“Why the hell not? Where on earth has this man been hiding? Is he really as big as he looks?” she asks in a rush of excitement.
“Honestly, I was thinking about Oscar and noticed this place. Callan was kind enough to show me about and give me a quote.”
“And he doesn't have staff for that? Come on, Zara, the man is interested in you,” she hums, “you left together—to go where?”
“Oh, this other club he owns, Hex. I looked around them both. It was all very professional and not at all as the tabloids have shown.”
“His hand is a thumb width from your arse cheek, and he looks like he could eat you,” she spits happily, “please tell me it wasn’t all professional.”
“Afraid so and no longer a surprise for Oscar.” I sigh.
“You are absolutely no fun. I will get back to the press and just smooth things over, confirming what is already printed.”
“Reiterate how professional it was,” I say, biting into a strawberry. The juice trickles down my chin, and Callan’s hand clasps my face, tilts it and licks the juice. His tongue flicks just shy of my lips, and I stare breathlessly at him. He winks, grabs a strawberry, and pops it whole in his mouth. I hadn’t even heard him enter the room.
He presses his lips to my ear. “Professional enough for you?” he purrs. I squirm and close my eyes, trying not to let my voice falter when I hear Miranda ask if he made a move. I contemplate telling her I think he is gay for a laugh, but I think he would spank me arse bright red.
“No, I think he is involved with someone.”
“Shame,” Miranda muses, “you look good together.”
“He’s not really my type,” I lie. His hand snakes around and squeezes my breast. I jump and try to pull free, but his hand tightens, and I bite my lip at the slow increase of pain.
“He’s everyone’s type!” Miranda barks incredulously down the line. Callan rolls his eyes and leaves me to the yapping of my agent.
“Maybe,” I murmur. “Any news from Georgie?” I ask, trying to move the conversation in a different direction.
“Oh yes, he sent an update this morning, but the whole buff man with tats sidetracked me. Here, let me find it,” her voice trails off, then returns just as quickly. “Do you think he is mafia?” she suddenly asks.
“Who, Georgie? Highly unlikely,” I joke.
“No. Callan Scott. I bet his clubs have an influx of women now.”
“Well, when we celebrate Oscar’s birthday, maybe you will get to meet him,” I say absently. I’m not even sure this party will even go ahead. “Oh, bring Phil with you, too,” I add, trying to seem as normal as ever.
“Oh sure, Phil, meet Callan, the man I want to fuck.” Her scoff has my ear ringing.
“Miranda!”
“Oh Zara, as if you are immune to him. The guy is gorgeous and rough and just delicious.” She goes on to say.
“Do you have Georgie’s email?”
“He is sending over the final version of the video at the end of this week.”
“Great, look, I have to go. I have a shoot.”
“I know,” she clips. “You have plenty of time,” she mutters, keeping me on the phone to try and gain more information on Callan.
The next few nights follow a similar pattern. I force myself to stay partially alert and find that, as suspected, Callan is slipping out at night. I try not to let my mind erupt with a tandem of thoughts of his whereabouts. His businesses do, of course, run between evening and morning. He must be napping at the clubs. No one can endure as much sex as we have, then work hours on end and keep working through the night. I feel more guilt for having loaded him with my own problems. Maybe this is why he asked that I move in so that he has access that being at mine wouldn’t allow. I need to nip home tomorrow just to check my post and collect some more clothes. Stalin has already been back twice, but I want to see the place myself and check all is okay.
Widening my eyes, I try to fight off the lethargy pulling at me. I really want to sleep, but I also want to wait to see what time Callan decides to rock up. I watch the TV, hardly paying attention to what is even happening, and keep an ear out for the main door. Hours pass, and I’m drifting, my head lolling and snapping up as I fight the deep need to rest. No matter how hard I resist, at some point in the early hours, I give in.
A loud bang splinters through the apartment, making me jump awake in a panic.
“ZARA!” someone shouts raggedly. I blink, trying to clear the fog in my brain. “Zara!” Callan’s pained voice carries through the apartment and bounces off the walls. I stagger up and head towards the main entrance, but he beats me into the main living area. My hand flies to my mouth, and I gasp, horrified by the view before me.
Blood. So much blood.