My heart goes pitter-patter.

“Same here, darling,” Sue adds, placing her own hand on Maddie’s shoulder as a cue, and then the two walk off. The sound of Sue’s heels starts to fade as she opens the door. But the chime sounds just the same as when we first walked in here.

“Later, loves.” I force a smile on my face as they leave me here alone.

But my expression doesn’t reflect anything I truly feel.

And nothing’s changed.

Evan

Berkeley Square in London feels the same as it has for years. The crisp air and old trees that tower over the park always feel timeless when I’m here. The black iron and white stone that speak to the history of this place never fail to impress. The dark, narrow alleys and the nightlife tucked away in the shadows of this city are what make my blood heat and my foot tap anxiously on the floorboard of the car.

It’s always given me a rush to come here. There are a number of cities I’m fond of, cities that are playgrounds for the wealthy and where the best parties are had. Los Angeles, San Francisco, and New York City, of course. But London is one of the best. There’s something to be said about being away from your normal life and getting to unwind in a city you don’t have any obligations to stay in, yet welcomes you as if it’s always been home.

The cabby clears his throat and his accent greets me as he tries to make small talk. I give him a curt nod and as many one-word answers as it takes to make it clear he doesn’t need to fill the time with needless conversation. I’m not interested.

Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I lean back in the leather seat, feeling more and more exhausted as we pass the park, the dark green landscape fading from sight and rows of homes taking the place of the public areas.

I’ve felt comfortable here for years. It’s a constant go-to for the PR company and I’ve been sent here to look after clients multiple times. But as the sky turns gray and the rain starts to beat against the tin roof, the welcoming feeling leaves me, and I’m left empty. Brought back to the present and brooding on how much the past has fucked me over.

The cab takes a left onto Hay Hill and I pass an old townhome where I used to crash. I’ve had so many close calls here. I was too much of a hothead, always looking for a thrill and pushing my luck further and further.

The cabby comes to a stop before I’m ready. The memories play on a loop in the back of my head of all the years I spent wasted. I can still feel the crunch of bone from the last fight I got into not three blocks from here.

“Here we are,” the cabby states, turning in his seat, but before he can say anything else, I jam some cash into his hand and grab my bags on my own.

“Have a good day, sir,” I hear him call out as I shut the door, the patter of rain already soaking through my collar at the back of my neck.

I have to walk with my head down to keep the rain from hitting me in the face. The door opens easily and I drag my luggage in, tossing it to the right side where the coatrack and desk are meant to greet clients. This condo’s been converted into an office space. It’s blocks from the nightlife and blends in with the community. A perfect location for client drop-off.

The high ceilings and intricate crown molding make the already expensive building feel that much wealthier. It’s all been done in shades of white and cream, without an actual color in sight. It makes the bright neon sticky note atop a stack of papers sitting on the edge of the welcome desk stand out even more.

Sterile, but rich.

“You were supposed to tell me when you landed.” I hear James’s voice before I see him, his heavy steps echoing in the expansive room.

“I did,” I tell him flatly, not bothering to take out my phone and check. I’m positive I did, as I always do, and he ignored it. That seems to have been his preference for the last two weeks. The air about him has changed; ever since that night, things have been tense between us. As if we’re in a silent war, each waiting for the other to show weakness.

I’m not interested in this shit. The only thing I give a damn about is my Kat, keeping her safe from the cross fire. So I’ll play nice. I’ll do what he says. But I’m not his bitch and I don’t play games.

“I didn’t get it,” he says, stopping in front of me in the foyer. He has to tilt his head back slightly to look me in the eyes since he’s a few inches shorter.

I shrug as if it doesn’t matter, not bothering to confirm or deny whether a text was sent. “Well, I’m here now,” I tell him as I slide off my jacket, soaked from the usual London rain, and hang it on the coatrack.

“You look like shit,” he comments and an asymmetric grin tilts up my lips.

“Thanks.” Running a hand over my damp hair and wiping it off on my jeans, I respond, “I’d say I feel better than I look, but that’d be a lie.”

I’ve known James a long time, nearly a decade and I expect him to ask why, even though he already knows. I anticipate him starting the conversation, but instead he says nothing. Avoiding the obvious and walking down the hallway of the townhouse.

That’s right, how could I forget? We’re at war.

My feet move on their own, following him even though adrenaline courses faster in my blood. It makes me feel sick to not talk about it. To not clear the air.

“Whiskey?” he asks me as he pours himself a glass in the converted dining room. It’s more of a bar now with a long plank of cedar serving as a makeshift counter in the back of the room. The recessed lighting shines softly on the bottles of clear and amber liquids and creates an intimate feel in the room. The humidor full of Cuban cigars and pair of dark leather wingback chairs on either side of it must have been added after I was here last.

“Kane Buchan,” he says, speaking the name and then hands me a manila folder. I’m sure it’s filled with the same shit that was emailed to me. I’ve got Kane’s profile memorized already. He was the lead singer in a rock band from the Bronx. They had one smash hit and then he split from the rest of them. He decided to go his own way thinking he was too good for the band. Most said it was his ego, but it turns out he was right. Three number one hits on the top record charts and now he’s a client.

They all want the same. To flaunt their wealth, get drunk or high. Fuck whomever they want. Kane Buchan is no different.

“He said something about going to Annabel’s tonight,” James tells me and I nod my head. I’ve been there more than a time or two. It’s exclusive and ridiculously overpriced, so of course an up-and-coming star wants to be seen there.

I already know exactly how the night’s going to play out. I just have to keep it clean enough so there are no problems. Kane’s had enough of them from the fallout with his previous drummer.

“Did you even hear what I said?” James asks in a raised voice laced with irritation.

“Annabel’s,” I answer as I look him in the eyes and hope he was still going on about the club.

“No, I said he’s married now so make sure there are no pictures if he does something stupid.”

“I know.” That’s a given.

“He’s staying a few days, maybe less depending on what his agent wants. Just keep an eye on him, show him a good time—” He’s pissing me off. Treating me like a new hire and nothing more.