Rowan Read online

  Rowan hands me the last item from the floor, one of the ice cube bags.

  “I bought those for you,” I say, my voice surprisingly even, considering my clit’s still throbbing, my pussy is swollen and drenched in anticipation of an orgasm that never happened, and my heart is still pounding in my chest.

  He smiles at that. A big, little-boy smile that transforms his whole face.

  “Thank you,” he says then gets up to get a bowl from the cupboard.

  He rips open the bag, empties half of it into the bowl and shoves it into the freezer. His arm brushes my nipples as he reaches past me. A small gasp escapes me, and he smirks. I look down and see his cock twitch against the crotch of his jeans. And I can’t help it. I splay my hand against his rock-hard abs, feeling every ridge beneath the fabric of his tee. I hitch it up a little and let my thumb sneak below the waistband.

  I allow myself one short swipe against the slit on the head, creamy with precum, while my entire body vibrates with desire. He shudders at my touch and I can feel another glut of my own juice drip down my pussy and soak my panties. I grin up at him.

  “Two can play that game,” I tell him hoarsely as I take my hand back again.

  Just then we hear the front door open and Rowan retreats quickly, snatching the ice bowl off the counter. He cradles it in his arm and makes his getaway.

  “I’m gonna take this upstairs, ice my hands, have a shower, get out of your hair,” he mumbles.

  I quite liked you in my hair, I think but I don’t say it.

  There was something there. In the tether. Something new and healing, even if it scared the fuck out of me. And I want more. I have a funny feeling, between us we could glue some of my parts together again. And maybe even some of his.

  He’s already turned his back on me and is walking out of the kitchen when I call after him.

  “Rowan? Check your post.”

  Rowan

  As soon as I enter the hallway and spot Tristan, Charlie and Simon all clustered around the bottom of the stairs, I transfer the ice bowl from cradling it in my arm to holding it awkwardly with both of my hurting hands, in front of my boner. For probably the first time in my life, I feel conscious of the state my dick is in. I never had a problem with it before. Not even as a teenager.

  Silas was always the one who’d grab that cushion to hide his erection or who’d sit that bit longer at his desk in school. He was self-conscious, shy. Me? I never gave two shits about who knew that I was ready to fuck wherever, whenever. There’s nothing shameful in being aroused in my book.

  But these arseholes don’t need to get any ideas about Raven and me, so I clench my teeth because, fuck me, do my hands hurt right now, and carry the bowl like an imbecile would.

  “Hey,” Charlie greets me as I try to squeeze past them.

  “Hey,” I say back.

  He nods at the bowl.

  “I heard about that. You went to town on that bag, they say.”

  “Did a bit,” I concede quietly.

  “You’re a fucking Neanderthal,” Simon mutters at the floor as he undoes his shoelaces.

  I stop in my tracks.

  “Ye what?” I ask.

  He remains bent at the waist but looks up, eyes bloodshot with anger that has clearly fuck all to do with me because I haven’t seen this arsehole since breakfast.

  “You heard,” he says, eyeballing me from below.

  Interesting factoid about me, I don’t get off on anger and this scenario brings my hard-on down quicker than a cold shower. I turn to the stairs, put the bowl down on a step and slowly pivot back to face him. I can see him swallow as he straightens up to watch me approach, until we’re toe to toe. I look down at him.

  “You got a problem, mate?”

  “Yeah, you. You think you’re so fucking special, but you’re nothing but an arrogant arsehole with too much muscle.”

  I smile. And watch him get uneasy.

  “And how do you figure that one?” I ask him evenly, friendly even.

  “Says on our itinerary that houses are supposed to do something together on a Friday afternoon. So where the fuck were you when we just went for our hike?”

  “Let me get this straight, you’re bitching at me because I didn’t come along to your knitting circle?”

  This earns me a snigger from both Charlie and Tristan who are watching this exchange with mouths agape. Simon, however, is far from amused. His face is turning crimson, his fists are balling up by his doughy, middle-aged side and his eyes are popping out of their sockets. If it wasn’t so sad, it would be comical because, for fuck’s sake, the bloke’s gotta strain his neck to look up at me while he’s letting his anger get away with him. I take a step back to make it easier on him then cock my head.

  “Look, mate, I appreciate that you are a complete wanker with a drink problem and an anger management problem and a life that’s gone down the shitter and I feel sorry for you. I really do,” I say, and pause to let him digest the first bit before I go on. “But me going with you on a bit of a walk ain’t gonna change any of that shit. And taking your crap out on somebody who is twice your height, twice your weight and half your age is never a good idea. Not even if that hypothetical bloke is just a regular bloke.”

  I lean forward and get so close in his face, our foreheads practically touch.

  “And believe you me, I’m not a regular bloke. So fuck off and leave me alone, you pathetic failure of a human being.”

  He gasps and I straighten up to turn back to my original mission of going upstairs to finally ice my fucking hands. I flinch when I see Raven standing in the kitchen doorway, eyebrows raised. Fuck. Wonder how much she heard of that. We make eye contact and she shrugs imperceptibly. Okay, good, we’re good. She’s not mad.

  “Didn’t I say play nice, boys?” she asks sharply.

  Ok, she’s a little mad.

  “He called me a Neanderthal,” I say indignantly and hearing myself almost makes me want to burst out laughing.

  I sound like a little kid.

  “Not interested in who started what,” she answers resolutely.

  Heaven help any children this woman might have one day. The thought gives me a weird tug in my belly. I shelve it for examination later.

  “Simon, a word please,” Raven carries on. “Rowan, go do your thing. Tristan and Charlie, once you’ve washed your hands, come back and start dinner prep, please. Rowan, you’re excused from cooking tonight. Take care of your hands, have a shower, come down when you’re ready.”

  She doesn’t wait to see if any of us follow her commands, just turns towards the dining room and expects Simon to follow.

  This woman.

  My dick’s twitching again.

  Better get out of here and do what nursey says.

  Raven

  “Let me cut straight to the chase,” Simon says before I’ve even shut the door to the dining room, or his butt hits the chair. “I’m going to change houses. I don’t think this one is the right environment for my recovery process.”

  How fucking dare he pretend that he has asked me for this little conference and not vice versa?

  But I don’t say a word while I release the door handle, turn toward him and cross the room to plant myself on the chair opposite his, which is awkward because the dominating ass has placed himself at the head end of the table.

  I silently hold his gaze and raise an eyebrow instead. Inside, I’m seething but you wouldn’t know. I’ve mastered the art of not showing my emotions to perfection. I learned early that survival of the most unaffected looking is a thing.

  The eyebrow, in combination with the stern expression on my face, does the trick and the next bit that comes out of his mouth sounds a lot less certain.

  “I mean, Dr Rothman has already green-lighted it. He just needs to run it by the bosses,” Simon continues, almost apologetically. “He said it would be no problem swapping me with one of the guests in that blonde’s house. Gillian?”

  I cock my head at that
and try my hardest to keep my face neutral while my cogs are churning. Something is off. Miles off.

  I don’t know what Rothman’s game is here. When I went to question the Denyers as to why they’d seen fit to mess with the guest allocations in Gillian’s and Christine’s houses, they’d been highly apologetic and assured me it had all been one big misunderstanding. That request, too, had originally come from Rothman, and they’d assumed Rothman had already cleared it with me prior to talking to them.

  I didn’t know if to believe them at the time. It felt a lot like between the three of them they were trying to squirrel away one of the head nurse’s responsibilities around here, making use of this period when my foot is already half out of the door and Christine’s isn’t in the door yet. For what reason, I have no idea. Room allocation is a headache.

  I didn’t challenge Rothman at the time because Frank Rothman and I don’t exactly get along. The guy is a ginormous slimeball with a wishy-washy way of talking and the kind of leery, roving eye that makes me want to hurl. He thinks it’s okay because he’s a mid-thirties, full-head-of-sandy-blond-hair, blue-eyed, classically good-looking slimeball, but for me that makes no difference. He gives me the creeps. He reminds me of at least two of Mom’s ‘boyfriends’. One of whom I’d rather not think about. Ever.

  I realize that I’m still sitting in silence and that Simon has started fidgeting in his seat, not with impatience to get away but with anxiety. Such is the patented nurse Raven stare. I let my lips curl up in a snarling smile.

  “Let me get something very, very straight,” I say slowly. “Frank Rothman has no jurisdiction over who sleeps under which roof around here. That’s my job and without my say, that’s not going to happen, are we clear?”

  I see the veins in Simon’s neck pop, but before he bursts, I hold my hands up in a pacifying gesture.

  “Now, I hear loud and clear that you and Rowan don’t get along. But even so, you are under no circumstances moving into Gillian’s house. For reasons I can’t divulge, and that Rothman is not privy to. Suffice to say, it is not going to happen. I can look into swapping you in elsewhere if you insist, but, frankly, we are a whole week into the program, and I think it would be too disruptive for the other person. I will discuss it with Rothman, though, if you wish.”

  He gasps for air like a fish out of water.

  “What other person?” he asks when he finally finds his breath.

  And that right there is the problem.

  “The person you would be swapping with,” I say gently.

  Something I learned in my career: if an adult acts like a three-year-old, explain the world to them like you would a three-year-old.

  He looks at me wide-eyed as comprehension takes hold. And suddenly he turns all British.

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone,” he mutters, and I give him a big smile.

  Atta boy.

  “That’s great, Simon. I knew you’d understand. I’m sure you and Rowan can learn to get along if you both try a bit harder. We are all adults here after all,” I push.

  And, bingo, he starts nodding like one of those toys on a car dash.

  “Quite right. Of course. I’m sure we’ll rub along just fine. I’d still appreciate it if you could at least discuss a swap with Rothman.”

  We nod curtly at each other and get up.

  Meeting over.

  Now, what the fuck am I gonna do about Rothman?

  Rowan

  When I come back from icing my hands and taking a shower, the atmosphere in the house has changed completely. Tristan, Charlie and Simon are in the kitchen, cooking chilli con carne and it’s ─ quiet. Now, there is a first.

  “Anything I can do to help?” I ask while standing in the doorway and kneading Melrose into my hands.

  Melrose is the best stuff ever. It’s a thick lanolin stick that smells intensely of lemon grass. It always reminds me of Silas and Sheena. Their house always smells a little of it because Sheena uses it for her housekeeping hands and Silas, well, for the same reason I use it. It keeps the calluses on your hands supple. Little known fact, bare knuckle fighters like to keep their hands moisturised. There is nothing more damaging to your punch than cracked skin. Looks good in the movies, fucking pain in the arse in real life.

  “The boys and I got this,” Simon answers pleasantly enough. “But you could lay the table.”

  “Can do,” I say. “Where is Raven?”

  “Gone to speak to Christine,” Charlie answers, while he measures out rice in a mug.

  “Who’s Christine?” I ask because, honestly, I still haven’t got a clue who is who around here outside of the people I’ve actually had dealings with so far.

  “Her deputy,” Charlie answers. “The Northern one with the tits.”

  I nod and start collecting crockery from the cupboards.

  “In or out?”

  “Out,” all three answer, and I start going about my business.

  Ten minutes later, I am just finishing up laying the patio table when Simon appears outdoors and sits down at the place I’m just putting a knife and fork out for. He looks up at me as if I were his waiter.

  “We need to talk,” he says gravely.

  “Stand up then,” I immediately shoot back.

  I can’t help it. The guy is such a fucking arsehole.

  He sighs, audibly, and looks around, over to the tables outside the other houses where people are busy with their own dinner preps. It’s a gaze that makes no sense, halfway between trying to rally up support and making sure nobody is actually listening. It hits me that this guy is ultra paranoid.

  “Why don’t you just sit down?” he asks, and I have to concede that if I don’t, I’ll actually be just as much of a git.

  I pull out the chair next to him, swivel it around, so I’m looking at his profile, and sit.

  “What can I do you for?” I grin.

  “Can you be serious for a second?” he asks, while he shuffles his chair, so we are facing each other.

  “I don’t know, can I?”

  I shrug but then give him an opening anyway.

  “I’ll give it my best shot. Go on.”

  He leans in a bit, and suddenly we’re really close.

  “Look, I don’t think you get it,” he says and holds up a hand to silence me immediately as I take a gasp of air. “No, seriously, hear me out. You, Tristan, Charlie, you’re all young. You have your lives ahead of you. I know it’s a cliché, but it’s also fucking true. You can still make of your time here whatever you want to make of it. Anything. Anything at all. Me? I’ve placed my bets. My bet was pretty conventional, but it was a good one. It was a beautiful woman, who may not be so beautiful any longer, but who was mine. I was going to grow old with her. My bet was two daughters who are turning out to be amazing human beings. My bet was a house, a dog and some nice stuff. We’re not rich, but we are comfortable. And I worked for it. Really fucking hard. And I’ve lost it. All of it. Because I’m an addict. This here–”

  He stops speaking for a moment to make a sweeping gesture.

  “This is my last chance to maybe ─ maybe ─ get it all back. So I need it to work. Do you understand? And you and your anarcho bullshit is pissing all over my chances of success. So, please, can I have some support here? Can you just get with the program, please?”

  I contemplate him silently for a good half a minute, letting him think I’m considering it, mulling it over, before I lean in. We’re so close now, if we were that way inclined, people would think we’re about to kiss.

  “No,” I say definitively.

  And this time it’s my turn to hold up the silencing hand while he gasps.

  “Now, you hear me out. My world does not revolve around you and your addiction. My world revolves around me and my addiction. And maybe I need this anarcho bullshit, as you call it, to break out of mine. You ever thought of that? Maybe it’s part of my process. But it shouldn’t bother you ‘cause it’s got fuck all to do with you. What I do or d
on’t do has no impact on your recovery, man. It’s yours. And maybe I’m even good for you, you know. Because your problem, Simon, isn’t the alcohol. Your problem is that you are a control freak. You want to dominate every situation you’re in. You’re so scared of the world, you’re incapable of just peacefully coexisting with it. So you either try to control it or blot it out, I guess. Honestly, you could probably learn a lot from my anarcho bullshit. But for now, you just need to learn to live with it, mate. One week down, three to go.”

  On that note, I stand up and go back to the kitchen to get some trivets for the table. I don’t look back, but I know I leave behind a broken man.

  It feels like it always feels, no matter if it’s achieved with fists or mind bullets.

  It feels shit.

  Raven

  I can’t sleep.

  There are a million and one things running through my mind and I just can’t find peace. It would probably help if I was lying down, not standing by the dormer window, looking out at the myriad of stars dotting the night sky over Purbeck, but I tried that. It didn’t work. I tossed and turned.

  Lying on the right shoulder: wondering where the fuck Rothman is and what he thinks he’s doing.

  After I spoke to Christine to warn her about the therapists trying to muscle in on our territory, I marched over to Rothman’s house. But he wasn’t in. Instead, Lewin next door heard me knock ─ I didn’t exactly hold back on the knuckle power ─ and stuck her head out of her window.

  She informed me that Rothman had gone to London for the weekend. That’s another anomaly. Although the therapists sign off Friday night and don’t sign back on until Monday morning, it’s highly irregular for one of them to just leave and not let the nursing staff, the head nurse, know they’re gone.

  Lying on my back: wondering about the dynamics in my house.