No Strings Attached

Chapter Nine

“Hey hey,” she drawled, “You fancy a trip now that your job’s finished?”

Rory was a freelance painter and decorator, and he’d just completed a big job on one of the local National Trust properties – four days early no less – so she knew he was free.

“I’m listening,” she heard him kick back in his chair, she could imagine him chewing his pen between his soft lips, green eyes sparkling, “Sell it to me, baby!”

“I’ve got a meeting to finalise the end of my contract with Brady, so I’m driving down to London later on tonight. I also have to sign some contracts for the sale of the apartment down there, and clear out the attic and really boring stuff like that! So I thought I’d abuse your friendship and then plough you with alcohol to soften the blow!”

“Don’t ever go into sales,” he muttered, “You’re fucking fabulous at most things, but definitely not sales.”

“I’m wounded,” she quipped sarcastically, rolling her eyes as she threw toiletries into the holdall on the bed, “Are you in?”

“I’ve got a hot date tonight,” he whinged on, “She’s a fucking sure bet, are you going to deprive me?”

“I said later,” she consoled, “You can still go, get her inebriated, and you’ll have the perfect get out of jail free card when she begs you to stay until morning.”

“I knew there was a reason we were such good friends! I’ll meet you at eleven then?”

“Perfect, love you.” she sighed as she hung up the phone, and threw it on the bed into a pile of yoga pants.

She still wasn’t entirely sure that selling the London flat was the right idea, she’d deliberated over the decision for months, but she couldn’t afford to keep an empty apartment in the city centre and start up a brand new career, her inheritance only stretched so far, so she’d made up her mind a few months back. It wasn’t long before the highly sought-after property was being snatched off the market, and she really had to get it all sorted so that she could work out her next move.

Rory would be the perfect antidote to her most recent head fuck with Nate. She’d never needed to put on a brave face with Rory – never needed to pretend everything was fine when it wasn’t – because he was just as fundamentally damaged as she was.

That was actually quite refreshing for her.

When her phone began to vibrate moments later, she figured it was Rory bailing on her, but his picture never popped up on the screen – the one from that Oasis gig they’d gone to in Hyde Park last summer, where she’d lost him for over an hour because he’d been caught up behind the portable toilets with one of the roadies from the band.

The number was blocked.

“Hello?”

“Ah,” breathed a hoarse, twisted sound through the static on the phone. It sent a chill racing down her spine immediately, and she stiffened against the scraping sensation underneath her flesh.