Cloud Nine

CLOUD NINE NAILED IT! BOOK 2 FEARNE HILL Copyright © 2023 by Fearne Hill All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. CONTENTS Author’s Note Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 About the Author Also by Fearne Hill AUTHOR’S NOTE I wish to express my thanks to M.A. Hinkle, for their editing skills, and to Sarah Coppin, my proofreader. Any errors are mine alone. Please heed the trigger warning for one episode of bullying. CHAPTER 1 TRISTAN Favourite things about living in the penthouse: part one: the hot tub. Although only when no one else was around, restricting my visits to late at night. Frankie, my brother, would blow a gasket if he found out about my regular solo rendezvous with the bubbles. Once he’d got over himself, he’d insist on joining me. Then, to make matters worse, his boyfriend Lysander would tag along too, which would be a dreadful bore, as he’d strip down to his skinny Speedos, and Frankie would prance around him like a dog in heat, entirely forgetting the reason we were there in the first place. They’d end up canoodling, sucking each other’s faces off, and leaving me wishing I was anywhere but in the bloody hot tub. Hence tonight, I conducted my usual subterfuge. Patiently, I waited until the mutual foot-stroking and petting, a love language more eloquent than any of the fancy speeches Lysander hated making, overwhelmed them and they took themselves off to bed. Affording me opportunity to creep out. For safekeeping, I left my hearing aids behind in their plastic case on my bedside table, rendering me deaf as a post. It didn’t matter; experience had taught me the penthouse door emitted nothing more than a weary sigh and a soft click as it closed behind me. Its quietness colluded in my exploits, as did the thick carpet of the hallway, cushioning the pad of my bare feet almost in a caress, as my shaky legs carried me towards the lift. The lift conspired with me too. Several scions of engineering must have put their heads together to design it—a soundless, smoothly engineered transition from our comfortable home at the very top of the building, down past the lower floors until, with a dull thud, which I couldn’t hear but sensed, a gradual halt at the sports complex in the basement. Under the hardly there glow of dim night lamps, the twenty-five-metre pool offered up its usual shimmering invitation, but I steered well clear of it. By this time of night, the water had settled into a brilliant rectangle of calm, and honestly? It could stay that way. My unpredictable balance and the slippery edges of swimming pools were never a good combination. A few years ago, on holiday with Frankie, he’d taken his eye off me for less than a second, plenty long enough to entertain the greasy, hot holidaymakers on the front row of loungers as, fully clothed, I tumbled headlong. Someone actually fucking cheered and clapped after Frankie jumped in to hoick me out. Letting my eyelids droop, I inhaled the warm, chloriney scent. Long, deep steadying breaths in through my nostrils, a pause, then a protracted easing out through my mouth. With every breath in, I imagined the rich humid air trickling like warm honey down the ever-decreasing branches of my lungs, seeping into my bloodstream to wash over my tired bones, warming me from the inside out. And every exhale carried away all the built-up tension stored in the weary muscles of my back, shoulders, and calves. As if designed especially for me, the basement hot tub had a handy low bench next to it. Sleek planks of warm, smooth pine to match the pine of the sauna. Lowering myself down, I propped my sticks in the little triangular gap between the bench and the tub, then unhurriedly undressed, laying my T-shirt and joggers in a neat pile alongside my folded square of towel. Stripped to my boxers, I lurched from the bench to the wide steps leading up to the water, my transition more of a controlled fall than a purposeful movement. I’d become quite adept and not misjudged it for weeks. The tricky part which followed ensured I only ever visited alone and at night: an ungainly, exhausting slithery crawl up the steps, followed by a crablike shuffle over the lip, finishing with an uncoordinated flop into the giant bath. Of course, my siblings—Maddie and Frankie—had seen me exposed and vulnerable like this thousands of times. My friends Mungo and Milo, not to mention Maddie’s partner Darren, had caught an occasional glimpse too. But no one else. I even tried to hide the worst of it from Lysander, as his body had been carved out of the finest alabaster, underlining mine, hacked from Tesco’s economy blancmange. My shyness around him was ridiculous, because he understood how uncomfortable being stared at could feel more than anyone. Sometimes, when I performed this manoeuvre into the hot water, my feet slipped on the wet tiles, and my head disappeared below the surface for a few seconds. I always righted myself soon enough—the tub wasn’t more than couple of feet deep—and then kicked myself for being so clumsy. Because who wanted to be remembered as the idiot who drowned in a puddle of water? A seated position in the hot tub successfully negotiated, I pushed the big red knob next to my shoulder and, with a contented sigh, nestled my head back on the little foam pad. Familiar