Trust (London Love #5)

I trust you and you trust me

Trust me

I’ll say it to your face

Perhaps we’ll both hit that rocky ground

Bleed until we heal

Trust me as I falter

Trust me

Trust me

REUBEN

“Trust me, okay?” That was my usual phrase, and watching Mr Kopetski walk out through the hotel entrance was a relief. I waved enthusiastically, while he didn’t even bother to nod at me in return.

Despite my easy smile and fake calm demeanour, dealing with him wasn’t child’s play. Mr K was a carbon-copy businessman, who spent at least one hundred and fifty nights with us here at The Clouds Hotel Westminster every year and tipped well, but behind the suit was the world’s fussiest eater, and he threw tantrums like a four-year-old when things didn’t go his way.

I had cousins. I was more than competent dealing with small human beings who wouldn’t think twice about throwing my phone in the toilet or pulling the hair out of my head, should I cross them. Mr Kopetski was very much the same, and by now, I knew all his quirks. Hence I had given meticulous instructions to the head waiter at Francesca’s brasserie across the river, and they had assured me they not only had his preferences in stock but also knew how to prepare a chicken schnitzel to Mr Kopetski’s exact requirements.

Oliver, The Clouds’ concierge, would have my head on a plate for doing what should be his job, but anyway. The head waiter at Francesca’s liked me. Mr Kopetski liked me too, and I got commission just like everyone else. Oliver had accused me before of crossing a line, but there was no line. And I was tired. I was actually dog tired today, and it was only Monday and fuck working weekends.

Ah, the life of an inner-city hotel dogsbody aka doorman aka fixer of all sorts. The guy who carried people’s cases, discreetly accepted tips and slid them into my pocket. We had zips on ours. There was nothing worse than having that hard-earned cash drop out onto the pavement, leaving us scrabbling around and making us look like some kind of criminal numpties. I was grateful for the job. For the cash. For the fake, warm smile I so easily plastered on my face.

The smiles weren’t always fake, because I liked the work. I liked most people, I really did, but I’d manned this goddamn door for the past three days, seemingly non-stop, squeezing in the required eight hours of sleep in between shifts. Well, almost. I liked the constant rush of things to do, the days never the same. Some days would drag past, and I would be clockwatching and my feet would be hurting. Other days, I would be caught up in dealing with police, emergency services, scumbags and more drama than I could wish for.

Today, as if Mr Kopetski hadn’t brought enough drama on his own, there was someone else I had to deal with. A shadowy bloke in a hoodie had been hanging around the entrance for the last half an hour, and I hadn’t had time to go out there and make him disappear.

We got them, of course we did. Druggies and dealers and standard gangs of pickpockets scouting out the place and trying it on. I knew most of them, some even by name—something I wasn’t proud of—but it meant very few of them tried it on with me on the door. Even fewer when my dad was standing here with me. The fact that my dad was on his lunch break and would no doubt reappear while I was dealing with this shady guy was giving me neck sweats.

My dad said he trusted me, but I knew he didn’t always, and I didn’t blame him. I didn’t always trust myself.

Okay, so I’d had a rough upbringing. Not my dad’s fault, because I’d lived with my mum, who’d had a drug problem. She’d had too many shady boyfriends, never worked and instead tried to launch herself as the hard woman on the estate, dealing crack and running a shoplifting ring. Yeah. So when she was arrested and jailed, I ended up with my dad.

Thirteen-year-old kids were not easy to deal with, especially kids like me, and my dad was a bloody champ. He was my hero, and how he’d put up with me for this long, I had no idea. But here I was. If I made a list of things that I loved about my life—I made lists a lot—my dad would be at the top of it, and below that my job.

I loved my job. And I loved that my dad had forced me to apply for it, and that I’d snagged it and, amazingly, that they let me work here—Mr Klutz and Mr Christensen and all the big managers—with my dad, who was also my boss. They still hadn’t sacked me even though I was sometimes unreliable and messy and didn’t always follow the rules.

Trust. It was a word my dad used a lot. He said he trusted me to make the right decisions and to handle things well. Well, my brain didn’t always agree with those instructions, but anyway, things were good now. Stable. Most of the time, I made good decisions, and when I didn’t, I was learning to clean up my own messes. Not always perfectly, but good enough.

Still, my dad would have a fit if he came down here and saw that I hadn’t dealt with this guy when I knew I should have. The guy wasn’t here to check in and he needed to fuck the hell off before our security officer came back from his rounds and called the cops on him. The security guy we had on today was itching for action, whatever that would be. They always were. Agency staff. Mostly lads—well, all genders really—who’d flunked the entry exam for the police training. Some were ex-army people, others were strong, silent types, impossible to read. They could be even scarier, all trigger-happy and pumped, fuelled by energy drinks and weird-smelling vapes.

The guy in the hoodie, though, he was nervous and pacing up and down along the side wall, then popping his head around the corner, then disappearing again. He had a large rucksack on his back, and…yes. Now I knew what his problem was. Dodgy Geezers alert. I could spot them a mile off. Had it hardwired in my brain because I’d been that kid. Street-smart, antsy, constantly expecting to get jumped from behind.

I’d made some enemies in the past, but that was years ago. I never wanted to be that scared again, so I kept my head up, my brain clear. I didn’t even smoke weed anymore. Fear did that to you, and I couldn’t afford to be sloppy and spaced out if I wanted to live. I also needed to protect my dad. My friends. The people who worked here.

“Hey!” I called, stepping through the sliding doors onto the street and beckoning to hoodie guy. “Come here a minute, mate.”

I could talk to anyone. Like a social chameleon, my dad always said. I could speak like a street rat when needed, but I was also super polite with a clear London accent if the situation called for it. “Read people,” Dad always told me. “Get on the right level.”

With this guy, I was going with stern and get rid level. He had his head down, hands in his pockets, and that hood covered everything so I couldn’t see his face. He could be anyone. Truly anyone.

“Can I help you with something? You lost?”

Yeah. Guy wasn’t lost. And up close, that was one hell of an expensive tracksuit, despite the bag strap covering the logo. He was clean too, smelled fresh, which was a good sign, though he was still looking at his shoes.