Filthy English (English #2) - Ilsa Madden-Mills Page 0,39
studying her over the top of my beer bottle. My hand curled in my seat, imagining wrapping my fingers around that copper hair, tugging her hair back, and kissing her until she begged me to . . .
Whoa. Slow your roll there, Romeo.
You just re-committed to being friends. Make it last this time, arsehole.
I caught her glancing at me too, an easiness in her eyes that said she trusted me.
Trusted. Me.
I sighed. I had to keep my thoughts and my hands to myself.
Around midnight, we walked outside together and found a cab for the girls. Spider and I headed back to the flat, and Remi called me when she got to her hotel room. I made her walk through the entire place as I listened.
Was I overly paranoid about her attacker?
Maybe.
My fists clenched every time I pictured her under that arsehole. Her bruises may have been covered with make-up, but I fucking knew they were there, and it drove me crazy.
We talked on the phone for two hours. We both put the speaker on as we changed for bed, brushed our teeth and flossed. Later, we crawled in our beds and talked about everything. Movies. Books. Life.
I lay spread-eagle on top of my white duvet as she opened up and told me about her brother Malcolm, who was autistic. And then later, I told her about the letter my mum had written me.
“Is the dragonfly for your mom?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
I exhaled. I was diving into deep waters. “A dragonfly showed up the day of her funeral and followed our car when we left. I was leaving my home, my friends, everything. Declan and I—we felt like it was her that day, and that was before we’d even read her letter. She’d always had a fascination for them, tons of charms and notepads and necklaces. My brother has a smaller tattoo of a dragonfly on his neck. I never realized I wanted one until this summer.”
“A lot of things have changed this summer. Hartford and I are over. You and I are friends.” She sighed. “Who would have thought that?”
Yeah.
A bit later, I was in the middle of telling her a story from my childhood, when I heard her snore.
“Remi?”
Silence.
“Hello? Wake up, sleepyhead.”
All I got was heavy breathing.
I grinned. And I don’t even know why the sound of her sleeping made me happy, but it did.
“Goodnight, love,” I whispered and ended the call.
The next day, I FaceTimed Declan to talk more about the house. With me on the phone, he drove over to the place and walked through it room by room. It was an older craftsman-style home; the kitchen needed renovating, but the hardwood flooring was intact and only needed a good buffing. I took a big breath and decided to go for it. I called Father, who was thrilled, and he offered to help speed up the buying process with his lawyers. I accepted.
Because the house had been on the market for a while, we were able to get the seller to agree to a meeting in three days—which meant I’d need to leave London in two.
I got online, reserved my ticket, and wham, bam, I was jumping right into being a real adult.
“Your tattoo shop used to be an old medieval church?” Remi asked as we entered the vestibule of the Friar’s Church Tattoo Shop. She took in the stained-glass windows and arching buttresses. “The architecture is amazing.”
I was leaving London the day after tomorrow, and I wanted to spend my last full day with Spider, Remi, and Lulu. So after handling the house details with Declan, I’d called the girls and offered to take Remi to see a few sights, and then to get the tattoo she’d mentioned a few times during our phone conversation the night before.
I smiled at her enthusiasm. “It’s been completely rebuilt except for a few of the original stones on the foundation. Friar Laurence replicated every single detail that he could find about the original building, down to the lion and lamb stained-glass windows . . . and now it’s the best place in London to get ink. I wouldn’t go anywhere else. Besides, you have to see the sanctuary.” I motioned toward the heavy, wooden double doors.
Remi came to a halt, giving me a quizzical look. “You love this place?”
“Yeah, why?”
“What is it? The building itself or the fact that it’s a tattoo shop?”