by Elise Noble
“So what can we do?”
“I reckon we should try social media. It’s got a further reach.”
“I suppose.”
“You don’t like the idea?”
“I’m not sure what’s worse—not knowing who I am, or having the entire world knowing that I don’t know who I am. What if it brings even more crackpots out of the woodwork?”
“I can’t think of any other options.”
Coco slumped against the headboard, resigned. “Go on, then. Try it.”
Rhys selected the best headshot from the photos he’d taken in Wales and composed a message to go with it.
“How does this look?”
Do you know me?
I was found suffering from amnesia in North Wales, and I’d like to go home. I may have a connection to the US. Please send a message if I look familiar.
“Okay, I guess.”
“I haven’t put too much detail on there, and any messages will come to me. I’ll delete the ugly ones.”
A shrug.
Rhys took that to mean acceptance because really, they had no other choice. A minute later, their plea for help was posted.
“Now, we wait.”
***
A bad day only got worse when they went downstairs to make dinner. Originally, Rhys had planned to order food to eat upstairs because forking out for a pizza was more appealing than making small talk with Jorge and Hashim, but Uxbridge’s answer to Laurel and Hardy had driven off somewhere in Hashim’s Honda, which meant Rhys and Coco had the house to themselves.
Plus Coco wanted to cook. Earlier, she’d asked him what he did for work, and he’d fessed up about the apps he’d written, then sworn her to secrecy because if his housemates found out he had an actual job, they’d expect him to pay for all the groceries. Now that she’d realised he was the brain behind the Pan Friday app, she was determined to challenge it and him. Rhys didn’t mind. Firstly, he knew the app would perform, and secondly, he liked seeing her happy. Hell, he’d even buy a set of bakeware if it made her smile.
“Okay, what can we make with walnuts, canned pineapple, and an egg?”
“Pineapple chocolate chip cookies.”
“Uh, it says we need flour. Is there any flour?”
“I think so.” Hashim had bought a bag to play a prank on Jorge last month. “Here it is.”
“Okay, we have to—”
The back door crashed open, and Rhys swore under his breath.
“I thought you were throwing a party?”
Stacey shrugged and helped herself to a pineapple chunk. “We postponed it. Gary got a last-minute DJ gig at Toxic.”
Sounded about right. Toxic was the skankiest nightclub in town—picture watered-down drinks, vomit, and music that left you with a headache. And even that place was scraping the bottom of the barrel with Gary. He thought he was going to be the next David Guetta, but his attempts at mixing sounded more like a chain-smoker having a coughing fit.
And of course, the tone-deaf twat headed straight for Coco.
“We haven’t met properly yet.” He grinned at her, showing off his cubic zirconia dental grill. Gary thought it made him look like Lil Wayne. Rhys thought it looked as if a toddler had glued glitter to his teeth. “I’m Gary.”
“So I heard.”
“You thought any more about my offer?”
“What offer?”
“To show you around town.”
“I already said no.”
“Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. We’ll have a laugh.”
“I’d rather thread the needle on a sewing machine while it’s still running.”
The jibe went straight over Gary’s head. “Sewing? That’s boring, man. Bet Mr. Life and Soul of the Party here hasn’t taken you out once.” He jerked his thumb at Rhys. “Am I right?”
“Oh, he’s been keeping me quite entertained.”
Gary snorted. “Well, when you fancy having some proper fun, let me know.”
“Will that be before or after you’ve taken care of your girlfriend?”
Rhys glanced at Stacey. She’d paled a few shades, and he recognised that tight set to her jaw. She was pissed.
“Before, after, at the same time. Whatevs.”
Rhys thought Stacey might actually take a swing at the philandering prick, but unfortunately, he was saved by a phone. Unintelligible rap music blared, and Gary fished a faux-diamond-encrusted monstrosity out of his pocket.
“It’s my record producer. Gotta take this.”
He ambled off, holding up his jeans with one hand. Hadn’t the idiot ever heard of a belt?
Stacey didn’t move.
“By ‘record producer,’ does he still mean that guy with an entry-level mixing desk and a computer in his bedroom?” Rhys asked her.
“I think so,” Stacey mumbled, turning to Coco. “So, how long have you known Rhys?”
“Not long. A couple of weeks.”
“And you’ve moved in with him already?”
Rhys could understand Stacey’s surprise. Once or twice, she’d made noises about them getting a place together, but he’d always made an excuse not to. Had his subconscious known even then that the relationship was doomed to fail?
“I needed a place to stay.”
Stacey’s eyes narrowed. “And Rhys’s bed was the only available option?”
“It was the best option.” Coco headed for the door. “I have things to do.”
Rhys hurried after her and caught up at the door to his room. Their room.
“You okay?”
Stupid question. The answer was obviously no.
“I hate being reminded of my lack of options.”
“I understand this isn’t easy, but something’s got to give soon. You didn’t materialise from thin air.”
“I just want to know who I am.”
A tear rolled down Coco’s cheek, and Rhys reached out to wipe it away.
“We’ll find out, babe. Why don’t I order us a pizza, and we can bake those cookies tomorrow? Let’s get an early night. Maybe some info’ll come in on social media while we’re asleep?”
Rhys had been checking the posts—they hadn’t exactly gone viral, but the one on Twitter had a few hundred retweets.
“Okay.”
On impulse, Rhys gave Coco a hug. After a second, she returned it, and damn, she felt good in his arms. Too good. This girl, she’d wormed her way into his heart, and he had no idea how to loosen her grip without damaging at least one ventricle. She was the wrong woman at the wrong time.
Wasn’t she?
Then why did it feel so right?
***
Sleep still eluded Rhys, but by the early hours, he had made one important discovery: never buy a cheap air mattress. Not only had it damn near killed him to blow it up that afternoon, but the thing had half deflated already. As he rolled back and forth, trying to get comfortable, he was left with a feeling of mild seasickness.
With sleep a pipe dream, he gave up and read a book. By the time he’d got through twelve chapters, sunlight was spilling over the horizon and some inconsiderate bastard had started mowing their lawn. If Rhys ever saved enough money to buy a home of his own, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be in a town. In fact, another fortnight at Woodside Lodge seemed remarkably attractive at that point.
“You’re up early,” Coco whispered.
“So are you.”
She padded across the room and knelt beside him. “At least I slept. You didn’t, did you?”
“Let’s just say that whoever wrote the testimonial for this mattress was a dirty liar.”
“Take the bed for a while. I can borrow one of your books and then make breakfast.”
Rhys tried to protest, but his eyes began to close, and when he opened his mouth to speak, he ended up yawning instead.
“Maybe just for an hour.”
Happiness was a beautiful woman carrying a bacon sandwich and a mug of freshly brewed coffee. At first, Rhys thought he
was still dreaming, but then he realised that Coco had made good on her offer of breakfast. He could get used to this.
“Feeling better?”
“Yeah.” He glanced at the clock. “But I’ve slept for six hours. Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Because you needed the rest. Plus I started reading one of your spy thrillers and forgot about the time.” She gifted him a soft smile. “I guess I like action and adventure.”
Rhys was no James Bond. He couldn’t offer much more than a roof over her head, but he smiled back.
“Thanks for breakfast.”
“Anytime. Can you check the messages now?”
“Sure.”
She’d even remembered to add ketchup and brown sauce to the sandwich. Yes, Rhys was beginning to like this cohabiting thing. He pulled out his phone and checked Facebook first. One single, solitary message, and yeuch… If Rhys’s dick was that small, he’d at least have photoshopped it first.
His Twitter DMs yielded a whole array of dicks, both literal and metaphorical. Rhys had to concede that some of the equipment was impressive, but there was still no way he’d be showing it to Coco. Then he checked the other messages.
You have been selected to receive six million dollars…
Delete.
Scam artists like you make me sick, posting pictures of dead girls like that. You’ve got a problem, man. You should get help. Delete your account and stop digging up the past.
Dead girls? Could Coco have faked her own death? Rhys fired off a message just in case, but the internet was full of kooks.
Sir, I am a psychic…
Delete.
Does she have an OnlyFans?
Is she single?
She’s hot—I’d do her.
Ah, finally, the common or garden internet trolls had arrived. Delete, delete, delete.
“Any news?” Coco asked.
“Sorry. But we won’t give up. I’ll call the police again this afternoon and see if they’ve got an update. Somebody might’ve filed a missing persons report by now.”
“What if they haven’t? I should find a job, but I have no idea what I’m good at. Or if I’m good at anything at all.”
“That’s not the biggest problem. If you want to work in the UK, you’ll need identification showing you’re allowed to.”
“Oh. I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“This is why we need to focus on finding out who you are.”
Easier said than done. Rhys tried calling the American embassy, just in case a US citizen had been reported missing. None had. Even the crank messages dried up, and all that was left was dick pics. The only notable thing to happen over the following week was the death of Stacey’s microwave, which meant she’d come over for dinner every bloody night seeing as her oven had given up the ghost nearly six months previously. Rhys’s room in the house on Cardon Street began to feel like a prison. At least his cellmate was easy to get along with.
Plus he’d worked out a possible solution to Coco’s financial woes. She was a quick learner, and when she made herself useful by answering user queries and helping with marketing, Rhys found he could work twice as fast on the nitty-gritty programming parts of his job. If he could launch his new app earlier than planned and make a start on the next one, then maybe, just maybe, his little business could support the both of them.
His travel plans? Those would have to wait. No way could he ditch Coco to backpack around Australia, not if he wanted to live with himself afterwards. There was always next year.
But every day that passed with no news, Coco asked the same question, and today was no different.
“What next?”
“Let’s have dinner and sleep on it,” he said, pushing his chair back and stretching. He’d been at his desk for hours, and his eyes ached from staring at the screen for too long.
“Do you want me to cook again?”
“I’ll give you a hand.”
Teamwork made the chores go faster, and if they worked together, there was a chance they could escape the kitchen before Stacey came over with her microwave lasagne.
Except when they got downstairs, Stacey was already in the hallway, backed up against the wall with Gary slurping at her tonsils. Hashim walked past and made a gagging noise, which saved Rhys the trouble. Honestly, this was taking the piss. Everyone knew Gary was shagging Stacey—was there really a need for him to keep rubbing Rhys’s face in it?
When Stacey realised they had an audience, she pushed Gary away, but there was no mistaking the look of triumph on the prick’s face when he saw who was standing there.
“Jealous, mate?”
“Why would I be jealous of you?”
“’Cause your girl won’t put out.”
What was Rhys meant to say to that? Deny it, and he’d be casting Coco as someone she wasn’t, which he had no right to do. Admit it, and he’d probably get arrested for punching the smug grin off Gary’s face. How did the jerk even know what they were or weren’t doing in Rhys’s bedroom?
“That’s none of your business.”
“So it’s true?” Gary snorted laughter. “Thought so when I saw that packet for the blow-up mattress in the kitchen bin. Bet she’s kicked you out of your bed too.”
“Gary, shut up,” Stacey told him.
“What do you care? You ditched him.”
You know what? A night in the cells would be worth it if Rhys could just ram Gary’s grill down his fetid throat. He balled up a fist, but before he could break a knuckle, Coco slipped her arm through his.
“We bought a camping mattress because we’re planning to go on a camping trip, you idiot. Not that it is any of your business, but I’d give Rhys eleven out of ten in bed. Now if you’ll excuse us…” She pulled Rhys towards the door. “We’re going out for dinner. Rhys doesn’t have the energy to cook after his efforts this afternoon, and I can barely walk.” Coco fired a smile at Stacey. “Have fun ‘putting out.’”
Rhys managed to hold it together until they got outside, but when the front door slammed behind them, the laughter started. Both of them bent double on the pavement, clutching each other for support, and a passing couple gave them a wide berth.
“I can’t believe you said that,” Rhys choked out.
“Neither can I, but what an ass. I’d feel sorry for Stacey if she hadn’t cheated on you.”
“Yeah, he’s an ass, but thankfully, I only have to put up with him for a few more weeks.”
Coco stopped laughing, and the sadness returned to her eyes.
Dammit. Why had Rhys reminded her of the time limit hanging over them?
“So, about dinner…” he started.
“Sorry I said we were going out. Maybe we could just pick up some chips? Like, British chips.”
“Hell no. I’m taking you to a proper restaurant. After what you said to Gary, I owe you three courses and wine.”
CHAPTER 10
ONE BOTTLE OF wine turned into two, and it was almost midnight by the time Rhys and Coco stumbled along Cardon Street, arm in arm because neither of them could stand up on their own.
“Enough with that noise,” a hunched guy pushing a shopping trolley full of cans griped, and Coco made an exaggerated sad face.
“Aw, he doesn’t appreciate our singing.”
“Can’t imagine why not.”
“But our harmonies are…hic…perfect.”
The door lock kept moving, and it took Rhys four tries to insert the key. Coco tripped over the step on her way inside, and when Rhys tried to catch her, they ended up in a heap on the floor. Yeuch.
“Need…bed,” she mumbled.
At that moment, the stairs looked as challenging as Mount Everest.
“We could sleep on the sofa?”
“Urgh, no way. The sofa has sex cooties. From Gary. His naked ass conti…contan…contaminated it.”
She was absolutely right.
“Okay, so… I guess we’d better tackle the stairs.”
After an ungainly s
cramble, they made it to the top, and a little crawling got them to the bedroom. With Coco and a dead woodlouse as his witnesses, Rhys swore he was never drinking expensive wine again. He’d never got this drunk from beer on his rare trips to the Students’ Union bar. Probably because they watered all the drinks down, but…
“Aw, the air escaped from your mattress again.”
“Fuck it.”
“So I guess we’re not going camping now?”
“Did you want to go camping?”
“No.” Coco landed on the bed, arms and legs spread wide like a starfish. “I want to go to a tropical island and drink cocktails on the beach.”
“Perhaps give the cocktails a miss, eh? Dammit, I need to blow this thing up.”
“Need a hand?” Coco rolled over and reached for his belt buckle. “Maybe I’m good at blowing things? Who knows?”
Rhys hardened in an instant, but even in his drunken state, there was no way he’d take advantage of Coco like that. He peeled her fingers off, and she grabbed his hand instead.
“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he muttered.
“Spoilsport.”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“So have you.”
“Coco…”
She pouted, and it shouldn’t have been cute, but it was. “If I’m not allowed to blow things, then neither are you. There’s plenty of room in this bed for two.”
Rhys’s first instinct was to say no, but realistically, he’d probably puke if he tried to inflate that mattress tonight. The room was spinning already, and his head felt disconnected from his body. And the bed was a double. As long as he kept his hands to himself…
They were both adults. What would be the harm in sharing?
***
Hot… So hot…
Had Hashim turned the thermostat up again? Because they’d had words about this. Utility bills got split four ways, and if he wanted the house hotter than the tropics, he had to pay a greater share.
