One Night: Denied by Jodi Ellen Malpas

Author:Jodi Ellen Malpas [Malpas, Jodi Ellen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781409155683
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2014-11-06T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Morning greets me a split second later, or that’s what it feels like. It also feels like I’m restrained, and a quick assessment of the position of my limbs confirms that I actually am restrained. Tightly. Shifting a little, I monitor his peaceful face, watching for any sign of disturbing him. There’s none, and the heavy odour of stale whisky tells me why. My nose crinkles and I hold my breath, edging my way out of his hold until he rolls onto his back with a grumble. I check the clock, seeing it’s only seven, then quickly throw my clothes on and hurry for the front door. I won’t even bother attempting to make him a coffee to his liking. There’s a Costa Coffee around the corner. They can make it for me.

Taking Miller’s keys from the table, I leave him in bed and automatically head for the stairs, hoping I can return before he wakes and serve him coffee in bed. Aspirin, too. Echoes ring around the concrete walls of the stairwell as I dance down the steps, flashbacks of a lost little boy jumping all over my mind, dragging me back to sorrow. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to kick them to the back of my brain; the memory of Miller’s face in that picture is too vivid. But the thought of being able to make up for lost cuddles – lost things – fills me with purpose.

I crash through the exit door into the lobby and wave a hand over my shoulder to the doorman when he greets me, breaking into the fresh morning air feeling breathless. I don’t let my laboured breathing hold me back, though, and jog down the street, landing in the bustling coffee house in no time at all.

‘Medium Americano, four shots, two sugars, and topped up halfway,’ I gasp to the young guy behind the counter, slapping my purse down. ‘Please.’

‘Sure thing,’ he replies, a little alarmed by my flustered form. ‘Drinking in?’

‘Take out.’

‘And four shots?’

‘Yes, topped up halfway,’ I reiterate. If I knew how it should taste by Miller’s standards, then I’d take a slurp to test it, but I can only imagine that it tastes like coffee beans have been grinded to a pulp and that it resembles something close to tar.

He gets straight to work at the coffee machine, and I find myself counting the shots as they are added to the cup. He isn’t going fast enough, but my manners prevent me from chivvying him along, so I shuffle impatiently instead, glancing over my shoulder on a frown when that strange sensation settles over me. I feel like I’m being watched again, but when I scan the coffee house, I find only businessmen and women with their faces in laptops, slurping and tapping, so I shrug off the strange feeling and return my attention to the dithering server. Now he’s taking his time wiping the steam pipe, whistling as he does.

‘Would you . . .’

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