by Amiee Louise
He audibly gasps. Fuck.
“What did you just say?” he grits out. “Did your family know you were alive?”
He pulls away from me, as if I have burned him, and I suddenly feel as if there is a whole ocean between us once again.
“TELL ME THE FUCKING TRUTH, PEYTON, OR SO HELP ME FUCKING GOD!”
He bawls, and I flinch at his sharp tone.
“TELL ME!” he roars.
I nod slowly, trying to hold back the tears.
“I...I was hurt Sam, so fucking hurt. You crushed me, and you broke my heart. I needed my family to know I was alive, I couldn’t do it to them.”
Shit. His green eyes are fierce and so full of fire.
“You couldn’t do it to them, but you could do it to me! I tried to commit fucking suicide because I couldn’t go on without you! How do you think I felt? I woke up screaming, night after night. I drank just so I could feel numb. I was fucking broken, Peyton! You broke me! My best friend found me in a pool of my own fucking blood because I was too god damn weak to see a life without you in it!”
He runs his hands frantically through his hair and starts to pace the room.
“FUCK!” he curses, as he picks up his glass and launches it at the wall.
The glass shatters everywhere, spraying the room in glistening shards. A tear slips down my cheek as I hear the sound of Sam's footsteps across the wooden floor of his penthouse apartment.
"As far as I was concerned, you had committed the ultimate betrayal by asking some fucking twisted psychopath to kidnap and torture me. He fucking stabbed me; I was terrified, and I thought I was going to die! Don’t you get that? He tortured me physically and mentally. I hated you with every bone in my body for making me fall so deeply in love with you and then ripping my heart out like I fucking meant nothing, Sam!" I screech.
He scrubs his hands across his lightly stubbled jaw and walks over to the floor to ceiling windows that look out on the New York City skyline by night.
"Your family knew you were alive; don't you think I fucking deserved to be clued into that fact?"
His voice is barely a whisper, as I shake my head.
"You really don't fucking get it, do you, Sam? I despised you for crushing my very being. I wanted you to fucking suffer for what you did. I wanted you and J.D to rot in the fucking ground," I spit harshly, and Sam rears back at my cold, unforgiving tone.
"How could you ever think that, angel? I fucking worshipped you; we were going to get married, and you were pregnant with my baby! Wasn’t that a clear indication of how I felt about you? I would have killed for you! I would have willingly done prison time, just to fucking protect you!" he says with such determined conviction in his voice and runs his hand through his raven strands.
He catches my gaze in the reflection of the glass.
"This is all such a fucking mess, and I'm not sure how we can fix it, angel; how we can fix us. Losing you fucking destroyed me, Peyton. It wasn’t just you that died that day; you took a part of me with you. Nothing else mattered to me anymore. My life was pointless. The fame, the money, the band, the music… none of it fucking mattered. Don’t you get that? I almost gave up my career because of you."
He turns around slowly, as he says those words and our eyes lock.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sam," I whisper, and he shakes his head.
“The pain of losing you cut so deep, I thought I would never get over you, angel. I tortured myself every single fucking day because I blamed myself. I thought I was responsible for failing the only woman I’ve ever really loved! The day we met, I told you I would ruin you, but you were the one who ended up fucking ruining me, Peyton! You ruined me for all other women!"
His husky voice sounds so pained, it makes my heat slam against my rib cage.
"Your mum and Dexter came to see me after I tried to kill myself. Jesus, your mum was so fucking pissed at me, shouting and screaming at me, cursing like a fucking sailor on shore leave. Tell me one thing, Peyton, I have to know. Did they already know then? Was it all just one big act?”
I look up at him and shake my head.
“No, no not at all. Don't ever think that for a second. I called them over six months ago, just after I gave birth to Freddie; I was so fucking scared and so lonely, Sam. I had just given birth, and I needed my mum and dad. I needed hope, and I needed some semblance of my old life back again. I know I was taking a big risk, but I needed something to cling on to. I haven’t been Peyton Harper this past year. Remy knew people who could make her disappear for good, and I’ve been living as Louise Stonebridge. I’ve been residing in Santa Monica, California, under a new identity and working as a barista at Cool Beans Coffee Shop. A fucking coffee shop. For the first time in twenty-eight fucking years, Sam, I don’t know who I am anymore!”
I run my hands through my hair, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push back the floods of tears that are threatening to spill from my eyes.
36
Peyton
About Ten Months Ago
I have been in Santa Monica for over two months now. After recovering from the initial trauma of being tied up and tortured by J.D, I have realised there is only so much Netflix a girl can handle before I start to go stir crazy. There are only so many TV shows a girl can watch. Endless episodes of Vampire Diaries, Sons of Anarchy, Strike Back, The Blacklist, White Collar and Dexter have caused the cabin fever to set in. The boredom is making me feel like I want to climb the walls. I am opening and closing the cupboards like a mad woman, desperate for something to do. I’m searching for something to occupy my otherwise active mind when I hear Remy come in from his morning run.
"Right, that's it, beaut, I've had it with watching you climb the walls. I'm going to grab a shower then I'm taking you out for breakfast, no bloody arguments. You've been cooped up for way too long, and it's about time you started to make some friends other than me. You're starting to turn into a hermit!"
I salute him sarcastically, and he cocks his eyebrow.
"Fucking women," he mutters as he strides off into the bathroom, leaving me curious as to where he is taking me.
I am brushing my newly dyed, short red hair in the mirror as Remy hops out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped loosely around his hips. The towel hanging so low I can see the 'V' cut below his abs. Remy used to be the awkward, gangly, nerdy boy next door all those years ago. He had a side parting, wore glasses and had absolutely no definition to his straight up, straight down body. As I take him in, I am reminded of the significant difference of how he was then, to how he is now as he is standing gloriously in front of me. His body is all muscle and definition. Instead of the traditional six-pack, I swear he has an eight-pack. His olive skin is sun-kissed, and his arms are corded with pure, thick sinew.
"When you've quite finished. I actually feel violated, do I look like a piece of meat to you?" he says with more than a hint of amusement in his voice, and I feel my face flush with embarrassment at being caught ogling him.
"Relax, I'm just fucking with you. Ogle away, it's good for my ego!"
We both laugh as he kisses his muscles on his arms. He drops down on the bed and begins to secure his prosthetic onto his stump.
"It's good to finally hear you laugh, beaut. When I lost my leg, I was so low I thought I would never laugh again. I thought all people were going to see was some injured soldier. I saw the pity in their eyes, and I was resigned to the fact that life wasn't ever going to go back to the way it used to be. I was fucking terrified that people were going to treat me differently. Part of me didn't want to care, but deep down, I knew I did. I met this guy while I was in hospital in the U.K, his name was Dave. We nicknamed him Disco Dave because he lost both legs, an arm and his left eye in Afghanistan. What I admired the most about Dave, was he never lost his sense of humour. He was always laughing, always smiling, always cracking jokes, and he would have the doctors and nurses in stitches. One day, I was feeling particularly sorry for myself. I was so frustrated, and
I was in a sort of 'I-hate-the-world-and-everyone-in-it' kind of mood. Dave came into my room, and he poked me in the ribs. And do you know what he said? He said, 'man up and quit bitchin', soldier boy', all the nurses and the doctors, who were in the room at the time, were bracing themselves for World War three to break out right there in the hospital. That was the moment I started laughing, and I was full out belly laughing. It felt so good to feel something, and I'll be forever grateful to Dave for that. What I'm trying to say is, life might not be the same ever again, but us human beings, we're adaptable creatures. We learn to make the best of a bad situation, beaut, so that's why I'm taking you for coffee and to meet Dax. He's a good buddy of mine, and he owns a coffee shop just a few blocks away."
I cock my eyebrow at him, not sure where this is going.
"Hear me out. I know it's not ideal, but Dax owes me a favour, so this is me cashing it in. I'm going to ask him to give you a job."
My eyes widen. Me, working in a coffee shop? I can't imagine doing anything other than tattooing, and that breaks my heart.
"I know you're a tattoo artist, but it's not practical, beaut. We can't take the risk. You need to fly under the radar. What if someone recognises your work? What if someone posts pictures online? Your cover as Louise Stonebridge will be blown, and that's a whole new can of worms I don't want to open up."
He limps into his bedroom to dry off, leaving me in the living room to contemplate what he has just told me. Could I really pull off working in a coffee shop? Am I even capable of doing something other than tattooing? For the first time in forever, I'm all sorts of confused. I am shaken from my thoughts, by the sound of Remy's soft chuckle.
"Don't shoot it down, just stop over thinking, beaut. I know it's a big step, but have faith; I have absolute faith in you. It's going to be fine. Dax is a good guy, he's one of the best. Please do this, if not for me, then for you and your son. Being a lady of leisure doesn't suit you.”
Deep down, I know that everything Remy has said is true. I just have to trust my instinct and hope he’s right. By the end of that day, I had been hired by Dax, and I was well on the way to completing my fresh start.
37
Peyton
Present
Sam is standing, quietly cursing to himself after the revelation that my family knew I was alive. I’m torn apart at having hurt him, yet again.
“I can’t fucking do this, Sam. I have to go.”
I take a deep breath and open my eyes. Sam avoids my gaze and nods curtly.
"Cole will take you back to your hotel," he says flatly, and I make my way to the spare room to get Freddie.
Remy was right, I should never have agreed so easily to this meeting. I find myself all too eagerly grabbing Freddie, strapping him in his carrycot, and gathering the rest of my things ready to leave.
Ten minutes pass, and as I make my way back into the living space, I hear the sound of raised voices. One is distinctly female, and my heart slams against my rib cage at the sight in front of me: Lyla, in all her willowy, leggy blonde glory. She is wearing a red trench coat, open, revealing her lacy black lingerie, complete with thigh high stockings, suspenders and six-inch spiked black heels. She smirks as she catches me taking her in.
"Ah, I see Lazarus is back from the dead," she says, with venom in her voice and I try to maintain my poker face, as if her hurtful comment didn’t affect me.
"Sammy, baby, you didn't tell me we would be having company," she croons, and for the first time since I re-entered the room, I notice him.
Sam is wearing a black baseball vest, which clings to his muscles and showcases his 'My Angel' tattoo across his chest. He is also wearing a pair of black silk pyjama bottoms, which hang low on his hips. He must have changed while I was getting mine and Freddie’s stuff together. His hair is perfectly mussed, and he is standing barefoot, drinking a fresh glass of amber liquid. He runs his hand haphazardly through his hair and shakes his head.
"Don’t go. Look, I'm sorry I overreacted. This conversation is far from finished, Peyton," Sam says gruffly, as he looks between Lyla and me.
I can’t help but compare myself to the blonde goddess in front of me. Her tall, lightly bronzed, slim perfect figure, her wavy, platinum blonde hair, dip dyed with blue streaks, her large almond-shaped blue eyes, and her small nose stud that glints in the soft light of the room. Her bow-shaped mouth, her flawless skin and her large breasts make me feel so fucking inadequate. I don't stand a chance against this beautiful, model-like creature in front of me. I swallow back the lump that has formed in my throat and stand taller. Come on Harper, chin up, tits out.
"Don’t apologise, you're welcome to each other; don't mind me. Me and my son were just leaving. I’ll be in touch."
I try to sound nonchalant, but there is an edge of malice to my voice, even though inside my heart is breaking all over again. Has he really missed me, or has he expertly fooled me into thinking he's missed me? Has he been with Lyla all this time? How many other women have there been? I brush past her, with a little more force than necessary, and leave Sam's apartment as fast as my legs can carry me. I’m desperate to get back to Remy and return to our simple life in Santa Monica.
I take the lift down to the lobby and am alone with my thoughts. As I step out of the lift, I catch sight of Cole quietly sitting in one of the black overstuffed armchairs in the corner, playing with his phone. He stands as soon as he catches my eye and tucks his phone in his jacket pocket. A look of concern marring his features.
"What did he do this time, sugar?"
I shake my head, as my eyes glaze over.
"Take me back to the hotel please, Cole. I need to leave now, I can't be here," I anxiously choke out, and he nods curtly.
He takes Freddie's sleeping form in his carrycot out to the Mercedes, which is parked idly at the kerb. He opens the door, leans in, and straps Freddie securely in the back seat. I climb shakily in the back seat, next to Freddie, and let the tears I was holding back in the confines of Sam's apartment fall down my cheeks. Cole climbs into the driver’s seat, and he regards me intently.
"Look, sugar, it’s none of my business, but you look like you could do with a friend. Do you want to tell me about it?"
He hands me a handkerchief, and I wipe my eyes.
"Fucking Lyla showed up. I can't compete with her, Cole. I never could."
I sob as Cole scrubs his free hand down his face.
"Fucking Lyla," he growls, and I shake my head.
“Please take me back to the hotel, Cole,” I plead, and he nods, catching my watery gaze in the interior mirror.
He smiles softly, starts the engine, flicks the indicator, and pulls fluidly out into the night-time New York traffic. I quickly fire off a text to Remy.
On my way back to the hotel now, babe
P xx
Throughout the remainder of the journey, I am silent and lost in my own thoughts. I want nothing more than to pack up our stuff and return to the place I now call home: Santa Monica. Soon we are pulling to a halt outside the hotel and Cole comes around to the passenger door to let me out of the car. He looks sympathetically at me and smiles warmly.
“I’ve got it, sugar.”
He helps me out of the car and unstraps Freddie from the back seat. He carries him to the affluent, glass-fronted hotel entrance and hands him to me.
“Take care, sugar. If you need anything at all, call me.”
He passes me a business card, brushes my arm reassuringly and winks. I manage a smile, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes. I enter the hotel and make my way quickly to the lift, carefully trying not to jar a sleeping Freddie awake. I frantically stab the call button, trying my best not to break down in front of the rest of the hotel's patrons. The lift arrives, and I step inside, secretly hoping that I am the sole occupant all the way up to the twelfth floor. The door starts to close, and a large tanned hand slides between the doors to stop the doors from fully closing.
“Hold the elevator, sweetheart.”
I look up into the greenest eyes I have ever seen, they would give Sam’s a run for their money. His grin is swoon-worthy, and he is wearing a bright yellow hoodie, emblazoned with the words ‘Starr Inc.’ in bright red lettering. He has his hood pulled up, which covers his light brown hair. He punches the penthouse floor button, and I feel my face flush. The doors close, and the lift starts to move. I try to hide my face, but I can see his smirk out of the corner of my eye.
“You know, where I'm from, it isn’t considered a crime to find me attractive, honey.”
His American accent is deep and playful; I look up to meet his amused eyes.
“Hey.”
He salutes, and I smile.
