“Emilia?” a familiar voice resonated in the empty gym, bringing a smile to my face. It was eight o’clock, and he was here like clockwork.
“Good morning, Theo,” I said warmly. “Front door not locked?”
“It was, but…you know.”
Of course I knew.
Theo was smiling, his warm and sweet expression so endearing that I sprang straight to my feet and adjusted the hem of my damp shorts. Time to act like the professional everyone expected.
“Want to give me a hand?” I asked. Theo was our youngest, but there was hardly anyone else here who was as reliable as him. He was a rock.
A rock who had the annoying habit of picking our lock to get in a few minutes earlier, but still a rock.
Theo’s face lit up even more as he nodded with excitement; he loved helping.
“Please go see Adam, and ask him to call everyone. Let them know there’s been a change in plans. They need to wear their sports shoes today. Emphasis on need to.”
As soon as I finished speaking, Theo turned around and ran out of the gym.
I followed him as far as the corridor, eyeing the cardboard boxes littering the hallway. Suddenly, they didn’t look heartbreaking anymore. We’d get our old PCs back up and running, or at least as running as the ancient copies of Windows XP could handle. We’d restring the badminton rackets one more time, and we’d be back in business.
Such as it was.
I rummaged through the smallest box, pulling out a paper bag filled with old, washed-out red and blue vests emblazoned with the same garish yellow ad on the backs.
Johnnie’s
Homemade food at Johnnie’s diner open 24/7.
Of course, everyone had balked at having to wear them. Johnnie’s was popular with seniors, who took advantage of the 5 a.m. breakfast specials and thus drained the place of all its coolness with anyone under 60, let alone under 20.
Still, Johnnie himself was a good guy, all 400 pounds of him. He always supported the center whenever he could. I still remembered when he’d given us the vests, a cigarette between his lips, fighting off a coughing fit while declaring we did good work by keeping “the young’uns” off the street and out of trouble.
Five years later, the vests smelled a little rotten and had clearly seen better days, but they did the job. With a bit of luck, I could find two sets that had faded into roughly the same colors. I pulled the most heavily worn out first, separating the pinks from the reds and the baby blues from the navy.
“There’s no need for that. Haven’t you found the new vests yet?”
The low, masculine voice came from behind me, a couple feet away. It echoed off the hallway, a hint of an English accent floating in the air. I tensed up, my limbs feeling like stone as I tried to turn and stand. I looked over the speaker’s massive body; he was at least a foot taller and a foot wider than me, and when my eyes finally reached his, they were the bluest I’d ever seen outside of one other British guy.
Actually, they were the same blue eyes.
My palms curled into fists, a bolt of fear and animal hate piercing my heart. I stared, looking for the air of indifference I knew had to be lurking beneath his chiseled exterior. It had been thirteen years, but it was him. The aristocratic nose, the strong jaw, the jet-black hair framing a high brow, there was no mistaking it. I’d have recognized him, and the streak of arrogance in his bright blue eyes, anywhere. My heart sank, its beating slow and heavy.
Simon Ferguson.
Biggest asshole in two countries.
The planet.
The fucking galaxy.
Here. Standing in front of me. Talking to me. Again.
My skin erupted in bumps and shivers of disgust. What the hell was he doing here, after all these years? I’d run a thousand miles away from home, and he never left England anyway. I felt like throwing up. “Home” was such a fucked up word for me, thanks to him.
Oh. Oh. Of course. The realization hit me like a punch in the face. The rugby deal, the money. Suddenly, Mr. Big Star had blitzed his way back in my life.
“You,” I said flatly, my voice icy. “What. the. hell. are you doing here?”
“I take it you’ve heard about a certain donation,” he quipped, unbearably smug. He was wearing a white button-down shirt, its short sleeves showing off his bulging muscles as he took a drink of coffee from Adam’s office. He quirked an eyebrow at me in defiance, daring me to criticize him.
Of course he was loaded. I’d heard all about his success in England—his many selections as hooker for the English national team, his titles, his popularity. The money and the women. My head was swimming with shock and disgust, my mouth open but silent.
“So, Emilia Jones, are you game for a little action?” he asked, taking another sip of coffee. He seemed devilish, like he was concealing a sneer beneath the steaming hot mug.