupid, twisting so hard that he made himself bleed. He bit his lip as he removed the metal, then threw it in the bin. Maybe he needed to put an elastic band on his wrist again. A sore wrist was better than a bleeding nipple.
He was lucky the damage wasn’t worse. Harming himself wasnotthe answer. He cleaned the blood off his chest and swabbed it with an anaesthetic wipe from the first aid box.Ouch, ouch, ouch!Not something he’d be writing up in the accident book.Night porter freaked out and damaged his nipple.His toes curled in his shoes while he wiped over the wound. Jonty looked up into the mirror. Tay stood behind him.
You’re a stupid twat.
I know. I want you to go away.
Why? So you can kill yourself?
I won’t do that.
Do you really want me to go?
Jonty’s poor heart was doing some complicated calisthenics. What was the right answer?Yes? No? I don’t know.
I can’t go yet. There’s unfinished business. Go to sleep. I’ll look after you.
Jonty had unfinished business too. He put his shirt back on, then went online and googled Devan Smith. He couldn’t find him. Not on Facebook or among the sixty profiles on LinkedIn.
Mr Impossible. Mr Trouble. Now Mr Invisible.
