Float

Chapter one

Elijah

In typical London fashion, the brick-to-brick walls of the club are filled to the brim, swimming with desperate souls. Bodies move irregularly. Backs pressed against chests. Hands rest on hips, greedily latching onto exposed skin. A mixture of shallow breaths and shrill laughter fills the space. Swaying bodies attempt to keep up with the pace of the ever-changing beat.

Many are stood around the span of the mahogany bar, alcohol fuelling their salacious actions, money thrown in exchange to impress otherwise hopeless dates. Streaks of deep blue light sheath across the latter as they reminisce over idle times. The air is thick with hopes of acceptance, couples insisting their domestically pained lives are flawless, others too busy basking in their own self-pity to partake in such conversation.

I'm surrounded by overpriced furnishings adorning the VIP section - leather clad booths and intricately carved glass tables tailored to the comfort of some of London's prestige. Extravagant bottles stand atop the glass. The smell of expensive perfumes and smoke linger in the air. Time buzzes by.

My hands take hold of the cold railing protecting the glass panels of the VIP section, the silver rings adoring my fingers clinking against the cool metal.

I watch from my advantageous position on the second floor; the perfect view.

My eyes never leave her. She makes her way through the mass of sweaty bodies towards the bar.

The curly locks that once adorned her head have been disrupted by blond streaks, pulled away from her face. Her face. Dewy skin and dull eyes, an undesirable pair for most, but a beautifully damned sight for me. A frown is etched between her brows. Her lips are full, pursed, as her eyes scan the room for familiar faces.

I can just hear her thoughts now; "Who would host a school reunion at a club?"

Mentally, I agree. Though my club is the most elite in London, a school reunion in a place like this sticks out like a sore thumb. The scantily dressed dancers atop the main stage and the band sniffing coke backstage don't exactly scream high school. Or maybe it does - for me, anyway.

But alas, here I stand, watching over my ex-school mates awkwardly greeting one another, most with their eyes wandering around the interior of the club, silently, but not so subtly, judging.

And my reason for all of this? Her.

I make my way through the crowd, eyes fixated on my special guest for the night. As I weave through bodies, I acknowledge my VIP guests for the first time all night, nodding and smiling politely. Not that they take much notice, they're far too high, the remnants of white powders and crushed pills scattered around. The very tables that are reserved for some of London's highly notable citizens, from B-list celebrities to the chief of police – DEA, ironically. This is the London life after all.

I shake a hand here, pat a back there. My actions are rushed, adrenaline driving my steps towards her. Within seconds, I stood at the foot of the longwinded staircase leading to the bar. My eyes dart to her face.

She wears an un-bothered expression, her body following suit. She is stood, flute shaped glass in one hand, other leaning against the bar for support, shifting her weight between each foot; heels surely worn down. The bubbly liquid is sipped on cautiously, as if she aims to keep her wits about her, leaving lipstick stains in its wake. The burgundy suits her. She readjusts the hem of her fitted maroon dress before reaching into the purse she has perched on the bar stool beside her. A sleek object is retrieved, fingertips tapping away rapidly.

A small smile forms on my lips, drinking in her presence.

She must have felt the inquisitive eyes watching her as her own move across the room. They dart across the crowd now surrounding the bar, until they rest where they once would linger. Familiarity seeps into her features.

She watches me gingerly as I continue to make my way towards her, my expensive dress shoes showing no mercy to the glass steps of the staircase, rushing me down them. Once at the bottom, I move with assurance, and with long strides, I join her side within seconds.

We stand for a moment or two, both watching the drunken encounters before us. I find humour in the glances that are exchanged briefly, smiles acknowledging one another, bitter hugs offered and accepted. Not one guest is empty handed, including her, alcohol driving each interaction.

I can almost feel the heat radiating off her. I long to touch her skin, to feel the warmth for myself. I take in her features in the proximity. Beauty. The lights beaming down are now a burnt orange, gifting her a devilish, yet angelic glow.

"Elijah." She acknowledges first, pushing herself from the bar so that she is stood tall. Her attempt to appear unshaken does not go unnoticed as I chuckle lightly. She peers up at me, though she needn't look far, her heels granting her a secure height next to my firm stature.

"Elissa. How's the drink?"

She ignores me, staring out at the crowd, watching the assortment of bodies.

"You've done well for yourself, I see. London's most eligible bachelor."

Bachelor. The word rolls off her tongue with an emotion I can't register. I too ignore her first comment. I pretend not to notice the tremble in her fingers as she adjusts her grip on the half-full glass, or the slight treble in the tone of her sweet voice as she says my name.

Instead, I watch her, thoughts running wild, questions forming in my mind, one after the other. I have much I want to ask her, and yet, as she stands beside me, all I want is to soak in her presence.

"You look well." I state, shifting the topic of conversation.

She smiles sheepishly in response, glancing at me ever so slightly, before turning her attention back to the familiar faces that now filled the space. Some were friends, others scorned ex-lovers, all lost during the transition between school and adult life.

As the lights continue to bounce around the bodies across from where we stood, a glimmer on the back of her hand catches my eye. I draw attention to it.

"Engaged?" I ask her. Say no.

"Married." she corrects me, clearing her throat lowly before continuing, "It's Mrs. Regan now."

Married. Her status sets into stone my expectations and worst fear, both rolled into one great big fuck you. I had half expected as much, after all, it had been 10 years, though deep down, a small part of me had hoped for the opposite.

I reach my hand over and gently grab hold of her elbow, drawing her eyes back to mine. She shudders under my touch, as if unfamiliar with the warmth of my skin on hers. The feeling was electric.

"And where is he? This husband of yours?" The words feel sour on my tongue, bile threatening to rise in my throat.

Her chest rises and falls quickly under the thin material of her dress. She is visibly warm, a rush of blood creeping through the veins in her neck and to her cheeks. She pulls her elbow from my grasp, hands hurriedly ironing out the non-existent creases of her dress.

"Craig won't be coming." Her voice falters. She clears her throat before continuing, "A lawyer's life is a busy one." I take note of the way in which she defends her love, if he even existed as that to her. Marriages are often loveless commitments - bad decisions stretching on for years and years before inevitably fizzling out, often ending in divorce. Which is why you'll never catch me at the alter.

"I bet he got your mother's approval." I mutter under my breath, rolling my eyes and dropping my grasp on her arm. I grit my teeth.

Her mother was never fond of me in my early years, though Lord knows I tried with her. Elissa would often try to convince me that she was hard to please, I on the other hand simply think she was a bitch; though I never voiced this aloud. Of course, she would disapprove of the reckless boy who had once stolen her perfect daughter's heart.

Her eyes continue darting around the floor, aching to look anywhere but at me.

A distasteful look masks her features as she opens her mouth to reply, her phone suddenly ringing in her hand. A now familiar name is etched across the screen. A smile flashes across her face as she excuses herself, one hand bringing the phone to her cheek, the other covering her ear. She glances at me once before walking away, deep into the crowd of bodies.