‘Sorry!’ I blurt, the box tumbling from my hand. The plastic casing creates a deafening clatter when it meets the floor, the box jumping around at my feet. And another pair of feet, too. Feet I don’t recognise. I don’t like the chill creeping up my spine, nor the sense of vulnerability that suddenly engulfs me.
‘My apologies.’ The man’s voice is posh and he’s wearing an expensive suit. He’s bending down to pick up the box before I can register his face, and he spends a few seconds resting on his haunches, looking at the pregnancy test, spinning it in his hand repeatedly while humming his interest. I haven’t seen his face yet, only the back of his head as he remains crouched at my feet. I definitely don’t recognise the grey-flecked hair, yet something is screaming that he knows me. He had every intention to be in this aisle with me – the aisle mainly full of women’s toiletries. I may be in a busy supermarket, people everywhere, but I can feel danger thick in the air around us.
The stranger lifts his face as he rises. His eyes are bordering black and harbouring all sorts of unspoken threats. He has a scar that runs from the centre of his right cheek all the way down to the corner of his mouth, and his thin lips curve into a fake smile, deepening it. It’s a smile that’s intended to lead me into a false sense of security.
‘I believe this is yours.’ He hands me the box, and I will my hands to stop shaking when I take it. I know I’ve failed in my attempts when he raises a sharp eyebrow, still keeping a hold of the box as I accept, probably absorbing my trembles.
My eyes drop, no longer able to meet the harshness of his stare. ‘Thank you.’ I gulp back my fear and sidestep him, but he moves with me, blocking my path. I clear my throat, anything to get the strong assertiveness I’m desperately searching for and that I desperately hope fools him. ‘Excuse me.’ I step to the other side this time, and so does he, letting out a little chuckle.
‘We don’t seem to be going anywhere fast, do we?’ He moves in, getting way too close to my personal space, doubling my fretfulness.
‘No,’ I agree, attempting again to dodge him and, yet again, getting blocked. Taking a deep breath, I reluctantly lift my eyes until they meet his face. He’s the epitome of evil. It’s screaming from every single fibre of his ominous being, and it has me wilting on the spot. He smiles down at me and reaches out, taking a stray tendril of my hair and twirling it in his fingers. I freeze, immobilised by terror.
He hums thoughtfully . . . darkly . . . sinisterly. Then he dips and brings his mouth close to my ear. ‘Sweet girl,’ he whispers. ‘We finally meet.’ I jump back on a gasp, my hand flying to my hair and brushing away the traces of his breath while he remains slightly dipped, a malevolent sneer pulling at the edges of his thin lips as he regards me closely.
‘Olivia?’ I hear my name being spoken in the distance, unease in the familiar tone, and watch as the stranger straightens and casts his eyes over my shoulder, that smirk widening. Spinning on the spot, every breath leaves my lungs when I see Miller striding quickly towards me, his face straight but a wealth of emotion in his clear eyes – relief, fear, caution . . . anger.
‘Miller,’ I breathe, energy surging through my dead muscles and firing my legs into action, taking me a few paces forward until I’m hiding in his chest, my arms bunched between our bodies. He’s quivering. Everything about this situation is shrieking hazard.
Miller’s chin is resting on the top of my head, one arm holding me tightly against him, and there’s a stone-cold silence amid the hype of activity around us, like we’re stuck in a bubble and no one except the three of us are aware of the peril and hostility polluting the supermarket air. I don’t have to look to know he’s still behind me; I can feel his presence as well as I can feel Miller trying to squeeze some comfort into me, and the hardness of Miller’s tense muscles against me is a clue. So I remain concealed in my comfort zone.
It feels like a lifetime before I feel Miller relax a little, and I chance a peek, looking over my shoulder. The man is strolling down the aisle, his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets, browsing the shelves like he frequents the supermarket daily. But just like Miller, he looks out of place.
‘Are you OK?’ Miller asks, placing me at arm’s length and scanning my blank face. ‘Did he touch you?’
I shake my head, thinking it very unwise to tell him anything that could set my human bomb ticking. I don’t think I need to, anyway. Miller knows that man and he knows what I’ve just encountered without my confirmation. ‘Who is he?’ I finally ask the question that I really don’t want to know the answer to, and if I go by the pained look on Miller’s face, it’s clear he doesn’t want to tell me. Or confirm it. He’s the immoral bastard.
I’m not sure whether Miller sees me make my silent conclusion or whether he simply doesn’t want to settle it, but my question goes unanswered and he’s quickly pulling his phone from his pocket. One push of a button and a few seconds later, Miller’s talking down the line. ‘Time’s up,’ he says simply, before hanging up and making a grab for my hand.
But he pauses his urgent string of movements when something catches his attention.
Something in my hand.
Every defeated bone in my body gives up on me. I make no attempt to hide what I’m holding. I make no attempt to conjure up an excuse. He’s blank, just gazing down at the box for the longest time before he eventually lifts empty blues to my watery eyes. ‘Oh Jesus fucking Christ,’ he exhales, the tips of his thumb and index finger meeting his forehead, his eyes clenching shut.
‘I don’t think the morning-after pill worked.’ I choke over my words, knowing I don’t need to elaborate and that he won’t demand it.
His hand rakes through his waves, pulling them all back from his face, and his cheeks puff out, adding to the display of shaken actions. ‘Fuck!’
I flinch as a result of his curse, my earlier terror being replaced by nerves. ‘I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.’
‘Fuck!’ Miller seizes my nape and pushes me towards the end of the aisle, where I find our full trolley waiting. He chucks the box in carelessly, takes the handle of the trolley with his free hand, and starts leading us to the checkout.
My movements are automatic, my muscles working without instruction, maybe appreciating the delicate situation or maybe noting Miller’s explosive mood. I’m placing things on the conveyor belt at the checkout, quiet and wary, as Miller repositions everything according to how it should be. Leaving him to it, I go to the other end and begin packing the bags, but I’m spared that task, too, when Miller takes up position beside me and begins to remove and repack everything. So I stand like a spare part while he does his thing. His jaw is a constant source of ticking, his hand movements fast but ever precise as he shoves our buys into carrier bags before dumping the full ones in the trolley. He’s trying to restore some calm into his crumbing world.
After paying a dopey-eyed cashier, the trolley and I are reclaimed and we’re being pushed on firmly until we escape the confines of the bustling supermarket. But Miller’s unease doesn’t lessen, though I’m uncertain of the main cause now – me and my shocking revelation or that creepy man and his unnerving surprise visit.
At that thought, my eyes start darting everywhere.
‘He’s gone,’ Miller says to the open air before him, just as we reach his car. ‘Get in.’
I do as I’m bid without complaint, letting Miller load the boot of his car alone. It’s not long before we’re speeding out of the car park and joining the main road, the atmosphere unbearable, but there’s no escaping it. ‘Where are we going?’ I ask, suddenly worried that he’s no intention of taking me home.
‘To Ice.’
‘But Nan,’ I argue quietly. ‘You can take me home first.’ I’ve no desire to accompany Miller to Ice. I’d rather commence with my favourite pastime of late and wedge my head a bit farther into the sand.
‘Wrong,’ he fires back resolutely, leaving no scope for negotiation. I know that tone. I know this behaviour
. ‘We haven’t got time to fuck about, Olivia.’
‘Taking care of Nan isn’t fucking about!’
‘Gregory will take care of her.’
‘I want to take care of her.’
‘And I want to take care of you.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I haven’t got time for your sass right now!’ He pulls a hard right and screeches down a side street. ‘None of this is going away unless I make it.’
My heart rate slows. I don’t like the determination that’s written all over his hard features or lining his gravelly voice. I should be feeling a sense of relief that he’s full of fortitude to fix things. Problem is, I’m not sure how he intends to do that, but the little voice in my head is telling me I might not like it. And where will he start, anyway? Give me five minutes and I’ll produce a list of the shit to be dealt with, but then we go back to our original problem: What takes priority? Something tells me that my suspected pregnancy won’t be at the top of that list. Nor will the appearance of my mother.
No. Everything is telling me that our encounter with the ominous guy in the supermarket is reigning supreme on our list of shit. The immoral bastard. The man who Miller has been hiding me from. The man who holds the key to Miller’s chains.
Chapter 19
It’s the first time I’ve seen Ice completely empty.
Miller lifts me onto a stool and spins me to face the bar before making his way around and grabbing a sparkling tumbler from one of the glass shelves. He slams it down with force, seizes a bottle of scotch, and pours the glass to the brim. Then he downs the lot, gasping, his head falling back. Slowly, he turns and collapses back against the counter, looking down at his empty glass.
He looks defeated, and it scares the hell out of me. ‘Miller?’
He concentrates on his glass for a while before tortured blue eyes finally meet my gaze. ‘The guy in the supermarket. That was Charlie.’
‘The immoral bastard,’ I say, willingly showing my understanding. He’s exactly who I feared he was, yet my conclusion of the man, having been told about him by Miller, doesn’t do him justice. He’s terrifying.
‘Why won’t he just let you quit?’ I ask.
‘When you owe Charlie, you’re indebted for life. If he does you a favour, you pay forever.’
‘He got you off the streets years ago!’ I blurt. ‘That doesn’t justify your lifelong commitment to owing him. He made you a prostitute, Miller! And then promoted you to the Special One!’ I nearly fall from my stool as a result of the sudden anger bubbling in my gut. ‘This isn’t right!’
‘Hey, hey, hey.’ He swiftly discards his empty glass and slaps a palm on the bar as leverage to flip himself over to my side. He clears it with ease and finesse, his feet landing silently in front of me. ‘Calm down,’ he placates me, cupping my hot cheeks and pulling my face up to his, scanning my welling eyes. ‘Nothing about my life has been right, Olivia.’ Spreading my thighs with his knees, he moves in close, lifting my face farther to accommodate him towering over me so our eyes can remain locked. ‘I’m too fucked up, sweet girl. Nothing can help me. Me and my club are gold mines for Charlie. But it isn’t only my profitability and the convenience of Ice for his dealings that dictates things. It’s the power trip, too. It’s principle. Show weakness and the enemy will have you by the bollocks.’ He breathes in deeply as I take it all in. ‘I’ve never considered quitting because I’ve never had reason to,’ Miller goes on. ‘He knows that. And he knows if I were to ever walk away, there would be good reason.’ His lips straighten and his eyes blink lazily, an action I usually find comforting, spellbinding. Not today, though. Today it’s just adding to my trepidation because that slow blink, accompanied by another deep inhale, is an attempt to gather the strength he needs to utter his next words. When he drags his lids open, I hold my breath, bracing myself. He’s looking at me like I’m the most precious thing in his universe. Because I am. ‘They will eliminate that good reason,’ he finishes quietly, punching the breath from my lungs. ‘One way or another, he wants you out of my life. I haven’t been acting like a neurotic lunatic for nothing. I belong to him, Olivia. Not you.’
My poor brain explodes under the pressure of Miller’s brutal explanation. ‘I want you to be mine.’ I utter the words mindlessly. There’s no thought behind them, just desperation. Miller Hart is unobtainable, and not only because of the guarded exterior he holds firmly in place.
‘I’m working on it, my gorgeous, sweet girl. Believe me, I’m working fucking hard on it.’ He presses his lips to the top of my head, inhaling me into him, getting a dose of the strength that he siphons off me. ‘I have a request.’
I don’t vocalise my confirmation to the request that I know is coming. I need to hear it. ‘Anything.’
He picks me up from the stool and sits me on the high bar, like he’s placing me on the proverbial pedestal. Then he muscles in between my thighs and looks up at me, circling my waist with his big hands. My fingers brush through his waves, all the way through the top until I’m kneading the back of his neck. ‘Never stop loving me, Olivia Taylor.’
‘Impossible.’
He smiles a little as he drops his face into my chest and moves his hands around to my back, pulling us closer, blending us together. I stare down at the back of his head, stroking comfort into him. ‘How sure are you?’ he asks out of the blue.
My stroking hands pause as I muster the might to face another one of our shocking revelations. ‘Sure,’ I reply simply, because I am. Just like everything else, I can’t and shouldn’t be hiding from this.
He slowly releases me and holds the test out, watching as my eyes flick between him and the box. ‘Sure isn’t good enough.’
I reach and take it tentatively.
‘Go.’
I say nothing as he lifts me down, and leave him at the bar pouring another drink. I follow my feet to the ladies’ room and brace myself for the confirmation in black and white. My actions are mindless, from entering the stall to exiting it. I try to ignore the few minutes’ wait I’ve read it takes to give me the result and spend that time washing my hands, also trying to ignore the possible reaction I’m likely to get from Miller. At least now he’s aware there’s a possibility. But will that lessen the shock? Will he even want it? I slam a lid on those thoughts before they run away with me. I don’t expect him to be dancing on the ceiling over the pending confirmation of my pregnancy. There’s no room for celebration in our lives.
Turning the test over, I stare down at the tiny window. Then I wander out of the restroom and back into the main club, where I find Miller waiting, tapping the bar. He looks up at me. He’s expressionless. Once again, I can’t fathom a bit of his thought process. So I hold the test up, watching as his eyes flick to it. He won’t be able to see from all the way over there, so I murmur one word. ‘Positive.’
He deflates before my eyes, making my stomach turn. Then he cocks his head, silently demanding I go to him. I’m cautious, but I do, reaching him in a few strides. I’m lifted onto the bar and his body moves in, his head resting on my chest, his palms sliding onto my bottom.
‘Is it wrong for me to be delighted?’ he asks, shocking me. I honestly expected a Miller-style meltdown. Because my sole focus has been on my own shock, plus what I thought would be a negative reaction from Miller, I’ve not stopped and considered the potential of being happy by this news. I’ve seen it as being another thorn in our side – another pile of shit to deal with. Miller, on the other hand, sounds like he’s seeing it from a whole other perspective.
‘I’m not sure,’ I admit aloud, when I only meant to silently wonder. Can we be happy about this amid all the darkness? Is he seeing brighter light? My world has become just as dark as Miller’s, and I can only see more gloom on the horizon.
‘Then I’ll tell you.’ He lifts his head and smiles at me. ‘Anything you bless me with I see as a gift, Olivia.’ A smooth palm strokes my cheek. ‘Your beauty to look at.’ He scans my
face for an eternity before slowly dragging his hand down to my chest and tracing wide circles around my breast. My breath hitches, my spine lengthening. ‘Your body to feel.’ He tries to pull back his smile as he takes a glimpse up at me. ‘Your sass to deal with.’
I bite my lip through my budding desire and refrain from telling him that, ultimately, he is the source of my sass. ‘Elaborate,’ I demand unreasonably. He’s made himself pretty clear already.
‘As you wish,’ he agrees without hesitation. ‘This –’ he plants a kiss on my tummy, humming as he does – ‘is another gift you’re giving me. You know I fiercely protect what’s mine.’ He looks up at me, and I lose myself in the sincerity of his telling eyes. ‘What’s growing inside of you is mine, sweet girl. And I’ll destroy anything that tries to take it away from me.’
His strange way with words, his way of articulating his feelings, it’s irrelevant now because I’m fluent in Miller’s language. He couldn’t have put it any more perfectly.
‘I want to be a perfect daddy,’ he whispers.
Happiness sails through me, but through that bliss, I reach the very solid conclusion that Miller was referring to Charlie. It’s Charlie he’ll destroy. He knows about me. And he saw me with a pregnancy test in my hand. I’m a good reason for Miller to walk away, even more so now. Charlie eliminates good reasons. And Miller will destroy anything that tries to take me away from him. Frighteningly, I know he’s perfectly capable.
Which means Charlie is on death row.
A loud rapping brings me around, whipping my head in the direction of the club entrance.
‘Anderson,’ Miller mutters, his mask slipping into place, our happy moment being cut too short. He breaks away from me, giving my thigh a little squeeze before he strides off . . . and my sass appears from nowhere and bites me on the arse.
‘Why’s he here?’ I ask, slipping from the bar to my feet.
‘To help.’
I don’t want to see him. Now I know for sure she’s in London and he hasn’t got Miller holding him back, he’ll want to talk about her. I don’t want to. Suddenly feeling claustrophobic in the mammoth space of Ice, I pace around the bar until I’m staring up at rows and rows of the hard stuff. Burn the anger away. That’s what I need to do. I reach up and snatch down a bottle of vodka, mindlessly unscrew the cap, and pour myself a triple. But when the cold glass meets my lips, I don’t tip the contents down my throat, mainly because my mind is distracted by a mental image.
An image of a baby.
‘Damn,’ I sigh, slowly taking the glass back down to the bar. I just stare at it, swivelling it around gently until the clear liquid is still. I don’t want it. Alcohol has served a purpose of
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