Chapter 10

I was a bag of nerves. My brother had been my rock for the last three days, letting me come back to stay in his spare room, despite my flat only being a twenty-minute tube ride away.

I couldn’t be there alone.

Yesterday, we had an informal conversation with the police, whereOluchi, the MP, also joined us.

Today, I spoke toVinny’sfamily’s legal team. They wanted everything I had, and luckily for them, I was meticulous about what I kept on my clients.

Every mention of them in the public eye was stored in folders by the month, week and, closer to the end ofVinny’slife, the day. That’s how much shit he had to deal with.

It wasn’t just articles.

Social media posts by verified — and sometimes highly notable — accounts. Especially in those last few weeks.

Vinny’swife, Samantha, also wanted to change the law on websites being held responsible for their members’ cyberbullying. I had plenty of ammunition for her to use.

But it had been draining, and even though it was now over, and I could technically go home, I was still exhausted.

And nervous .

Because I’d been without my phone for some time.

And today was the day Nixon was meant to be a speaker at the women’s aid charity in Bangkok after seeing how his dirt bike stadium was being built. He was very capable of messing both up. I wasn’t even aware if he’d made it there on time.

As we left the firm, my brother, Ben, swiped my phone. “You need a good meal and a glass of wine, not more stress.”

He shook his honey-coloured head, tutting as Dad used to.

“I need to check he actually showed up to something I planned for him,” I argued as we walked into the tube station next door. “Last time, I had to drag him into and out of the shower.”

On the escalator, Ben blinked and looked up at me. “Livie,” he said, the vowels of my name elongated with disappointment. “He seems like an actual asshole. Don’t tell me—”

“No, of course not!” When I was over the shock of his accusation, I lowered my voice and leaned down to say, “He’s infuriating. I wouldn’t sleep with him.”

But my brother cocked a brow. “You have always liked bad boys.”

“He’s not bad, he’s…” God, what was he? Frustrating, annoying, arrogant—

“A bad boy,” he said with a determined nod. “And you’re too much of a good girl.”

I cringed at those words coming out of his mouth. He laughed as we waited on the platform. It was only 2 pm, meaning it was 7:30 pm in India, where our race was on Sunday and where I needed to be by Friday.

He should be back at the hotel by now. Perfect time to check in and see if everything went well before he had a few drinks.

But there was nothing that text could change .

We boarded the carriage and took the Jubilee line to Mayfair, where we met Ben’s boyfriend, Griffin, for lunch. My brother had been right; I did need the large lunch and wine. So much so that when Griff went back to work, Ben and I carried on drinking and when Griff rejoined us, he had to neck a couple of shots to catch up.

And I no longer cared if Nix had gone to the charity event. I had enough personal drama. When it came to Nix, I had done everything I could.

Doing everything right last time had resulted inVinnydying. Everything wasn’t enough sometimes.

And that became more apparent when Ben drunkenly made the conversation serious. “Adam texted me,” he admitted sheepishly.

I groaned, throwing my head back as we sat at the bar, then sprang up straight as the stool shuffled and I nearly went flying. I mixed my cocktail with the straw, trying to pass it off as he laughed into his glass.

“Don’t want to hear it.”

“They’ve reactivated your company email for the court case,” he said nonetheless. “He wants to forward your emails with the papers being sued. To have your back.”

“Oh, how sweet of him,” I grumbled. “He’s really got my back.”

“He also said if you need any freelance work—”

Griff scoffed. “Fuck him.”

“Yes, Griff!” I cheered and clanged our glasses together. “Exactly. Fuck him. Where was this support six months ago? Prick.”

“If you did want to come back…” Ben started and paused by sipping the melted ice in his glass. “It would be easier than wo rking for NixonArmas.”

“He’s not all that bad,” I said with a heavy smile and heavier eyes. “God, I am tipsier than I thought.”

Griff laughed and chimed my glass with his again. “Drink up and we’ll take you home.”

And as much as I knew I would regret the drinking in the morning when I would be rushing for my flight, I really needed this. A few days with my brother.

At his flat, he set an alarm on my phone. He knew that if I woke without setting one, I would immediately go into a panic. He kissed my forehead, sliding my phone under my pillow. “Sweet dreams, LittleLivie.”

Little lividLivie. That’s what Nix had called me.

I pulled out my phone the second he left and one notification caught my attention. Nix had posted on Instagram. The picture of him holding Clara’s hand. The caption was a motorbike emoji.

@Claralou__x and132kothers liked it. Going on her profile, he had liked her last six posts.

The photo had been posted hours ago.

But looking at the bottom of the screen, at the twenty-three notifications I had on the app, it wasn’t the only activity.

It changed to twenty-four.

I clicked to see the same notification over and over.

@NixonArmas18 liked your photo.

The last one he had double-tapped was from two years ago, Ben and I at the beach.

I kept scrolling, only for the next notification to make my stomach flutter with anxiety.

@NixonArmas18shared your post to their story.

Under my outfit of the day post, he’d added the text of ‘the best publicist ever.’

My heart was beating so loudly that I was surprised my brother didn’t rush into the room, already dialling 999.

And then he’d posted another story. Him. Naked, the screen cut just at the thick v to his pelvis. With the audio of heavy breathing.

I may have watched the short clip a few times, breaths rising with my heartbeat.

A text came through, ruining my view.

NIXONARMAS: Stop ignoring me. Who’s the guy in the picture? Greece.

I sat against the headboard, the photo I’d gawked at having woken me up but I blinked out some of the tiring alcohol before reading his texts from earlier in the day.

NIXONARMAS: I did what you asked. Went without a hitch.

NIXONARMAS: Hope you’re okay and everything’s alright in England.

An hour ago, he texted me again.

NIXONARMAS: When are you back, Livid?

NIXONARMAS: I even posted the picture you wanted and no response?

NIXONARMAS: Never seen you without your phone for so long.

In India, it was at least three in the morning. He had to be drunk. Texting me drunk in his hotel room.

LIVIE: I’m flying tomorrow. Tell me more about today.

The three dots of him penning his reply were immediate.

NIXON ARMAS: What time?

NIXONARMAS: Would have been better if you were there. If you were here.

I didn’t doubt that. From a publicity angle, of course. I was pretty nifty with a camera lens.

LIVIE: Well, I’ll be there soon. You shouldn’t have posted my account.

NIXONARMAS: What if I got my plane to come and get you now?

NIXONARMAS: Already had men in myDMsasking if you’re single.

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, even if he couldn’t see.

Then I checked myDMs. Despite Nix only posting two hours ago, I’d racked up over 50 new messages.

Great.

LIVIE: I’m exhausted and had a glass or two of wine. I should sleep.

And watch his story again.

NIXONARMAS: Same. But I can’t.

My thumbs hovered over my text. Something was thrilling about texting him. Something secretive and exciting.

LIVIE: And why can’t you sleep?

NIXONARMAS: Can’t help but wonder who the guy in your pictures is.

In person, he was flirty, as if it was his natural charisma. But over text… it almost felt like he had to put more effort into messaging me repeatedly.

It was an effort to stalk and question the men in my posts.

I loaded up my profile again, scrolling through my own pictures for any sighting of Ben. There were a few from that trip to Greece, then a couple from the year before. All of my birthday posts for him were childhood photos.

NIXONARMAS: Don’t go quiet on me now. He’s pale. Screams Brit. He who you’re staying with?

His jealousy was turning me on, licking my body with flames of heat, even from 5,000 miles away .

LIVIE: Maybe. That a problem?

He started to type. Then stopped. Then started again.

LIVIE: You jealous, Armas?

NIXONARMAS: Of the half-ass sex you might be getting?

I bit my lip to stop from laughing. He’d heard more than I thought.

NIXONARMAS: You like posh boys? I’m not a posh boy.

I laughed aloud, trying to muffle the sound with my hand. Posh, he was not. Rugged, dangerous, sexy, yes.

LIVIE: Who said I like you? And you like a grid girl. Like a few posts, at least.

My phone buzzed, ringing in my hand. I picked it up quickly so my brother wouldn’t hear.

“Was that wrong?” Nixon asked, his voice thick with alcohol and exhaustion. “I thought it would look more real. Should I not have liked her posts?”

“No, you should have,” I said.

Fuck, his voice was husky and seductive. I pulled off my trousers. I couldn’t sleep in them anyway. Twenty minutes ago, I had been ready to pass out in them.

“You jealous, Livid?” he asked with a laugh.

“Nothing to be jealous of,” I said, breathless from trying to rush off my clothes. “Or is there?”

I’d said as part of his agreement, he might start something with his ‘girlfriend’. What a ridiculous idea to give him.

“I liked at least twenty more of your posts,” he said as I searched through my bag at the side of my bed for my headphones. I wanted to look at his face while I spoke to him. “So, if we’re going by that standard, I don’t think you need to be jealous.”

Earphones in, I loaded up Instagram again, only to see another fifteen notifications from him.

“Did you see my other story, Livid?”

I was trying not to click on it now.

“Yes,” I said, voice stern. “That shouldn’t have been posted either.”

“I wanted to get your attention. How many times did you watch?”

Attention for me to admire? Or tell off? “Once.”

He snorted, seeing right through my lie. “It got 4 million views — I’m betting a few hundred thousand were you?”

“Was it your breathing?”

The humour behind his snort became a full chuckle. “Maybe. Want to hear it in real life?”

I skipped past his latest post, not wanting to see his hand in hers and started to scroll. The picture of him a few days ago with champagne in his hair made me think back to him in the shower and how he had groaned. Only hours later, he had admitted it was because he had been thinking of me.

I tapped it twice, the little illustrated heart turning red.

It was just silly flirting. Harmless.

It was the alcohol. We were both drunk.

“Like what you see, Livid?”

Yes. I’d hated him calling me Livid before. It had heated my skin and forced my breathing to harshen in anger.

But my breath was already harsh and I loved him calling me Livid.

My inner thigh was so sensitive, my fingertips grazing closer to where I needed to be touched—where I needed his touch.

“Mmm,” I moaned. “What a waste of champagne.”

If I just touched my thigh and not myself, then that was okay. That was just fine.

“Next time, we shouldn’t waste a drop. How about you lick it off?”

“Lick—lick it off?” I stammered, my touch halting.

He grunted, and the sound ran deep within me, encouraging my fingers to climb again. “Yeah. With your tongue. Lick the champagne off my neck. Off my skin. You can lick wherever. Wouldn’t want anything to go to waste.”

Oh my god. My clit was pulsing, begging for touch as I imagined myself kissing his neck, getting on my knees and licking somewhere else, somewhere sensitive—

I touched myself through my knickers, not holding back a relieved sigh.

“What are you doing, Livid?” he asked, amused, but by his own breathy question, I knew exactly what he was up to.

“Imagining the taste of your champagne.”

“Do you think you’ll ever do more than imagine?” he asked.

When he finished speaking, all I could imagine was that grunt he had made in the shower. In my ear. Against my throat. Against where I touched myself.

“Say yes,” he begged. “Please say yes.”

The alcohol, his voice so deep in my ear with the headphones, the analogies, the tension in my bones all forced my mouth to say, “I hope so.”

“You touching yourself?” he asked, his voice full of grit. When I didn’t respond, he pressed, “Don’t lie.”

“Through my knickers,” I sighed, closing my eyes, picturing my fingers as his.

“Why?” he grunted. “Take them off.”

“I want you to touch me,” my drunken mouth admitted. “I don’t want it to be me. ”

“Fuck,” he muttered and the swear in his voice made my fingers work harder. Just taking the edge off the relief I needed. “Fuck, I want that too. What I want to do to you, Livid… I wish I was in England. I’d take those panties off.”

I wanted him to. I wanted him so badly.

I stopped.

I wanted him too badly .

Shit.

“I’m really drunk,” I confessed. Not exactly a lie. “You are too, right?”

There was silence on his side of the phone. Then, “Yeah.”

“We shouldn’t— I’m just a horny drunk. It’s been an emotional week.”

“Right, yeah,” he agreed, voice muffled. “It’s late here. I’ll talk to you when you’re back tomorrow.”

“Night, Armas.”

“Night, Olivia.”