The Dark Streets of London - Chapter 1
Acepilot

AN - Thanks for the feedback I received on Love Your Way. It was great. This is the second book in the series, set two years later. I hope you all enjoy it. It's a little different from Love Your Way, evidently, but it'll explain some stuff that's vital for Book Three, which is the real biggy. Okay, I'm going to stop going on now and just get to the story.

Disclaimer - The characters from AGU are property of KlaskyCsupo.

Two years later...

Phil

"This song was written by our guitarist, Phil," Tim tells the crowd.

I start riffing disinterestedly, my eyes not focussed on what I'm doing but instead on the crowd in front of us. When we play the bigger places, we get different crowds from gig to gig. But back here in London, we get a lot of the same. Night after night. They come, they scream, they applaud. They drink. They inject. You name it, they probably do it.

I do it too.

I listen to Tim screaming lyrics and my own amp throbbing to the beat that the drums are trying (but ultimately failing) to provide, but I'm not really hearing anything. There's a girl in the audience. Front row, jumping around screaming. Watching me intently. Flirting. She grins at me with a tight, cute smile and pushes the strap of her tank-top off on one side.

I'll take her home after the show, and I'll screw her. Or maybe we'll just do it against the wall in a back alley, I don't know or care. But I know that it'll be quick and meaningless and I probably won't even remember her name in the morning.

I let Chris take over the lead guitar while I grab a swig of my scotch. Tim glances back at me kind of concernedly, but I don't care. I let the harsh taste of the drink hit the back of my throat and revel in the slight ache before turning back to the audience and the girl in the front row.

In some ways I can't wait for the show to be over, but in other ways I'm dreading what I know I'm going to do at the end of it. But for some reason I always do it. I always have. For nearly two years now, I've done it. I've done it, and I don't really think I've cared.

And I wonder what happened to the part of me that did.

And I kind of know.

Because of one, simple event two years ago. Because of one little thing that happened. One thing that means everywhere I go, her image fills my mind.

Whenever I take one of these random girls home and screw them senseless, it's never them.

I end the song with a final screeching note and Tim takes a brief bow. I make some vague acknowledgement, but my eyes are fixated on her. Her and her black hair. Her black hair and her impossibly deep, hurtful eyes. Eyes that have always hurt me. A face that I'm so in love with I can forgive its wrongs.

"Your place, or mine?"

Kimmi

"Thomas Pickles, if you keep doing that, then I'm not going to cook."

I can see him flirting with the idea of teasing me behind his eyes, probably something in the nature of 'Well, that's no great loss' or a relieved sigh and persistence, but he wisely just grins at me and keeps quiet. "As you wish, Kitchen Mistress."

I hit him over the back of the head with a spatula. "Have we got a confirmed number for tonight?"

He nods. "Five plus us."

"Five?" I ask, puzzled, trying to count out guests in my head.

"Sure: Suzie, Dil, Chuckie, Angelica and Lil."

"What about - "

And I catch myself.

I've been doing that a lot.

It's two years since he left. Two years. And yet I still kind of expect him to be here. I still expect him to wander into our living room, to strike up one of his pointless, meaningless conversations. I expect to come home to find him playing his guitar over in the corner or messing around on the piano.

But he's not there.

And I keep telling myself that it's no-one's fault but his own.

I feel Tommy's arms embrace my waist from behind and I lean back into his warm embrace with a smile plastered on my face and not a care in the world. He has this way of making everything else...disappear. I grin and try to push myself closer to him. "Remind me why we agreed to host this shindig?"

He kisses my shoulder. "Because we have the biggest apartment."

"Chuckie's is bigger," I protest, but then he starts nibbling on my neck and I go all woozy.

"If you say so, dear."

I grab my spatula and hit him on the back of the hand, causing him to jump back. "No fair."

I turn around and stick my tongue out at him. "Turnabout's fair play," I remind him, and then lean in and give him a peck. Only, however, out of pity. That I am insistent upon.

He rolls his eyes and starts getting plates and bowls out to place the buffet on.

I shake my head and go back to my cooking.

Everything's perfect. Just perfect.

But he's not here.

Chuckie

I sigh in irritation. "I came out here for some fresh air."

"You're the only one allowed to need fresh air?" she asks, coming up to stand next to me, leaning against the railing. "I had no idea you were so unique."

"Shut up, Angelica," I suggest. "Why do you have to do this?"

"You certainly never ask me to stop," she points out, and I watch with some kind of detached disinterest as her hand creeps along the balcony siding toward mine.

"And if I did?" I ask.

"I would," she tells me.

But there's such an air of certainty to her voice. Like she knows that would never happen. Like she knows that she has me wrapped around her little finger. Because she knows that I need her. She's like some kind of horrific drug that I have to get a fix of. And we both know it. The only consolation is that she seems to view me in much the same way.

"Then stop," I tell her.

Her hand pauses on the railing. "What?"

"Stop, Angelica," I order, backing away from her slightly. I raise my head to look straight at her. "I don't want this anymore. I don't want the meaningless sex. I don't want the disappearances into the night. It's been going on for two years and it's been two years too many. I'm twenty-six years old, Angelica. I'm a college graduate. I want a life. I'm too old for this shit. You're too old to be this indecisive." I glare at her. "You either want me or you don't," I tell her. "And it's time you made the choice."

"Are you saying that you can resist me?" She asks.

She's taking it as a challenge. Of course she is. She would. She always would. She takes everything as a challenge.

"I'm telling you that until you're ready for a real, genuine relationship, then stay away from me. Stay far, far away."

"If I kissed you right now, we'd have sex tonight," she tells me. But the certainty in her voice is starting to waver.

"Leave me alone, Angelica. Until you know what you want. Leave me alone."

I start to walk away, but she grabs me by my arm and spins me back around. "Hold on. You can't just leave. You can't just - "

"I can do anything I want, Angelica. We're not in a relationship. Remember? We're just in a very open friendship. If you can date other guys and disappear from my bedroom in the small hours of the morning, then I can certainly say that I don't want you anymore."
I shake her off and step inside.

And it's only then that I realize that I'm trembling. And that she hasn't followed me in.

Phil

I didn't even ask her what her name was.

Does that seem callous and wrong? Gee, I hope not. Oh well, it's not like I care, anyway. Tomorrow morning she'll be gone. They're always gone in the morning. Always.

I reach up and stroke her brow as she starts perspiring in the mild heat of the London summer. I lock my eyes with hers.
Her eyes were always perfect.

In my alcohol-induced haze, they flicker gold and silver, and I pull her down and stare deep into them. I kiss her roughly on the lips and we move faster, but I never break our eyelock. "I knew you'd come back," I mutter.

She nods and kisses me again, flashing me a broad smile. I run my hands through her hair.

It's up in it's usual ponytail. I grab the band and pull it loose, and long black tresses fall down over her shoulders, draping down onto my face and tickling my sinuses with their fruity scent. I run my fingers through the beautiful mess and let the feeling of perfection wash over me. She's here and with me and all is right and all is beautiful.

I run a hand down her naked, glistening back, reveling in the feeling of her skin against mine after so long without it.

But, there it is.

A patch of smooth skin where I know there should be a scar.

And she's gone again.

It's never right. None of them are ever right. Which is why I can afford to feel nothing. Why I can afford not to care. Always, they come so close. I come so close. But none of them are perfect. None of them are her. None of them mean anything.

Which is why I never ask what their names are. It puts off the inevitable.

so, everything's a mess. kimmi is ignoring her past with phil to try and enjoy her present with tommy, but it's nagging at her. phil is trying to find kimmi in every girl he meets. it all has to come to an end sooner or later. please review.