And Cash knows it. The second he heard about the position—he’s friends with the owner, talk about ironic—he knew I was the perfect candidate. I’m flattered he even thought of me.
“I’m going to call Mitchell right now and see when he’s going back home,” I reassure Cash. “I’ll call or text you when I find out more details.”
“If you gotta fly commercial, book a flight. I’ll front you the money.”
His offer makes me feel like shit. “I can pay for it. I have money.” I don’t want to be his charity case.
“The offer stands. If you need it, tell me. I want to help. You can always pay me back,” he says firmly. “Keep me posted when you know more.” He ends the call and I immediately look up Mitchell’s number and call him.
“Tell me you’re finally coming over.” This is how Mitchell greets me. He’s already slurring his words. It is way too early for him to be drunk. “We’re having a party tonight. In your honor.”
“Give me a break. And I don’t want to go to your shitty party.”
“You’re an asshole. A stupid asshole. This shit will be amazing tonight. There will be alcohol. There will be scantily clad women with sexy British accents and cock-sucking lips. Oh, and there will be all the drugs you could ever ask for. All of it. Maybe drugs you never even knew existed.” Mitchell laughs. “God save the Queen, man. I fucking love England.”
Sounds like an absolute nightmare. I decide not to even acknowledge what he just said. “So when are you returning to the States?”
Mitchell makes an irritated sound. “Is that all you ever want? To know when we’re leaving? Are you that anxious to get out of here?”
“I have an appointment I need to go to on Monday.”
“And that’s my problem how?” Mitchell laughs and I hear a female voice in the background, asking him if he wants another round. Great. He’s entertaining.
“I’ll find my own flight back home,” I tell him irritably. I don’t need this shit. “Talk to you later, Mitch.” He hates it when I call him that. Thinks the nickname sounds too blue collar. Such an elitist prick.
“Wait, wait, wait, Kingsley. I’ll get you back home.” He pauses and I hear ice clink in a glass, so I can only assume he’s having a drink. He smacks his lips together before he says, “I’m flying out Sunday night.”
“Sunday night?” I turn and watch the front doors of the hotel, hating the hinky feeling I have that Rose is somehow lingering nearby. But she’s not. When I left her in the room she was on the phone with her sister and planning on going in to Fleur this afternoon. “Is that confirmed?”
“Yeah, yeah. Confirmed. Around seven, though I’m not exactly sure about the departure time. I don’t want to leave too early or too late.”
“Makes sense.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thanks a lot for helping me.”
“Not a problem. But hey.”
“I have one condition, my friend.”
My sense of relief flies right out the window. I hate conditions. “What is it?” I ask warily.
“You need to come to my party tonight. You must. I’m insulted you haven’t stopped by and visited me at Mum and Dad’s.” Mitchell laughs at his fake British accent and I wish like hell I could tell him to fuck off and hang up on him.
But I can’t. We’ve been friends for a long time, and yeah, he drives me crazy with his partying ways, but I can’t treat him like shit. “Can’t make it. I have plans,” I answer.
“No can do, bro.”
“Don’t ‘bro’ me. Since when do you decline attending a drug- and sex-filled party? You found God or something?” Mitchell asks incredulously.
He is the worst ever, I swear. But this is how our relationship has always been. We give each other constant shit. Plus, he knows most of my secrets. If he really cared, he could call the police and have me apprehended in a second.
But he never has. He’s always turned a blind eye to what I do. He’s always been there for me despite the constant amount of crap he dishes out to me.
“It’s nothing like that.” Should I tell him the truth? He won’t stop badgering me until I do. Yet my confession might make it worse. “I’m … seeing a woman.”
“Oooh.” Mitchell sounds like his ten-year-old self. When we used to give each other shit over girls and other dumb crap. “Well, bring her with you. I can’t wait to meet the fancy piece of ass you’re fucking around with.”
I’m pissed. Did he really just call Rose a fancy piece of ass? “Don’t talk about her like that,” I snap.
“What the hell, man. Are you seriously into this chick?” Mitchell is full-on laughing now. “Who’d have thought it? Mister Renegade Thief always on the go, falling for a girl? Have you lost your balls or what?”
“You’re an asshole,” I mutter. “And I’m not coming to your shitty party.”
“Then I guess you’re not coming home with me on my plane, either,” he says cheerfully, clearly enjoying this conversation.
“Don’t test me. Come on, Caden. You know I get upset when you don’t show up to my parties. You bring the good time.”
I used to bring the good time. I drank plenty of booze and did all the drugs and the women, but I pulled myself off the party scene a few years ago. The more alcohol and drugs I consumed, the more reckless I became, and I didn’t need the trouble.