Love and hate

Hello everyone,

This story is the sequel to 'Blue Bates bed and breakfast'. (You can find 'Blue Bates bed and breakfast' in my previously published Reedsy contest stories. Thank you.)

In this story, 'Love and hate' Weston and Miss Daniels return. Will they fall in love, and can they admit their feelings for each other? Next, can they avoid violent acts, or will they cause mayhem?

Last, but not least, this story is dedicated to Liz Redt. Thank you for requesting this sequel. (I hope you enjoy reading it, as much as I enjoyed writing it.)

*****

The dream is always the same. I am running late to meet a client, and dash up the stairs in Hyde Park's Mandarin-Oriental hotel. On the fourth floor, I hear the elevator doors open. Weston's arm shoots out, and I take hold of his wrist.

Next, I find myself in the elevator's ridiculously on-trend interior. On the mirrored ceiling, I see an ugly knife wound in Wes’s neck. Blood flows freely from the gash, and I try in vain to stop the bleeding.

Before I can breathe, the elevator car rushes up to the fifteenth floor. The elevator door opens with a ping, and I take a step out of the elevator. As I free fall toward the city, below, just before I hit the ground, I hear a voice.

"Miss Daniels, wake up."

Air rushes into my lungs and I open my eyes. Weston is a mess. His usually immaculate white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and his waistcoat is dripping.

"Is it raining?" I say.

Weston smiles, putting down an antique vase that once belonged to my father. "I'm glad to see you're awake," he says.

That's when I notice that I am lying in a pile of wet bed linen.

"I had the dream again, didn't I?" I say. "Was I screaming this time?”

"Yes, Miss Daniels, you did," says Weston. "I hope you don't mind. When you didn't wake up by normal means, I had to resort to...uh...an old army trick."

I sigh. "Soaking me with leftover water from my father's favorite vase is an old army trick?"

Weston blushes, and his face turns scarlet. "Well, not strictly, but the Qing vase was the only thing to hand. May I make suggestion?"

I try to run my fingers through the matted hair on top of my head.

"That depends," I say. "What's the suggestion?"

"Put on a bathrobe Miss," says my driver and partner in crime. "Those wet sheets really leave nothing to the imagination."

*****

Over breakfast in my favorite London cafe, I watch Weston sip tea, and cut a sausage with surgical precision.

"Well, Wes," I say, stifling a yawn, "Aren't you going to ask why we're back in London? After all, you've practically seen me naked."

Weston begins to choke on a mouthful of tea, and I hand him a linen napkin. "I'm guessing that we're here, in a city I detest, because of your nightmare," he says.

“Correct,” I say, as I take a tiny spoonful of banoffee pie. “Would you like to know the content of my dream?”

"No, I would not Miss Weston," says my driver, as he reaches for the butter. “However, did you know that you were calling my name in your sleep?"

The banoffee pie feels like sand in my throat.

Weston smiles. "Would you like some more tea?"

"No thank you," I say, dabbing my lips with a napkin. "Did you know that you just called me Miss Weston?" Now it's my turn to smile.

Weston shoves a large piece of dry toast into his mouth, gulps, and swallows.

Idly, I watch his Adam's apple bob up and down. "You did call me Miss Weston," I repeat.

Wes takes another sip of tea. "I assure you that I did not, Miss Daniels."

"Wes," I begin, as my phone begins to vibrate, "I wonder. Was it really necessary to use an entire vase of water to wake me this morning?"

Wes loosens his collar, and takes another sip of tea.

"Don’t call me Wes," he says. "You know I don’t like it. I sound like a character from a bloody romance novel. Now would you get that damned phone? It's driving me to distraction!"

I smile again. "There's no need to shout, but I should take that call," I say. "Unless you can think of a reason why I shouldn't."

Weston shakes his head, and pretends to study the menu. "No," he says. "No, I can't."

I sigh, and and reach for the phone. "Hello?"

"Hello darling," says a familiar voice. "How are you? Alright?"

"Who is this?" I say.

"Who is it?" growls Wes.

"It's Peter British, sweetheart," says the tall, blonde Viking of a man in the doorway.

"Oh God," I say.

“Who the fuck is Peter British?" asks Wes.

****

Our waiter tries not to stare at Peter, but fails. Peter demands an expensive bottle of whiskey.

“Sit down,” I hiss. “You’re making a scene. Besides, you'll never be content with just one bottle of liquor."

“Really?” he says, flashing a mouth full of crooked teeth. “I certainly hope so."

Wes folds his arms in front of his chest, and Peter grins.

"Anyway, who’s this sour fellow?" Mr. British says. "He looks like he’s just eaten mouse droppings.”

I see Weston's jaw clench, just a little, and he begins to crack his knuckles. Uh-oh.

Peter, oblivious, continues to prattle on. “Anyway, mate, how do you know our Rosie? You her little bed warmer, are you?”

Weston erupts from his chair, grabs Mr. British by the collar, and shoves him against the door.

True to form, Peter holds up his hands in surrender. “Easy, mate. I was only joking. Rosie, would you call off your, umm, security professional?”

I roll my eyes. “Wes, it’s okay. As much as I hate to admit it, I know that guy. You can let him go.”

Wes glares at Peter, but nods. “I’ll be in the car if you need me,” my driver says.

The door slams shut, and Peter smirks.

“Fancy that one, do you, Rosie?” he says.

My jaw tightens. “Don't call me Rosie, and that’s none of your business. Why did you come to see me? Does your coke dealer live nearby? Even for you, this is a long way to go for drugs, but good coke is good coke."

“Be quiet, you little bitch," says my ex-husband, and former '90s Brit-pop star.

“Sir,” says a woman in a black suit, whom I assume is either the manager or Victoria Beckham, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

"Leave?" says Britain's least favorite dickhead. "Do you know who I am?"

“No,” says Posh Spice's doppleganger. “I don’t know who you are, but I know you are an ass."

“It’s okay,” I say, as I jam my favorite pocket knife into Peter's jugular vein, and watch him bleed out. "We were just leaving."

*****

“Really?” he says, flashing a mouth full of crooked teeth. “I certainly hope so."

Wes folds his arms in front of his chest, and Peter grins.

"Anyway, who’s this sour fellow?" Mr. British says. "He looks like he’s just eaten mouse droppings.”

I see Weston's jaw clench, just a little, and he begins to crack his knuckles. Uh-oh.

Peter, oblivious, continues to prattle on. “Anyway, mate, how do you know our Rosie? You her little bed warmer, are you?”

Weston erupts from his chair, grabs Mr. British by the collar, and shoves him against the door.

True to form, Peter holds up his hands in surrender. “Easy, mate. I was only joking. Rosie, would you call off your, umm, security professional?”

I roll my eyes. “Wes, it’s okay. As much as I hate to admit it, I know that guy. You can let him go.”

Wes glares at Peter, but nods. “I’ll be in the car if you need me,” my driver says.

The door slams shut, and Peter smirks.

“Fancy that one, do you, Rosie?” he says.

My jaw tightens. “Don't call me Rosie, and that’s none of your business. Why did you come to see me? Does your coke dealer live nearby? Even for you, this is a long way to go for drugs, but good coke is good coke."

“Be quiet, you little bitch," says my ex-husband, and former '90s Brit-pop star.

“Sir,” says a woman in a black suit, whom I assume is either the manager or Victoria Beckham, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

"Leave?" says Britain's least favorite dickhead. "Do you know who I am?"

“No,” says Posh Spice's doppleganger. “I don’t know who you are, but I know you are an ass."

“It’s okay,” I say, as I jam my favorite pocket knife into Peter's jugular vein, and watch him bleed out. "We were just leaving."

*****