Twisted Little Games

by Dee Palmer

  Fuck! It’s the only thing I hate about the summer. I lose my free accommodation to holiday rentals. Last year, I bounced from sofa to sofa when friends offered and had the room. Everyone tends to have family or friends visit during the summer months. Inevitable when you live in such a beautiful location. I am mindful not to outstay my welcome, and never stay more than two nights in a row. This year is panning out to be the same: crashing where I can and stealing infrequent showers at the public swimming pool, when I have to sleep on the beach. I take any opportunity to use the washing facilities where ever I can. An invite to a party–I bring my laundry. Baby sitting or joining a friend to break into their ex’s apartment for an impromptu gang bang–I bring my laundry.

  I sigh as I stuff the remaining damp clothes into a bin liner. Never mind, only eight more weeks of high season and I can go back to squatting at Joan’s cottage. I take a moment to thank all and everything holy for my Guardian Angel Joan, and her holiday cottage. One day I will write and thank her. One day, when she wouldn’t be professionally obligated to turn me in. Something I know she couldn’t do, but I respect her enough not to put her in that situation. She probably has an idea that I secretly live in her holiday home during the quiet months. She’s a very bright doctor, but I also don’t think she would have talked about it with such detail, if she didn’t want me to know about it and exactly where it was in the country. She promised she would help and I know she never got the chance the way she had hoped, but in the end this is her chance to help. She gave me somewhere safe, a home, even if it is only part-time. I grab the heavy sack, slip my carpet bag over my shoulder, and walk into Ethan’s bedroom.

  “Ah Shit!” I exhale. He wasn’t even home an hour and it looks like a bomb site. Typical spoilt rich kid, always expecting someone else to pick up after them. Was I really any different? Maybe not, but I am now. I wouldn’t recognise that silly, foolish, trusting girl from back then if I saw her standing right in front of me. Curiosity makes me step in front of the freestanding mirror in the beautiful driftwood frame at the end of Ethan’s bed. My lips curl with recognition at my image; twenty one years old but born just four years ago. Artemis d’Aubeney died the day they took my baby. Ada, my initials are all that remains of my old life; that and the ink I’d carved into my wrist with Pip’s date of birth. My hair is much longer and in desperate need of a trim, I never have the funds for. The split ends inevitable with my time in the sun and sea, despite my permanent floppy hat in the summer. I usually keep it in a braid of some sort, but it has started to separate into thick matted sections and I may well be heading for dreadlocks, unless I get it cut soon.

  I have lost a little weight and it shows around my collar bone. I have a light tan and now that I am dressed in my jean shorts and vest, you can’t see any of the tan lines I know are there. I have five black leather laces tied around my wrist. I add one each year on Pip’s birthday and they cover my homemade tattoo. I grip the bands and try to remember. My head sinks low and I squeeze my eyes shut tight. My fingertips twitch with residual memory, touching Pip’s super soft skin, her pudgy cheeks, her tousled blonde locks despite both her parents having dark coloured hair. I wonder if she’s still blonde. I can see her eyes, wide and smiling. I open mine and can see her looking back at me with eyes, which are glassy and wet. The tears fall unchecked down my cheeks, and her image fades back to my reflection. A brief, lucid, and excruciating memory.

  The image blurs as I blink to clear my eyes. I may physically still resemble the girl I was. The d’Aubeney gene pool is strong. I think if my father or mother passed me in the street, they might take a double look. But one look into my eyes would confirm I am not their daughter. My eyes barely have enough life to keep me going each day, and they hold no shine, no fire, no passion. I breathe each day, but I don’t ever feel alive. I actually lean closer to the mirror to check that the feeling I had earlier when Ethan kissed me, hadn’t changed me physically. It sure as shit felt real…intense. I pull my lower eye lid away from my eye and focus hard on the striated blue lines, checking again for any sign of change. A tiny spark maybe, a glow, however brief would be a welcome respite to my constant numbness but no…nothing. That makes more sense. I am not his type and attraction is one thing, but love and passion strong enough to reignite some life into my empty soul…that isn’t going to be a one sided affair. I shake my head at my own cruel musing. To reignite something, you have to have at least the will to love again, and I am just not that stupid. My fire is long dead…nothing is bringing that back to life.

  Except maybe that God awful stench. Ethan has tipped the contents of his rucksack on to the bed, but not left it in a neat mountain of clothes that I could smell from the doorway. He has scattered the garments far and wide across the room. They look like they are trying to escape and judging by the pungent smell, they need to head straight for the bin not waste the journey to the washing machine. God, men are disgusting. I kick his stinky clothes back into a pile and hold a deep breath, I grab an armful and dash to the washing machine. I have over-loaded the drum and haven’t bothered to separate the colours. I spin the dial to boil wash. Let’s hope he doesn’t have anything delicate. You know what? Fuck him, let’s hope he does. Let’s hope his entire wash comes out dyed pink and shrunk small enough to fit Barbie’s Ken.

  His bedroom looks a little better now that the clothes are off the floor. I pull his bed covers flat, puff his pillows but that’s about it. The kitchen is a different story though. Sky really went all out with the oil. Every surface has a slick glossy sheen, and those that don’t are covered in a considerable layer of dust. This place must have been empty for a while. Sky had mentioned that Ethan lives in London, or maybe it was Kent, somewhere up country. He visits but never stays long. Looking round at the expensive fittings and unique original art work on the walls, it is pretty clear Ethan doesn’t rent this place out. No second home owner decorates to this standard. It’s normally Ikea or worse, functional but replaceable and inexpensive, because tourists aren’t so careful with the family china.

  Sky said he hasn’t been back for over a year, part of the reason she felt so comfortable bringing the guys back for some fun. I start to run the hot water into the bowl but after a good five minutes, it’s still icy cold. Great, with no hot water to cut through the grease this is going to take ages and a heap of boiling kettles and hard scrubbing. I decide to text Buddy to let him know I am running late, but I can’t find my phone in my bag. I’m just having the best day. It’s only a crappy, pay-as-you-go, but even as a semi hobo I need it for emergencies. I have about five numbers stored on it that I can, if pushed, remember, but still it’s irritating that I can’t find the damn thing. I spend the next twenty minutes doing as much as I can to clean the mess. Scooping handfuls of excess yellow oil directly into the bin and soaking up the rest with kitchen towels.

  It’s not great but it, at least, looks better than it did, and Ethan doesn’t strike me as the type to run his fingers along the shelves. From the state of his travel bag, hygiene doesn’t seem a priority at all. Swinging my own bag on my shoulder, I take a last cursory look around. It is a stunning apartment. The view as the sun dips low and catches the gentle waves…a million fiery sparkles dance on the horizon…just wow! Shame the owner is such a tool. I snicker and pull the door close until it clicks locked. Yeah, I could pick that lock, I think to myself, and my grin spreads a little wider. I think I have just found some alternate high season accommodation.

  Panting I dash straight behind the counter to grab the nearest bar apron, and start wrapping it round my waist. I kick my bag under the counter and look sheepishly at Buddy. He has just finished serving a patron, and he wipes his hands on the trademark towel he tucks in the front of is cargo shorts. He is a good looking guy, in his early forties, about five foot ten and toned with a colourful display of ink across his upper body. He has chocolate brown eyes, a dark and permanent tan, and his ink black hair is now peppered with white, which just adds to his overall worldl
iness and charm. He has worked bars all over Europe since he was old enough to travel, and last year he broke every girl’s heart in the West Country when he fell for and married Honey, the sweetest girl from New Zealand. “Soooo sorry I’m late…long story that I will happily share when we close.” I flash him my best apologetic smile, but he just looks down and I can see him draw in a deep breath. I’m not that late. I decide to just get busy, but Buddy’s large hand rests on mine stopping me when I try to start slicing the lemons on the back bar.

  “Ada,” he hesitates, and I can see in his eyes he is hating every second of this contact. He is always so affable, affectionate. It is where I go when I need my cuddle fix, because he has no agenda when he freely dishes out the love. “We need to talk.” His eyes look so sad, I find myself taking his hand and squeezing it for some comfort. He calls for Sky to hold the fort, and her bright blonde curls peek up from the magazine she was reading. Her smiling, green eyes crinkle, but their brightness instantly dissolves when she catches my eye. Ok, now this can’t be good.

  Buddy closes the door of his office and I instantly sink into the well-worn sofa. “You’re not sick are you? Only you look like you’re about to tell me you’re dying.” My attempt at humour falls flat when he pinches his lips tight. “Buddy?” My voice catches, my stomach tightens and I feel a wash with anxiety.

  “I have to let you go, Ada. I’m sorry but I know you won’t go on the books, and I can’t pay you cash any more. Christ, I’m really sorry.” He runs his hand through his hair with irritation. He looks over at my stunned face. I did not see that coming. I haven’t missed a single shift. I always cover when I am asked, and I have only ever been late when some arsehole holds my clothes hostage.

  “Buddy,” I offer softly, because he looks distraught. “Look it’s not that I won’t go on the books.I just can’t. I wish I could explain.” I close my eyes and momentarily drop my head…so many necessary secrets. “ Buddy, I don’t understand. Why is this a problem now? I have worked here for a year and it’s never been an issue.” I shake my head this time because this doesn’t make sense. “Are you over-staffed, maybe? No, that’s not right. You are under-staffed, if anything. Are you not happy with my work? I don’t understand, Buddy. I can’t not have this job. I need this job!” My voice pitches with the sudden panic, and the realisation that my limited income is about to be halved.

  “Ada, you’re my best worker; it’s not that. Ah fuck, this fucking stinks.” He moans into his cupped hands.

  “You’re telling me! You know everyone has their staff sorted for the season by now, don’t you? There are no other jobs out there. Maybe if you had told me two weeks ago, when the other places were still hiring…Shit, Buddy! Why are you doing this?” He flinches when he catches the despair in my expression.

  “It’s not me, Ada, you know I don’t have a problem; But the boss, he doesn’t like a mess, and unaccounted cash on the books is messy.”

  I frown because I really don’t understand. “You’re the boss? And now you don’t like mess?” I try to clarify my confusion.

  “I’m a partner in the bar, but I’m not the big boss..” He shrugs away any hope I have of changing his mind. If it was his decision, I know him well enough that he wouldn’t see me unemployed.

  “So, who’s the big boss?” My head snaps to the sound of a scraping chair hidden round the alcove out of sight from the main part of the office. Buddy looks equally shocked that there is someone else in the room.

  “That would be me, Ada, or is it Artemis?” Shirtless and glorious Ethan steps into view, his towel draped over one shoulder. His hair is still damp, his toned ripped torso is dotted with patches of dried sand, like he has just stepped off the beach. But he hasn’t, he’s been here the whole time. His perfectly white, straight teeth and wide grin evidently taking too much delight in this turn of events.

  I close my eyes at the sight and to stop him from seeing me roll my eyes. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction that he can affect my life with so little effort. I look up to him and tighten my smile.

  “Definitely Artemis to you.” I keep my voice level, and if it’s possible his grin widens.

  “Ah, but now I know what you’re really called.” He crosses his arms over his chest, the muscles of his forearms bunch and glisten with sweat.

  “Only to people I like,” I snap, and go to stand. He steps forward into the space I needed, forcing me to fall back down with a bump. I squeal when my tailbone crunches on the frame of the sofa. He towers over me and I swear his eyes darken. No, there are no windows in here, that’s why his eyes look so dark, heavy lidded. No natural light.

  “But we both know you do like me, don’t we, Ada?” His voice drops and I can feel my insides tingle, hot and a little bit damp. I swallow and lick my suddenly dry lips. The salty air does that, I remind myself.

  “I…I–” Can’t construct a sentence or breathe.

  “Don’t be a dick, Ethan. You don’t even know the girl.” Buddy interrupts with a light laugh, trying to ease the tension, and I manage to take a much needed gasp of air. It is stifling in here.

  “No, Buddy, we’ve met. We had a very nice meeting this afternoon.” His emphasis is exaggerated, and makes my cheeks instantly flush red, which even the dimly lit room can’t mask.

  “Oh!” Buddy nods in understanding–a misunderstanding, by the look on his face–and his knowing grin. Sofa swallow me now, could this get any worse.

  “Yes, Buddy, Ada is going to be my new cleaner.” Ethan steps back, actually ruffles my hair in a playful manner. I am just waiting for the light punch to the forearm, but it doesn’t come. He winks and tips his head, indicating I am being dismissed but I have lost the impetus to move. The thought that Ethan’s words meant more, that he felt more, have been brought into sharp focus. My body did react to his, I couldn’t help that; didn’t want to help that at the time. But obviously the only ‘more’ Ethan felt, was relief at not having to deal with his stinky laundry. Time to squish my physical reactions to him into a neat little box, nail it shut, and bury it on the beach next to my hope and future. Because the material affects he has are a little more pressing. However, unwittingly, Ethan has just made a homeless Ada, unemployed.

  Buy here: Ethan’s Fall

  Sixteen Months Ago

  “You still there, Sam?” I can hear the concern in his voice, but it fades into the mix of nerves and sickness threatening to escape my mouth. Saliva pools at the back of my throat and I swallow, the slight metallic taste an indication that I have scraped my teeth against some soft tissue. My jaw is clenched so tight I didn’t even feel the bite. “Sam!” His tone is urgent almost panicked.

  “I’m here…sorry. This is harder than I thought it would be that’s all.” I grip the phone a little tighter, angry that my hand is actually trembling.

  “Look, wait there. I can be there in an hour. You shouldn’t do this on your own. I told you this but you never bloody listen.” He lets out an angry breath, which makes me smile. All my life I never had someone care about me the way he does. I am so very grateful. I tell him often enough, but it’s never enough. He saved me.

  “No…no don’t come, Leon. I will be fine. It’s just a house.” I swallow that pooling water again. So loud this time I can hear him let out a sigh filled with only a fraction of the sadness welling in me.

  “Yeah…just a house. Like Manson was just a guy. Sam you don’t have to do this in person. The solicitor can deal with this shit. Come home. You can beat the crap out of me and make us both feel better.”

  I bark out a dirty laugh. I love that he can turn my mood on a dime. “God, I love you.” I feel some tension leave my frame when I push out a fortifying breath. “I will be fine. I am made of much stronger stuff…now.” I add before he reminds me of the empty, broken girl he slowly helped transform ten years ago.

  “Call me when you’re done…and the offer still stands.” His silence is filled with hope.

  “Leon, I found you an excellent r
eplacement and you need to start using her.” My tone is resolute if a little sharp.

  “I know…I know…It’s just when you’ve had the best—” His flattery will get him nowhere…absolutely nowhere.

  “You’re my best friend, Leon.” I add softly.

  “Which might be an issue if we were fucking.” He is pushing me and I feel all that tension back.

  “Leon!” I snap. “Enough…You can be such an arsehole!”

  “But you love me?” I can almost see the devilish grin creeping across his dark features. We share similar colouring, rich coffee skin, deep brown eyes and impossibly dark brown hair that falls just shy of jet black.

  “I do.” My tone is clipped.

  “Did it work?” He asks after a short silence and before I get to ask what, he adds. “Are you feeling all angry and distracted now?” I sniff out a laugh and shake my head though he can’t see that part.

  “Yes, Leon…Thank you.” A tentative smile tips the corners of my lips, sleek and shiny with my trademark red.