by Alam, Donna
And all the while, I say the words—words and phrases no one would ever believe I could say.
Fuck me. Make me come. Fuck my pussy. Touch my clit.
All the words I maintain make me uncomfortable, I use here with him.
Moments later, his free hand slides my bottoms down and off, slipping two fingers down the cleft, trailing them further to where I’m wet. He pushes them inside my body, and I cry out, arching my back and impaling myself on his hand. He twists his wrist, plunging those fingers inside again and again. I’m writhing and whimpering as his fingers work—and I’m close—and to my present mortification, I know what comes next.
His fingers slip wetly away.
‘Fuck, baby, you’re wet. So wet.’ His voice is part groan, part wonder as he rubs the evidence between his glistening fingers and thumb. My hips just about collapse under his observations; so much so, he hooks his forearm under me, adjusting my position and lifting me onto my knees. A rustle, a slide of fabric as his shorts come off, and then he’s lining up his hard length between my legs.
The camera pans, the result of a fumble; a flash of fingernails as pink as my cheeks. Why is it I still remember the name of the colour? Pink to Make You Blink. Natasha has the same shade downstairs sitting on a shelf in the treatment room. Silly, but I sometimes catch myself staring at it. Picturing my fingernails clutching Dylan’s tanned shoulders. Hearing his rumbling breath in my ear.
‘You want this, darlin’?’
The camera righted, and his hard, sleek length fills the shot. Hard. Vulgar. Beautiful. Veins straining and wrapped tight in his tanned fist.
I answer with a breathy yesss as his cock disappears inside my body, inch by very slow inch.
I almost can’t watch anymore. I really shouldn’t have begun and not because of any sense of shame. I have no hang-ups about watching sex. In fact, my attitude to porn is somewhat ambivalent, not that anyone would believe. Ambivalent, that is, unless I’m starring in it. And no one would ever believe that, even if this isn’t the only recording we ever made. And right now, it’s not the actual sex I have difficulty watching. Two bodies giving into pleasure; enjoying each other.
No. It’s the intimacy.
The way he twines our fingers together, his body covering mine. The way he kisses my shoulder. Licks my spine. The way, the whole time he films himself sliding in and out of my body, he’s whispering my name, like a catechism of soft whispered praise.
I can’t watch it, yet I am. My toes curl—both then and now—as the pressure builds between my thighs like a dam about to break.
I wished I’d never asked Natasha to send me the link. I wished I never had to think of him again because each tiny fragment of memory knocks me off balance. Takes me back a million steps in my recovery. I don’t need to face what I’ve lost. Not over and over again.
I’m tired of imagining his mouth full of another’s. Tired of asking myself what he’s doing now and who he’s with. All this—the tears streaming down my face and the pain in my chest—and I still can’t tear my eyes from the screen. Of how I push back against him, his movements suddenly tight and almost jolting. Of the camera’s focus suffering, its audio filled with his guttural growls and my cursing as we both come, grinding and drawing the very last drop of pleasure from the other.
The screen goes blank, immediately loading from the beginning again, with the absolute best part of the scene lost. Something so beautiful and personal, I know it’d rival any money shot. I can recall the tiniest detail of how he slides out, semi-hard still, pulling me flush against him. He turns me, and with one touch of the camera, we’re suddenly a smiling and satisfied selfie. He pulls me tight to his chest, wrapping his arm around my waist. And then we turn to each other, and we laugh. We kiss. Oh God, how we kiss.
I don’t need the frames to see it. I know it all by heart—it’s set in stone there. It’s indelibly inked inside my head. And the fact I’ve lost it all now; well, that’s where the bitterness begins.
Chapter 3
Ivy
Saturday morning Fin still isn’t home. I hope she hasn’t forgotten she’s working the front desk this morning. It’s going to be manic—both Natasha and I have back-to-back appointments. Please let her be late rather than a no-show. The last thing I need is to worry about her today.
I get downstairs to the salon, but the lights are on, so I guess Natasha has already arrived. As I turn the corner, I see she has . . . in all her sparkling glory. Black jeans that are more holes than legs and a silver button-down that might be better described as a button off, as in, the buttons are open so low, it may as well not be fastened at all. She’s going to be really cheesed when I hand her the new uniform. The tunics arrived by courier just after closing last night; black with mandarin collars and the salon name embroidered in gold thread. Emporium.
I’m expecting . . . resistance. And hoping that adding her name and managerial title will be an antidote to a full day of pouting.
‘Hey, what are you up to?’ Elbows propped on the reception counter, Nat turns her head as I speak. I can see she has her phone in her hands. Again. ‘Is that thing superglued to your palm?’
‘Morning to you, too,’ she says, turning back to the screen. ‘Did your wand charger go flat?’
‘What?’
‘Oh, well. I know what to get you for your birthday.’
I choose to ignore her muttering. ‘You’re here bright and early.’
‘The coffee here’s better than the instant stuff from the café. Or home. I thought I’d come in and check on my peeps while sipping a latte in peace.’ She peers pointedly at me over her shoulder, but I just laugh. I don’t really care what she’s up to so long as she isn’t watching my secret sex tape again. I’d deleted it from my history last night after deciding it was unhealthy to dwell. I’m also taking comfort in the fact that only two people know that bum belongs to me. I suppose I just have to accept the fact that, for whatever reason, it’s out there now.
For the world to see.
‘What have you got there?’ I gesture to the pad of paper and pen by Natasha’s elbow.
‘I’ve been working on a formula for optimal beard length in relation to attraction.’
‘Dare I ask why?’
Nat shrugs. ‘I got here early, and my phone was flat. I had to do something to keep myself occupied.’
‘Fair enough,’ I answer, half laughing. ‘Let’s hear this list then.’
‘Well, first off, the test subject is me.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘So the preferences are all mine.’
‘Uh-huh. So therefore, the preferences are weird.’ Beards are so not my thing.
‘I started with sexy stubble because that’s a given. When am I no’ gonna give that level of bilf a go?’ she asks rhetorically. At least, I hope so. And at least, this time, I don’t need to ask her to quantify exactly what a bilf is.
‘A beard you’d like to fondle?’
‘Top of the class,’ she answers back.
‘Please, do continue.’ I make an exaggerated flourish with my hand.
‘So second is sexy pirate,’ she says. ‘Because I am a bit partial to Captain Jack—’
‘Captain Morgan, more like.’
‘I like Captain Morgan and Gentleman Jack.’
‘And vodka cranberry and G and T.’
‘In moderation,’ she says, folding her arms, all schoolmarm.
I scoff in response. ‘Moderation? Is that like your self-control around bearded men? Maybe moderation means something different to me, because it’s not, for sure, dropping your knickers every time some dude with a fuzzy face walks by.’
‘We all have our kryptonite, tequila tits.’
I narrow my gaze, though the venom is wasted as she’s already turned back to her list.
‘Next came sexy seaman. I wish,’ she adds with a ribald laugh.
‘Oh, Lord,’ I reply, rolling my eyes so far back into my head, I think I can see my bra
id. ‘Out with it—I know you can’t help yourself.’
‘You’re right,’ she says with a snigger. ‘I had sea captain written down first, but it didn’t have the same flavour. You know, seaman . . . semen? Geddit?’
I make a noise like I’m in pain.
‘You know what? I’m just gonna show you the rest because really, there’s no correlation between the length of the beard and how much I want to ride them. I like ‘em all.’ She twists the paper so I can see the list.
Beards: How I Love Them.
sexy stubble.
sexy pirate.
sexy sea captain semen. And, yep, spelled this way.
Tom Hanks as Robinson Crusoe.
sexy homeless person. Very PC, I don’t think.
sexy wizard Dumbledore.
‘On planet sex kitten, they’re all sexy?’
‘Aye.’ She picks up her phone again as I lean across her to turn the computer on, seeing she’s already done so. ‘That’s about the strength of it.’
‘You’ve never met a beard you didn’t love?’
‘Yep,’ she replies with a sniff. ‘It’s just a shame about the men they’re attached to sometimes.’
‘So,’ I begin, attempting to steer the conversation away from hirsute happenings. ‘What’s up in the world of celebrity stalking today?’
‘Talia Griff has a new boyfriend.’
‘That’s news?’ I answer dryly, picking up a stack of freshly folded towels from the counter. She’s been busy; Nat, not Talia. Although, maybe they both have. Talia Griff seems to collect boyfriends and uses her many breakup experiences as musical inspiration, it seems. ‘Anything else going on in Hollywood?’ I don’t wait for an answer, carrying them across the room.
‘She’s seeing Dylan Duffy, and it’s pretty serious, apparently.’ I trip. Trip over nothing, it would seem. ‘You okay over there?’
‘Yeah. I—I must’ve slipped.’
‘So I see.’
I begin picking up the fallen towels, my face bright red. I can’t have heard right; Dylan and serious? ‘Who’s seeing who, did you say?’
‘Dylan Duffy and pop sensation Talia Griff,’ Nat begins in a tabloid-esque voice, ‘are reportedly dating. According to close friends—why is it always close friends? It’s more likely to be hangers on, surely?—According to close friends,’ she repeats, ‘the pair met on the set of Griff’s new music hit, Probable, where the attraction was said to be combustible. Combustible?’ Nat snorts. ‘Who writes this shite?’ She shakes her head, disparagingly. ‘The twenty-two-year-old pop sensation recently split with her fiancé of six months when—’
‘I get it. They’re dating.’
‘Dating seriously, apparently. What do y’think?’
‘I think you should go work for E Channel or whatever it’s called.’
‘Really?’ Nat’s posture straightens before her shoulders loosen again. ‘Nah, I’d be all tongue-tied around celebs. Or try to hump their legs like a randy terrier. But do you think it could be true?’
No. It can’t be. ‘I don’t know,’ I answer instead. Towels balanced in some semblance of a pile, I hug their downy softness to my chest because it’s pretty simple; Dylan is still married to me. It doesn’t matter what the world speculates about their relationship because the blond singer can’t be a serious contender for his heart. Not until he responds to the divorce petition, at least. And he hasn’t. Not in months.
And that sense of relief currently filling my chest? Well, I’m just going to ignore it. Because it’s unhealthy.
‘But you’ve met him,’ Nat protests. ‘Does he seem like the monogamous type?’ I don’t have an answer for her. How can I? ‘I certainly wouldn’t have thought so,’ she states. ‘He’s a bit of a lad and seems plenty happy shagging his way through life.’
And this is exactly why I no longer have social media beyond the newly created accounts for salon use. I don’t need to know who he’s screwing. For the sake of my sanity, if nothing else.
‘I don’t rate her.’ I purse my lips together, yet the venomous words still spill. ‘I’ve had better shaped splinters. And she’s tone deaf.’
‘I like her voice. I heard her new song on the radio and—’
‘She couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.’ I scoff, gripping the towels hard. ‘Oh, look, here comes Fin.’
‘I could kill a glass of wine,’ Fin says as she flips the door hanger to closed.
‘I’m up for murdering something a wee bit stronger. Wine o’clock has been and gone as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Isn’t there a bottle of tequila in the back of the pantry?’ she asks. ‘And limes. Should I grab some glasses?’
My mind immediately goes back to Dylan, and I blame Natasha. I’m like Pavlov’s bloody dog; every time someone mentions tequila, that man’s ringing my bell. I so regret telling her—in vague terms—about the weekend we met.
We were in Vegas at the wedding of friends. Actually, we were both there as friends of the groom, or maybe I should say grooms because there was no bride at the wedding that day. We were brought together by familiarity. Two Scots at a Vegas wedding; what were the chances? Dylan had moved to live with an aunt in L.A. as a teen following the death of his mother. As I understand it, she was of Italian descent, so Dylan got the best of both tongues, so to speak. An accent tinged with Scots, one that eventually helped make him a movie star, and some command of Italian. Though I’m certain he wouldn’t have learned the more risqué stuff from his mum.
Anyway, the reception was kind of wild, and we played a stupid party game where I somehow ended up with a shot glass propped in my cleavage. Of course, Dylan was partnered to try to lap the tequila out while I pushed my boobs together, keeping the glass straight. What I didn’t tell Natasha was we ended up married that same weekend.
‘Earth to Ivy.’
‘Sorry. Zoned out.’ Closing the day’s diary, Fin presses this morning’s mail into my hand.
‘It’s probably the bleach fumes rotting your brain.’
‘More like my brain has shrunk from all the small talk. Going anywhere nice for the summer?’ I pause from flicking through the envelopes and circulars. ‘God, if I asked that once today, I must’ve asked it at least a dozen times.’
‘You could always go back to L.A. and Scarlet Johansson’s hair. I imagine her small talk is way more interesting.’
‘Small talk’s small talk. It’s all the same.’
‘Only you would be unimpressed by superstars.’
I hear but don’t answer her as I stare at the envelope in my hand. Heavy card, it’s marked with the name of some law office. Postmark from LA.
Slipping my finger under the solidly glued flap, I tear.
Oh, Jesus. This is it—he’s serious about her, and he wants a divorce.
Ridiculous thoughts, considering you sent him the paperwork first.
‘You okay?’
‘I’ve just checked the Book-Face thing,’ says June, breezing into the room. ‘There are lots of positive comments and reviews from this week. Oh, and Natasha says she’s just doing a wee bit of housekeeping, and that she’ll be through soon. Was there any—why, whatever’s the matter, dearie?’
I don’t hear anything after that because every bit of my focus is glued to the papers in my hand. Then I realise, sort of belatedly, that I’ve been pushed into a chair and that June is fussing, ordering Fin to bring me a glass of water.
‘It’s fine. I’m fine.’ It clearly isn’t fine, according to the letter I fold from view; my fingers almost as pale as the letterhead it’s written on. ‘It’s just a bit of a shock because I . . . I have to go back to the States.’
‘Why, whatever for?’ clucks June, smoothing my hair away from my forehead. I suddenly want to cry.
‘A . . . contractual thing. Something I thought I could do from here.’
‘And you can’t? Sort it from here, I mean?’ asks a clearly concerned Fin.
I purse my lips, shaking my head, fee
ling something else in the bottom of the envelope. I open it. ‘I’ll need to close the salon until I get back.’ A slim silver flash drive lurks in the seam.
‘Nonsense,’ exclaims June. ‘You’ll leave it to us. Didn’t you say you’d already interviewed a nice young man for a job?’
‘But if I’m not going to be here—’
‘We’ll manage, won’t we, Fin?’
‘Of course. Whatever you need,’ she quickly confirms.
‘But your new job—’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Fin replies firmly, cutting me off. ‘But will you be?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You look scared stiff, Ivy.’
Scared is about the strength of it. Terrified, even. I left L.A. and his arse, and now, he wants what, exactly? As the pair resumes their fussing, I consider the flash drive as I pull on one edge of the heavy cotton bond, reading the letter beyond the shocking headlines this time.
Our client requires your presence in Los Angeles . . . improper termination of your contract period . . . grounds to pursue recompense . . .
Contract. No mention of our marriage. And he’d sue me? What the hell for? A tiny salon in the arse end of nowhere? Could he really take that from me in a divorce—in a bogus contract dispute—and what the heck for? And why now, after all this time?
Because he can. Because you left him.
I scan the document again.
Please note the contained documentation pertaining to our client’s demands.
Oh, shit. There’s more; a plain white envelope addressed to me. A plain white envelope with Ivy scrawled across the front.
I can’t go back, can I?
Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck!
Chapter 4
Ivy
‘You’ll message me when you arrive?’
In the car on our way to the airport, I turn away from the passenger side window to Fin’s clearly anxious face.
‘For the twentieth time, yes. And once more, just for your benefit, I already have a hotel room booked, and I’ll be getting a cab there straight from the airport; no murderous hitchhiking for me.’ Only, in a last-minute change of plan, I’ve cancelled my hotel reservation. Nat mentioned that Dylan’s in New York for some red carpet thing. I’m not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved, but it looks like I won’t have to deal with him, maybe just his legal team. It also means our house is empty. And this visit is already costing me enough.
