The Ex Factor

by Laura Greaves

  Contents

  Prologue

  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.

  Chapter 20.

  Chapter 21.

  Chapter 22.

  Chapter 23.

  Chapter 24.

  Chapter 25.

  Chapter 26.

  Chapter 27.

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Be My Baby

  This one is for anyone who has ever felt haunted by the ghost of the girl he loved before.

  There’s a reason she’s his ex, ladies.

  PROLOGUE

  His kisses felt like memories, although he was a stranger. His lips grazed her neck, her shoulders, the soft well at the base of her throat. His scent, the weight of him pressing down on her, felt intoxicatingly familiar.

  A soft moan escaped her lips. ‘Who are you?’ she whispered into the darkness.

  ‘You know who I am, Kitty,’ he replied. ‘You’ve known all along.’

  He slid a hand to her breast, eased down the flimsy lace and nipped gently at the hardened bud within. Her skin tingled where his other hand rested on her hip. She wanted to feel those hands all over her body, his fists twisted and tangled in her hair, his fingers trailing across her back, her belly, her centre.

  She wriggled out from under him and sat up, her russet hair tumbling down around her shoulders.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said.

  She stood and padded across the grass to the house – her house, she realised – feeling the dewy warmth beneath her feet mirrored between her thighs. Before she could open the door, he was close behind her. She felt the hard length of him pressed against the small of her back, his breath urgent in her ear.

  She stepped into the still, dark house. As she fumbled for the light, his hand closed over hers.

  ‘Leave it off,’ he said gruffly as he kicked the door closed behind them. ‘I want to feel my way.’

  In one swift movement, he gathered her up. She coiled her legs instinctively around his waist as he pinned her against the wall. He kissed her deeply, almost aggressively, as though he were afraid she might dissipate within his embrace and drift away. She slipped her hands under his shirt and caressed the smooth, taut plane of his stomach. As her fingers alighted on his brass belt buckle, she began to tremble.

  ‘Are you cold?’ he asked, though the gleam in his eye told her he knew she wasn’t.

  He set her down gently, but even with both feet on the ground and her back braced against the wall, she felt unsteady. He dropped to his knees before her and slid her skirt down over her hips. He gasped audibly when, in the faint glow cast by the outside light, he saw that she wasn’t wearing underwear.

  He raised a tentative hand and caressed her softly, but even this light touch was like an electric shock. When he slipped his fingers inside her warm depths, she thought she might faint.

  She cried out and he stood abruptly, leaving her momentarily bereft. Her hazel eyes met his hungry gaze. He was asking, wordlessly, for her permission.

  ‘If you do that,’ she told him, ‘you’re going to make me —’

  He covered her mouth with his and let his fingers drift south once more. He stroked her more insistently now, building a steady rhythm. In seconds, her body began to shudder and he gripped her around the waist, anchoring her to the spot.

  ‘You’re . . . going . . . to . . . make me . . .’

  Her words became a scream as the wave swelled inside her. But it didn’t break.

  She screamed . . . and screamed . . . and screamed . . .

  1.

  The scream is bone-chilling. In fact, it’s not really a scream at all. And it’s not coming from me. It’s a guttural howl that erupts from my sister’s bedroom with the primal power of a river of molten lava from a long-dormant volcano.

  A tendril of memory is still twined around my thoughts as I’m dragged into consciousness, but I’m out of bed and across my own bedroom before my brain even registers that I’m moving, displacing several dogs as I lurch groggily forward. They watch gravely as I yank open the door, their ears collectively pricked to quivering attention. Even in my dream haze, I marvel for a split-second at how these hounds can be thrust from thick, snoring slumber into clear-eyed readiness in a heartbeat. And without coffee. Amazing.

  My eyes may be barely open, but my ears are working just fine. Although, to be fair, I could be as deaf as my white Pit Bull cross, Reggie, and I’d still feel Frankie’s wailing vibrating through the polished floorboards in our shared weatherboard cottage.

  I step one toe into the hall and my pack is instantly at my side. Reggie looks up at me, his liquid brown eyes full of concern. At least he can’t hear the, uh, ‘colourful’ language now punctuating Frankie’s roaring.

  A few steps ahead of Reggie, my elderly Border Collie, Dolly, makes soft but strangely menacing whuff sounds under her breath. She’s rigid with anticipation, blissfully oblivious to the fact that her ageing hips and middle-age spread would make it impossible for her to tackle a budgie these days, much less a burglar or a serial killer or whatever it is that’s got my little sister in such a state.

  Carl, the retired racing Greyhound, lags behind us. Though his lean frame is always poised for action, the look on his face reveals he’s thoroughly miffed at having been woken at such an ungodly hour. It kills me that so many people think Greyhounds are vicious and bloodthirsty. Carl is living proof they’re just oversized lap dogs that would always rather be sleeping. As if he can read my thoughts, Carl catches my eye and yawns languidly.

  The dogs match me step for step as, fully awake now, I rush down the hall toward Frankie’s bedroom. I’m about to burst in when something makes me stop. Well, two things, really.

  The first is the sudden realisation that the racket coming from the other side of the door might not be as sinister as it sounds. Frankie was out on a date earlier. Dominic, that awful hipster advertising guy. Maybe it had gone well. Like, really well.

  Wow. Has it really been so long, er, ‘between drinks’ for me that I can no longer tell the difference between cries of ecstasy and the sound of a woman being involuntarily relieved of her worldly possessions? That’s just depressing.

  But the other reason I’ve paused outside Frankie’s door, my hand hovering over the Edwardian-style pewter handle she spent months sourcing online, is that I’ve done a quick head count.

  Sweet, worried Reggie? Check. Let-me-at-’em Dolly? Check. Carl the lounge lizard? Check. The pack is missing a member. And that means —

  ‘Bloody Bananarama! You little bitch!’

  The first almost-ladylike words I’ve heard from Frankie since the cacophony began make my decision for me. Sibling and canines pile into the room.

  It takes a second for my sleep-blurred eyes to adjust to the dim light emanating from the mid-century lamp on Frankie’s Parker bedside table. Eventually, I’m able to make out my sister standing at the end of her bed, still hollering. She seems to be rooted to the spot, her right foot hovering just off the ground as if she’s trying some awkward new yoga pose.

  So no burglars then. No serial killers. Nothing much at all, by the looks of it. Frankie certainly does have a flair for the dramatic.

  ‘For sobbing out loud, Frankie! What’s the matter? What’s happened?!�
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  At last, mercifully, her yelping subsides. But it’s replaced by that grating sort of whinge-crying toddlers do when they just want to complain. I can’t decide which is worse.

  Frankie circles her hovering foot and I look down at the spot where it should rightfully be.

  Oh.

  There’s an ominous dark patch on the lime-green shag rug (‘retro, but not in a cheesy way,’ Frankie had assured me the day she spent two thousand of my – sorry, our – dollars on it). Reggie and Dolly immediately rush to inspect the stain, batting each other out of the way with their muzzles in their efforts to submerge their shiny black noses in it. Even Carl manages to summon up a vaguely interested expression.

  ‘Bloody Bananarama!’ she repeats. ‘She’s pissed on the bastard rug! And I stepped in it!’

  A feathery whine drifts from the direction of the (knock-off) Eames lounge chair by the window. I pad over to it and drop to my knees. Underneath it’s an inky pool of shadows, but I can make out the silhouette of a scruffy white bundle trembling by the curtains.

  ‘Oh, Rama. Couldn’t you hold on, sweetheart?’ I hold my hand out to her and she gives the pads of my fingers a tentative lick.

  ‘What’s she even doing in here, Frankie?’ I turn back to my sister. ‘You know she’s incontinent. If you shut her in your room all night, what do you expect?’

  Frankie rolls her blue eyes in disgust. ‘Uh, have we met? You think I invited her in here? She must have snuck in while I was out with Dominic.’

  I cringe inwardly as I recall going into Frankie’s bedroom earlier to borrow her phone charger (one of the dogs chewed through mine. Again). I must have left the door ajar and poor Bananarama saw her chance to enter the Forbidden City.

  ‘Why would I want that stinking, wheezing, hairless old excuse for a dog in my bedroom? You know, for a professional dog trainer you’ve really dropped the ball with this one. Honestly, Kit, you should just do us all a favour and put her out of her misery.’

  Frankie’s words hit me like a punch to the stomach. How could she say that? When Bananarama was the only bright spot in our mother’s life during those horrendous last few weeks. When Mum wouldn’t let go until I promised I’d look after her stoic and sad little companion for the rest of her days. How can Frankie even think it?

  She’s right about one thing, though. Bananarama is old. Like, really ancient. If Dolly is a sprightly senior, Rama’s positively geriatric. She’d have to be pushing twenty, which though not unheard of for toy breeds, is definitely uncommon. A tiny Chihuahua-Jack Russell cross, cataracts have sent her almost completely blind and she navigates her way around the house by scent. No wonder she crept in here, with the bouquet of Frankie’s expensive creams and lotions wafting into the hall.

  Rama has a heart murmur and skin allergies that often turn into infections, which gives her a pretty unique aroma of her own. She’s like the weird kid at school: most people cross the street to avoid her, which just makes me love her more. Bananarama has a beautiful nature. She’s gentle and loving and lives for cuddles. And she has a twisted sense of humour, as tonight’s little adventure demonstrates. Just like Mum, really. She still loves life, and as long as that’s the case I’m going to do whatever I can to help her live it. Quite frankly, this dog deserves to be able to empty her bladder wherever she damn well pleases.

  I can’t say any of this to Frankie, of course. Not here in her immaculate designer bedroom while her foot’s still slick with dog pee. There’s no doubt she’s still apoplectic. As if the volume and shrill pitch of her voice didn’t make that clear enough, the big blue vein throbbing on her right temple drives the point home pretty sharply. But even though I know how angry she is, and even though I really know that it won’t help the situation one bit, I start to giggle. Call me a masochist, but I just can’t help it.

  Frankie’s eyes widen at my effrontery. ‘You think this is funny?’

  I step carefully around Bananarama’s handiwork so I’m facing my sister squarely. Placing my hands on her shoulders, I help her shuffle-hop away from the puddle so she can at last put her foot flat on the floor. Now that she’s on a more even keel, Frankie plants her hands firmly on her hips and glares at me.

  ‘I don’t think it’s funny,’ I reply. ‘It is funny. Very, very funny.’

  ‘What can you possibly find funny about your dog defiling my rug in the middle of the night? My designer rug, I might add,’ Frankie says, pouting as only a twenty-one-year-old can.

  I’m laughing so hard now I can barely answer her. Sensing my mirth, Reggie and Dolly have relaxed and are wrestling playfully at my feet. Carl has brazenly curled up on the not-Eames chair; I take a step back to obscure him from Frankie’s view. Even Rama has mustered the courage to poke her nose out from under the chair.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Frankie. Maybe it’s the sight of my baby sister standing on one leg, wobbling like a newborn giraffe while she shouts at me. Maybe it’s said sister’s sheer lack of perspective on the extent to which any of this actually matters.’ I lean in close and whisper, ‘Here’s a hint: it doesn’t.’

  Frankie folds her arms across her chest and purses her lips.

  ‘Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the way you were screeching the name of an eighties girl band with the fire of a thousand suns.’

  I grab a magazine from the stack on Frankie’s bedside table and squat down to press it over the stain. As the designer stubble of the square-jawed Adonis on the cover darkens with moisture, a tingle of recognition fizzes at the edge of my thoughts.

  Suddenly, I’m plunged back into my dream. The lips. The roaming hands. The whispered entreaties and sighs of desire. This guy on the magazine cover. That guy from my dream. That guy is this guy.

  ‘Who is this?’ I demand of Frankie, thrusting the magazine at her. Living without La Vida: How Mitchell Pyke is moving on screams the coverline.

  ‘Um, ew!’ She recoils from the soggy stack of pages.

  ‘Who is it, Frances!’ It’s not a question.

  ‘It’s Mitchell Pyke,’ she says, as if this explains everything. ‘The actor. He was in that action movie we watched at the weekend. Burning Tide?’ Frankie shakes her head at my blank expression. ‘He’s, like, the biggest movie star on the planet right now. Jesus, Kitty, I know you’re’ – she pauses to grimace –’thirty, but open a magazine every now and then, why don’t you?’

  She reaches out and knocks the magazine from my hands. It lands pee-side down on my thigh. I turn it over and peer at Mitchell Pyke. His sandy hair is cropped close to his head and his tanned skin has the dewy glow that only wealth and privilege can provide. The lips that worked so hard in my dream are thick and straight. I feel my cheeks start to flush. I guess he’s good-looking in a conventional, ‘movie star’ kind of way. He definitely has something; some ethereal X-factor. But there’s something else.

  ‘He has such sad eyes,’ I say. And he does. Mitchell Pyke’s green eyes reflect genuine misery. Not theatrical melancholy, but real, deep pain.

  Frankie flops back onto her bed and waves her hand dismissively. ‘Whatever,’ she says. ‘Just clean up that mess so I can get some sleep, crazy dog lady. And take the rest of your mutts with you.’ She pulls her thousand-thread-count sheet over her head.

  The words ‘clean it up yourself’ are on the tip of my tongue. After all, we both inherited Bananarama, not just me. Frankie was quick to sign on the dotted line for her share of the financial part of Mum’s estate, but she wasn’t so keen to embrace the responsibilities that came with it. I’m nine years older, so I could handle the grown-up stuff – that was how she saw it. And that’s why I’ve spent virtually every waking moment of the past two years dealing with builders and tradies and the local council in an effort to restore Mum’s rambling cottage – now ours – to something approaching ‘liveable’, while Frankie was conspicuously absent until it came time to choose paint colours, furniture and wildly overpriced knick-knacks.

  And still I scoop up Rama, and Frank
ie’s gossip magazine, and schlep into the kitchen for the cleaning supplies. Even though I’m the one who has to be at work in less than three hours, while Frankie has another strenuous day of ‘social-media consulting’ ahead. Which seems to equate to Facebooking and tweeting her every thought and posting pictures of her meals on Instagram.

  I do it even though the remnants of my dream are still intoxicatingly fresh in my mind and I’d really rather go back to bed.

  Sisters. Can’t live with’em, can’t let your pets pee on their stuff without suffering for it.

  There are three major pluses to being rudely awoken before dawn. The first is that there’s invariably some awful schlock-horror movie on television – and the more B-grade the better, in my opinion. This morning I really luck out: my all-time favourite flick, the Stephen King screamer Christine, is just starting.

  The second advantage to being up with the sparrows is that, once I’ve had my fill of gore, there’s rarely anyone else at the dog park, so my four-legged friends have the run of the place. Not that they’re not happy to hang out with other dogs – they love it – but other dog owners often aren’t happy to hang out with them. Carl legally has to be leashed and muzzled in public, which doesn’t do much for the Greyhound’s reputation. Dolly is slow and prefers to keep to herself these days. Bananarama sometimes growls and snaps when she’s surprised or frightened – which is pretty much all the time when you can’t see what’s coming at you.

  As for poor Reggie, if there’s a more misunderstood breed than the Pit Bull, I’ve never met it. I’ve seen people leash their dogs, turn tail and run at the sight of him. I’ve had parents scream at me to keep my ‘dangerous dog’ away from their kids when Reggie’s been nowhere near the little darlings. Once, an old man actually hit Reggie with a stick for no reason at all.

  And Frankie wonders why I prefer dogs to people.

  But the main reason I don’t entirely mind being up before the sun is striding towards me now, dark hair still bed-mussed and a big smile on his face.