Rowan Page 6

  “Look,” I forge on, “I was an arse. I am an arse. It’s kind of why I’m here, if that makes sense. I act on impulse. Do first, think later. I’m trying to change that. So I can’t promise that I won’t piss you off again, or break the rules, but I can promise you that I won’t bring another pint to the table.”

  She nods slowly, then seeks my eyes and something has changed. High and mighty Raven has left the building and the woman I have a hard-on for is back in her place. Not just a turn of phrase, her gaze meets mine and my dick springs to attention. Stupid dick.

  “You made me look bad,” she says neutrally but very quietly.

  Outside the other houses, more people are starting to spill out onto the terrace and lawn, and I guess she doesn’t want anyone to hear her swear. And swear she does.

  “I’m mostly pissed because it reflects badly on me if you break the rules. I’m responsible for this house. I’m head nurse of the entire program here. If you behave like shit, it means I have a discipline problem on my patch and that makes it harder to stay on top of people like Elias. He’s a good nurse, but he’s also a wild card with fuck all respect for anyone. This is my last intake of clients here before I go back to the States. I want it to go smoothly. I want to go back to HQ and be able to report that Purbeck is up and running and handed over to the locals without a hitch. And I really want it to be a success for Charlie. I don’t want him to come back here a third time. Those are my goals. Don’t keep pissing on my goals and we can be friends. Keep pissing on my goals and I swap you out for one of Christine’s guests. I have the power to do that. Now leave and let me read my fucking book. I want to find out if the girl’s still alive before we start cooking.”

  Raven

  I look away from his amused eyes and at the page in front of me. I hear him push his chair back and get up then watch him over the edge of my book as soon as he turns and walks back into the house.

  I breathe out heavily as he takes with him the faint scent of chlorine that let me know his wet hair was damp from a swim, not the shower.

  For a moment, my brain conjures up the image of Rowan in jammers, water running down his powerful torso in rivulets, the sheen making the python glimmer under the poolside lights as if it actually had scales, and I want to punch myself for being so stupid.

  Silly bitch that I am, I just let him back in.

  Should've kept him out. I had found the key out of the torture chamber that is lusting after one of my guests, this guest, only to turn around mid-escape and run straight back in.

  I’m a total idiot.

  After that revelation, there is no way I can concentrate on my novel again, so I just sit there, my eyes going over the words without taking them in, while my mind is still with the man I assume has gone upstairs to shower the chlorine off.

  It’s another sexy image that bores itself into my mind, and what started off as a mind poster of him in the pool soon turns into a series of random thoughts of naked Rowan. A collage of desires, interspersed with flashbacks to him leaning at the window, jerking off to the view of the village.

  He was right with what he said yesterday in the pub. So, so right. I’ve thought about everything I didn’t see. I keep thinking about everything I didn’t see. I wonder what shape he is. Curved or straight. Thick or thin. Whether his size matches the rest of him. I wonder if he’s circumcised or not.

  I’ve never had an uncut cock. Seen plenty of them but I’ve never had one. My generation was the last in the States for which it was pretty much a given that boys were cut. Does it make a difference? Does it feel different? Does the extra skin make a difference?

  I’ve washed all sorts in my life as a nurse, long, short, thick, thin, some flaccid, some semis and some fully erect and, yeah, it desensitizes you to the thing. So I don’t have that cock fetish so many women seem to have. At least I never did. Until now. Until I couldn’t see. The image of Rowan by the window comes back to me and my insides clench, hard.

  I shut my eyes for a second, feeling at odds with my lust against the background noise of more guests coming out of the houses to mill in the garden.

  I startle when I hear somebody plop down in the chair next to me.

  I open my eyes and to my relief find I’m looking sideways up at Christine. It’s always looking up where Christine is concerned. Standing or seated, she is the tallest, broadest woman I have ever met, and not pretty by any standards. Not even a little. Not at all.

  Her features are almost rough and her straight brown hair is cut in an asymmetrical short bob that screams lesbian. Yet she has more lovers, of the male variety, down in Swanage than the town’s spectacular sandy beach has sunsets over a summer. I think it’s all in her eyes. She has what the phrase ‘baby blues’ was coined for. And they always sparkle with wit and sarcasm. The tits probably help, too. She has phenomenal tits on an otherwise unspectacular body.

  “Soooo,” she says, half turning to watch the gathering crowd behind us. “Have you given any more thought to trading your fighter boy?”

  I’d mentioned to her in passing earlier that if Rowan keeps being a pain in the ass, I might swap her a guest.

  “He ain’t no boy,” I reply in my best pretend Southern drawl because I know how much she loves it when I respond in what she perceives as the only American accent worth its salt.

  We regularly gloss over the fact that I was born forty plus states over from the Deep South.

  She barks a laugh.

  “Trust me, pet, they are all boys in my bed.”

  I have no doubt. The weird thing is the way she says it makes me sit up. I don’t like her thinking about Rowan that way. I particularly don’t like her thinking I might be thinking about him that way. But the way she suddenly shoots me a glance sideways, I know I already fucked that up by accidentally swallowing a rod just now. I’m officially screwed.

  “Chillax, pet, I ain’t shagging clients. Not daft. I look forward to stepping into your shoes in a few weeks. Hate to see you leave, but like the idea of your salary. But you? You need to get laid or summat. You’re more pent-up than a herd of sheep at market. You’re oozing sexual tension all over the place. So, you want to trade?”

  I play along just to keep up the illusion, but I can tell by the way she’s asking that she knows I’m not really going to give him up.

  “What ya got?”

  She grins.

  “I see your fighter,” she starts.

  “Gambler,” I interrupt.

  “I see your hellraiser,” she retorts, grinning because she for one loved the fact that he brought a beer to the table yesterday. “And raise you either of my two smackheads, or an anorexic, or a Prince Valium. Your pick, I’m not fussed.”

  “Sounds as much fun as my lot. Hmmm.”

  I pretend I’m thinking on it.

  “No, thanks. I’ll pass.”

  Then I suddenly realize what she said.

  “Hold on, why do you have two smackheads in one house?” I ask, surprised.

  That shouldn’t happen if it can be avoided. We try to keep the heroin junkies separate from one another. They have an annoying habit of talking each other out of rehab. And I’m in charge of the allocations and I know that wasn’t on my plan. I frown.

  “Huh?” Christine utters, looking at me with a deep v between the eyebrows that matches mine. “I assumed the Denyers ran it past you first. They swapped my alky out for Gillian’s junkie.”

  I take a sweeping look around the garden. Other than Elias, who I happen to know is in the gym right now, like he is everyday around this time, all other nurse-hosts are out and about. Aside from Christine and me, Gillian, Oz, Eileen, Iris and Matty, short for Matilda, are all out here.

  They are a good crew. I headed the recruitment process for each of them. Shortlisted their applications, ran the interviews, though the Denyers and Lewin sat on the panel, of course. Rothman joined the clinic later.

  This is my team. We are responsible for the guests night and day as is fucking obvious
by the fact that the therapists don’t join us for the barbecues or the pub or any other communal activities. To keep their professional distance. They do the therapy shit, I run the daily show.

  So to say I’m pissed that the Denyers think they can just supersede my allocation decisions without consulting me is an understatement. I’m fucking fuming. I’m also really annoyed at myself for not noticing the change right away.

  Because I’ve been too fucking preoccupied with fantasizing about Rowan Hadlow-Fuller-O’Brien’s penis.

  “Right,” I say, scraping my chair back and standing up.

  Christine puts her hand on my arm when she sees me zero in on Gillian.

  “Be kind, Raven,” Christine says gently. “Don’t give her a hard time. She’s only little. She probably thought Ed and Judy had spoken to you first, too. Same as me.”

  I look at Christine and note how ridiculous it is that despite the fact I am standing and she remains sitting, I am still not exactly looking down at her. Downer maybe but not down. She is that tall. And she is right, too. Not Gillian’s fault. She should have come and spoken to me about it, though. They both should have. I nod at Christine then make my way over to the girl in question.

  Gillian is one of the youngest of us. This is her first job after qualifying and I had my doubts about her because of her age, but something in her application form resonated with me. She wrote in it that she became a nurse because she saw her father die of alcoholism. I invited her for an interview, and she impressed all of us with her quiet thoughtfulness.

  As I cross the lawn now, focusing on the slender young woman with thin, straight blonde hair in a perpetual low ponytail, I wonder why the Denyers thought it was a good idea to double up on the alcoholics quota in her house. Odd thing to do, given Gillian’s background. We all struggle most with the ones that cut closest to the bone. Personally, I try to avoid coke whores in my house at all cost, not that many of them ever make it into rehab. And though he is no whore, there is a reason I’m so fixed on wanting Charlie to succeed.

  “Hi, guys,” I address the group of Matty, Oz and Gillian when I get to them, and they all murmur a hello. “Gillan?” I say with a smile. “Can I have a word?”

  She looks at me wide-eyed. I’ve never singled her out before.

  “Sure,” she responds quietly.

  I jerk my head in the direction of my house and we start walking.

  “Everything okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah, everything is fine. I just got a question.”

  I lead her into the house through the backdoor and realize that Rowan, Simon, Charlie and Tristan are all in the kitchen and have started cooking without me. Apparently under Rowan’s guidance, who is standing at the stove, frying onions and garlic. I notice that there seems to be no bad blood between Simon and Rowan any longer. Good. I like a peaceful house. All four nod at us as I lead Gillian through and into the dining room before I shut the door.

  We sit down at the dinner table and Gillian looks up at me expectantly. I get straight to the point.

  “Did Ed and Judy swap guests around between you and Christine?”

  Her eyebrows shoot up.

  “Yes. I thought you knew.”

  I shake my head.

  “No, I didn’t. Do me a favor, when something like that happens, come and talk to me. Or, once I’m gone, talk to Christine. Nurses take their instructions from me, from whoever is head of nursing around here. The Denyers might run the therapy program but they do not run the guesthouses. That’s the head nurse’s job. Just remember that next time.”

  “I’m sorry, Raven,” she mumbles.

  “It’s okay, not your fault. Tell me, did they say why?”

  She shakes her head. I study her for a moment.

  “And how do you feel about having two alcoholics in your house?”

  I know I’m prying, but that’s also part of my remit. Making sure my team can deal. It’s a tough job. We might not be on the frontline in ER or in pediatric oncology here, but this job is draining in another way. You never get to go home and switch off. You’re dealing with mental health twenty-four seven. Even at Christmas. They get one month off in August when the whole facility shuts for maintenance and that’s it. To my surprise, Gillian gives me a massive smile.

  “It’s great, actually. They are both so amazingly positive about being sober and turning their lives around. It’s cool.”

  Her expression turns wistfully sad for a moment.

  “I wish...” she starts but doesn’t finish the sentence.

  And that right there is why we try to avoid dealing with the ones closest to home.

  “You wish your dad had been the same,” I supply, and she nods.

  I get up, and when she follows suit, I open my arms and draw her into a hug. I squeeze her briefly then let go.

  “I get it, sweetie. Tell me if it gets too hard for you. You’re doing a great job here.”

  She smiles at my praise and takes the cue when I open the door for her.

  I accompany her into the kitchen and watch her leave through the back door with not one but two questions in my mind.

  Firstly, what the fuck are the Denyers playing at?

  Secondly, since when were drunks in early rehab ever positive about being sober and not whiny motherfuckers whose world revolves solely around their pain?

  Weird.

  But then the smell of curry and cilantro reaches my nostrils, and I turn to my guests who are still chopping and chatting. Actually, it’s mostly Simon having a long monologue about how he used to cook for his family all the time because his wife wasn’t the best chef and giving Rowan lots of helpful advice on how to cook the curry. I tune out to most of it but can’t help noticing that all the while he’s sitting on his ass at the breakfast counter, looking at his soft drink. As if he could magic some alcohol molecules into it, if only he stared at it hard enough. At one point, after receiving helpful tip number twenty or thirty, Rowan steps away from the pot on the stove and points the wooden spoon he was using to stir at Simon.

  “Hey,” he says amicably. “If you’re that good a chef, knock yourself out. I don’t have to be alpha around the hob, you know. I’ll happily sit back and eat your food.”

  I shoot him a warning look, but Simon is so absorbed in himself he doesn’t hear the jibe, he just responds to the friendly tone.

  “No, that’s alright. I’m sure you got this. Smells good.”

  I can’t help but grin at Rowan. He’s good. He’s real good. He holds my gaze a little longer than necessary and my heart slides all the way from my chest into the soles of my feet in one swift whoosh.

  Here we go again.

  Rowan

  Simon is a bellend.

  I already knew that, but it becomes ever more apparent during dinner, which we have inside to escape a heavy summer shower, and the impression lasts all the way through washing up. He is all inferiority complex drowned in self obsession and masked with bragging.

  He manipulates the entire conversation all evening, bringing every single topic under the sun back to him, throwing his age around and just talking, talking, talking. I don’t blame his wife for leaving him. If he’s like this sober, what on earth was he like drunk?

  To be fair, it doesn’t really bother me because the kind of conversation I want to have with Raven isn’t meant for other people’s ears anyway, and I’ll happily blank him out while I keep sneaking glances at the pretty lady at the head of the table.

  But I feel sorry for Charlie and Tristan. They seem bored out of their skulls, yet they are both too polite to excuse themselves. Coming to think of it, it’s probably good for Charlie with his coke-inflated, born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-his-mouth rock star ego to not get a word in edgeways.

  Okay, so I don’t feel sorry for Charlie, but I really do feel sorry for Tristan. He appears utterly lost in all of this. We’re in the middle of an elaborate story of how Simon once played snooker with Ronnie O’Sullivan when an idea hits me.

&nbs
p; I excuse myself from the table where we are still sitting, after-dinner cups of tea and coffee at the ready, and go to the sitting room where I spotted a bookcase with board games and battered novels the other day. I look through and, bingo, there it is. I pull the little case out and carry it back to the dining room.

  “Right, you two,” I address Charlie and Tristan, rudely cutting through Simon’s airtime. “Either of you know how to play backgammon?”

  Tristan shakes his head in a fashion that tells me he doesn’t even know what backgammon is. Charlie nods.

  “Yeah. I used to play with my sister when we went on holidays.”

  I slide the case over to where he’s sitting.

  “Brilliant. Take it, teach Tristan. Come back to me in a couple of weeks when either of you thinks he’s any good. I’ll play you. Now scarper. Go next door, put the TV or music on, play. Train me a champion. Vamoose.”

  Their gratefulness is almost comical. They can’t get out of the dining room quick enough, now that a grown-up has told them what to do.

  Simon glares at me because I pissed all over his tale by sending away half his audience. Tough shit. I meet his eyes, and he backs down really fucking quickly. He’s not so demented as not to recognize that he’s outclassed, outsized and outweighed, despite the fact he probably boxed with Chris Eubank once or some shit like that. He takes a last gulp of his coffee and gets up.

  “Right. I’m going to have a bath,” he says and turns to Raven. “Good night.”

  I get a sharp nod and then he leaves.

  Fucking finally.

  Raven

  “Thank fuck for that,” Rowan says under his breath as soon as Simon is out of the kitchen.

  When Rowan says anything under his breath, it’s like a tiger purring. That voice. He should do voice-overs. I’d buy anything he’d try to sell me.

  I watch as he sits back down. I’m still at the head end of the table and he chooses the chair to my right. I immediately feel the air change. The two of us alone in a space. It makes me both giddy and afraid, sharpening my senses into fight or flight. And it makes me wet. So very, very wet. So the impulse is to stand up, flee, get away.