Aspiring Nobody

Chapter 34 No messages

STYLES' POV

As the cab leaves my driveway, I eye her up in her black stiletto boots and blue jeans. She looks... sexy. Her platinum hair is just past her shoulders, and her breasts are bulging from her shirt. A sudden ping of guilt hits me, but it's too late to change my mind about her staying now. "Looking good as always," I say. I push the door open and greet her with a smirk.

She giggles as she pulls me in for a hug. "You're looking good yourself."

I draw in Becky's floral perfume and pull away, "how was the flight?"

She huffs. "I just flew economy from London to Sydney, Ash: I'm tense, exhausted, desperate to get out of these clothes, and part deaf after listening to three screaming toddlers. One of which was sitting behind my seat."

With her case in one hand, I gesture for her to go on ahead of me. And she does, with an extra swing to her curvy hips and clicking boots. "That's one of many reasons I try to avoid commercial flights." I tell her.

She giggles. "Yeah, well, unlike you, I don't have daddies' private jets to take advantage of."

"But if you could, you would, right?"

Since she already knows her way around this house, she walks along the hall with her case dragging behind her. "I need a hot chocolate right now."

With her overnight bag in hand, I follow behind. "I don't have any."

She taps her handbag, which looks like an upside-down hot-air balloon hanging off her shoulder. I think it's safe to say she's jammed anything and everything in there that wouldn't fit into her other luggage.

"Don't worry, I got supplies along the way."

"And here I was thinking you'd be more interested in bed." I dump her swollen black case by the kitchen door.

"I can't wait to go to bed, trust me." She stops at the bench. "But not without a hot chocolate to calm my nerves and a hot shower." As soon as she dumps her handbag on the bench it falls open to reveal a pig's pen of shit inside: chocolate wrappers, tissues, a small bottle of vodka, and toiletries. She pulls out a box of drinking chocolate from the bag, drags out a stool, and then drops into it with a loud sigh.

I grab my phone from the bench, ready to send Erin another message. My thumbs tap away at my phone in a rush, trying to get my thoughts down before I forget them.

Message: Stop ignoring my messages and calls! If you're trying to push me away, Erin, you're doing just that! I mean, what the hell is going on  between us, huh? I don't understand how things have become so bad? Where did it go wrong? Tell me? I need to know what I did? Why you're ignoring me and keeping your distance? You think I'm stupid? You think I can't see what you're doing? It's been two days and I haven't heard from you. If you've changed your mind about me, about us, tell me! Yes, even if it's only through a fucking message!

I hit send.

If that message doesn't get her attention, I'm not sure what will. Either way, I am not about to ignore the obvious signs she's sending me.

Minutes later, and Becky is sipping on her hot chocolate. She telling me how much she's misses her family, Sydney, the lifestyle, and not to forget the weather and the beaches. My phone pings. I expect an apologetic text from Erin. It's not from her. What the fuck. And why the hell does Erin affect my mood so much. The moment she started tugging on my emotions was the moment I give her some form of power over me.

So, I send her another message.

Me: It's good to know you care–not!

Ok, if she doesn't respond to that within a matter of seconds, minutes, then there's something seriously wrong between us.

Minutes later, and Erin still hasn't responded, and I'm sitting at the bench, hand propped under my chin and watching Becky pull the small bottle of vodka from her handbag. She pours a shot and then swallows. Within five minutes, she's pouring herself another. After swallowing it down in one gulp, she tries to pour another, but I tell her she's had enough. She tells me to mind my business. That she doesn't normally drink so much, but she needs something to help calm her nerves before she visits the grave tomorrow.

I hide the bottle of vodka in the laundry cupboard when she goes to the toilet. Last thing I need is her drunk, crying, and blaming me for ruining her life.

A few minutes later, and she is staring into her empty glass with a sombre expression. "I'm always a mess this time of year." She sighs. "When I think about what we could have had, Ash. Even after two years, it's still painful." She reaches across the bench and rests her hand on top of mine.

I sigh. "Yeah, I realize."

She clears her throat. "I kind of lost my mind after the accident. And I'm sorry for the way I treated you. I am."

Yes. I remember how irrational, cold-hearted, and resentful she was towards me. She hated me, and that's how it stayed until she showed up at my door some months later. She screamed at me. We argued. She put a chair through my window. She cried. We got drunk. We fucked. After that, things were better between us.

Her eyes dart around the bench top as if she has miss placed something of importance. "Ash, where's the grog gone?"

I yawn. "Between the sheets, where I am about to put you."

Her sad face brightens. "Ooh! Lets go then." She stands, and I collect her case and follow her into the hall. "Do you remember when your father gave you this house?"

How could I forget? A single key taped to the inside of a birthday card. The key to this house. It was the most impersonal gift I had ever received. "Yeah, yeah, I remember."

"That was a good day. I thought we'd be happy here." She stops at the bottom of the staircase. "But when Toby..."

"Don't," I warn. "The last thing I need is a refresher. I know what happened. And like you, I also live with it every day." And I do. Only I deal with the situation in my own way. But when she dredges it up, I'm left in a state of despair for fucking days.

"That doesn't mean we can't talk about it, Ash."

If only it were that simple. Our biggest problem is we're both too caught up in the past to move forward. She can't get over what happened, and I can't face it. Besides, I'm not interested in dredging up the past. "Now is not the right time, Becky, not when you're fucking drunk."

"I beg your pardon." Her tone is stroppy. "I'm not drunk!"

"You're not sober, either. And I'm not interested in having this conversation when we both know how it'll end." I take the last two steps, flick the light on, and then stride along the top landing.

"You never are!"

At least when she's sober, she has her shit together. I enter the last room, switch the light on, and drop her case at the end of the bed. This feels wrong putting her in the bed Erin had slept in. What does it matter, though? Erin can't even respond to any of my messages. When I feel arms slip around my waist, I close my eyes and let out a deep breath. "What are you doing?" I ask.

She presses her body against mine, "hugging you."

"Yeah, so I gather." I loosen her hands and then turn around to face her. "Why don't you go take that shower, and I'll see you in the morning."

She smiles up at me and then grabs my dick through my pants and starts rubbing it. "I'd rather you join me? Come on." She giggles. "I'm feeling wild and you know what I'm like when I get like that. " She unzips my fly. "I'll do anything," she says as she grabs my hand ready to lead me into the bathroom.

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