Twenty-Four
2016
WHEN I WOKE AT p***y Palace, I found the notebook clutched to my bosom, the pen still in my hand. I’d fallen asleep singing The Who to myself like he had done that night four years ago. Except when I sung it, I merely sang the chorus on repeat with ‘blue eyes’ replaced by ‘green eyes’.
I didn’t bother to look at the clock. I felt overwhelmed by some unease which had settled deep in my stomach. I couldn’t get rid of it.
Part of me didn’t care… part of me did.
Dante owned p***y Palace. He’d owned it all this time… and I hadn’t known. I hadn’t even known it existed. I’d been naïve to imagine places like this didn’t exist! Let alone that they were owned by people I knew – nay – a man I loved, even.
Did he really always love me? How could he stand not touching me for so m
