Slow Dancing (The Second Chances Series Book 4)

by Isobelle Cate

  “What?” Cinzia exclaimed.

  “Keep your voice down,” Bethany hissed.

  Cinzia’s mouth was slack before she grabbed her water and took a few gulps. Her eyes sparked with anger.

  She tapped her finger against her temple. “Perché diavolo lai fatto che?”

  “Huh?” The only words Bethan knew in Italian were ‘please’, ‘thank you’, and ‘goodbye’.

  “Why the hell did you do that?” Cinzia continued looking at her in disbelief. “Do you have a death wish? Think of Amara.”

  “Don’t bring Amara into this.” Bethany warned.

  Cinzia had her palms up. “Okay, okay, but really? What did you do that for?”

  “Because he questioned why I danced on stage in front of every cock, dick, and penis.”

  Cinzia’s eyes rounded, aghast. “Porca puttana.”

  That phrase Bethany understood.

  “Exactly,” she said before her shoulders fell and wistfulness surrounded her. Disappointment burned behind her eyes. “Drake isn’t the person I remembered. I get this feeling like he’s trying to prove something.”

  “Like what?”

  Bethany shook her head. “No idea. I expected him to change after what his father did. I just didn’t expect him to be…cruel.” She let out a bitter chuckle. “He’s joined the confederation of assholes and might even have a seat on the board.”

  Cinzia tutted in sympathy. Bethany didn’t know whether it was caused by her story about jumping out of the car, if her friend was agreeing with her. Or both.

  She sipped her comfortably hot coffee. They were both silent allowing the quiet conversation from other tables and the clink of glasses and plates on dining trays fill the lull.

  Cinzia resumed eating.

  “Have you told him?”

  “I’m getting a crème brulleé,” Bethany said. “You look like you’re about to eat even the glass container like it was transparent sugar. It must really be good.”

  That didn’t stop Cinzia’s train of thought, because the moment Bethany returned to savour her crème brulleé, Cinzia leaned back on her chair, arms crossed and waiting.

  She was right. The dessert was good.

  Air pushed out of Bethany’s lungs. She gave up pretending she wasn’t noticing Cinzia’s expectant face.

  “I didn’t tell him, alright?” Bethany kept her eyes lowered, scooping the creamy vanilla laced confection looking at it like a jeweller coveted a diamond.

  Cinzia rested her arms on the table. “Why?”

  Bethany darted an upward glance.

  “What good would it do?” she muttered, intent on turning the delicacy into a blob. “He has nothing to do with her.”

  “True,” Cinzia conceded. “But now that he’s come back, there’ll be questions.”

  “Questions I can give lies to.” She left the teaspoon in the custard. Talking about Drake and what was bound to happen robbed her of her appetite.

  “And how do you intend to play a goddess in all of this?”

  “Goddess?” Bethany huffed as she pushed the half eaten dessert to one side. She was no goddess. If only Drake saw her that way. She was more like one of the fallen.

  “Si,” Cinzia replied. “Gods and goddesses were puppeteers, playing mortals against each other. They bestowed their blessing on those they favoured as long as they didn’t ask questions. Do you have that same ability?”

  Bethany rolled her eyes. “Your philosophical mockery is duly noted.”

  Cinzia shook her head but didn’t say anything else.

  Instead, they talked about the club, the girls, and their flower shop’s launch. Later when Cora and Cinzia left, Bethany stared at her father, her mind still on what her friend said.

  If she were a goddess, she’d turn back time and let Drake stay with her. If she couldn’t do that, she would whisk herself and Amara away and disappear again. And like in some tragedy, leave her heart behind.

  Too bad she wasn’t a goddess at all.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The thwack and thud of a fist or shin hitting the training mitts drowned under the sounds of grunts from men pumping iron, and the clanking of weights being returned to the weights tree.

  Drake’s favourite playlist filtered through the gym speakers mixing with the shouts and ribbing of fighters training. In one of the many rings, Miles paced around two fighters in lock holds trying to topple each other.

  Drake’s sweat dripped down his face to his chin spotting the floor with droplets. Jimmy, one of his fighters wearing the mitts grunted every time Drake punched or delivered a kick squarely against his padded hands.

  “Can’t handle that, Jimmy boy?” Drake gritted delivering another roundhouse kick.

  “Some woman failed to get you off, Rosen?” Jimmy challenged. “I’m game if you want to go into the ring.”

  Drake laughed, adrenalin pumping through him. “You wouldn’t last thirty seconds.”

  “After this extreme violence you’re landing on these poor mitts? You’re right. You might have already dislocated my fucking wrists!”

  Drake stopped, breathing heavily. He walked around. Keeping still after too much exertion made him light headed.

  “Sorry, mate. Not your fault.” He walked away and came back. He panted so hard, his mouth dried up. He grabbed his water bottle almost dredging it before pouring the rest of the contents over his head

  This was all sorts of fucked up. First, he was at a loss how to handle the sexy-as-fuck Bethany when it was so easy to deal with other women who threw a tantrum. He left them. Second, Matt and Gracie had left an email to say Caius had embezzled more than ten million initially reflected in the gym’s books, nearly bankrupting Drake before he was caught. Third, Caius bailed right after leaving his wife and children and couldn’t be found.

  All his fighters’ hopes and dreams snatched away in a moment because someone he trusted betrayed him and decided to stab him in the back.

  Story of my life.

  Drake now had the unenviable task of talking to Gayle Harvey about what her husband had done. Barry Slater was willing to talk to her on Drake’s behalf. Miles offered too. But Drake wanted to see Gayle’s eyes and determine if she’d tell the truth or not. Kids or no kids, if she was hiding her husband, Drake was also going to take her down. Children could go either way: be like the conniving parent they had or break away from the vicious circle of genetic and environmental influences to become a better person.

  Or a fucked up one.

  Jimmy shook his arms like a dog shaking water from its fur. Drake had worked his fighter hard but it felt good, the endorphins calming his body.

  “We good?” Jimmy arched a brow. He was panting himself, sweat dripping from his brow even though the gym was air conditioned. The sound of the exhaust vent that siphoned as much of the sweat smell away was drowned by the music filtering through the sound system.

  “Yeah, we’re good.” Drake smacked his fighter’s muscled bicep. “Thanks.”

  “No problemo.” Jimmy grinned before he walked towards a group of fighters watching the sparing in another ring.

  Drake unwrapped the athletic tape and gauze from his hands just as Miles sauntered his way and stood beside him, scrutinising the people working out in pairs or pumping iron.

  “When are you planning on telling them?”

  His former coach’s question gave Drake pause.

  “Let me fix it first,” Drake said. “There’s no reason for them to worry about it when they’ve got fights lined up. Besides, it’s management’s concern. That means you and me, the accountants and the solicitor.”

  Miles grunted, though his face made it clear that he didn’t agree with Drake. “How’s Bethany?”

  “Different,” he said.

  His former teacher stared at him for a long while.

  “Do I have to pull it out of you like the way I pulled arrogance out of your ass when I found you under the Mancunian Way?”

  Drake’s lips pursed. “
Her father’s in the hospital, getting better.”

  “Did I ask about her family?” Miles retorted as he crossed his arms. Drake half expected Miles’ foot to tap the floor the same way his former Math teacher, Miss Eunice Smith, did when waiting for answer. But Miss Smith didn’t have to wait long. Drake only needed a moment to write the correct answer on the board. His intelligence was his downfall.

  “Bloody hell, Miles what do you want me to say? That she’s no longer the sweet and innocent girl I knew before?” Drake muttered under his breath.

  Miles waited.

  Drake expelled a low and long breath, throwing the bunched tape and gauze into the aluminium bin with force the container moved. Hell, it might have even dented the metal.

  “She’s a man’s fucking wet dream. Happy?” He started seeing red again remembering her get up in the club. His over the top obsession for Bethany was like withdrawing from the heroin’s effects. He never even had that kind of addiction. But with Bethany…

  Mine.

  Miles chuckled. “So you both hit it off.”

  “She doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.” His world had just turned dim.

  Miles’ chin nudged upward in understanding.

  “Not exactly the welcome you expected.”

  Drake shook his head. Had he been expecting one when they saw each other?

  Maybe.

  “She’s changed, sir. I get that she wouldn’t want to speak to me after leaving, but there’s something else she’s not telling me. Like she’s hiding something.”

  “Bethany is entitled to her own secrets, Drake. It’s not like she had to tell you everything that’s been happening after all these years while you were gone.”

  “She was dancing practically naked in a burlesque bar Caius took me to.” He growled.

  Miles’ eyebrows rose all the way to his hairline. “No shit.”

  A lopsided grin kicked at Drake’s mouth. “Yes, shit.”

  “Did she tell you where she and her family went?” Miles asked.

  Drake shook his head. “Never got that far.”

  “Well, I hope you find the answers I couldn’t give you,” Miles said.

  Drake acknowledged his former teacher with a half nod. Even before Miles had made a deal with the former owner of EC Gym for Drake to stay and earn his keep by cleaning the place when the place closed for the day, Drake had hounded his former teacher for news about Bethany. But Bethany had left the school. Miles couldn’t ask questions about her without raising suspicions.

  The day Drake found out that Bethany had gone was the worst day of his life. Not even his father kicking him out of the house compared to the desolation he had felt that day. He and Miles were in no doubt that with Drake gone, it was open season on Bethany from Andrew Tabler and a host of others who made it clear Bethany did not belong in the school. She didn’t live up to their standards of perfection. Her less than perfect hearing was the root cause of the bullying she had endured.

  He sauntered towards the stairs leading to the second floor where his small private sleeping quarters were. The same room that had been given to him all those years ago when he had nothing. After taking over the gym, he had the room renovated, enlarged, furnished to the degree his wealth now allowed.

  “By the way.” His foot was on the first rung. “Caius forged my signature.”

  “What?” Miles looked at him in confusion.

  “Yeah. He did that to sell my shares to guess who.”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Andrew Tabler.”

  Miles looked at him in disbelief. “You’ve got to be joking!”

  “Nope.”

  “Bloody hell.” Miles eyes widened, his expression blanching as he looked around in anger. “That moron wanted to flay you and Bethany alive! I for one don’t want to have anything to do with that piece of moronic shit.”

  Drake gave a thin smile. “So you see, Coach, I don’t think this has anything to do with making sure men like Jimmy have something to fall back on when they retire. This was personal.”

  He climbed the stairs taking the steps two at a time. Entering the room he peeled off his clothes and threw it into the hamper before stepping into the shower.

  The pension fund came from a diversified portfolio Drake set up after seeing and experiencing the host of injuries acquired from the cage. Some old timers who no longer had the strength to fight didn’t have enough money for physiotherapy or medicines after they were deemed fit and discharged by their specialists. Depending solely on government benefits wasn’t enough.

  So, Drake made separate agreements with those under his care. He only got a small cut of the purse for overhead expenses. The majority was divided based on a percentage between the fighter and the fund. The fighters were happy to leave the financial side to him.

  And he stupidly entrusted it to Caius.

  He wished he didn’t have to deal with the colossal clusterfuck that landed on him with Caius’ embezzlement. He still had millions in the bank but he’d be a tad poorer than the rest who owned Bridgewater Lofts. Drake knew that his financial position didn’t mean squat to Luke, Oliver, Rouen, or Kieran, but it meant a lot to him. He worked his ass off and worked himself literally to the bone to get where he was. He wasn’t going to let some dumb shit steal it from him.

  What he told Miles could be coincidental—that Andrew Tabler just happened to be the interested buyer. However he’d bet the rest of his money that the high school bully knew more, that he had played Caius right into his hands because Caius knew Drake. He just didn’t have any proof to show for it.

  He was getting restless again. The buzzing sound when he got antsy didn’t just occupy his head, it made the area below his shoulder blades prickle like he just couldn’t get away soon enough. The endorphins that gave him a high after a strenuous workout were gone. The gnawing in his gut had no intention of abating until it probably ate through all his organs leaving in its wake a path of belief that he’d never be good enough.

  He should have finished Andrew back then but landing in juvenile detention wasn’t exactly the way out of the quicksand he’d been thrown into. What would happen to Bethany if he took the easy path?

  Some good that did when he got kicked out anyway.

  Shower done, he wrapped a towel around his hips, letting the droplets and steam evaporate as the low hum of the A/C licked at his skin. He grabbed his phone from the cot’s side table and pressed a number on speed dial.

  “Hey.”

  A small grin pulled at Drake’s mouth. He thought of the first time he had met Gemma. She had been working for Felicity Cray. He’d been tapping her on a semi regular basis.

  “Hey…uh…” What the fuck was wrong with him? “Sorry Gemma, I meant to call Luke and pressed your number instead.”

  She laughed that sultry laugh that used to stir his errant cock. It wasn’t doing anything now. His cock was still errant but was flaccid as a lazy elephant’s trunk.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she demurred. “While you’re on the phone, you up for something tonight? After talking to Luke, I mean.”

  “Sorry, no can do,” he said injecting his voice with regret that was as fake as silicone boobs. “I’ve got something that’s taking more of my time than it should.”

  Gemma tsked. “Poor you. Well, you know where to find me.”

  He ended the call without saying goodbye. He sat down on the bed and stared at his phone. He had no intention of seeing Gemma again. Both of them always knew nothing was going to come out of it. They were fuck buddies, end of. Besides, he doubted whether Gemma could diffuse the anxiety thrumming through his veins and taking the place of good old fashioned blood.

  He needed Bethany. Wanted her, and now that he had been given a taste of paradise, craved her.

  That was the only way he’d be able to fight long forgotten demons that stayed in the forefront of his mind.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Why can’t I go home?” Jose
ph Brooke scowled at no one in particular. The nurse had just left after taking his drip off.

  “No one said you couldn’t go home, Dad,” Bethany replied with patience that was receding and replaced by an impending migraine. She could just feel it right by the base of her skull. “Just not tonight. It’s past eleven already. Besides, you’ll be more comfortable here.

  Her father slumped his head back on to the pillow. A shadow of pain crossed his face before the lines bracketing his mouth relaxed. He closed his eyes, hiding the blue eyes he had in common with his daughter.

  Joseph ‘Joe’ Brooks wasn’t huge by any stretch of the imagination. Save for a small sized beer belly from having no other choice sometimes but to sit in the couch and watch the world pass him by, he puttered in the backyard and kept the house tidy. It was the exercise he did while at home. When he wanted to go for longer walks, he and Cora went to the nearby park. He ate healthily and didn’t drink at all but that still didn’t stop him from having a heart attack.

  Bethany knew better. While her father kept busy, being made redundant and taking in temporary jobs where he could took its toll on his self-worth. She saw it in the flash of despair in his eyes and in the progressive slump of his once proud shoulders that hoisted her up when she was little so she could be on top of the world.

  “I’m sorry, Bethany,” he sighed opening his eyes.

  “Where is this coming from, Dad?” She stared at him in bemusement while she held his cold hand in both of hers.

  She couldn’t even let out a chuckle since any movement now would just poke at the beast stirring at the back of her head. The sharper sound lent by her hearing aid wasn’t doing her any favours either. Each minute decibel was like driving a screw into her skull. While she could hear without the aid, it would be muffled. She’d have to ask her dad to repeat what he’d said and increasing his voice could cause the pain to intensify.

  “Because I’ve not been able to pay for anything.”

  “Stop,” she warned, her jaw locking to stop her mouth from trembling. Wrong move. “How many times do I have to tell you it’s okay?”