“You’re hardly sporting a walking stick and false teeth. It doesn’t bother me.” I’m giggling at the vision I just described as his fingers dig into my hip, and I fly up.
“No, stop!” I laugh.
He is laughing too, and he looks so carefree, so handsome. He stops and sighs at me.
“Why did you have to turn out to be so complicated?” He frowns, his tone flat. He cups my face and runs his thumb over my lips, taking his time, all the while gazing at my mouth, and sighs heavily. Kiss me! My heart feels heavy. I don't want to get my hopes up. Callan and I are two very different people. In another life, maybe this would have led somewhere, but we both know I’m leaving. His hand falls away, and his expression becomes shuttered.
“Why’d you turn out to be so shady?” I question back, and he grins, his mood quickly dismissed.
He holds our stare for a moment before looking out onto the city. His forehead becomes taut as he mulls whatever is bothering him over in that complex mind of his.
“You ready to get out? You've got an early shoot.” I’ve learnt Callan has no issues with delving into my privacy and going through my phone—he claims it’s to sync our calendars so he can make the most out of this month. “Stalin will drop you off and collect you.”
“Okay, thanks.” I have given up fighting. It's a month of my life, that's all, and after the anxiety I have endured, it’s nice to have everything planned for me. I have no worries if it’s all Callan-approved, plus I feel safer knowing he is so dedicated to my whereabouts. It means I’m safe from Santino and Ramis. The last two weeks under Callan’s watch have been pretty stress free.
Callan lifts me out, and I pull down two big towels, passing one to him. I wrap up and walk through to his bedroom. It may be a temporary situation, but he has made me feel at home—my things are around, odd things here and there, and although I have tried to keep it all in a bag, Callan tells me to leave it.
I brush out and dry my hair whilst he goes off to his office. He spends an hour most nights in there. I don’t interrupt him, as I know he will never disclose any information to me. Pulling a top on, I go and curl up on the sofa to watch a movie.
I’m dozing when I sense him nearby. I lay still, expecting him to come and wake me, but he moves quietly about the place. I hear his footsteps retreating down the hall and then the main door clicking shut, and I sit up slowly, blinking to force wakefulness into me. Where is he going?
I tiptoe down the hall and see the elevator going down to the car park. I check the time, finding it is nearly one in the morning. I frown and contemplate my next move. I could follow him down, but for all I know the door could open, and he will still be there, and I don’t much fancy talking my way out of that. Instead, I decide to make a quick dash to his office. I push on the door, but it’s locked. I huff out my annoyance and walk back, checking if the elevator is ascending. I don’t want to seem too keen, and I consider that he is probably out trying to begin putting things in motion for when I do my disappearing trick. Soon, that photo taken of us will be front-page news, and the Russians will get wind of it. Then it’s only a matter of time.
I lay awake for the next hour, and Callan is still nowhere to be seen. I wonder how many nights I have been exhausted by him—leaving him the freedom to sneak off into the night. I can’t relax knowing he is out there. My curiosity wins, and I grab my phone to call him. He answers on the second ring.
“What’s wrong?”
“Where are you? I woke and—”
“Club problem. I won’t be long. You okay?” I feel stupid all of a sudden—an unexpected green-eyed monster has reared her ugly head. She’s still lingering. I hate the thought of him there with all those women—my mouth sours, and I hum my response. I have no right to be jealous—he isn’t mine. We have an agreement, we never discussed anything further than that, but having first-hand experience of his never tiring sex drive, I feel unease wash over me. It’s something I want to iron out, but I feel clingy and insecure doing so now.
“Zara, I can hear you thinking from here. Trust me when I say it’s only you.”
I blush and press my lips together, trying to think up a smart response.
“Okay, not sure why you said that,” I murmur, feigning confusion.
“Because you are thinking who is he with, what is he doing, who is he doing?” He breathes out roughly, humour in his voice.
“I’m not sure that’s any of my business as long as you’re okay,” I say quickly, “see you in the morning.” I cut the call and slam my eyes shut. Stupid, stupid woman. I feel so ashamed. What is wrong with me? My phone vibrates. It’s him on FaceTime. I click connect and school my expression. Callan’s face comes into view, and the muted pulse of music pumps in the background as the club plays out behind him. As in Nexo, he is shielded by a wide window.
“Hey.” I smile, and he stares at me pointedly through the phone, fighting a smile. I cover the camera with my hand. “Don’t look at me like that,” I whine.
“Like what? Like you’re jealous, and that I fucking like it, that I like it enough to point it out to you.” He’s smug as hell.
“Yes, like that,” I grumble, moving my hand away to find him smiling widely at me.
“I won’t be long,” he tells me.
Nodding, I tuck my hair behind my ear, then stop, letting it drop away.
“Sure, I’m going to bed,” I say, my eyes dipping away.
“Hey,” he calls, getting my attention again, “you always wanted to kiss me, now’s your chance.” He smirks. I smile at the screen and his darkening jaw. He pouts, and I drop a kiss on my screen.
“Night, Callan.”
“Night, angel.”