Good Luck Getting Rid of Me Prologue and Ch. 1

I’m a fixer. My past was so broken, I had to be. Somewhere along the way, I realised if I couldn’t change what happened, I could at least make damn sure the future looked nothing like it.

Good Luck Getting Rid of Me

I’m a fixer. My past was so broken, I had to be. Somewhere along the way, I realised if I couldn’t change what happened, I could at least make damn sure the future looked nothing like it.

Prologue: The Box

I didn’t sleep.

I couldn’t even breathe the panic was so great.

I shut my eyes, tried to force my brain into silence, but it wasn’t happening. My thoughts were spinning so fast they felt like they were vibrating, rattling around inside my skull with nowhere to go. I shifted on the mattress (if you could even call it that) a flimsy plastic thing directly on the concrete floor, already sticky with sweat.

Two metres square. That’s all I had. Enough to contain my panic.

Just long enough to stretch out if I wanted, though I didn’t. Lying down made me feel more vulnerable, like if I stopped moving, my own thoughts might actually eat me alive. So I sat up, knees against my chest, arms wrapped around them like I was trying to physically hold myself together.

I could feel the panic sitting just under my skin, crawling up my spine, clawing at the back of my throat.

I needed to move.

I got up, paced the length of the cell. One, two, three steps before I hit the other side. Turned. One, two, three steps back. A useless exercise, but it was either that or let the anxiety pull me under.

I stopped at the bars, gripping them, pressing my forehead against the cold metal.

The desolate hallway was empty.

I wanted to see someone. Didn’t matter who. A guard, another inmate, even a rat scurrying by. Just some kind of confirmation that the outside world still existed.

Nothing.

I swallowed, turning back, my hands shaking as I wiped my head. My whole body felt wired, restless, like it wasn’t meant to be contained in this space. Like I wasn’t meant to be contained.

I tried to breathe, tried to slow my thoughts, but then…

Calum.

His name cut through everything else, hitting me like a gut punch.

Not Voldemort. Not the man who had landed me here.

Calum.

My stomach twisted.

I had failed him.

The weight of it pressed hard against my chest. If he knew where I was right now, if he could see me in this sweaty little box, would he even care?

Probably not.

Not after everything I’d put him through.

I shut my eyes, forcing back the memories, but they came anyway. The look on his face that last time. The way I had hurt him, not just in small ways, but in the kind of ways that leave permanent scars.

I should have been better. Should have done better.

But instead, I had ended up here.

And Jade. She’d warned me. She knew. So had Mario. And Sean. So many others had tried to make me see.

Did I listen? No.

A two-metre sweatbox with no toilet, no answers, no way of knowing if I was getting out anytime soon.

I exhaled sharply, pressing the only thing in the cell…a button.

Then I waited.

A full minute, maybe more.

The anticipation almost made me lightheaded, but then... salvation.

The lock clicked, the bars slid open, and for the first time in what felt like hours, I wasn’t alone.

Two guards.

Never one. Always two.

These two, just like all the others I’d seen before, were sexy as hell.

For just a few seconds, I felt something other than pure, undiluted panic.

They nodded, gesturing for me to go ahead. Their expressions as cold as the bars I’d clung to.

I did, stepping into the hallway, sucking in a breath like I’d been holding it this whole time.

And for a moment, I wasn’t trapped in that tiny, sweaty box.

I was out.

Briefly. Another cold cell that contained a dirty toilet, a sink and a smell that made me want to vomit, was even worse than the one I’d just left.

If only I’d known this was just the warm-up act. If I thought this was the worst it could get, I was in for a fucking shock.

At some point, in that panicked blur between being thrown in the cell and realising no one was coming to tell me what the hell was going on, I’d managed to send a message through my watch because they’d already taken my phone. A single, desperate SOS to Jade, before they snatched that away too.

“Hey, I’ve been arrested. Please wait until moring before you call Calum and let him know. I love you”, I spoke this quietly into my iWatch.
I barely had time to exhale before a cop turned and saw me, holding out his hand. The moment he saw my face, he knew. They weren’t stupid.

When I was processed, they took everything. Checked my butt, around my balls, under my armpits, and they took my shoelaces. The tongues from both sneakers flapping as I walked.

So there I was. No phone, no watch and no way to reach the outside world. No concept of time in that concrete place.

Just me, the walls, and the creeping dread that I might not be getting out anytime soon.

And every second felt like an hour.

Chapter One

The Plan That Wasn’t A Plan

It was July 2023, and I was fucking over it.

London, rain. London, cold. London, people who act like they personally own the pavement and will body-check you into the Thames before stepping aside. I’d been in this South London rental for four years, most of which were spent trapped inside like an experimental lab rat during lockdown after lockdown.

And now? Now I was tired.

Tired of the grey skies. Tired of the prepackaged Tesco meal deals. Tired of the same cycle, of wake up, work, tolerate passive-aggressive emails from colleagues who think they’re smarter than they are, rinse, repeat.

The money was good, but the headfuck wasn’t.

Calum was barely home because he was off flying around the world for work while I was stuck in a city that felt colder than ever, both literally and socially. He worked in sports, which meant that while the rest of us were being told to stay indoors and flatten the curve, he got to fuck off to other countries with his team. I loved him very much and I felt bad for that growing resentment for how wonderful his life was while mine felt so stagnant.

I didn’t realise at the time that I’d begun to resent him, I just knew I was extremely unhappy. When he was around, things were great, but when I was stuck in my office at home, looking out at the squirrels, commentating on the phone to Jade during breaks that they were doing the Squirrel Olympics, I was bored and lonely.

While most of us were locked in, or at some point, restricted outings (flower nurseries were allowed, pubs were not, like… what the actual fuck?), Calum and many others got a free pass.

Driving to castles for an eye test if you’re a politician? Sure. Sneaking out to see your Nan? That’s a big fucking fine.

But sure, let’s all clap for the NHS and pretend it was fair and better than giving the people who were risking their lives, to save ours, a payrise.

We’d been talking about leaving London for years, but every time the conversation started, it ended with a shrug and, maybe next year.

Until July.

Until our landlord decided the flat was now worth an extra £300 a month for absolutely no reason.

Until I looked around at my life and thought, if I don’t get out of here now, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.

And ironically, one rainy (yes, can you believe it?) day, I put some music on as I created yet another spreadsheet to add to our pool of workbooks. Tracy Chapman made my head nod as I reminisced the 80’s. Until she sang, “… leave tonight or live and die this way.”

So we made a decision. Well, kind of. I’d go work remotely for a month somewhere sunny while we figured out a plan. The winning new city of choice to move to? Milan. Where did I want to go for a month before the final move to Milan? No clue.

It made sense. We had friends in Milan, knew the city, loved the weather, liked the idea of pasta replacing sadness as a personality trait. So we would pack up the flat, shove our entire lives into Jade’s garage, and call it progress.

That was the plan.

But before Milan, there was Atlanta.

But I didn’t know I was going to Atlanta until I met Robert.

Oh, Robert.

Sometime in those final weeks as we’d made that decision to move to Italy, as my boredom reached a crescendo, I found myself on the fuck apps frequently looking for distraction.

That’s how I first chatted with Robert.

Blonde. Muscular. Canadian. Living in Atlanta.

We met online. It was mostly flirting, a few forced lines about his job, and the kind of banter that barely means much unless one of you is horny.

Then we met in person. And by “in person,” I mean we met in bed.

And yeah, it was hot. He knew what he was doing, I’ll give him that. Four years of socially constipated South London had left me starved for warmth, and he was like a furnace. The sex was intense and strangely personal for two people who barely knew each other. It wasn’t love, but it definitely wasn’t nothing.

If you want the full uncensored version of what happened in that bed, you’ll find it where all the good secrets live. I’ll just say it involved passion, sweat, and an accent that made me forget I was in an open marriage for about six minutes. Go here if you want to read the whole thing. You’ve been warned.

Afterwards, we lay there talking. I told him we were about to leave London finally, that I was close to getting on a plane and starting fresh. He told me Atlanta was vibrant, sunny, friendly. He made it sound like a Southern utopia full of shirtless men waving from porches.

“I’ll be back there next week,” he said, stretching. “You should come visit sometime.”

I laughed.

Until he left.

Then I began thinking. I needed to feel alive before I moved to Milan and setup house and get into a new routine.

What I felt for Robert wasn’t love. It wasn’t even smart. But it was something. And I needed something stimulating to bring me out of this depression I didn’t realise I’d entered.

He was also married. But it was “complicated,” and “they had an arrangement,” and all those other phrases people say when they’re hoping you won’t ask too many questions. I guess I was in a similar boat.

I told myself it was fine. We were both adults. This was just casual, just cardio, just a distraction.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

Somehow, while pretending to listen to some senior manager take credit for my ideas during a Teams call from my home office, I booked a return flight to Atlanta for a month.

That would give me 3 days on my return to finish packing up our home and putting it all in storage in Jade’s garage.

So, with a a lot of shit packed for Milan, another for Atlanta, and the rest destined for storage, and a very loose idea of how this was all going to work, I left London.

No one knew what was coming. Not me. Not Calum. Not Robert.

And definitely not the police.

Atlanta, Georgia - Where Things Were Supposed to Start Going Right

The air hit me like a slap the second I stepped outside the airport later that evening. Thick, humid, the kind of heat that clung to your skin and whispered, Welcome to the South, boy. Atlanta smelled different; fried food, exhaust fumes, something vaguely metallic. The pavement radiated heat, even though the sun had long since set.

I definitely wasn’t in London anymore.

The plan was simple: work remotely for a month, enjoy the sunshine, meet some friendly Americans, and maybe, just maybe, feel alive again. I’d spent too many years stuck in South London, walking the same grey streets, passing the same miserable people who acted like making eye contact might actually kill them. I needed a change. This was going to be my reset.

And then, my phone buzzed.

Robert.

“A whole month? To hang out with me?”

I could tell he was freaking out.

“Relax, mate. I know other people here. I just need somewhere warm and friendly for a bit.”

That last bit was one part true. I didn’t know a single other person in Atlanta. But Robert didn’t need to know that. He was a solid reason for choosing Atlanta, sure. He was hot. We’d had a fun roll-around in London. And he was married… hell, we were both married, which meant no expectations, no drama.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Then he asked where I was staying.

“Old Fourth Ward?! You’re staying there? Are you sure you wanna do that?”

I was… until he said that.

The Dirty Airbnb

I took an Uber to my Airbnb, still trying to shake off Robert’s ominous warning. It was cheap, which, as any seasoned traveller knows, is either a lucky bargain or an absolute shithole.

First impressions? It wasn’t a shithole. Not exactly. And the street itself, while dark, didn’t give off a vibe that I should turn around and back out.

Inside, the walls were cracked, the paint was peeling, and the whole place smelled… old. But the bed was clean, and that was the only thing that really mattered. I was exhausted. I’d flown eight hours, lugged two suitcases, a backpack, and the absolute weight of my own decisions across the Atlantic. Fueled only by my desire to feel alive again.

I should have gone straight to sleep. In fact, I should have done a lot of things.

Instead, I made the mistake of checking my messages again.

“How about I swing by? Quick welcome kiss… maybe more?” Robert.

I stared at my phone. It was 10pm. I had to be up at 3am to start work. Every logical part of my brain was screaming say no, you idiot. But my dick? My dick had different priorities.

“Sure.”

Because, apparently, I enjoy making terrible choices.

Robert’s Grand Entrance - Or, How To Ruin A Good Memory

I barely had time to unpack my two monitors, keyboard, mouse and laptop, and shower before he text to say he’d pulled up outside.

I threw a towel around me and rushed to the door, heart pounding.

The door groaned as I opened it, while the screen door screeched. The night insects outside went momentarily silenced.

And there stood Robert, backlit by the dirty ceiling light outside.

He looked… different. Still hot, but wired. Tired, but jittery. The mischievous smirk was there, but something about him felt off. That blonde hair looked… dirty somehow. Those blue eyes didn’t feel as intense.

Then he stepped inside, pushed the door shut, and his eyes immediately dropped to my bare chest.

“Damn. Didn’t even give me time to get inside before you stripped?” That sexy Canadian accent matched those incredible blue eyes.

I laughed, but my stomach twisted a little. Something about the way he said it felt weird. Too eager. Too something.

“You didn’t give me much time to put clothes on after the sho…”

Then his mouth was on mine.

It was rough. Too rough. He pushed into me, hands gripping like he was trying to pin me in place. I tried to pull back, but he just kissed harder.

Okay. Nope.

“Hey, I’m not in that much of a ru...”

He cut me off with another big kiss. His tongue was hot and furtive and tasted a little weird, like chemically – if that’s even a word. Then he smiled at me. That weird smile. Then shoved me backward, towards the bedroom and then onto the bed.

I should have ended it right there.

Clothes vanished and instead, I flipped him over, went down, and did my absolute best work. Not for him, but for me. Because if I was going to suffer through this weird, rushed, manic encounter, I was at least going to be the one in control.

I put his big, uncut dick in my mouth and gave him the best head I knew he loved.

Thirty seconds later, it was over.

And that was the end of Robert.

He barely got his pants back on before mumbling some excuse about his husband finishing work soon, grabbing his car keys, and practically running out the door.

I stood there, sweaty, exhausted, and deeply unsatisfied.

Welcome to Atlanta.

So Much for That

The next morning, I woke up to Atlanta sunshine streaming through the dusty windows of my Airbnb. The musty smell was still there, like old socks and forgotten dreams, but at least I’d slept. The 3 a.m. alarm had done its job. I was up, groggy, and fumbling for my coffee maker like a man who’d just remembered he was in a different country.

However, I was excited. That was something I hadn’t felt for a while.

I checked my phone. No messages from Robert.

Of course not.

The night before had been a weird blur of jetlag, bad decisions, and rushed, uncomfortable sex. Now, in the daylight, I felt… off. Not sad, not angry, just irritated. Like something was wedged under my skin, itching at the back of my brain. I could already hear Calum’s voice in my head.

“You knew this was a bad idea.”

I rolled my eyes at my own internal monologue. Sure, maybe I’d made a mistake. But I was here now, and I wasn’t about to let a disappointing fuck ruin my month in Atlanta.

Except I was stewing. By mid-morning, my mood had curdled into full-blown frustration, and I did what any emotionally immature adult would do. I sent Robert a passive aggressive message.

“Hey, I don’t think it’s a good idea if we see each other again.”

I stared at my phone, half expecting… no, hoping for some kind of pushback. An apology. A half-hearted attempt at a conversation. An explanation for his weird behaviour the night before.

Instead, his response came back almost instantly.

“Oh, okay.”

And that was it.

So I blocked him and then cried for reasons I couldn’t fathom.

Just like that, Robert ceased to exist in my Atlanta universe.

I should have felt relieved. Instead, I just sat there, staring at my phone, wondering why I was so bothered. Maybe it was my pride. Maybe I didn’t like being discarded so easily. Or maybe, deep down, I knew I had just landed in a city where I had no one.

It was a strange thing, realising I was properly alone. No Calum, no Robert, no real plans. Just me, my Airbnb, and a whole month ahead.

I got through the rest of my workday questioning the absurdity of it all. My remote team had no idea I was working from a dusty rental in a city I barely knew. Only Julian and Kylie, my immediate colleagues, were in on the secret. I made it through the usual calls, the endless back and forth of IT chaos, and when everyone’s status started going red, I decided I needed fresh air.

It was 1pm, aka 7pm London time.

That’s how I ended up at Dancing Goats, which sounded ridiculous, smelled like heaven, and probably charged me extra for breathing in the humidity. I ordered something strong and sat down, determined to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with myself for the next four weeks.

And then, from right next to me, a voice boomed.

“You look so focused.”

I glanced up to see a man with a wild, Father Christmas beard and a personality to match his size grinning at me like we were old friends.

I had no idea yet, but Jack was about to become a staple in my Atlanta experience.

Chapter 2 is here.