LUKA (The Rhythm Series, Book 2) (4 page)

I winced, shaking my head at what he was suggesting.

“She was too drunk to tell the cab driver her address. So I took her to my room, but we just slept in the same bed. That’s all. Hell, I was probably too drunk to get it up anyway,” I lied, uncomfortable with the direction of our conversation.

Ash gave me a penetrating look and I had to turn away.

“You know she likes you?”

“We’re just friends.”

“If you say so,” he said skeptically. “So you’re going to stay in London the whole summer?”

I gazed out across the vast city scape, shimmering in the May sunshine.

“For a while. Sarah said I can use her apartment while she’s in Australia.”

“You’re not going home at all?”

I thought about that. I’d sublet my apartment in Koper to my sister, and there was no way I’d stay with my parents. Maybe my grandmother for a short visit, but that was it.

“Man, I’ve been traveling so long, I don’t even know where home is anymore. I like London—it’ll be good.”

Ash smiled. “Well, you’re welcome to visit with us in Chicago anytime. You’ve already met our couch.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Does Laney know about that very generous offer?”

Ash laughed. “I might have remembered to tell her. She’s fine.”

“She thinks I screw around too much.”

“You do.”

“I know.” I spread my arms wide. “And this is one hell of a playground.”

Ash slapped my back then pulled me into a tight hug.

“Look after yourself, brother. I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ll see you in December when we start rehearsals for the next tour.”

Ash nodded, kissed me on both cheeks and stepped back.

“When are you leaving for Heathrow?” I asked.

“In an hour. Selma organized a bus to take us to the airport.”

All the dancers and band members had been hired in Chicago, and with the exception of me and Sarah, they were all traveling back together.

“Do you think Yveta will be okay?”

I wasn’t sure if I was asking about her upcoming surgery, or . . . everything else.

He frowned, thinking about it.

“Honestly? I don’t know. Doing
Slave
, she had a purpose, a reason for getting up in the morning, you know? Gary will look after her, but in the future? Yes, no, maybe.”

He held up his hands helplessly.

“Say goodbye to them for me?”

“You don’t want to say goodbye yourself?”

“No, I hate goodbyes.”

I was going to miss them, but I’d said my goodbyes last night. That was enough.

“So, what’s this then?” he grinned, pointing at himself.

I laughed and stood up.

“I’ve got to finish packing my shit. I guess I’ll see you in seven months.”

“Or sooner,” Ash reminded me. “Stay in touch.”

He walked out of the hotel’s rooftop bar, and I gazed around at the empty tables, a place that had been part home for the last two weeks.

I took the elevator to the seventh floor, too tired to run down the stairs like I usually did.

I’d packed half my clothes, but I was waiting for the hotel laundry to come back with the rest. Then I’d be out of here.

For the last six months, we’d toured half of Europe with Ash’s ballroom dance show
Slave
. We were due a l-o-n-g break before we did a mini tour in the U.S. next year, and Ash wanted to start rehearsals in December. But until then, I was going to spend the next three months in London, rest up, take a few dance classes so I didn’t lose condition, and generally enjoy a depraved lifestyle of drinking, dancing and fucking like it was about to be outlawed.

At least I had use of Sarah’s apartment while she was away, which would save a ton of money on rent. Plus, it got old living in hotels out of two suitcases.

My laundry arrived, washed and pressed, and I finished packing.

I was putting off texting Sarah, but then my phone buzzed with an incoming message.

Why did you let me drink so much? LOL I have a bitching headache. Hope you’re ok. Off to the airport. Here’s my address. Keys are under the flowerpot.

Sarah x

She was leaving already. My stomach lurched. She regretted what we’d done last night. Damn it! I didn’t want to lose a friend.

The sex was good and I’d woken up disappointed that she hadn’t stayed around for seconds, and now she was going to be in Australia. We’d gotten close while we were touring and I’d miss her sarcastic sense of humor. Hell, I’d miss having her being a pain in my ass. But maybe some distance from each other would be good after last night. I suspected it was a mistake—now it seemed as if she was thinking the same way and avoiding me.

A pang of regret was followed by relief that there’d be no morning-after embarrassment. I hoped it would be cool with Sarah because we were friends first, but you never know when sex will fuck things up.

I called a cab and lugged my suitcases into the lobby.

I hadn’t been to Sarah’s place during the two weeks that we’d played in London. I knew she lived somewhere in Camden, a trendy, bohemian part of the city, like Greenwich Village in New York, but that was all.

After a ten minute ride, the cab dropped me halfway along a row of redbrick attached houses with tiny yards at the front, a square of mowed lawn and miniature flowerbeds.

I saw a blue flowerpot with a small shrub by the front door and knew that I was at the right place. I lifted it carefully and found the promised keys, opening the door to a hallway, about three feet in either direction.

Dragging my suitcases behind me, I walked into an open-plan living room-kitchen. It was small, but full of sunshine from windows at both ends.

The furniture was a mix of modern and older things, giving it a comfortable, homey feel. The kitchen was new and hardly used, with a breakfast bar and two stools, and from the window I could see a small deck and another square of grass.

And on the breakfast bar, there was a note weighted down by an empty fruit bowl.

She always made me smile.

Three months was plenty of time to get over a drunken fuck.

I texted her to wish her a good trip. She didn’t reply, so she was probably already on a plane heading south.

There was only one other door leading off the living room.

I pushed it open and was immediately wrapped in the warm scent of Sarah. For a long moment, I stood there breathing in deeply.

The room was dominated by a king size bed, with purple duvet and pink pillows. I winced at the clashing colors but it made me smile, too. Very Sarah. It looked damn comfortable, so I was tempted to lie down and sleep off the rest of my hangover.

I buried my face in the pillows, catching the scent of citrus shampoo that she used. It reminded me of all the times we’d danced together, the long bus rides on tour where we’d sat together talking, or arguing about movies and her appalling taste in 80s glam rock. I thought about last night again, hoping it wouldn’t change things. Then I rolled over and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of cars passing outside, as a wave of loneliness washed over me. I missed Ash and Laney already, I missed my dance family. I even missed Sarah, although that thought now came with a dose of guilt attached.

I turned my head to look at the small wardrobe, one door partially open, showing that Sarah had left me some hanging space. I should unpack.

I sat up and rolled off the bed, checking out the tiny attached bathroom: no bath, just a shower, sink and toilet. All so small, they looked as if they belonged in a doll’s house. But it was clean and fairly tidy.

I wandered back to the kitchen and found that Sarah had left half a pint of milk, a can of coffee, and a small block of cheese in the refrigerator. I really needed to do some grocery shopping.

But first, I was getting rid of those damn suitcases—six months was long enough to look at them becoming more and more battered.

I found a drawer that Sarah had left empty, trying to ignore the temptation to look through the underwear she hadn’t taken: she’d have packed all the good stuff to take with her anyway. My groin tightened at the thought, but I ignored it and finished unpacking my suitcases, then stowed them on top of the wardrobe.

I decided to take a short nap and think about how I was going to spend my first night in London as a single guy with no responsibilities.

The angle of light had changed when I woke up, sluggish and disoriented. The curtains were thin and I guessed it was twilight. I hadn’t meant to sleep so long. My stomach growled with hunger, but my shoulders slumped at the thought of that antique block of cheese.

I crawled out of bed, tentatively stretching my muscles, then puttered around the kitchen searching for takeout menus.

I hit pay dirt on the third drawer, finding Chinese, Indian, pizza and what seemed to be a local deli—lots of healthy shit.

Pizza. I was in the mood for pizza, and I ordered a large pepperoni with pineapple. Don’t judge.

I slumped in front of the TV and flicked through a dozen channels before I was back at the start. Great. Sarah didn’t have cable. No late-night porn movies then, unless I streamed it through her wifi. But I checked my phone, cursing not very silently. No wifi either.

I knew Sarah hadn’t had the apartment very long before we went on tour. I guess she’d never bothered. I foresaw a lot of Starbucks in my future, surfing their free wifi.

The pizza arrived and I settled with an old scifi movie. But by ten o’clock I was feeling wide awake and restless. I was 27, for fuck’s sake, and I was sitting on my ass all by myself on a Saturday night in London. Pathetic.

I looked again at the note Sarah had left:
Becky’s parties are always amazing.

Yeah, that would do. If I didn’t like it, I’d go back to the club in Soho and check out the main dance floor.

I showered quickly, hitting my elbows twice, grumbling over the small space.

I dried off and pulled on a pair of worn jeans and a dark blue t-shirt that Gary said made my eyes pop. I wasn’t necessarily looking to get laid, but I wouldn’t say no if the opportunity arose.

The cab driver raised an eyebrow when I told him the address, but it was only when we were cruising down a long, leafy avenue that I began to understand why. These weren’t ordinary London houses—these were mansions. Huge fucking monstrosities, most of them.

“It’s not nicknamed Millionaire’s Row for nothing, mate,” said the driver as he watched me gawking from the rear view mirror. “You got friends here?”

“Just a party I was told about.”

“Lucky bugger.”

I paid the cab driver and walked up the gravel driveway, hearing music pounding out through the windows.

The front door was open, with people hanging out on the porch, smoking and drinking.

“Hi, I’m looking for Becky.”

Two of the girls turned to look at me, and one of them vaguely flapped her hand, which I took to mean that Becky was inside. Not that it helped as I had no clue what she looked like.

But it didn’t seem to matter. The place was jammed, people dancing in the massive living room, more spilling out onto the patio at the back, surrounding a large swimming pool. I snagged a glass of champagne from the open bar and headed to the pool.

The atmosphere was more chill outside, and I watched, bemused, as a gorgeous girl in a tight leather skirt sashayed up to me, drank my champagne, winked, and dove into the pool in all her clothes and five-inch heels.

A roar of approval went up as she whipped off her top and flung it at me, grinning.

“I’m well in there, mate!” shouted the man standing next to me, seeming to think the leather basque had been aimed at him.

He’d managed to get his shirt off and one shoe before he lost balance and fell in. The crowd cheered and several other people jumped in, too.

I scored another glass of champagne, downed it in one gulp, and decided it was a nice night for a swim.

I pulled off my shirt and felt a warm hand with sharp nails on my back.

A woman with honey-blonde hair was stroking my shoulder.

“I don’t know you,” she said.

“Are you Becky?”

She gazed at me with interest. “No, but I could be.”

Looked like it was going to be a pretty wild night.