Awkward Abroad
An Awkward Novel
Rachel Rhodes
Copyright © 2019
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First published 2019
Cover design by Canva
Edited by The Writer’s Block
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Also by Rachel Rhodes
About the Author
1
I wake with a dull pain in my head and the all too familiar dry mouth that follows a night of heavy drinking. I lie as still as possible, knowing that when I move, it’s going to bring a world of hurt. Only yesterday I’d sworn off booze. I was going to go dry for a month to give my liver a much-needed break. As it turns out, the road to hell truly is paved with good intentions. I’d lasted all of six hours before Lara suggested a Vodka tonic at The Appaloosa.
Tentatively, I turn my head, and a wave of pain cuts through my skull. I can only clutch my forehead until it subsides, cursing my non-existent willpower. In the kingdom of self-destructive assholes, I’m a queen. What I’m not, however, is a masochist. I avoid pain wherever possible, which is why I pull a pillow over my head and go right back to sleep.
The sun is high in the sky when I wake again. The silky softness of satin caresses my skin. I peer below the sheets and utter a low curse. I’m naked. And now that I think about it, I don’t have satin sheets. My hand inches across the broad expanse of the bed, terrified I might encounter warm male flesh. I almost weep in relief to discover I’m alone. Through lowered lashes, I examine my surroundings. The hotel suite is impressive, even by my standards. Floor to ceiling windows stretch the length of the wall opposite the bed. Gauzy tulle curtains blow gently in the breeze at the open balcony door. I scan every inch of the room I can see without moving a muscle, and only when I’m almost certain I’m alone, do I lift my head. A discarded champagne flute lies on its side on a marble table. Beyond that rises an enormous white sofa, utterly devoid of any cushions. They’re strewn across the pale grey carpet, along with my clothes. The Michael Kors dress I was wearing last night, lies in a crumpled heap next to an empty Moët bottle. The scrap of red lace a few feet away brings a flush to my cheeks.
I flop back onto the satin sheets and drape my arm over my eyes, willing myself to remember what the hell happened last night. I remember doing Tequila shots. I remember holding onto the bar counter when the room started to spin. I’d been with Lara, or at least I had been until that stag party had arrived. After that, everything is a bit of a blur.
“Good morning, Amber.” The voice is curt, clipped, and to my horror, utterly familiar. I’d know that voice anywhere. I’ve heard it almost every day for as long as I can remember. I sit bolt upright and gape at the figure lounging against the balcony door. It feels like I left my brain behind on the pillow, but that’s the least of my worries. I’m naked, and this is his room. The perfectly logical conclusion is one that I refuse to consider.
“I said good morning, Amber,” Kent James repeats dryly, then, after an exaggerated look at his watch, “or perhaps good afternoon would be more appropriate.”
Caught quite literally with my pants down, I go immediately on the defensive. “What’s so good about it?”
“I guess not much from your position.”
“Oh, go and nail your dick to a door.”
“Always so eloquent. It’s nice to see you putting that private school education to good use.”
I’m distracted by the scent of coffee, only to realize he’s holding a steaming mug. I glance pointedly at it and arch my brow.
“Oh, sorry,” he says, sounding wholly unapologetic as he waves the mug in my direction. “I would have got you one, but I figured from the snoring you’d be asleep a few more hours.”
I’m too hungover to think of a suitable response. “What the hell happened last night? Why am I in a hotel room? And why am I naked?” I add, throwing him a filthy look.
He chuckles, low and melodious.
“Firstly, you owe me for the room,” he says. “There was no way I’d have made it across town with you in the state you were in when I found you last night.” He gives me the stern look which stopped working on me years ago. “And secondly, don’t flatter yourself. Every other guy in that club might’ve wanted a piece of your ass – including the groom to be, by the way, but I prefer my women with a little more self-respect.”
It’s a low blow, but I let it slide. “So, we didn’t actually…?”
“Have sex?”
I grimace. “Ugh. God, Kent, could you be any more gross?”
“Hey, I’m not the one who was tearing my clothes off last night and claiming I’d take you to places you’d only ever dreamed about.”
I risk a glance at my crumpled dress. “I didn’t.”
“Oh, you did. You also drank an entire bottle of Moët, which I’m going to have to pay for.”
“You can afford it,” I grumble.
“So can you. I’ll send you the bill.”
“Fine. Now can we just pretend none of this ever happened and go back to annoying each other to death? Throw me my dress so I can get the hell out of here.”
An exasperated look crosses his face. It’s a nice face, actually. Strong features, but with surprising softness to them when he thinks no one is looking. Those intense green eyes which always make me look away first. No matter how nice the face, though, Kent’s been a bit of a dick since college. He’s not someone I would associate with by choice, not anymore anyway. The fact that our mothers have been best friends since childhood means that we’ve known each other, unofficially, since the womb. We were born only two weeks apart and spent most of our childhood giving our mother’s grey hairs. Now, Kent works for my father and seems set to become every bit as uptight and intolerant as he is.
My father, Peter Holland, is a property magnate who spends his days terrorizing his massive staff complement and making money. A harsh man who sees everything in black and white, he has never forgiven me for flouting his authority and opting to study language over property law. A strict teetotaller, with an iron will and impeccable self-control, my erratic and irresponsible behavior drives him demented.
In Kent, however, he has found the perfect ally. Not only does he add some much-needed modernism to Saber Development, the company my father started only a few years after I was born, he also dons a twin frown of disapproval every time I so much as set a toe out of line. Which, incidentally, only encourages me further. It wasn’t always like this. Growing up, Kent and I were inseparable – the terrible twosome, our mothers had called us. Together, we had wreaked havoc in the lives of the endless slew of nannies charged with trying to keep us under control. In second grade, I’d pummelled the nose of a particularly revolting boy who had made the mistake of trying to bully Kent on the playground. When the teacher on duty had grabbed my hands, I’d landed a well-placed kick to his crotch for good measure. In our sopho
more year, a boy that I harbored a thumping crush on had made a lewd comment about my chest in front of the entire cafeteria during recess. By the fifth period, he’d been sporting a spectacular black eye, and Kent was nursing two broken knuckles. I’d told him he forgot to tuck in his thumb, then hugged him until he’d complained he didn’t want to add two broken ribs to the list of injuries.
We’d been a team, back then, equally wild and accountable only to each other. We’d set off for college in his trusty Ford, my father having refused to buy me a car after I’d crashed his golf cart into the shed, filled with optimism and excitement. Little did we know that everything was about to change. Within six months, Kent had met a gorgeous blonde undergrad named Erica, who ate tofu and spent her free time hugging trees. I’d laughed at her sanctimonious attitude, but for the first time, Kent hadn’t laughed with me. It wasn’t long before we began to drift apart. When I joined the most popular drinking club on campus, Kent had joined the student council. Erica didn’t last long, but it didn’t matter. The seed she had planted continued to bloom, and something between us had been irreparably damaged. By the time we graduated, we were barely on speaking terms.
I left college with a degree, a group of friends who promised to be a lifelong bad influence, and no intention of finding a job anytime soon. Kent, on the other hand, wanted to start working before the ink had dried on his degree. Determined to work his way up the ladder, he’d approached my father for a letter of recommendation, having spent three summers interning at Saber. My father had taken one look at his impressive results, added a healthy dose of nepotism, and offered him a job. He’s been wearing tailored suits and oozing disapproval ever since. Daddy’s right-hand man, I like to call him these days. Mostly to his face.
“Amber?” It takes me a moment to realize that Kent has been speaking for some time and I haven’t heard a word. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I’m trying not to, as far as I can help it.”
“You might want to start, this is important.”
A sense of unease creeps up my spine. He’s wearing the face – the one he only wears when he’s about to deliver bad news. The last time I saw it, my dad had insisted I get a job. It only lasted one summer, but I still shudder at the memory.
“Be warned, you’re probably going to hate me even more than you do already once you hear this,” Kent says.
“Not possible,” I grumble, but he’s not even listening. He’s too caught up in his own rhetoric.
“And just so you know, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this. Not that you don’t deserve it, but I’m getting tired of being the mediator between you and your father.”
Liar. I bet he enjoys it. “Spit it out, Kent.”
He sets down his mug and comes to sit on the edge of the bed. His eyes are hard and determined.
“You’ve gone too far, Amber,” he says simply. “And your father is no fool. You may think you have the wool pulled over his eyes, but he knows exactly what you get up to.”
“And what exactly is it that I get up to?” I ask. Kent has never been comfortable discussing my sex-life, and I’ll be damned if I make this easy for him. To my astonishment, he doesn’t even hesitate.
“You behave like a whore.” It’s blunt, brutal, and stings more than I care to admit. “Hell,” he continues, “if I hadn’t hauled your ass up here last night and fended off your not-so-subtle advances, you’d be walking bow-legged this morning.”
An ugly heat rises on my cheeks. “You wish. I’d never throw myself at you, and besides, I doubt you’d be able to ‘bow’ anything.”
“Shut up!” he roars. He’s off the bed and halfway across the room before I can blink, pacing like a caged tiger. “You give yourself far too much credit. Your father knows exactly what you get up to, your mother too, and you’re acting like that’s okay? That your parents shouldn’t be concerned when you’re meeting Lara at least three times a week at The Appaloosa. That you get wasted and leave every time with a different man? You’re not even remotely selective, so long as they have a hotel room and a platinum card.”
When he says it like that, it does sound rather awful, but I refuse to be shamed like some child, especially by him. “You’re twisting everything around. I’m just enjoying my youth.”
“You’re twenty-three! It’s time to grow up.”
I open my mouth to argue, then remember that my twenty-third birthday was a few weeks ago, and I’d spent most of it in an alcohol-induced haze. “Fine,” I snap, “point taken. I’ll try to do better.”
“It’s too late for false promises.”
There’s that look again. “What exactly are you saying?”
“Your dad has had enough. He gave you a final warning weeks ago, and you haven’t paid even the slightest bit of attention.”
“I’m not an employee, Kent. A final warning? Please, it’s not like he can fire me.”
“True. But he can cut you off.”
“He would never.”
“You crossed the line when you started sleeping with guys from the office. Do you think they keep quiet about that? The biggest feather in their proverbial cap – screwing Peter Holland’s daughter.”
“That’s not fair. I’ve only slept with a couple of guys from the office, you’re making it sound like I screwed the entire IT department!”
“Stuart and Dave are the entire IT department.”
“Oh.”
Kent runs his hands through his all too perfect black hair and lets out an exasperated sigh. When he looks at me again, his face is weary, his eyes softer.
“You’re killing him, Amber. The man has a business to run, and you’re making him a laughing stock.”
My eyes prickle. I pull the sheets higher to hide my bare shoulders. I know I can be reckless. I want to be more than just a party animal, but as soon as I have that first tequila, it’s like Amber disappears, and this other person takes control of my body. She’s fierce and afraid of nothing. And apparently always horny.
Kent clears his throat. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.
Again, that sense of foreboding. Kent never apologizes.
“Sorry for what? What exactly does this mean? Is he sending me to rehab? Is he curbing my allowance?” I pray it’s not the last one. I’ve become accustomed to a certain lifestyle, and I really don’t want to have to give it up. Then Kent speaks again, and I wish having my credit card confiscated was the worst of my worries.
“He’s sending you to Beijing.”
It takes me a full minute to recover. “You can’t be serious.”
He doesn’t falter. “You’ll be given enough money for rent and food. The rest you’ll have to work for.”
“You’re not serious,” I echo, then, when he doesn’t respond, “what the hell am I supposed to do in Beijing?”
“The thing you’re qualified to do. I’ve set up interviews at three different schools. You’ll be teaching English, and finally putting that degree to good use.”
I want to laugh at the absurdity of what he is saying, but I can’t.
“Don’t be immature about this,” Kent warns, sensing an argument brewing. “Peter has given you plenty of chances to sort yourself out, but you’re only getting worse. The last few weeks have been like watching a slow-motion train wreck. Consider this an intervention before you land yourself in serious trouble.”
“This is ridiculous. You can’t just send me away, I’m not a child.”
“Really? You certainly act like one.” I don’t dignify that with a response, and he relents. “You’re a smart girl. You have everything going for you, or at least you did before you became so hell-bent on destroying yourself. Your dad only wants what’s best for you. For once in your life, just take his advice and try to be responsible. Who knows, maybe you’ll get off early for good behavior.”
“I’m not going to Beijing,” I insist. “I’m almost certain I have a date tonight, and I plan to keep it.”
His face falls. “Wha
t happened to you, Amber?” he whispers, so softly I barely catch the words.
I hate it when he does that. Shows a side of him that reminds me of our youth, and acts like he gives a shit. In an attempt to gain some control over the situation, I get out of bed without saying a word, flaunting my naked, sunbed-bronzed body while I leisurely reach for my dress. When I turn to put it on, he’s looking the other way. Bastard.
With his back still to me, he says, in a voice like flint, “Go take a shower. Make yourself look less like a hooker. There’s a boutique downstairs. I’ll pick up some clothes for you. Your car leaves for the airport this afternoon.”
I throw him a filthy look, grab my purse, and stagger toward the bathroom. Once the door is closed behind me, I rummage for my phone. The battery is almost dead. I sit on the edge of the marble double sink and dial my dad’s number. He answers on the first ring.
“Don’t even think about trying to change my mind.”
“Daddy―”
“Daddy nothing. I am done playing games, Amber. You need to know how seriously I take your future, even if you don’t. You can go to Beijing under my terms, or you can give it all up and try to make a life for yourself here with no help from me.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he’s already cut the call.
2
When I emerge from the bathroom, feeling marginally more human, Kent is nowhere to be seen, but fresh clothes are draped over the back of the armchair. I pick up each item, marveling at his keen observation. I could’ve picked this exact outfit from my own closet. Ripped jeans, a grey T-shirt, and an olive-green military style jacket, all a perfect fit. I scowl at the cheap white sneakers I wouldn’t be caught dead in. Asshole.
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