“Poppy, people will talk if you turn this down.” His tone is anxious, and I want to smack him.
I cross my arms over my chest, calling his bluff. “Let them. At least I won’t be the one talking.”
This shuts him right up, and I watch as a shaky, nervous hand skims over the fur of one of the dogs perched on his lap.
When he called me down here to discuss a new offer I’d been made, I hadn’t wanted to come.
I’ve had two sleepless nights, thinking about Kingston Phillips trying to hurt himself, or worse, in the flat next door. Although I told him I was done, I couldn’t stop picturing the way his defeated, almost lifeless, eyes held my gaze after I gave him my worst on the front steps of Charlton House.
But here I sit, in Claud’s gold and black, gilded office with windows overlooking the Thames. Because it’s my job. Because when you work with the top agent in the international modeling scene, and he calls you to his penthouse office suites in the middle of downtown London to discuss work that would pay a pretty pound, you go.
When Claud first told me about the job, I’d been secretly thrilled. Best not to look too eager, especially with my experience, but I’ve been trying to land a LeatHER campaign forever. They make chic, faux fur coats that are all the rage among the posh elite the last couple of years. I’d been beat out last year and was still a bit miffed. But now, the job was mine.
Then I heard Nicolai’s name and knew it was all a scheme. My heart had dropped to my toes at the mention of him. He’d done this on purpose, to mess with me. To bring the memories hurdling to the surface of my brain, to rip open wounds I’d been trying desperately to sew and mend. Not only had the man taken my innocence, my sense of security, and my ability to love normally … now he was back for more.
“I will tell them you’re declining. I’ll sight sickness or a family emergency. You do have your sister’s shower coming up, right?”
A sigh of relief exhales from my lungs, but the emotion still burns in them. Even when he was frustrated with me, he still listened. I know how rare that is in an agent. “Thank you, Claud. Yes, you could use that.”
“You may regret this, Poppy,” he warns.
“I promise you, I won’t.”
With that, I leave his office, needing desperately to descend the twenty-three levels below my feet and breathe outside air.
Just as I’m about to hit the button for the lift, though, someone almost barrels into me.
“Aria?” I say, glancing at the mane of silk straight blond hair as it whooshes past me.
She turns, and as I was the first time I met her, I’m struck by just how attractive she is. Aria is beautiful in that pretty, petite way I’ll never be. The breakout singer of the year, as all the papers in London call her, has that girl next door vibe that makes her both cute and gorgeous in a very hard to find combination. From what I hear from those around our shared agent’s office, and on the celebrity scene, she’s also a very nice, genuine person.
“Oh gosh, Poppy Raymond. Hi.” She blushes, and I find it endearing.
I walk over to greet her, spontaneously deciding to give her a hug. Which is odd, because I rarely let others into my personal space. Perhaps, after hearing the news from Claud, I need someone to comfort me. And I’m allowing this almost stranger to be a stand in.
“Really, you don’t have to use my last name every time you see me. Poppy is just fine.” I try to copy her smile, but find the genuine expression odd on my lips.
How awkward can I be? I don’t have many friends, much less girls who are friends. The women I hang out with claw each other’s eyes out for a Birkin bag.
And although I feel a certain type of way about her boyfriend’s best mate, I do know that Jude Davies has an upstanding reputation in our world. The one other time I met her, at a club the first time I ever met Kingston, I could tell that she wasn’t one to filter herself or take on a fake persona … much like a lot of other people I dealt with.
“Poppy, then. How are you? Did you just come out of a meeting?” she asks, and it seems like a polite curiosity.
“Yes, just had to pop in to talk to Claud. How about you?”
“My manager, Violet, yes. There is talk of Coachella offering me a spot on one of the secondary stages this year, so, fingers crossed!” She points in the direction of her agent’s office, one of the three with a door on the same wall as Claud’s office.
“Wow, that’s amazing! I hope you get it, they’d be daft not to give it to you.” And it’s true, I’ve listened to her album. She’s really very talented.
Aria shrugs. “We’ll see, I’m trying not to get my hopes up.”
We lapse into an awkward silence, and I speak before I regret the idea.
“Are you busy now? I was, um …” Gosh, Poppy, just ask the woman. “I was thinking of walking around the corner. There is a pretty little cafe and I could use a cup of tea, I could buy you a cup to celebrate—”
“Absolutely!” Aria nods her head emphatically.
I kind of regret it the minute we take the lift down to the street and begin walking. I didn’t think about how I’d actually have to converse with another person.
My hands sweat the entire walk to the cafe, and I begin to nervously twist the napkin in my lap when we sit down.
17
Poppy
“My gosh, that scone is brilliant,”
Aria mumbles, a few crumbs dotting her lip. “I can’t believe I didn’t know about this place sooner. I’d be scouring it every time I come to London.”
I chuckle and take a bite of mine, too. Orange zest and white chocolate chips light up my taste buds, and I close my eyes, savoring the flavor.
“Yes, it’s a gem. That’s why I don’t tell people about it. But now that you know the secret, don’t let it slip.” I wag my finger in her direction, and she pretends to zip her lips.
The cafe is just two blocks from Claud’s office, on a surprisingly quiet side street in downtown London. You’d think this area would get a lot of foot traffic, since it houses two of the largest companies occupying the business district, but it’s too far from the tube station and isn’t frequented all that much. I love sitting at the little Parisian tables they have set up on the sidewalk, my dark lenses shielding my gaze, allowing for maximum people watching.
“Promise. Not even Jude. Lord, he’d eat this place out of house and home.” She laughs, and I envy how casually and lovingly she talks about her boyfriend.
“So you two don’t live together, then?” I inquire, sipping a bit from my teacup.
Aria shakes her head. “No, my father and I have a flat in Harlow, about an hour outside the city. He’s been in remission from cancer for about a year now, and I think the city would just be too much for him. So I commute back and forth, spending a chunk of my days with Jude. But when he’s traveling for a game or needs quiet or rest, I’m typically with my father. It’s nice since I grew up in Clavering and am a suburban girl at heart. I get a taste of both worlds.”
That did sound nice, and it made me a little homesick. “I grew up in Wrexham, so I get it.”
She blushes. “I … know you grew up in Wrexham. I have to admit, I’ve followed you for a long time. When I was in secondary school, your face was all over the magazines we used to gossip over in our bedrooms after school.”
I bury said face in my hands. “Oh gosh, how embarrassing. So many of those teen love articles …”
“No, we loved them! It was such a mystery who Poppy Raymond was dating.” Aria giggles as if she’s remembering times with her friends, chatting about crushes.
“It shouldn’t have been. The real stunner is that I never dated anyone. Still don’t!” I chuckle, taking another bite of my scone.
She raises her eyebrows, interested. “Well, since we’re becoming fast friends here, at least I think so … do tell. Is there anyone special? Anyone who has caught your eye?”
I have to admit, the flutter of silly fun that runs through my chest is
a welcome feeling. I’ve not done much girlfriend gossiping, or brunching, and … I’m finding it not so bad.
“I like your company, too, even if you are terrible at subtly asking if I’m shagging anyone.”
“So, there is shagging. Even better.” She smirks.
My eyes shift, and I know I’m about to avoid the question. What would she think if she knew I’ve never shagged anyone? “Sadly, no. My bed is empty and my—love tank, shall we call it—is equally as desolate.”
“That’s a shame. If only you had a dishy, notorious neighbor to help you with that problem …” Aria taps her chin, implying way too much with that gleam in her eye.
“Ah, so I see you’ve spoken to Kingston. The dreadful twit.” My mood sours just saying his name.
She cracks up as the waitress comes to refill our tea. “I see your feelings toward Jude’s best mate haven’t changed much since the first time you met him.”
Aria was there, in the nightclub where Kingston first chatted me up. She’d been wasted, but our introduction had been charming, as was this conversation.
“The man is a total scoundrel. A regular Casanova. All talk, and all women.” I flick my hair over my shoulder, as if to demonstrate how unconcerned I am with him.
Nodding her head, she pops the last piece of scone in her mouth. “Yes, he’s quite the jester. Loves the attention, the taunting. It’s all part of his act.”
“His act? As if! Kingston Phillips is nothing more than a randy swine.” I stamp my foot on the ground to make my point even further.
Suddenly, her eyes transform. Where there was once a hint of joking and good-natured feminine chat, now appears confusion, sympathy and unease.
“Poppy, I think you may have the wrong idea about Kingston …”
“Psst, don’t worry. He’s shown me his true colors.”
“Listen, I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but … Kingston has not had an easy life.” Aria’s expression grows pained, and I know she’s debating with herself over whether to share whatever she has to share.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on. He’s Kingston Phillips. He practically grew up with the princes and princesses of Britain.”
She shakes her head, those blond locks shining. “You might think that, and in some ways it’s true. But I know hardship, believe me. I grew up in … well, not the best of conditions or family units. I had it rough there for a while. But I would have taken my childhood over Kingston’s any day. I grew up with a loving parent, in a home where we discussed challenges and told each other how much we care. Even if our shelter was small and dank and we went without for a lot of years … my upbringing was light-years better than Kingston’s.”
The way she says this, so gravely and so assuredly, has me sitting up straighter. “How so?”
“Kingston, he … he comes from parents who don’t just expect success, they demand it. Being brilliant at football was never a choice for him, it was just pre-determined that he’d bring honor to his family by being the next athletic superstar. There wasn’t much love, consoling or pride from what I can tell, not that he’s explicitly told me that. But … you can just tell, being around him. His need for attention, to find passion with any partner who is willing … it’s all textbook behavior for someone who grew up with very little tenderness or compassion. I can’t imagine growing up with that kind of pressure on my shoulders. Did you know his father didn’t talk to him for close to a year after he failed to be recruited onto the English first team for an international youth match when he and Jude were thirteen? A year … his own father. And from what Jude says … the silence is better than the alternative. Kingston has never outright told me this, but I’ve seen his father after games. Watched him grab him, throw him up against a wall once. My mind won’t allow itself to go further than that … I’m not sure I could handle the truth. His mother isn’t much better. She’s aloof, couldn’t care less about nurturing her son. It’s … just very sad. My heart bleeds for him every time he lands himself in the next pile of shite. Because I know why he does it. To get them to notice.”
I know from Aria’s tone that she isn’t gossiping, but merely trying to paint me a picture of why Kingston is who he is. I, better than anyone, should know that what happens to a person shapes the core of who they are, how they act. I’m disappointed in myself for not giving Kingston the benefit of that doubt.
I won’t lie that I had an inkling of just how brutal his life has been. A victim recognizes another victim … I see it in his eyes. I just refused to feel empathy for him until Aria metaphorically smacked me in the face with the truth.
Kingston is … just like me. Abused. Whether it be physically, verbally, emotionally … it doesn’t really matter. We’re all equally shattered.
And as her words sink into my skin, the knowledge of his brokenness makes my heart weep for him, too.
We are the same.
18
Kingston
Niles Harrington may have deemed me a healthy scratch from the game on Wednesday, but by Saturday, he has no choice but to play me.
Luigi pulled his hamstring and the third backup, the bloke behind me on the bench, is shite and Niles knows it. It’s an important match, one that could seriously affect our standings and a run at a trophy, and when I showed up on time to pre-match warm-ups, I was told by one of the assistant trainers that I’d be starting today.
The rush of being back on the pitch fills my bones, the onslaught of it amping me up to levels I’d forgotten about. This is the feeling I chased when I couldn’t be here. The drinks, women, drugs … they were all just a stand-in for the infatuation I have with standing in a bowl, surrounded by thousands, playing the game I love.
That’s what I was going for the other night, when I climbed out onto the moving limo in the middle of traffic. If I could just feel something, anything, that hit me as deep as this game …
Then maybe I wouldn’t need it. Maybe I wouldn’t have to please my parents or use this sport to win their love.
I picture Poppy’s horrified face through her car window, how she’d screamed at me when I staggered up the stairs to the front doors of our building.
She’s through with me, just like everyone else. Why does that smart so much? I tried to convince myself that her disappointment, her anger and upset … that they mean nothing. But the look of sheer panic on her face as I pulled the stunt, and the way my heart sank when she stomped away from me, tells me we both care more than we are willing to admit.
We’ve only played about fifteen minutes of the match when the ball is lobbed into our zone, right at my feet and I make a snap decision to pass it back to Jude. My thinking is, if I can try to clear it rather than moving with it and risk the other team stealing it and taking a shot on goal, then that is the smarter play. I don’t always use the first thought that pops into my head, contrary to popular belief.
Except I don’t get that far, because one of the opposing team’s forwards almost slams into me, trying to work his legs through mine and take the ball right out from under my feet. So I redirect, aiming at Alex as I sky the ball toward him. He uses the chest bump technique to stop its momentum and passes it off to Jude who goes running.
The wanker is still on me though, and I can tell he’s trying to start shite. He gets so close to me, he’s standing on one of my boots. I elbow him, just harshly enough that I feel it sink in between the cushion of his ribs.
“Fuck! That’s a fucking foul!” He throws his hands up, attracting attention as Jude tries to steal the ball out from under another player’s feet.
The match is still going on; the ball being passed back and forth, kicked further out by one of our players and then dribbled back into our territory by someone on the other squad.
The referee glances in our direction, sees how the prick is practically rubbing up against me as if we were playing that ridiculous American sport, basketball.
“Hey, you two there! Cut it out! Play clean.” His voice is a whip, and then h
e jogs off.
Which only gives the bastard I’m trying to defend against even more leeway. He turns and sharply chops his knee into the air, promptly connecting with a part of my thigh. Just a couple more inches, and he’d have nailed me straight in the bollocks.
I double over in pain, the stinging slap of his bone leaving a throbbing ache in my hamstring, and I wonder if he’s pulled the muscle.
“You bloody tosser! What the fuck do you think you’re doing!” I try to throw my hands up, but I’m in too much pain to straighten my body all the way up.
Remus comes out of the goal, signaling to the ref for a whistle. Our keeper is all up in the referee’s face before he’s even halfway to me.
“What the hell was that? Did you see him knee Phillips? Right in the groin! That should be an automatic red card! The ball was nowhere near them!”
The ref comes over, holding his hands up to calm us and trying to hear everyone as we shout our sides of the story at him.
“He was all over me, how could you not see that?” I yell.
“I didn’t do anything!” The opposing player is wearing an all-innocence expression.
Remus throws his hands up. “That’s codswallop, I saw the entire thing! Red card!”
“I can’t call something I didn’t see.” The referee maintains his neutral tone.
The stadium is already in chaos, fans yelling and throwing things down onto the field. I can feel it, the adrenaline threatening to spill over and out of my veins. They can’t hold much more, the fury raging in my chest is about to explode. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jude jogging over to us, and he puts a hand on my shoulder, as if he can sense what I might be about to do.
“I didn’t do nuffin’, ref … he elbowed me!” The prick has the nerve to say.
That’s when I unleash. I’ve had enough of trying to color inside the lines when life keeps kicking me out of them, and this is just the final straw. What he did should merit a red card, and instead, I’m going to be blamed for it, I just know it. I have a reputation on the pitch as a bully, when really … that’s how my position should be played. But because I carry the stigma of a rough rouser, I’m going to be put under a microscope for the rest of the match?
The Lion Heart (Rogue Academy Book 2) Page 9
