‘Thanks, Clive.’
I jump in the elevator, punch in the code and pray he hasn’t got around to re-programming it in the short time I’ve been gone. I let out a relieved breath of air when the doors close and I start my journey to the penthouse. He’s got to answer the door yet – I don’t have a key.
My stomach does a few three sixties as the elevator door slides open and I’m faced with the double doors into Jesse’s apartment. I frown to myself. The door’s open and there’s music – very loud music.
I walk to the door, gently pushing it open, my ears instantly bombarded from every direction by an extremely powerful and poignant, but equally sad track. I recognise it instantly – Angel. The words hit me like a thunderbolt, immediately putting me on guard. Right now, it sounds so loud and depressing, not soft and ardent like it was when we made love. I need to find a remote control so I can turn it down, or off. It’s so affecting. And with it coming from all of the integrated speakers, there’s no escaping it. Maybe he’s not here. Maybe the system has malfunctioned because he couldn’t possibly sustain this noise level for long. But the door was wide open. I clamp my hands over my ears as I glance around the huge space trying to locate a remote control. Running into the kitchen, I spot one on the island and quickly find the volume button to turn the music down – a lot.
Once I’ve taken care of the noise levels, I go in search of him, making my way through the open plan area. As I reach the stairs, I kick something and watch as it clatters across the floor. I pick up the glass bottle and place it on the console unit at the bottom of the stairs before taking them two at a time.
I go straight to the master suite, but he’s not in there. I proceed to frantically search every other room on the floor. He’s in none of them. Where is he? I get half way down the stairs, stopping abruptly when my eyes land on the empty bottle that I scooped up.
It’s vodka. Well, it was. It’s been drained dry.
A wave of uneasiness rolls over me as a million thoughts invade my head. I’ve never seen Jesse drink – not ever. Every time alcohol has been on offer, he’s refused, ordering water instead. It never occurred to me to wonder why. Have I ever seen him drink? No, I don’t think I have. Now, looking at the empty bottle of vodka placed carefully on the table and thinking about how carelessly it was tossed on the floor, something isn’t right.
‘Oh, please no.’ I whisper to myself.
His insistence on me not drinking on Friday comes rushing back into my mind like a tidal wave. Our little altercation in The Blue Bar, when he tried to force feed me some water, suddenly doesn’t seem so unusual or unreasonable.
I hear a crash, my eyes snapping from the empty bottle of vodka to the outside terrace. The huge glass doors are open. I sprint the rest of the way down the stairs, across the living space, skidding to a halt at the doors when I see Jesse struggling to get himself up from one of the sun loungers. Have I had my eyes closed for the past few weeks? I’ve missed so much.
He has a towel wrapped around his waist and a bottle of vodka in his hand, which he’s keeping a tight hold of as he fights to push himself up on his free arm. He’s swearing profusely.
I’m froze on the spot as I watch this man that I’ve fallen in love with, a physically powerful, passionate and captivating man, reduced to a drunken wreck. How did this slip past me? I’ve not even wrapped my head around all of the other shit that’s been landed on me today. And now this on top of everything else? What have I done to deserve this?
Once he’s hauled himself up, he turns to face me, his eyes hollow, his face washed out. It doesn’t look like him.