Lovestrong

by Nikki Groom

  I take myself to the bar I frequently worked and know like the back of my hand. Of course, it’s always manned. As much as I love Las Vegas, I wonder, don’t people get tired of this? Don’t people hate the fact that everything is always there at your fingertips? Where’s the anticipation in that?

  “Hey, Spike man. Good to see ya!” the barman, Chris, calls over to me and stops what he’s doing to greet me at the end of the bar. He doesn’t hesitate in scooping up my hand and clapping me on the shoulder. “What brings you to this dive?” he laughs.

  “Same thing that brings everyone else here. What do you think?”

  “Well, I’d like to say it’s this charming smile, but I know that’s a lie.” He keeps that charming smile painted professionally on his handsome face which makes me laugh.

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that charming smile of yours, but I’d prefer to see it after you pour me a very large brandy.” I slap fifty bucks on the bar and push it in his direction. Surely he won’t refuse a paying customer?

  “Hard stuff?” he questions with a frown. “It’s early for you to be starting on it.”

  “Come on, my man. You know better than to question the customer. You also know that time stands still in this forsaken place. What’s early?” I shrug, trying to make light of the fact that I’m here and ready to get as drunk as I possibly can.

  His eyes crease with uncertainty, and his dark brows pinch together at my out of character request. “If you’re not willing, I’ll do it myself.” I say the words in a calm enough tone, but there’s a definite warning there.

  “Fair enough,” he replies with resignation. He pours me two fingers of brandy and I give him a look. He accepts my silent question and tops it up a little more before flashing a look back at me. I know I’m putting him in a difficult position, but sadly enough, I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. I just want to forget. I accept the glass, nod my thanks and drain it without a second thought. It slips down my throat like liquid gold. Then I feel the burn. Not a slow rise in temperature, but an instant volcano of heat that pushes up the back of my throat, through my nose and makes my eyes water.

  “Fuck,” I hiss, feeling my stomach fighting to keep it down. I’m assaulting my body. Testing its limits and punishing it for feeling like I’ve been dealt a shitty hand, too.

  “Steady there, Spike. Shoulda' taken that one steady, fella,” Chris comments with a frown and a tight shake of his head. Fuck him. I don’t need his disapproval or his concern.

  I push my glass across the shiny bar top and it slides into his waiting palm. He’s a pro and I’m quietly impressed with his sharp reaction, but I don’t acknowledge it. “Shut the fuck up, and give me a refill, will you?”

  He cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyes, drawing in breath through his teeth. “I’m not sure that’s−”

  “Just do it, would ya?” I order impatiently. “I thought the customer was always supposed to be right, no? Well, I’m the customer and I want a refill, now. Please.”

  He ignores my grumblings like the professional he is and goes about pouring me another drink. I can see him slowing after just a short pour but he glances my way and realizes I’ll just get on him until he fills the damn thing up. I like Chris. He’s a decent guy, nice enough to work with, and on the odd occasion that we went drinking together, he was a good laugh. I know he’s just looking out for me, but I’m done with people telling me what they think is best for me and not asking me what I want, what I need, or how I feel. Right now, I feel the need to consume more alcohol than I have ever consumed in my life and find just a few hours peace in my otherwise noisy, fucked up head. Liquid amnesia.

  Four large glasses later and the alcohol is doing what I wanted it to do. I don’t care any less than I did before, but somehow it doesn’t hurt as much. My body is looser and I can’t focus on the finer details as easily as I could before. I think I may even be swaying a little. Is that possible seated in a wheelchair?

  The wheelchair. The God. Damn. Fucking. Wheelchair. Nope, not enough alcohol yet.

  “Fill ‘er up, Chris, my man,” I slur, pushing the glass towards him. This time it doesn’t slide forward as it did before. My fingers are clumsy and I knock it sideways and it falls off the bar and smashes on the hard ground. Fuck.

  “Nope. Sorry, man. That’s enough now,” Chris answers firmly.

  “Excuse me?” I squint at him, my vision is extremely blurry and my eyes can’t focus on him properly no matter how hard I try.

  “Here.” He hands me another glass carefully this time and I note that he holds on to it until he knows I have it securely in my hands. Fucking idiot. What, does he think because I’m in a wheel chair that I need special treatment like a kid? I push it away, and despite his grip, some of it spills in my lap.

  Then it hits me. Four tumblers of brandy on an empty stomach and mixing it all with copious amounts of painkillers in my bloodstream has shut down my coordination. It’s jumbled my thoughts until all that’s spinning around in my head are the words ‘Lottie’ and ‘gone’.

  I close my eyes and try to stop the spinning in my head. So fast. Won’t stop.

  “I’m gonna be sick,” I blurt out as my throat contracts.

  Did I even manage to say that out loud? I reach out in front of me and grab at the edge of the bar which is higher than it’s always been before due to me being in this curse of a chair. But I can’t focus enough to grip it and before I can control my body’s repulsion of the alcohol, I’m heaving over the side and decorating my wheels with strong, pungent, second hand brandy.

  I hear people talking. There’s people shuffling around me, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t determine who they are. Shit. This might not have been such a good idea.

  “Let’s get you back upstairs,” a soft feminine voice says over my shoulder, rubbing her hand along my upper arm.

  “Lottie?” I question. I’m pissed off with myself that all I can hear are jumbled words that merge into a distant echo. I can’t even tell if it’s Lottie that sounds different or if it’s my head distorting the sounds around me.

  “No. It’s me, Arianna.”

  “Ari … I miss her, Ari. I miss her so fucking much,” I slur, and despite the sad state that I’m in, tears force their way to my eyes as another wave of brandy surfaces in my throat.

  “I know,” she soothes. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

  “I’m sorry.” I manage to get the words out right before I’m hurling over the side of the chair again. “I’m sorry for everything.”

  Chapter 8

  In the four days that I’ve been here, I’ve exhausted all the most obvious tourist haunts. I’ve visited the dungeons which almost made me pee myself with fear, ridden on the London Eye, visited the Tower of London, watched the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace and wandered around admiring everything in the National Gallery, twice. I’ve treated myself to traditional English afternoon tea at Harrods, and eaten the best Chinese food in China town. I’ve seen Big Ben, which I didn’t think was that big, and I’ve even taken a tour around the creepy back streets of London to see where Jack the Ripper gruesomely killed his victims. Maybe I should have spaced them out and done one attraction a day, but I was so eager to see as much as I can while I’m here that I couldn’t help myself. It was all so exciting, and each visit was a distraction from the torment of my thoughts.

  But now I’m bored. Stone cold bored, and lonely.

  London is a huge place. But having seen the main attractions, and not knowing anyone here or having anyone to share all my experiences with, I don’t know what to do or where to go next. Yes, I’ve chatted with people each day who have recommended places for me to see, but I don’t want someone to tell me where to visit. I want someone to visit places with me.

  I miss Spike.

  So many times I’ve turned to say something to him. So many times I’ve seen something he would love. So many times. I wonder what he’s doing now. Is he still dista
ncing himself from the rest of the world in a struggle to cope with everything that has happened to him? Or is he moving on? Maybe he waited for me to leave before starting his life over again. Maybe he was looking for an out all along?

  No. I can’t think like that. We were perfect. We were Lovestrong.

  The last few days were just a way of keeping myself busy so I didn’t think about him. I’ve tried over and over again to push all the sadness away and pretend that I’m on the adventure of a lifetime, but it’s actually made me feel more alone than I did before. And now I’m sitting at a table for one in the hotel restaurant with tears pouring down my face, again.

  “Is everything okay, miss?” a young waitress asks me. I look up at her through wet lashes. She has kind eyes and a genuinely concerned look on her face.

  “No,” I answer quietly. “Everything isn’t okay, and I don’t know if it ever will be.”

  “Oh,” she answers, looking awkward now that I’ve not brushed my feelings away out of politeness.

  “There’s nothing you can do.” I brush the tears from my cheeks with the back of my knuckles. “I have to deal with it. I just don’t know how.”

  “Okay. Uh … Is there anything I can get you?”

  “Sambuca,” I answer resolutely. “Make it a double, please.” She hurries off, probably relieved that I changed the subject and didn’t drag her in to a conversation about how fucking awful my life is. She may have asked politely if everything was okay, but there’s one thing I’ve noticed about British people. They are so polite, to the point of masking their feelings and thoughts for fear of upsetting someone. She didn’t really want to know about my life, she was just being polite in asking. She comes back with my double Sambuca in a few minutes and places it on the table, hovering for just a second.

  “You know, if it’s a guy, in my experience, they’re never worth the tears.” She gives a small shrug and a wry smile before going back to her job.

  He was worth it. He still is. Every tear.

  After pushing my half-finished meal away and substituting it for a couple of double Sambucas, my head is nicely clouded. I’ve moved from the restaurant to the bar, where the drinks flow freely. It’s amazing how fast you can drink when all you have to do is raise a finger and the next shot appears in front of you.

  “Fancy some company?” A guy sits beside me and I’m about to tell him not to bother chatting me up, but I recognize his face. I frown trying to remember who he is.

  “Luke. It’s Luke. I helped you get in to your room when you were fighting with the key card.”

  “Ohhhh, yeah. I remember you.”

  “Are you enjoying your stay?”

  “Is that a line you use on all the girls?” I roll my eyes and turn away from him.

  He chuckles at my evasion. “It’s probably a line that’s programmed into my brain from working here actually. I’m not trying to hit on you.”

  “No?”

  “You disappointed at that?” His lips curve into a cocky smile and instead of looking handsome, he just looks cute.

  I frown. “No. Relieved, I think.”

  He shakes his head with a snigger. “You wanna see something cool?”

  “Depends on what it is. You’re not going to show me an intimate piercing or something, are you?”

  “No! I thought I already said I’m not trying to hit on you,” he laughs. “No, I thought you might like to see the other bar we have here.”

  “There’s another one?”

  “Yup.” His eyes twinkle and he smiles as if he’s just told me a huge secret. “VIPs only.”

  “I’m not a VIP.” I dismiss his offer with a shrug of my shoulders.

  “You are when you’re with me. Come on.” He hops off the bar stool and holds out his arm for me to link mine with his. The alcohol in my system doesn’t allow me to think much before I take his arm and follow his lead.

  We ride the elevator to the fifth floor and when the doors open, I am greeted with a rooftop terrace lit up with pretty white fairy lights around the perimeter and perfectly round potted trees lit up with more fairy lights wound around them.

  “Wow. It’s gorgeous up here,” I gasp, wide eyed.

  “Sure is. It’s the best kept secret in London.”

  There are only a few people up here. A secret bar reserved for VIPs. It actually reminds me a little of the Sky Lounge back home, and my mind drifts to the last night I went there with Spike, Arianna and Denham. That was an awesome night. The first proper night out with Arianna after she came home. We were all so carefree and happy. Moving on.

  “Cocktail?” Luke asks, snapping me out of my memories.

  “Uh, yeah. Why not?”

  “Any preference?”

  I’m tempted to ask for a dirty martini, but I’ve reminisced enough tonight and I should be trying something new. Trying to move on. “Surprise me. Just nothing too sweet.” I screw my nose up at the thought of a sugary, sweet cocktail.

  “Okay, nothing sweet, coming right up,” Luke laughs, and I roll my eyes. “You wanna find somewhere to sit?”

  “Sure.”

  I walk along the perimeter of the rooftop, running my fingertip along the shiny chrome bars on top of the wall. The view over the Thames is spectacular and I take out my cell and snap a couple of pictures to send to Arianna and Denham. I contemplate sending one to Spike too. He would love the view up here. He would love London. Well, he would have … before the accident. I can’t even imagine how it would be to try and tackle the crowds of London in a wheelchair.

  The walls are lined with wicker sofas and plush cushions. Perfect for settling in to drink cocktails and look at the stars. I take a seat in the corner where it’s quiet, slip off my sandals and tuck my feet underneath me on the chair.

  “Here.” Luke says and he hands me a tall glass filled with a lime green liquid and plenty of ice.

  “What is it?”

  “A mojito,” he informs me.

  “Oh, I’ve heard of that. You sure it’s not sweet?”

  “Why don’t you try it for yourself?” He nods, indicating to my drink before taking a sip of his own.

  Then I freeze. Sensibility takes over the loose alcohol induced thoughts in my brain. “Hang on. I don’t even know you. Why should I trust you? You could have spiked my drink or something. God, I’m so stupid. So fucking stupid.” I jump off the chair, slipping my feet into my sandals and try to balance without spilling my drink. “I’m losing my badass,” I mumble under my breath. “Seriously. I’m sorry, I gotta go. You drink it.” I thrust the drink at him, giving him no choice but to take it from my hand. He looks at me like I’m a mad woman. He’s right. I am.

  “Lottie, wait,” he calls out after me. “Lottie. I’m not trying to drug you … I wouldn’t, I, ask Spike …”

  My body stops. My mind screams. The whole rooftop seems to still. The breeze drops and I’m not sure if it’s coincidental or if the other patrons have actually stopped their conversations to listen to ours. I turn and pin him with a questioning glare, “What did you just say?”

  He drops his head back and takes a deep breath before looking at me. “Lottie, will you please come and sit back here with me so we can talk without the whole of London knowing your business?”

  “You know Spike?” My voice comes out at barely a whisper as I walk slowly back to him. This is supposed to be a getaway from Las Vegas and the screw up that ensued. But Spike seems to permeate every part of my life.

  “Yes.” He nods.

  “How?” I sit on the edge of the chair and Luke hands me back my drink, which I take.

  “We met on a student exchange. I stayed with his family. He stayed with mine. We’ve kept in touch ever since. Not often. But, he’s a cool bloke.”

  “I don’t understand. How do you know … How …?”

  He scrubs a hand across his face and eyes me warily. “He wanted to make sure you were safe. When he called, I told him I’d look out for you. Although you make it pretty difficult
when you leave early in the morning and don’t get back here until late. I mean, you could have helped me out a little,” he jokes, trying to make light of the conversation.

  “He asked you to watch me?” I whisper, more to myself than Luke.

  “No. Not exactly.”

  “The Prosecco. Was that from my friend, Ari?”

  “What did it say on the card?”

  “I didn’t ask you to answer me with a question,” I snap, getting irritated that he won’t tell me the truth. “It was from Spike, wasn’t it? What is wrong with everyone? First Arianna and D book me the room, then Spike gets you to keep an eye on me. They don’t think I’m capable of looking after myself, do they?” I pull my cell out of my pocket and open a new message to text Spike. It’s irrational and unjustified but I need him to back the hell off.

  “What are you doing?” Luke asks, sitting forward with a worried look on his face.

  “I’m telling Spike to fuck off,” I hiss at him. He raises his eyebrows in surprise at my tone. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not your fault. But I don’t need babysitting. I don’t need looking after. And I don’t need Spike barging in on my life from almost the other side of the world, okay?”

  He smirks at me. He actually smirks and leans back in his chair, resting his ankle on the opposite knee. “He said you were feisty.” He takes a mouthful of his mojito and watches as my anger starts to simmer down a little, helped along by his cool demeanor. “Look, I know you want to do this on your own. He just wanted to make sure you were safe, that’s all.”

  “When did you speak with him last?” I say quietly, wanting to know how he is. Desperately trying to stop myself from calling him, just to hear his voice.

  “Early hours of this morning.” He sits forward on his seat, no doubt getting ready for a barrage of questions.

  “Oh,” I answer. There’s actually a little bit of jealousy that runs through me knowing he spoke with Spike so recently. I worry that I’m forgetting the sound of his voice, and replaying the last voice message he left me on my cell doesn’t feel the same as hearing him in real time.