LUKA (The Rhythm Series, Book 2) Read Online Free Page A
being a pain in my ass. But maybe some distance from each other would be good after last night. I suspected it was a mistake—now it seemed as if she was thinking the same way and avoiding me.
A pang of regret was followed by relief that there’d be no morning-after embarrassment. I hoped it would be cool with Sarah because we were friends first, but you never know when sex will fuck things up.
I called a cab and lugged my suitcases into the lobby.
I hadn’t been to Sarah’s place during the two weeks that we’d played in London. I knew she lived somewhere in Camden, a trendy, bohemian part of the city, like Greenwich Village in New York, but that was all.
After a ten minute ride, the cab dropped me halfway along a row of redbrick attached houses with tiny yards at the front, a square of mowed lawn and miniature flowerbeds.
I saw a blue flowerpot with a small shrub by the front door and knew that I was at the right place. I lifted it carefully and found the promised keys, opening the door to a hallway, about three feet in either direction.
Dragging my suitcases behind me, I walked into an open-plan living room-kitchen. It was small, but full of sunshine from windows at both ends.
The furniture was a mix of modern and older things, giving it a comfortable, homey feel. The kitchen was new and hardly used, with a breakfast bar and two stools, and from the window I could see a small deck and another square of grass.
And on the breakfast bar, there was a note weighted down by an empty fruit bowl.
She always made me smile.
Three months was plenty of time to get over a drunken fuck.
I texted her to wish her a good trip. She didn’t reply, so she was probably already on a plane heading south.
There was only one other door leading off the living room.
I pushed it open and was immediately wrapped in the warm scent of Sarah. For a long moment, I stood there breathing in deeply.
The room was dominated by a king size bed, with purple duvet and pink pillows. I winced at the clashing colors but it made me smile, too. Very Sarah. It looked damn comfortable, so I was tempted to lie down and sleep off the rest of my hangover.
I buried my face in the pillows, catching the scent of citrus shampoo that she used. It reminded me of all the times we’d danced together, the long bus rides on tour where we’d sat together talking, or arguing about movies and her appalling taste in 80s glam rock. I thought about last night again, hoping it wouldn’t change things. Then I rolled over and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of cars passing outside, as a wave of loneliness washed over me. I missed Ash and Laney already, I missed my dance family. I even missed Sarah, although that thought now came with a dose of guilt attached.
I turned my head to look at the small wardrobe, one door partially open, showing that Sarah had left me some hanging space. I should unpack.
I sat up and rolled off the bed, checking out the tiny attached bathroom: no bath, just a shower, sink and toilet. All so small, they looked as if they belonged in a doll’s house. But it was clean and fairly tidy.
I wandered back to the kitchen and found that Sarah had left half a pint of milk, a can of coffee, and a small block of cheese in the refrigerator. I really needed to do some grocery shopping.
But first, I was getting rid of those damn suitcases—six months was long enough to look at them becoming more and more battered.
I found a drawer that Sarah had left empty, trying to ignore the temptation to look through the underwear she hadn’t taken: she’d have packed all the good stuff to take with her anyway. My groin tightened at the thought, but I ignored it and finished unpacking my suitcases, then stowed them on top of the wardrobe.
I decided to take a short nap and think about how I was going to spend my first night in London as a single guy with no responsibilities.
The angle of light had changed when I woke up, sluggish and
A pang of regret was followed by relief that there’d be no morning-after embarrassment. I hoped it would be cool with Sarah because we were friends first, but you never know when sex will fuck things up.
I called a cab and lugged my suitcases into the lobby.
I hadn’t been to Sarah’s place during the two weeks that we’d played in London. I knew she lived somewhere in Camden, a trendy, bohemian part of the city, like Greenwich Village in New York, but that was all.
After a ten minute ride, the cab dropped me halfway along a row of redbrick attached houses with tiny yards at the front, a square of mowed lawn and miniature flowerbeds.
I saw a blue flowerpot with a small shrub by the front door and knew that I was at the right place. I lifted it carefully and found the promised keys, opening the door to a hallway, about three feet in either direction.
Dragging my suitcases behind me, I walked into an open-plan living room-kitchen. It was small, but full of sunshine from windows at both ends.
The furniture was a mix of modern and older things, giving it a comfortable, homey feel. The kitchen was new and hardly used, with a breakfast bar and two stools, and from the window I could see a small deck and another square of grass.
And on the breakfast bar, there was a note weighted down by an empty fruit bowl.
She always made me smile.
Three months was plenty of time to get over a drunken fuck.
I texted her to wish her a good trip. She didn’t reply, so she was probably already on a plane heading south.
There was only one other door leading off the living room.
I pushed it open and was immediately wrapped in the warm scent of Sarah. For a long moment, I stood there breathing in deeply.
The room was dominated by a king size bed, with purple duvet and pink pillows. I winced at the clashing colors but it made me smile, too. Very Sarah. It looked damn comfortable, so I was tempted to lie down and sleep off the rest of my hangover.
I buried my face in the pillows, catching the scent of citrus shampoo that she used. It reminded me of all the times we’d danced together, the long bus rides on tour where we’d sat together talking, or arguing about movies and her appalling taste in 80s glam rock. I thought about last night again, hoping it wouldn’t change things. Then I rolled over and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of cars passing outside, as a wave of loneliness washed over me. I missed Ash and Laney already, I missed my dance family. I even missed Sarah, although that thought now came with a dose of guilt attached.
I turned my head to look at the small wardrobe, one door partially open, showing that Sarah had left me some hanging space. I should unpack.
I sat up and rolled off the bed, checking out the tiny attached bathroom: no bath, just a shower, sink and toilet. All so small, they looked as if they belonged in a doll’s house. But it was clean and fairly tidy.
I wandered back to the kitchen and found that Sarah had left half a pint of milk, a can of coffee, and a small block of cheese in the refrigerator. I really needed to do some grocery shopping.
But first, I was getting rid of those damn suitcases—six months was long enough to look at them becoming more and more battered.
I found a drawer that Sarah had left empty, trying to ignore the temptation to look through the underwear she hadn’t taken: she’d have packed all the good stuff to take with her anyway. My groin tightened at the thought, but I ignored it and finished unpacking my suitcases, then stowed them on top of the wardrobe.
I decided to take a short nap and think about how I was going to spend my first night in London as a single guy with no responsibilities.
The angle of light had changed when I woke up, sluggish and
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