Denied (One Night 2)

‘Are you okay, sweetheart?’ the taxi driver asks, looking concerned.

‘I’m fine, honestly.’ I rummage through my purse for a tissue but give up when one’s handed through the small hole in the glass. ‘Thank you.’

‘No problem. Let’s get you to the hospital.’

‘Thank you,’ I murmur pitifully, resting back in the seat and watching the blurred lights of London by night zoom past the window.

The driver drops me off at A&E and gives me his mobile number to call him as soon as I’m done. After checking myself in, I sit among the masses of Saturday night drunks, all injured, some ranting, some throwing up.

Four hours later, I’m still sitting in the waiting area, my bottom numb, my head banging. I get up and make my way to the toilet, looking down and seeing my ice-blue dress soaked with blood. My reflection in the mirror once I arrive in the ladies’ reveals even more of a mess. My hair is matted and my right cheek caked in dried blood. I look as pitiful as I feel. After staring at myself for too long and not bothering to remedy my sorry state, I exit into the waiting area again, just catching the tail end of my name being called. I look across the room to see a nurse scanning the waiting area.

‘Here!’ I call, hurrying over, thankful my time in the drunk-infested space is up. ‘I’m Olivia Taylor.’

‘Let’s get you sorted out.’ She smiles kindly and directs me into a cubicle, swiftly pulling the curtain across and settling me on the bed. ‘What have you been up to?’ she asks, frowning at my blood-coated face.

‘I fell,’ I mutter feebly, which isn’t far from the truth.

‘Okay, lovey,’ she says, taking a sterile pad from a packet. ‘This may sting.’ I pull in a shocked rush of breath as it connects with my head, and she hushes me like an injured child. ‘There, there. It looks worse than it is. Some glue will sort it out.’

I’m flooded with relief. ‘Thank you.’

‘Perhaps better footwear is called for.’ She smiles, looking down at my heels before continuing to glue me back together.

I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the nurse chat away, offering the odd agreement or answer to her questions every now and then. My face is cleaned up, but there is nothing that can be done with my hair, so I pile it up gingerly, securing it with a loose tie that I find hiding at the bottom of my bag. My dress looks like it’s ready for the dustbin. I look like I’m ready for the dustbin.

Once I’ve been seen to thoroughly and checked for concussion, I’m discharged and left to find my way home. But I don’t call the nice taxi man because one pulls up, just as the automatic doors swing open, exposing me to the chill of the early hours. I shiver and wrap my arms around my body, trying to squeeze the shudders away as I hurry to the cab. I hop in, but before I can pull the door shut, there’s a body blocking it, hindering my attempts.

Then a palm is resting on my nape and internal sparks begin to fizz. ‘You’re coming with me.’

Chapter Seven

Despondency and the look of determination in his eyes prevent me from fighting him. I haven’t the energy to fight him, so I let him pull me from the taxi and lead me away.

‘Get in,’ he orders when we arrive at his car parked haphazardly nearby.

I do as I’m told and let him shut me in. He climbs in and shocks me when he starts pulling at his wreck of a suit. ‘Fucking mess,’ he mutters, looking out the corner of his eye to me. He’s probably taking in my own dishevelled state, the fool. On a mild shake of his head, he slams his Merc into gear and pulls away from the hospital way too fast, but I don’t say a thing. I’d be stupid to say anything. He looks homicidal, totally deranged. And I’m wary of it.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, pulling a sharp left onto the main road.

I don’t answer, instead focusing forward. He knows the answer to that question.

‘I’ve asked once.’

I remain quiet, absorbing the continued fury emanating from his messy form.

‘Damn it, Olivia!’ He punches the door window, sending me on a startled jump in the passenger seat. ‘Where are your f**king manners?’

I chance a cautious glance at him, seeing a sweaty brow and that loose curl jumping across his forehead from his shaking. ‘I’m fine,’ I whisper.

He takes a calming pull of breath and glances up to the rear-view mirror. ‘Why is your phone turned off?’

‘It’s broken.’

He looks across to me before flicking his eyes up to the mirror again, then taking another sharp left. ‘How?’

‘I threw it at the wall when you texted me,’ I don’t hesitate telling him. ‘Because I was mad at you.’

His face turns to mine and drinks in my blank face for what seems like for ever. Then his hand releases the gearstick and starts to slowly come towards my knee until he gently and cautiously rests it on my bare flesh. I look down at him rubbing lazy circles before I pull my leg away and return my stare forward, leaving his hand dropping to the leather by my leg. He quietly curses and, in my peripheral vision, I see him looking to the rear-view mirror once again. My hand shoots out to grab the door when he takes another vicious turn into a dark alley on yet another quiet curse, and I instinctively glance out the back of the car. Does he think someone’s following us?

I’m just about to speak when the car screeches to a halt and Miller is out, quickly making his way to my side and opening the door. He offers his hand. ‘Take it,’ he demands, and I hesitantly reach forward, sensing an element of urgency to his tone. I’m grasped and pulled from the car before his hold shifts to my neck.