As I sit on the sofa in our apartment, scrolling through my email inbox, my heavy eyelids keep falling shut.
I’m exhausted. Layla has spent every single night for the past week in our flat, and apparently, Josh and Zack are taking their roles as her ‘boyfriends’ incredibly seriously. No matter what I do, I can’t block out the soft moans and gasps that filter through my bedroom wall.
I’m not happy that they’ve both started sleeping with her. I understand why they’re tempted; Layla is a beautiful woman. But there have to be massive ethical issues with exchanging her appearances on our podcast with sex. Not to mention the fact that, when things inevitably do go pear-shaped, it’s going to make our living situation a Hell of a lot more awkward.
I don’t understand why they can’t keep it in their pants. It’s not like they’re the only ones attracted to her. If I’m honest, I’ve liked Layla ever since she moved in. And now that she’s getting closer to Zack and Josh, it’s getting worse by the day. It’s torture watching her wander through our flat in her skimpy little outfits and not being able to touch her. Plenty of times over the last week, I’ve laid in bed and imagined what would happen if I just gave in and agreed to take her on a date.
But I don’t, because I can’t. It would be completely inappropriate. Even if I weren’t Layla’s ex-teacher, I’m over ten years older than her. I’m sure she’d rather die than go out with me.
Sighing, I turn back to my laptop, staring blankly at the email from Paul. Our manager is thrilled that we’ve hit the charts again. I can’t go an hour without him messaging me about another merch idea or celebrity guest suggestion. It’s driving me insane.
On the table next to me, my phone starts to buzz. Zack’s name flashes across the screen. I unplug it from my charger, swiping it to answer the call. “Hello?”
“Hey. Do you know what’s up with Layla?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“She called me a minute ago, and she sounded… weird.”
“Weird, how?” I say slowly, standing.
“I dunno. Shaky? The way Josh sounds when he’s pulled three all-nighters in a row, and we have to forcibly pry his coffee out of his hands because he’s about to have a mental breakdown.” There’s a muffled protest from Josh in the background. “What? You do that, man. Yeah, like, all the time. It’s okay, we still love you.”
I nod. “I’ll go check in on her.”
“Awesome. Okay, later.” He hangs up.
I grab my keys and head out of my flat into the hallway, crossing the corridor and knocking on her door. There’s no response. “Layla?”
“Now’s not a good time,” she calls. I frown. Zack’s right. She does sound… wrong. Her voice is all muffled. I waver in the hallway, not sure what to do. As I hang back, uncertain, I hear a sharp breath, and then a smothered sob.
Alarm runs through me. “Sweetheart, I’m coming inside, okay?”
There’s no answer, so I push open the door to her flat and freeze, staring at the mess.
Her lounge looks like a bomb has hit it. Normally Layla is ridiculously organised; she loves labels and files and containers. But now, there’s stuff everywhere. Packaging and invoices and fabric samples are strewn over the couch and floor and coffee table. There are empty mugs and bowls of half-eaten food on pretty much every flat surface, and the sink in her little kitchenette is overflowing with dirty crockery.
Something is wrong. This isn’t like her at all.
I hear another muffled sob, and follow the noise to the bedroom, pushing the door open gently.
Layla is sprawled on the floor in coffee-stained pyjamas, surrounded by stacks of papers. As I watch, she flicks through them frantically. Her hair is tied up in a sloppy bun falling to one side of her head, and her eyes are ringed with smudged makeup.
“Layla,” I say softly.
“I’m fine,” she mutters, not looking up at me.
“You’re not fine.”
“I’m just busy,” she snaps, slapping one pile of papers down and picking up another. “I j-just can’t find this stupid receipt. God, I’m so stupid, why the Hell don’t I file things better?!” She tosses the papers back down and tugs at her hair, breathing hard. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she mutters, her green eyes wide. “I don’t know how I can fix this, I don’t…” she trails off, her chest heaving. She’s clearly on the edge of panicking.
I step into the room, shutting the door behind me. “Layla, it’s okay. Get up, sweetheart.”
She ignores me, stirring through the papers again. “Maybe I didn’t print it out? Or I deleted it? Why would I do that, though? It can’t just have disappeared—”
“Layla.” I cut her off, my voice firm. “Get. Up. Now.”
