Rach waves a hand. ‘She said not to wait as she’s doing her Jane Fonda workout in the lounge. So please, dig in.’ Not needing to be told twice, I add a chunk of butter to the hot toast and pour over a generous dollop of syrup from a glass jug.
It’s weird, I feel completely at ease here, but also like I’m in a stranger’s body and flat. The food is real anyway. Sebastian was right: French toast is my favourite. The first melty mouthful makes me groan out loud.
‘Good?’ Rach glances over her shoulder with a pleased look on her face.
‘Sooo good. Thank you.’ With a sigh, I cut up the fragrant golden-brown toast, stuff several pieces into my gob, and chew contentedly. I could get used to having a proper sit-downbreakfast every morning. Or maybe that’s what Sebastian wants: to tempt me into being a glutton, as well as having sex with him. What other deadly sins are there besides lust and greed? I’m sure one of them is wrath, and I may have already succumbed to that several times since meeting him. Not to mention lying about being a virgin.
Rach joins me at the table with her own breakfast and clocks my pensive frown. ‘You look lost in thought over there. Worrying about your first day?’ she asks kindly.
‘Yes, something like that,’ I reply, watching as she cuts a dainty slice of butter and trickles a suggestion of syrup over her toast. How did Sebastian arrange all this? And how did he know about me liking French toast? Is Rach in cahoots with him?
I can’t believe I’m thinking that; she’s way too sweet and innocent to be a devil’s pawn.
Another thing I’m reluctant to admit Sebastian is right about is me wanting to be a journalist. I’ve always wanted to be one. I’m the kid who interviewed my Barbie dolls when I was 10.
But a pop star journalist is cutting it a bit close to the bone. My father was a member of an ’80s band, and my mother was some groupie he slept with. Both of them are now recovering alcoholics and drug addicts. I say ‘recovering’, but with all the falling off their respective wagons they do and simultaneously attempting to prop each other up, I tend to keep away from them as much as possible. They live in a semi-detached in Brixton and are much too busy with their own fucked-up lives to worry much about me.
A horrific thought hits me as I’m getting ready to leave the flat. And it’s not the fact that I have to be seen in public with crimped hair. I don’t know much about Dad’s rise to fame or who he talked to back then. I only know his band, Echo Ministry, made him a millionaire at a young age.
I groan out loud. Surely I’m not going to run into my own father like some badBack to the Futureremake? That would be the kind of thing a mischievous devil would do, but it wouldn’t be cool—it would bite big time.
11
SEBASTIAN
Takingasipofmy Fireball whisky, I heave a dejected sigh and trace a heart in the mist that my hot breath has left on the glass counter.
There’s noise and chatter and music going on behind me, but I’m not interested in checking out the action. I’m not even sure why I came to the Pit, the local bar that my devilish friends and I frequent, when I’m feeling like this. Maybe I’m coming down with something? I’d be better off in bed, surfing porn and sipping a warming chilli and honey toddy.
‘Seven tequila shots please. Actually, make that eight. I think my pal here could use one,’ says a voice beside me, and I look up from my funk of self-pity to see a handsome dark-haired Spanish man smiling over at me.
Speaking of devilish friends ... my heart sinks. Diablo Fuego is one of my brimstone buddies, but he’s highly competitive. I do not want to start comparing quotas with him right now, especially as mine is pathetic. And after what happened today, I’m not sure how I’m going to rectify it.
He claps me on the shoulder. ‘Buenas noches, mi amigo.’
‘Diablo.’ I give him a cursory nod.
‘Why are you hiding away in the corner, Seb? Come and party with us.’
He gestures with his pointed-goatee chin, and I glance over my shoulder. Gathered in one of the corners of the glowing red bar, there are half a dozen of our devil acquaintances dressed in a range of attire, from business suits to smart casual. They’re fresh from pounding the London pavements and ready to get their night started.
Several scantily dressed succubi are weaving around, trying to get their attention. One of them impatiently reaches her hand into the depths of a devil’s suit trousers and gropes him under the table while he rolls his hips and moans. But she quickly removes her hand with a gasp, clutching a live hissing snake between her fingers. There’s a loud whoop of laughter as she drops it on the floor with an expression of disdain.
Diablo chuckles. ‘See? The usual hijinks.’
I turn away. Usually, I’d be up for letting loose. But this evening, I can’t seem to summon the enthusiasm.
‘Sorry, maybe another time.’ With my clenched fist, I smudge out the misty heart I’ve drawn, but not before Diablo sees it.
‘Uh-oh. What’s going on?’ He pops a Carolina Reaper-infused olive in his mouth and blows out his cheeks. ‘Fuck me, that’s hot.’ He takes a sip from one of the shots and leans in close. ‘Dime tus secretos, mi amigo.’
I sigh. ‘Fine. As long as you don’t laugh. And you don’t tell anyone.’
Diablo places a hand over his heart. ‘You have my word.’ But his lips are already curving, so I know I’m going to get a ribbing, and he’s the worst at keeping secrets. But I have to talk to someone.
‘A woman from yesterday is fucking up my game.’
‘Oh?’ Diablo arches a brow and leans against the bar. ‘Tell me more.’