The Wildcard

Chapter Eighteen

He answered on the third ring, no doubt in the middle of some random sexy text to a stranger.

“Hey,” I said nervously, pulling my lip between my teeth. I’d basically blanked his text completely the night before – I imagined he’d be absolutely livid with me.

“Hi baby girl,” he sighed out, sounding exhausted – I was instantly on edge.

“What’s up? You don’t sound like yourself?”

“Just tired, I guess,” I could hear his spoon clinking against the side of his coffee cup, “This new shoot is draining ... And to be honest, I was up most of the night worrying about you.”

“I know,” I relaxed back against the chair, fidgeting with my pen against the hard wood of the desk, “I understand your concern for me, I do, but I think I know what I’m doing.”

I could practically feel his negativity rolling through the phone.

“Your silent disapproval is deafening,” I said after a while, “Say something.”

“You’re just so innocent when it comes to this shit, baby girl, and it’s just ... god! Why does it have to be someone like Cayden bloody Gates? He’ll chew you up!”

“Innocent?” I rolled my eyes at him, “Been a while since anyone’s used such a word to describe me Ry, and you know it!”

He could be so bloody patronising sometimes!

“I don’t mean with sex sweetness, I mean with the whole relationship scene – just don’t hand over your heart on a silver platter. Promise me.”

He must’ve sensed that he was beginning to get my back up. It was one of the best things about our friendship – no judgement, no preaching. Neither one of us responded well to it - and this was about the closest we’d ever come to it.

“No danger,” I drawled out slowly, “I don’t have a silver platter.”

He sniggered at me; I could see him in my mind, shaking his head at me indulgently.

“That’s ... uh ... not the only reason I called,” I soon sobered up when I remembered the grand scale fuckup that had started this entire sequence of events. Its funny isn’t it? The butterfly effect? In some ways, she’d done something good for me – completely unintentionally, “My mother called.”

“She what?” his voice was grit and gravel – hoarse and angry in a way that it almost never gets.

“Called. Wants to meet up or something.”

“She called you there? At work? Or on your mobile?”

“At work. Did you leave forwarding details with anyone?”