“Oh, now, wait a minute, Leo. It’s just one fight.” His tone changed immediately.
“No!” My voice boomed around the room and stopped Zuri dead in his tracks. “No more. I’m out.”
My teeth tore at the straps around my wrists, and I unwound the bindings that took such time and care to prepare. All for shit. I dumped it all on the ground and grabbed my bag with the last of the money I’d see from this game, and left.
2
Leo
Three months later
It was a hell of a lot sooner than I wanted to be heading back to London, but after my complete defeat and walking out on Zuri, it turned out, I didn’t have a lot of other opportunities staring me in the face.
For the last couple of years, I’d lived mostly off fights, or money gained by gambling on fights. It paid my rent and allowed me to live the way I wanted. I’d saved a bit… but that was already draining fast.
Turns out, after that utter failure, I was in a world of misery and couldn’t see a way out. All of my bluster over not needing to fight was sorely tested, and I was pretty fucking lost. So, I took the hit to my ego and spoke to my dad. He told me that my uncle was going through a hard time, but would be happy to give me a job.
Of course, I agreed before knowing it meant moving to London, but really, what other choices did I have? Nothing was keeping me here, and maybe a change of scenery would help with the version of torture that my nightmares were putting me through.
A friend agreed to sub-let my flat, and I put most of my things into storage, and that was it—pretty depressing that I could pack up my life and move on in a couple of weeks. But I had to do something. So next stop—my uncle’s bachelor pad in Richmond. He was in the middle of a divorce and had moved to an apartment out of the city—hence the invitation.
I hadn’t seen Eric Walker in years, maybe since my late teens, before I got into fighting, that was for sure. He ran a pretty exclusive bar and club in Kensington from what Dad had told me, where he’d offered me a spot as a bouncer. Not the job at the top of my list, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. The rent was free, just as well, because it cost a fortune to live in London. I’d have burned through my savings in a few weeks if I’d had to shell out for a place to stay.
I grabbed a tube from Paddington station, dragging my cases behind me, and found my way to the address in Richmond. The house wasn’t what I expected. A Georgian brick building with whitewashed columns and windows stood at the address I’d been given. It looked more like a family home than a crash pad for a middle-aged man going through a mid-life crisis.
The door had buzzers for just two apartments, so I rang the bell. I was buzzed up immediately and took the stairs directly in front of me.
“Leo, welcome, welcome. I’m so glad you took up my offer.” Uncle Eric waited at the top of the stairs and held his hands out to the side, a little flamboyantly. “I hope you like my little pad,” he boasted, joking as he looked around the main room he was standing in. I finished climbing the stairs and saw the place opened up into a spacious living and dining area, the kitchen at one end. Leather sofas, industrial-style light fixings, and a huge oak table were just a few of the furnishings that made up the room. None of them looked quite right in the space, and I resisted the urge to re-stack the coffee table books strewn haphazardly over the small table in the middle of the two sofas.
“Your room and bathroom are down the hall. Mine, over there.” He signalled to two doors leading off to the main space.
“Thanks for the offer, Uncle. I’ll just get my stuff out of the way.”
“Fine, fine, in your own time.” He twirled around and took a seat at one of the chairs stationed around the oak table.
I headed to check out my rooms. Both were accessed by a dark corridor, the deep pigment of the walls sucking the light from the space. Luckily, I found an airy and decent-sized room with a double bed, chest of drawers, wardrobe, bedside table and a flat-screen television hung on the wall, nothing special, but more than I needed. The bathroom had a generous walk-in shower, thank God. Part of me was desperate to jump under that spray and rid the city smog from my skin. But after all the hospitality my uncle had shown, I couldn’t stay crashed in my room, no matter how tempting.
“You’ve got a nice place here, Uncle Eric. Not what I expected from what Dad told me.”
“Oh, why thank you. I couldn’t simply stay in a hotel.” He wandered back towards me. “Got to keep up my reputation, you see.”
I nodded, having no idea what he was talking about. “And why not get started tonight? I’ll take you to Hyde and show you the ropes, as they say. What have you got in your bags in terms of dress? I’ll need you in a certain… attire.” His eyebrows lifted as he inspected my jeans and t-shirt ensemble.
“One or two good suits, but they’ll need a press.” I’d wipe that presumptuous expression from his face when I walked out in my Tom Ford. The Paul Smith served as back up.
“Really? Very well. You’ll get a uniform for the job, but tonight is for us to get reacquainted.
The suit could have done with a trip to the dry cleaners, but Uncle Eric wasted no time. He was adamant about going out tonight. A rush job with an iron, and I slipped the jacket on. My arms didn’t feel restricted, and I could flex without risking bursting the seams. The cut was worth every fucking penny. Having been building muscle and my physique for the last few years, nothing off-the-rack seemed to fit. Or it did and hung like a marquee around my waist. Seemed the tailoring world wasn’t built for guys with muscle.
“Well well well, I am impressed.” Uncle Eric came to greet me as I joined him in the main living space. “You have me at quite the disadvantage, Leo. But I’m sure you can turn that to our mutual favour.”
“Pardon me?” I had no fucking clue what he was talking about. Again.
“The ladies’ boy. Good grief, a strapping young man, dressed as you are, won’t be missed in my establishment. And isn’t there some sort of code?” He looked to me to elaborate.
“You want me to help you get a date?” I questioned, not sure what the hell was going on here.
“Precisely, boy. This divorce is dragging me through the mud, and I simply won’t just sit back and let her get away with it.”
“Are you sure?” Uncle Eric was my dad’s younger brother, but still in his late forties, early fifties. He had light brown hair with a few silver streaks at the temples, and lines around his eyes.
“Yes. I insist. If I’m going through this wretched thing, I’m going to enjoy the spoils of being a single man again.” He buttoned his jacket as if that was the end of the discussion, and I hid an internal laugh at his determination. If he loosened up and dropped the stiff-upper-lip front, it would be easier.
“Very well. Let’s go.”
A forty-minute tube ride and we were in Kensington. Uncle Eric, strutting through the doors of The Hyde bar just like the owner he was. It was still early, but on first inspection, there was no need for a bouncer. The place was a cross between an old jazz bar and a smoking lounge. The clientele were all middle-aged and seemed content to sip their whisky. Not a lot of ladies.
“This is the Parlour Bar. Dreadfully boring.” He kept walking, along the path next to the glass top bar that would suit a saloon in the States more than a swanky bar in London. And he was not wrong about the boring. If I had to stand at the door to this place, I think I’d go insane.
He pushed through a revolving door, all hardwood and glass, that opened into a completely separate bar. This, I could get on board with.
Gone were the wingback chairs, British library style and relaxed—more like deadly boring—vibe. In their place, were low-lit neon glows from secluded alcoves, cocktail tables dotted about throughout the open-plan space in the centre, and a massive bar at the back wall, lit up to display the rows of champagne and spirit bottles. Two guys twirled the bottles, back and forth, shaking here and there. A modern version of Tom Cruise in that 80s movie, Cocktail, sprung to mind
.
And the place was packed. Women competing for the shortest dress huddled around the tall tables, giggling amongst themselves, sipping drinks that came with half a florist’s sticking out of the top.
“This is Companion Bar. Much more your thing, I’d guess.” Uncle Eric leaned in to shout over the din of the music. It even reminded me of The Club. Though, there wasn’t a level for pure pain and torture, of course.
“The entrance is in the corner. You don’t have to walk through The Parlour, but I wanted to make you sweat.”
Bastard.
“What is your tipple of choice?” he asked. I looked around the bar and clocked the multitude of women all dressed in the hopes of outdoing the next.
“Oh, I’m not a fan of cocktails. But I’ll take a beer. If you serve that in this fancy place.”
“We serve everything in here. But might I suggest you live a little more adventurously.” He swanned off to the bar. He sure had shocked me with this place. I took a lap of the area to get familiar. The layout was simple enough. Darker, more private booths and tables around the edges. Pillars of brickwork gave the illusion of privacy, together with the lack of overhead lights, and you relied on the strip-light glow from around the walls. Subtle and sexy, if you were hooking up. The scattered tables to the centre made it sociable, and the feature bar gave the place its showpiece.
Two solid-looking doors barred the entrance, flanked by two matching guards—suited and booted, which was a good first impression. They didn’t scream bouncers, more like they signalled security, a subtle but significant difference that I was pleased to see. No fucking way I’d be wearing either Tom or Paul to work though.
Uncle Eric came to find me with a crystal tumbler and handed it over to me. A slice of orange perched on the rim and more ice than liquid in the glass.
“What’s this?”
“Try it.”
“It doesn’t look like a beer. And I don’t drink something if I don’t know what the fuck is in it.” He might have been my uncle, but he should know I was serious.
“Loosen up, boy. It’s simply a version of a sidecar. Cognac, Cointreau, lemon juice. Try it.”
I peered at the cocktail as if it might do me harm. But shrugged it off and took a sip of the mix. Jesus—sickly orange and a hit of alcohol that burned my throat. “No, thanks, that is disgusting.” I handed it back. “I’ll go and grab a beer. Find a table, and we can talk.
“I didn’t bring you here to talk. I’ll find a table, and then I’ll let you do the work. It’s been a long time since I tried to, what’s the word, pick up a girl.”
My eyes rolled back in their sockets. Fucking hell, I never wanted my uncle to use those words again.
Turns out the night didn’t totally suck.
The bar was a pretty cool place. And the name, my assumption was because it was close to Hyde Park, was way off. Seemed my uncle had a thing for old Jekyll and Hyde, and the bar fitted that theme perfectly. Parlour Bar and Companion Bar.
His tact with the ladies needed some serious work. His polite Britishism didn’t cut it in the up-market Kensington bar, but he wasn’t deterred after a night of striking out. I felt bad for the dude. The few tables I’d picked out were all hi’s and hello there’s until he joined the conversation. He acted like he was a customer service rep for the place, which did nothing for his luck with women.
The two numbers I’d collected and the girl who stalked me to the bathroom and shoved her tongue down my throat proved they were out to score. I just needed to give Uncle Eric some pointers.
We did manage to discuss work. I’d start on Friday night. Nine-to-two shift and it came with an expense account for the first three suits and shirts at a local tailor.
Eric didn’t work at the bar. He had an office behind Parlour Bar but wasn’t there all the time. He made appearances, though. I’d be answering to Richard, who ran The Companion side of the bar. Seemed a decent guy, and didn’t give me shit for having my uncle pull this job for me. I found out one of the door guys had left, so there was a legitimate spot open.
And how hard could it be, keeping this place clear of scumbags?
3
Leo
Being the ‘bouncer’ at Companion wasn’t quite as simple as I thought from my first visit.
The expense account, as Uncle Eric sold it, was a couple of off-the-racks from the local department store and a seamstress for alterations. No big deal, and at least I could move in them by the time I got them back.
The gig wasn’t only keeping the place safe and orderly, but also making sure the right sort of safe and orderly came through the doors—patrons with deep pockets that didn’t worry about dropping a hundred quid on a round of drinks. Richard didn’t like skinflints. Hell, it was the same booze as any other joint, just with some herbs and flowers shoved in to make it look good. I didn’t get it, but it wasn’t my place to question.
The yes-list comprised of women in small groups—always a tick. Men on their own, maybe. Groups of guys, a hard no. And anyone giving the customers a hard time, we politely checked on the situation and moved it along with no fuss.
Considering half the women who came here were looking to score, I didn’t get it. There were plenty of other places where men weren’t actively stopped from entering. Surely this wasn’t the bar for them if picking up guys was their intention?
By my third shift, I’d given up caring. Women, dressed up and ready to impress, lined the pavement outside and the lucky men who knew the score and had worked out how to get in, came to entertain, with their wallets open and a smile on their faces. Who was I to question the status quo?
The weeks found a repetitive routine. Working so late on a regular basis turned me into a night owl. It was often past three a.m. before I got home, and there was no way I’d be getting up at dawn to hit the gym.
My time just switched up a bit. One of the guys at work had recommended an all hours gym, which I joined the next day. All this standing around and calm was making me restless. I’d assumed that by giving up the fighting, that part of my personality would adjust, and I’d focus on something else. But that wasn’t the case.
The energy I burned off in a fight was still in me. Now stifled under a suit and hidden in the shadows of Companion Bar. Sure, I was a relaxed son of a bitch, and pretty laid back, but that hum under my skin still buzzed.
And despite upping everything in my life, the anguish of Maddison’s death still haunted me. I might be up all hours of the night now, but that didn’t mean my nightmares couldn’t still find me when sleep arrived.
I’d promised Uncle Eric another wingman night when I was next off, which was in a few days. But after a few weeks of seeing the bar in action, I was already sick of the fake eyelashes and botoxed faces, and I didn’t relish the idea of playing hook up. Although maybe a distraction would kick me out of this bleak mood.
An advantage to my shift times was that the tube wasn’t like a sardine can when I travelled in. London never slept, and I had no problem with that, but fighting the rush hour twice a day would have driven me around the fucking twist.
I got on at the usual station—my ear pods kept me in my own personal bubble. A few stops later, the train beeped its annoying alarm, and the doors did their thing, opening up for more passengers.
I peered up and did a double-take. A stunning woman walked on, taking the seat on the tube car towards the end of my section. Her hair was cut short, all choppy and pixie-like, with a bright purple streak through the front of her platinum blonde colour. Her eyes darted around the carriage and locked onto a grungy-looking dude dressed all in black, a few seats up from me, in the middle between the pixie girl and me.
She angled her body away and turned towards the rest of the carriage.
Grungy dude waited for the tube to start and then got up, moving a couple of seats closer to her. He did the same thing a few minutes later until he was directly in front of her.
The music and the rest of the people around m
e faded away, and I kept my eyes glued to what was playing out. She kept her eyes averted, her body language screaming: leave me alone. It was a fucking red flag.
Abruptly she stood, as if ready to jump off at the next stop. Her stalker did the same, using the railing above to hold on to and pen her in.
Fuck this shit. My hands balled, filled with an itch to lay into this motherfucker. But we weren’t in a place I could touch a hand on him without getting into a shit tonne of trouble, and I’d be just as threatening as the guy she seemed to be avoiding. I’d be damned if I’d let this guy follow her if he wasn’t wanted.
I grabbed my phone and opened up an empty text message as I manoeuvred along to the doors just next to them.
“Amy? Amy? Hi.” I forced her attention to me. “Are you going to Geoff’s? He’s just texted, here.” I muscled the jerk out the way and passed her my phone. The confusion lifted from her eyes as she scanned what I’d written, and she looked back up to me. The brilliance of her blue eyes stopped me dead. And for a moment I forgot what the fuck I was doing talking to her.
She looked back down to my phone and seemed to catch on and started to tap something else out for me to read before passing it back.
Are you okay?
This guy is following me.
I read the line she added. Mother fucker.
“Why don’t we share an Uber or something. Save us walking?” I offered, forcing my head back in the game.
As we approached the stop, she looked up to me, a question in her eyes, but then jerk face barged into me, keen to get to the door before we did.
“Mind yourself,” I spat, turning around and squaring up to the dude. I pinned him with a glare and watched him visibly shrink. He kept walking down the train. I turned back to pixie girl, and we both left at the stop.
Blush: A Strangers-to-Lovers Romance Page 2
