Page 32

Camila

Igroan as my phone plays its aggravating wake-up call. Searching under my pillow, I pull it out and repeatedly slam my fingers on the screen to turn it off. I can feel Sid stirring by my legs, probably about to prance into the kitchen, sit on top of the mini-island like an ancient Egyptian cat expecting to be worshipped, and wait for me to feed him.

I sigh as I open my eyes, and the morning sun burns them through the open curtains. As usual, I forgot to close them before I went to bed. But after my weird stupor in Xander’s car and reliving my eighteenth birthday with Luke, I just needed to sleep it off.

Obsidian meows from across the room. I squint one eye open towards the white dresser in between two windows. Sid is gracefully padding along it, sniffing every perfume bottle on his merry way. His head turns to me, his yellow eyes staring deep into my soul.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” I warn.

He extends his paw towards my most expensive bottle of perfume, keeping his narrowed eyes on me, slowly pushing the bottle to the edge.

“Obsidian,” I say slowly. He pauses, twisting his small, furry head towards the bottle, then back to me.

We’re engaged in a stare-down for thirty seconds before—with one little nudge—he knocks the bottle off the side, and it connects with the laminate floor with a smash.

“You little shit!” I screech as he leaps off and bolts out of the room. “No chicken for you tonight!”

I make a growling noise in my throat as I get out of bed and lay eyes on my shattered perfume on the floor. I swear, that cat only exists to cause chaos in my life. As if I don’t have enough.

I trudge to the kitchen and do my usual routine of feeding Obsidian, then make my way into my small, white bathroom, turning on the tap for the shower.

The water cools my skin as I step in. It’s almost the end of August, but it’s still hot outside, and since our houses aren’t built for heat, it’s already stuffy inside. I rub my loofah into my body, cleaning myself from last night’s shift. I couldn't find it in me to do anything but head straight for bed. I'll have to dig out some fresh sheets.

I move to my neck, and as I do, the phantom touch of Xander’s hand on my throat takes me by surprise. My eyes ping open, and my free hand massages my neck. I swallow as I do so.

Swiftly turning off the shower, I pull back the glass screen and step out, wrapping a towel around myself. Standing in front of the mirror, I rub away the built-up steam and examine my neck, leaning forward.

I expect to see purple marks from where his hand gripped my throat, but there’s nothing. My muscles slacken as my hand rests on the base of my neck, my eyes still scanning the expanse of it, not quite believing it. As I gaze at myself, I imagine Xander walking up behind me, one of his muscled arms wrapping around my waist, his free hand coming up to my throat again. And for some unexplained reason, I let him. I let myself visualise him holding me in place like that. Not threatening. Not harsh. But possessively. And I find myself hoping once more that he’ll show up to watch me at the club again.

And for the first time ever, I contemplate ahead to tonight. Plan my routine.

I haven’t felt this much excitement in years, let alone over a man.

Sharp, scraping noises pull me out of my wholly inappropriate thoughts about my boss. Obsidian is scratching at the corner of the carpet by the bathroom door when I come out.

“Sid, no!” I shout, scooping him up into my arms and placing him back in the kitchen. “Darren is gonna kill us!” He tilts his head at me, tail swishing behind him.

I was lucky that my landlord let me adopt Obsidian since they don’t usually allow pets in rented houses.

“He’s gonna kick you out, and you’re gonna be living with all the other stray cats in the communal garden.”

Sid meows, showcasing two sharp teeth, and sashays away from me—like it’s absurd that I’d even suggest that—and climbs onto the white sofa.

The dreaded chime of my phone sounds, and I pick it up off the kitchen counter.

UNKNOWN: I swear to god I will fucking kill you when I find you

UNKNOWN: Don’t think I’m not trying you bitch

To any normal person, these texts would be surprising. Not to me, though. This is just my normal daily dose of depression. I’d be surprised if I didn’t get a text.

I curl up beside Sid, gently stroking his head.

“I hope you haven’t made too many cat friends. I have a feeling we might be leaving here soon,” I sigh, turning my attention to the TV, where a news reporter chimes on about some abandoned warehouse that burnt down in a couple of areas from Soho. Apparently gang violence. They found fourteen pounds of cocaine after controlling the fire.

Shivers run down my spine at the thought that Luke might be getting closer to finding me. He dealt drugs our entire relationship. I couldn’t count how many times he got me entangled in his dirty business. Always making me sell for him or dragging me to the shadiest places armed with guns. He never trusted me to stay home alone or even to stay in the car while he did what he needed to do. It’s a miracle I’m still alive. He never protected me, and when things started getting heated, he’d take the car and run. Leaving me in the middle of gunfire.

“If that’s him, I hope he burnt down with the building,” I scoff, shutting the TV off.