Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Dressed only in Michal’s tatty SpongeBob SquarePants pj bottoms and his old Arsenal football shirt, she gathers her clothes for the day and bolts down the stairs and through the kitchen into the bathroom.
Magda has been generous with Michal’s old clothing. She often complains he’s growing too fast, but it’s been to Alessia’s advantage. Most of the clothes she owns were once his. Except socks. Michal wears huge holes in them, so he can’t hand them down. She has two pairs of her own, but that’s all.
Don’t you wear socks?
Alessia flushes, remembering the Mister’s comment from yesterday. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him she can’t afford new ones. Not while she’s saving for a deposit on a room.
She switches on the electric shower that is mounted over the bath and waits a few moments for the water to heat up. She strips off her clothes, climbs into the bathtub, and washes as quickly as possible beneath the trickle of water.
* * *
My hands are braced on the shower wall. I’m panting while steaming hot water cascades over me. I’ve been reduced to jerking off in the shower…again.
Fuck. What has become of my life?
Why don’t I just go out and get laid?
Her eyes, the color of a rich espresso, peek up at me through long lashes.
I groan.
This has to stop.
She’s my fucking daily. Last night I tossed and turned alone in my bed again. Her laugh echoed over and over in my dreams. She was carefree and happy, playing the piano for me, wearing nothing but those pink panties, her hair falling long and lush past her breasts.
Ah…
Even my grueling workout this morning had done little to get her out of my system.
There is only one way.
That’s not going to happen.
But the smile she gave me when she stepped out of the car, it gives me hope, and I’ll see her tomorrow. With that positive thought, I turn off the shower and grab a towel. As I shave, I check my phone. Oliver has messaged me. He’s stuck in Cornwall because of the weather, which means I can spend the morning replying to condolence e-mails and then have lunch with Caroline and Maryanne. And this evening I’m going out with the lads.
* * *
“Finally got you out of your lair. Should I address you as ‘Lord Trevethick’ or ‘milord’ now, bro?” Joe says as he holds up his pint of Fuller’s in salute.
“Yes. I don’t know whether to address you as ‘Trevethick’ or ‘Trevelyan’ now,” Tom grumbles.
“I’ll answer to either,” I reply with a shrug. “Or my name—you know, Maxim.”
“I should call you Trevethick from now on…though it will be hard to get used to. It is your title, after all, and I know my father is bloody touchy about his!”
“Thank fuck I’m not your father.” I raise a brow.
Tom rolls his eyes.
“Won’t be the same without Kit around,” Joe mutters, his ebony eyes glinting in the firelight and serious for once.
“Yes, rest in peace, Kit,” Tom adds.
Joseph Diallo and Thomas Alexander are my oldest and closest friends. After I’d been expelled from Eton, my father sent me to Bedales. There I met Joe, Tom, and Caroline. We boys bonded over our love of music and, at the time, our lust for Caroline. We formed a band, and Caroline…well, she’d eventually chosen my brother.
“Rest in peace, Kit,” I murmur, and add under my breath, “I miss you, you fucker.”
The three of us are ensconced in the snug at the Coopers Arms, a warm and welcoming public house not far from my flat. Nursing our pints by the blazing fire, we’re two rounds in, and I’m beginning to feel the beer buzz.
“How are you holding up, mate?” Joe asks, tossing his shoulder-length dreads to one side. Joe, as well as being an excellent swordsman, has a promising career as a men’s fashion designer. His father, an émigré from Senegal, is one of the most successful hedge-fund managers in the UK.
“Good, I guess. But I’m not sure I’m ready for all the responsibility.”
“I get it,” Tom says. Red-haired and amber-eyed, Tom is the third son of a baronet, who followed family tradition by joining the army. As a lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards, he did a couple of tours of duty in Afghanistan and saw too many of his comrades fall. Two years ago he was invalided out of the army from wounds inflicted two years prior by an IED in Kabul. His left leg is held together by titanium, his temper not so much. Both Joe and I have come to recognize that pugnacious gleam in Tom’s eyes, and we know when it’s prudent to change the subject or get him out of the room. At his request we never mention The Incident.
“When is the memorial service?” Tom inquires.