5. Olivia

CHAPTER 5

OLIVIA

I don't even say anything when I meet Miles at the gate to the training grounds. For a second, I think he's going to shove his way past me, pretending he hasn't seen me at all, but he stops just in front of me, folding his arms and glaring. Wordlessly, I turn and head to the parking lot, glancing over my shoulder the whole time to make sure he's still following me.

We share a look and he gets into the car with a face like a slapped toddler. I slam the door behind him and swing into the driver's seat, and as the engine growls to life, he says, "I can't believe they're making you to babysit me this much."

"Well," I say as we turn out of the parking lot. It's easier not to be angry at him if I don't have to look at him. "If you would just act like a real human being for a change, maybe I wouldn't need to."

"I am acting like a human being," he replies, folding his arms to be contrary. "I have human urges. You're telling me you want me to deny my nature just so you can get a pat on the back from your boss."

"No," I say taking a sharp breath. "What I want is to not have to do this anymore." I make a gesture between the two of us with my pointed finger. "Much as I enjoy your company, I'd really love it if that company didn't have to involve me treating you like a three-year-old."

He doesn't have a response for that, so he just sighs and stares out of the window instead. It's a nice change from his snide remarks and comments. He thinks he's so clever and funny, but it's driving me nuts. Time is stretching ahead of us and it's looking far too long.

"Where are we going anyway?" he asks as we hit traffic and grind to a stop.

"Straight home," I say, my tone clipped, the sea of cars ahead of us unmoving, unwilling to help me get through this torment any faster.

I hate feeling like his mother. I hate that I'm being made to do this. I hate that I feel like I have no choice. But this morning I had my monthly review, and that meeting was not one of the best ones I've ever had. I was shown a whole bunch of press clippings of Miles and his bad behavior and told yet again that under no circumstances was there to be a repeat of this.

"I don't know what they put in the water in England," my manager said, "but we don't tolerate this kind of behavior here. Unfortunately, we won't be in a position to fire him unless he actively breaks the law." He left the rest of the sentence unsaid, but he didn't need to use any words to get his point across with sickening clarity.

Miles may not be able to get the boot, but I certainly could.

"You know," says Miles, and I can just hear that cheeky little grin in his voice. "I'm not allowed to go out by myself? I'm under house arrest."

"I wouldn't put it like that," I say. "But I suppose so, yes."

"Okay. So, I can't go out myself. Whatever. But there's no rule against me going out if you come with me, right?

"I am not coming out with you," I say, scoffing at the idea. The last thing I need is for Miles to jeopardize my career even more than he already is by getting me more tipsy than necessary with him.

"I'm not saying we have to go clubbing or anything," he says, mirroring my own derisive tone. No wonder people struggle to say no to him. He has this way of making you want to roll over and give in to everything he wants. "Just, like, you know, to a bar for a drink. I'll be good, I promise."

"No," I say again. "I'm taking you straight home and if I have to, I'm locking the door and taking the key."

"You can't stop me climbing out the window," he says. "Surely you'd rather come with me where you can keep an eye on me than let me out to cause chaos on my own. After all, won't it look worse for you if you take me home and then I go and do something wild when you chose to leave me alone?"

I grimace, my heart sinking like it's full of rocks. "Dammit," I mutter. I'm not going to admit out loud that he's right, even if he is, so all I do is say through gritted teeth, "Fine."

"First tab's on me," he says, grinning like butter wouldn't melt.

"All the tabs are on you," I grumble. "If you're going to drag me out with you, then you are paying for it all."

He turns his head, from where he's looking out the window to raise an eyebrow at me while he smirks. "You won't regret this, Livvy. We're gonna have fun."

Despite what he might think, I'm not so buttoned-up that my idea of fun doesn't involve going out. I know how to party. I just prefer my going out to be off-the-clock. Still, it has been a long time since I went out, and I could do with a night of thinking about something that's not keeping a leash on him . For now, I'm going to choose to believe him when he says he's going to behave. I just hope he doesn't make me regret this.

I take the next exit to swing us back towards the city. I figure that because I'm driving, I get to choose where we're going. Plus, he doesn't know that much about this area yet. I wouldn't trust his recommendations for a second.

Parking is usually pretty tricky round here, but we get lucky and manage to park up just a block away from the club. I guess it's not that busy because it's midweek, but I've been caught out by it before. I just wish I wasn't still in my business-casual work clothes.

When we get into the bar, one of my favorite songs is playing and I immediately start humming along. Miles gives me a look but doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he asks, "What do you want to drink, Liv?"

I've given up trying to correct him on not giving me a nickname. Nobody calls me Liv except him. I've always figured that I've been given my name for a reason. I don't need to make it any shorter than it is.

"I'll have a rum and coke," I say. He raises both eyebrows. "What? It's a good combination."

"No, I know," he says. "It's just that's my favorite. Other than a strong cocktail, anyway. Makes you feel like a pirate."

"Well, maybe we'll have cocktails a bit later on."

"Aren't you driving?" he says with such genuine concern that it almost makes me burst out laughing.

"We can always call a cab." He shrugs in agreement and, now the matter is solved, wanders up towards the bar. I follow him and take a seat on one of the barstools. I like this place because it's never too busy and the atmosphere is always awesome. Despite being small, they always have great music, cool specials, and fun seasonal decor.

The bartender slides my drink over to me and I turn to ask Miles what he's having, but there's no one there. He's vanished into the darkness, leaving me here like an idiot.

I can't believe I've been stood up during something that's fundamentally a work engagement.

Minutes turn into an hour and I'm still sitting here, staring at the wall and tapping my fingernails against my glass. Maybe I should have followed him. But I didn't see him get up, so how could I have? He really has conned me. If he's run off into the arms and bedroom of some girl when he swore to me he'd behave, I'm going to be absolutely furious with him.

And if he gets me fired. I'm going to make him go to my manager and crawl on his hands and knees to get me my job back, because if I get fired, it'll be his fault.

The clock keeps ticking, and I decide to order a cocktail so I get at least something out of tonight. I don't really feel like paying the extortionate parking fee for staying overnight, but I've barely touched my drink so I'm still okay to drive back. I wave down the bartender and order a Shirley Temple so I can sip it nervously through the straw while my mind races with the panic of having to update my résumé.

Part of me wants to get up and say screw this and have a good time so I can forget about all this, even for a second. But I can't move. I'm frozen to the spot with the fear that if I leave, Miles will show back up, expecting me to be here.

I'm about to give up all hope of seeing him again when I notice a certain star soccer player with his arm twisted around that of an attractive girl's waist. I jump up in surprise, but then freeze, watching as Miles leans in and kisses the girl he's picked up. A rush of emotion flows through me, and I can't help wondering for a second if it's rage or jealousy.

Then I shake myself back to my senses and march over to him. "Hey, Miles," I say in my very sweetest voice, touching him playfully on the shoulder. "Who's your new friend?"

The girl flushes tomato-red and Miles's mouth drops open. Clearly he thought I'd stopped keeping watch over him. Drunk and embarrassed, he blurts out, "What the hell, dude?"

"I thought you were going to tell me when you left," I say, still beaming sweetly. The girl unhooks herself from him and his shock turns into a frustrated frown.

"Yes, of course," he sighs tersely. "Sorry, love," he whispers to the girl. "Another time." She giggles awkwardly, obviously thinking that I must be his watchful and jealous girlfriend. Exactly as I wanted her to.

Of course, I'm no such thing, but at this moment, I might as well be from the way I have to hold him up so he doesn't fall over. The girl grimaces once more then backs away into the crowd, and I drop the niceness act. "Miles, what the hell is wrong with you?" I hiss loudly over the music. "You told me you were going to behave. I thought you'd gone home! You've ditched me all night, and now I catch you trying to sneak off?"

"You won't let me have any fun. It's like you want me to have a bad time." He's started slurring his words and I wonder just how much he's had to drink.

Taking pity on him, I grab his wrist and guide him towards the door. "Let's get you home," I say. "You can sleep whatever this is off." He grunts in agreement and follows with surprisingly little resistance.

Not that I'm complaining about that.

I bundle him out to the car and he grins dopily up at me as I sit him down.

"You know, I always love going home with a pretty girl."

"Miles," I admonish him, "keep control of yourself."

He pouts as we crawl out of the parking lot. "But it's hard. It's hard when I'm surrounded by such pretty ladies. It's not my fault they assign me a beautiful woman to keep watch over me. You know, I was expecting to get laid tonight. And you took her away from me. But now my bed will be wide open."

"Don't even think about it," I say, nipping that thought very quickly in the bud. His pout deepens and I ignore him. For a moment I wonder. If he's going to reach out and put his hand on my knee. I think I'd be totally justified in punching him if he did.

But he doesn't.

I feel kind of bad for being so suspicious of him — because, even though he might be drunk, he seems like a good guy. He might be annoying and frustrating and constantly pushing the limits of acceptability, but I don't think he'd ever, really want to hurt anyone. I don't think he's willingly trying to hurt me.

He falls asleep on the drive, leaving me in the peace of the nighttime traffic and lights to let my thoughts drift. No matter how hard I try to keep him from them, I can't. He looks cute like this, vulnerable and defenseless. I wonder what makes him try so hard to be the kind of cool guy people think he is. I feel sure there's someone more human underneath.

When we get back to his place, I shake him awake enough to get up, only for him to keep calling me pretty as I drag him up to the apartment. He winks at me before closing the door. I imagine he's going to fall on his sofa and immediately pass out. If he made all the way to the bed, I'd be impressed.

Still, as I walk back towards the elevator, I can't quite shake the image of him in his bed, or stop his words calling me pretty echoing through my mind.