The Redeemer (29 page)

The sound of the apocalypse entered Xander’s consciousness. Or so it seemed. In reality, it was the sound of a nearby wall being knocked down by a team of building contractors but to his ears, it was catastrophic. Thinking he was in bed, he attempted to slide down, under the covers. No such luck. He felt the skin of his left cheek peel off the smooth leather of his sofa where it had stuck as he’d slept. As the hammering outside the room competed with the hammering inside his head, he groaned.

He reached out with his hand, feeling for a bottle of anything that would help to take away the pain in his head. And the pain in his heart. But all he could locate was empty bottles. Cursing, he reached down to the floor with his other hand and tried again. He was out of luck. If his memory had been functioning correctly, he’d know that he’d drunk the place dry over the preceding few days. Anything and everything had been poured down his throat. Anything to prevent him from being remotely sober and thereby having to confront the two devastating issues that he felt incapable of acknowledging, never mind confronting.

A grunt emerged from between his parched lips. His full bladder was making its presence known. Tempted though he was to lie there and piss himself, he hadn’t quite reached that level. Almost, but not quite. He turned over on to his back in an effort to take the pressure off and relieve the discomfort but moving only made it worse.

Looking like a survivor from a nuclear fallout, he staggered to his feet, his hands pressed over his ears and promptly walked into the coffee table. He fell, sprawling across it before landing in a heap on the floor. The pressure on his bladder was too much; he could feel warmth spreading out across his groin.

‘Damn it. Damn it to fucking hell and back,’ he cursed, trying desperately to cut off the flow. Once he’d achieved it, he managed to get upright and stagger into the bathroom.

The noise from the renovation was less there and, as he freed his damp cock and emptied his bladder, the weight of his worries settled back on his shoulders. When he walked back into the bedroom, his stature was hunched and his mind was fucked. His life was falling apart and the one person he wanted to run to . . . well, he was too afraid to seek solace there. Too afraid that she would turn her back on him. And why wouldn’t she? He was a married man – albeit separated – with a newborn baby, born to his estranged wife.

What a fucking mess.

He looked down at his urine stained trousers and shuddered. He turned to the mirror and almost recoiled in horror at his reflection.

Is that really me? Fuck me . . . I look like hell. No, I look like hell on a bad day. Jesus Christ . . . if Red saw me now, she’d run a freaking mile – and who’d blame her? I look like a hobo and, what’s more, I fucking smell like one. Fucking hell, X, get a grip on yourself. Hiding out here, stinking of beer and piss won’t make your fucking problems go away. You’ve drunk the place dry now anyway. Get a grip. Get showered and shaved. Get your fucking life back on track.

But how in God’s name do I do that?

You’re Xander Fucking Rhodes . . . stop whining and think. Let’s face it, whatever you do, it can’t make life worse than this . . .

Freshly showered and shaved but still feeling like a nuclear holocaust survivor, Xander knew what his first priority was, closely followed by his second. First he needed food. Not just any food but a greasy, cholesterol-laden, fried breakfast. Then he needed to shoot his load. He wasn’t horny. Not remotely, but he knew he could always think clearer and solve problems faster when he’d emptied his balls. A quirk of Mother Nature but it worked. And he was desperate. The image of a flame-haired sex goddess swam into his head. Oh yeah, he was definitely desperate.

Xander sat, mug of coffee in hand, patting his full stomach. He’d had breakfast in one of the greasy spoon cafés he liked to visit occasionally. Not just any breakfast, but a ‘belly buster breakfast’ that was in real danger of bursting his intestines. But the amount of fried bacon, sausage, egg and mushrooms that he’d put away was a sure-fire way to cure the demonic hangover that had made its presence felt during the drive over there. For once, he’d been glad he didn’t have the Holden – that noisy V8 was unbearable when he was hung-over. Instead, he drove the beaten-up hatchback that he’d bought when he’d been forced to sell the Holden, and that favourite vehicle was still at Rouge Passion where he’d left it when he’d fled on foot, too pissed to drive.

He was content for the moment to sit back and wash the whole lot down with a mug of strong coffee. He tried to wipe his aching head of all the crap that was floating around. He needed his mind to clear but images of his beloved Red would not obey the instruction to disappear. Yet, he realised that he had no trouble burying the images of his wife and the faceless newborn he’d fathered. Just the thought of his wife and child made his stomach churn and, panicking that his breakfast was about to make an unwelcome return, he got up and left.

Back behind the wheel, he realised that he didn’t know where to go. Smacking his palms on the steering wheel in frustration, he knew precisely where he wanted to go. Straight into his love’s arms. But he knew that before he and Red could stand a chance, he had to sort out the issue of his wife and child.

My wife and child . . . even the thought of it makes me shudder. How can I be a father to him when I can’t even bring myself to see him? When I feel nothing for him?

‘Red, I need you,’ he whispered. ‘I need you more than I’ve ever needed anyone. Without you, I no longer feel like I’m drowning . . . I feel like I’m on the seabed, in a straightjacket with lead weights tied to my legs. The life that I should be living is over. Without your breath in my lungs, I’m a dead man. Save me, Red. Save me.’

Hunched over the wheel, he could no longer deny the build-up of frustration and fear that he’d been carrying around since Friday evening. The DNA test results had hit him like a hammer to the balls. For months, he’d felt trapped. Trapped in a loveless marriage with a cheating wife – or so he’d thought. But Red had come into his life. Shining like a beacon to guide him to safe water but now he’d blown it. There was no light in his life. He realised then that he hadn’t been trapped. Not truly. Back then, he’d had hope. But not now. Now he had nothing.

As the tears picked their way down the contours of his face, his shoulders began to shake as his mind fully absorbed the impact of his loss. Minutes later, he sat up. The cathartic cleansing cleared his mind more effectively than any wank had ever done, which was useful, since he doubted very much that he could get his cock remotely hard while his head was so fucked up.

I’ve been such a fool. A prize fucking knobhead. I shouldn’t have run from Red out of fear that she’d end it with me. Oh my God, Red . . . she’ll be wondering what the hell has happened to me. I’ve not called her to try to sort this mess out or even let her know I’m not lying in a morgue somewhere. It’s been four days . . . she’ll think I’ve abandoned her and . . . oh my fucking God, she might think that I’ve gone back to Janine. Fuck. Oh fuck. You stupid fucking idiot! What have you done?

Firing up the engine and slamming it in gear, he shot out into the busy London traffic, cursing his stupidity and hoping that his actions hadn’t made things much worse. Weaving in and out of the maniacal traffic, he soon wished he was in the Holden.

Come on, you piece of shit. Do you have an engine full of custard? The handling of a double-decker bus? Come onnnnn!

Eventually, he tore on to the forecourt of the hotel, noting with satisfaction that his Holden was still there. He doubted that Isla would have done anything out of revenge this time. No, he doubted she’d be angry. Upset? Yes. Saddened? Yes. Turning back into Uma Thurman from
Kill Bill
again? No, probably not.

Not unless she thinks I’ve turned my back on her and gone back to Janine . . . God only knows what she’d be capable of then. Man, I’m a stupid, arrogant fuck . . . it’s only once I realise how much I need her that I consider how I walked away from her when she needed me too. She needed me to face up to the situation and to try to work our way through it together. She needed me to be honest. She needed me to be a man . . . not some coward who fucks off when the going gets tough. How can she respect me now? How can I respect myself?

By making it right, that’s how. I need to get my arse in there and explain and then try to find a way through this fucking nightmare. Together.

Don’t fucking listen to her when she says she can’t be with you because of the baby. Make her listen to you. Don’t give her the fucking choice. Make her see that you can be a better father to that baby if she’s by your side than if she’s not. Make her give it a go. Then make it fucking work. You can do this with Red by your side. It won’t be easy but you can do it.

Too fucking right, I can! I can fucking do this!

Pumped up and ready to do battle, he slammed the car door and stormed into the hotel. Merely nodding to acknowledge the cheery yet inquisitive greetings from the front of house staff, he strode through the lobby. Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he threw the door to his office open.

Please let her be here. She’s got to be here . . . she’s . . . fuck. She’s not here.

‘Good afternoon, Xander,’ Alberto said, as he scooted out of the chair and around the desk. ‘I’ve been taking care of things in your absence. Unless there’s anything you require from me, I’ll be in the office next door.’

Xander ignored him, only just managing not to roar in frustration, and strode over to the desk and sank into the chair. Just as the door was closing behind Alberto, he barked, ‘Where is Miss Hamilton, Alberto?’

Alberto’s head slid gingerly back around the door, a pained expression on his face. ‘I haven’t seen her since Saturday morning. She called in sick yesterday but the ladies on reception tell me that she popped in earlier today whilst I was out for lunch. She’d gone by the time I returned.’

Xander’s eyes narrowed. ‘She’s off sick? What was she doing here then?’

Alberto looked mortified. ‘She came to collect her belongings, according to Belinda.’

Realising that Alberto knew of their relationship – he’d openly flaunted Isla at his other hotel, after all – he understood his GM’s discomfort. Nodding once to dismiss him, Xander then placed his elbows on the desk and put his face in his hands.

‘Um, one more thing, sir . . .’ From his tone, it was clear that Alberto was unsure of himself.

Without looking up, Xander grunted.

‘Belinda says that Isla looked awful. I think the phrase was “like death warmed up”. She said Isla was clearly not well enough to be at work.’

Xander’s stomach churned.

Crap. Red really is ill. Somehow I doubt that it’s a virus . . . no, that’s too much of a coincidence. I’ve made her ill. Finding out that I’ve fathered a child with my wife, then me fucking off without a word . . . oh fuck, what have I done? I need to see her. Explain. Make it right. If she’s ill, she’ll be at home.

Within seconds, he was back behind the wheel . . . the wheel of his Holden. He tore through the city streets until he skidded into a parking space outside Isla’s flat. He raced to the entrance and held his finger on the buzzer to her flat. Nothing. He kept his finger pressed on it, growing more agitated by the second. But it was useless.

She’s ill. She probably won’t answer it. Fuck.

He began to jab his finger on each buzzer in the hope that he could get someone to let him in. Nothing.

Fuck it. Oh come on, you stupid fucking thing.

In sheer frustration, he kicked the door before uttering a whole string of profanity.

‘Excuse me, young man.’

Xander turned to find an elderly lady glowering at him.

‘I abhor such language and acts of vandalism,’ she stated in an ‘I take no nonsense’ manner.

Frustration boiled within him but he resisted the urge to demand that she shut up and open the door and instead, held up his hands.

‘I’m sorry. I’m not an abusive vandal. I’m desperate. I’ve done something stupid and my girlfriend has locked herself in there and won’t answer the intercom. Please let me inside.’

Giving him a withering look, she squared her shoulders and drew herself up to her maximum height – all five feet of it and raised her chin. He knew there was no way she was going to agree to let him in.

I’ll have to barge past her or overpower her somehow. Oh God, is that what I have to resort to? Granny bashing?

He needn’t have worried.

Pursing her lips in a most distasteful manner, she continued her unflinching stare. ‘I know who your girlfriend is. I’ve seen you coming and going in your fancy car. Well, you’re mistaken. She’s not locked herself away in her flat. I saw her leaving when I was on my way out about an hour ago.’

Xander’s heart had begun to thud in his chest. ‘But that was an hour ago. She could be back inside. Just let me inside. Please.’

She shook her head, a smirk replacing her pursed lips. ‘I doubt it. She was on her way to the station. Said she was going to stay with her parents for a while. So there’s no point in you barging in here and kicking her door down. You’ll only leave her flat unsecured and, no matter how good you are at sweet talking her, I doubt she’ll forgive you for that.’