by Donna Alam
I’m not playing his guessing games and am almost out of my chair when he speaks once more.
‘You seem like a nice girl. You should know Kais has certain . . . predilections. I think you are not yet aware. And in a no win situation. A job tied to your, what would you call him, lover, perhaps? And he tied to his father’s plans.’
‘I don’t have to listen to this.’ I make to rise again when a hand rests on my shoulder, pressing me back into the chair.
‘She’s not interested. Shift, you’re in my seat.’ Niamh’s gaze narrows before flaring with recognition. ‘Ah, the elusive Khalid. What? Left the little woman at home tonight?’
‘Essam,’ I correct. ‘And apparently his wife wouldn’t be seen dead in this knocking shop.’
‘Wife? You’ve not married her already!’
‘They’ve already . . . got a baby?’ I answer, confused.
He turns in a gesture of irritation, eyes shining hot and angry as he glowers at Niamh. ‘I think you have me confused with someone else.’
‘You wish,’ she sneers, satisfaction settling around her like a favourite coat. ‘So, does your wife know you’ve got a girlfriend stashed away in some skeevy flat? What about Sarah? She know your real name, that you’ve got a wife?’
‘Is there a problem here?’
Rob’s familiar figure joins our table as Essam stands. With a contemptuous look, he edges around Niamh, disregarding Rob. ‘You must ask him about Riyadh,’ he says with a last penetrating glare.
‘I can’t believe the neck of him! A wife and he goes and gets an apartment for Sarah!’
‘Who’s Sarah?’ Rob asks, sitting next to Niamh. ‘Who’s he?’
‘A bastard is who he is. She’s a mate, maybe more a friend of a friend. A hairdresser, been here about eight months when that . . . that bollix tells her he loves her and wants her to give up her job and move in with him. And she does, the daft cow. Only, he’s not there all of the time. Leading her a merry feckin’ dance and I can see why. A wife!’
My thoughts tumble like water over rocks; Niamh’s warnings, Jen’s brunch insinuations that sounded neither sane nor true. I begin to wonder if Kai knows about Essam. True, he didn’t look overly pleased when he turned up at his mum’s art thing, but a wife and a girl on the side? Surely he can’t know.
‘You okay?’
‘Matt.’ I shake my head, and confusion away, perturbed to see his face inches from mine. His hand rests on the back of my chair. ‘Yeah, fine. I’m okay.’ Not nearly as fine as Niamh, I notice, as Rob slides his arm around her shoulder.
‘Can I get anyone a drink?’ Matt straightens, his hand resting now on my shoulder.
‘Still got one thanks.’ Automatically, I reach for the stem of my glass. ‘Oh, Christ, cold!’ I jump from my seat as Matt’s hip collides with my arm, pushed by some force from behind. Ice cold liquid soaks my blouse, chilling my skin, the glass bouncing out of my hand to shatter against the floor.
‘Hey, buddy, go easy there!’ Matt pushes the offender, a slumped over drunk, upright.
‘Asif, so sorry,’ he slurs, glassy eyes stuck to my wet chest. Pushed upright, he beams a toothy smile before wobbling on his merry way.
‘That little—ah, would you look at the state of her shirt!’
I’d rather they didn’t, as transparent as it is. She begins to blot the silk with a napkin.
‘Here, babe, dry yourself off.’
She hands me another as I flap the fabric from my cold skin. Sagging back into the chair, my spirits now matching my blouse.
‘I’m gonna head home.’
‘No, don’t let the tosser spoil a good evening!’ Niamh looks genuinely disappointed, if not a little panicked. But I don’t have the energy to have to spend an evening playing nice with Matt while she makes a play for Rob.
‘You stay, I’m tired. Rob, you’ll make sure she gets home okay, won’t you?’
‘Sure thing,’ he confirms.
‘Yeah, I think I’ll call it a night, too,’ Matt says. ‘We could share a cab.’
So should have seen that one coming.
‘If you’re sure? I don’t like the idea of Kate going home alone.’ Niamh glances at me, eyes wide with innocence. ‘You’re both going the same way.’
But are we though, really?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In the dark of the taxi, an uncomfortable silence prevails. Street lamps wash Matt intermittently in a sickly orange hue as I fiddle with the clasp of my purse, so not in the mood for conversation after his less than smooth move.
‘You didn’t mind sharing a cab, did you?’ Matt asks, unnecessarily loud. ‘I thought maybe they needed some time alone.’
‘No, that’s fine. It’d be good to see them work this out,’ I mumble, grabbing my phone.
‘He’s a little shy, even though he seems like this loud-ass sometimes. I think she’ll be good for him. You wanna grab a drink with me sometime?’
And here it begins.
‘Yeah, thing is, I’m kind of already involved.’
‘The boyfriend back home? After the phone call, you know, I figured that was done.’
‘Yeah, that’s over.’ I’m sure he doesn’t need confirmation; he was there when I yelled as much down the phone to my mum. ‘Actually, I’ve started to see someone here.’
‘You move quick.’ This comes on a breath of a laugh. ‘Do you work with him or something? Where’s he from?’
‘I met him through work.’ Well, that’s not a lie. ‘And he’s kind of from here, an Emirati, I mean. You’ve already met him.’
‘Huh.’ He says nothing else for a beat, then, ‘Not that guy at the hotel, the real smooth one? Tell me to mind my own business, only—’
‘How about you do that,’ I snap, not sure how my angry gaze translates in the near darkness. ‘Look, we’re here.’ I shove a few dirham notes in the front seat and scramble for the door.
A shower rids me of eau de brewery and I grab a pair of PJ’s from the ever growing clean laundry mountain at the end of my bed. They’re bright pink and cute, especially if you’re five years old, dotted with cartoon ducks, their speech bubbles decrying quackers in lurid lines. As a character reference, this might be spot on, but at least they don’t smell like booze.
A hoodie hangs at the end of my bed. I slip it on as I head to the sofa, curling against the arm. I’m agitated, my mind racing over the things Essam said. Probably because it makes no sense. Restless, I grab my book from the table, reading the same paragraph again and again without making sense of the words. I begin to peel the pages apart, those stuck together from the soaking at the pool. God, I feel antsy. Chucking it down, I plump a cushion for my head before deciding to alter the thermostat. Goose-flesh dapples my legs, the air conditioning in this place seems to have only three setting: off, Saharan or Arctic. I usually leave it set to the latter as I don’t like sitting in a pool of my own sweat. Making a mental note to complain to maintenance tomorrow, I go back to my bedroom in the search for warmer clothes.
My yoga pants hold a distinct whiff of recent take-out, so I grab a pair of footy socks and slip them on and up over my knees. Last time I saw socks like these, a witch was wearing them. She was also wearing a house, but I’m cold and this isn’t a fashion parade. I pull on my ugg boots for good measure and turn on the TV, selecting the Middle East’s version of MTV. Arabic pop videos are so much fun, it’s like the eighties revisited; big hair and the aura of cheese. I love guessing what the song is about, not that it’s difficult given that Arabic pop seems to be universally about love. Happy love, angsty love, unrequited love, child love . . . no, not like that. Families and children. They’re big on love, plus they make me smile. Settling my head against the cushion, I decide I’ll watch for a while.
A buzzing sounds in the distance, like a horsefly trying to escape from a window, bashing its bulk against the glass. Pulling the cushion over my ears, I complain the noise is hurting my head as it becomes one long, insistent sound, a b
it like a fly spinning on tiles in the final throes of death.
My body jerks abruptly, wrenched from sleep as I realise it’s the doorbell.
‘I’m coming,’ I grumble, rubbing sleep away. ‘Ouch, shit!’ I bang my shin against the coffee table, stumble, hop and continue to the door.
‘Wha . . . Kai?’ I lower my leg, my sleepy self trying to get a better grip on this reality. ‘I thought you were away?’
‘I was. I know it’s late . . . ’
The husky timbre of his voice sends shivers across my skin. God, that mouth. Those lips. I want to kiss them, take the plump flesh between my teeth and—
Think in words, not pictures. Form a sentence, girl!
‘Are you going to invite me in?’
‘What? Oh, yeah.’
I step back and Kai steps in, tie hanging slack from his open collar, a light stubble covering his chin. At first glance he looks loose, and gorgeous with it, but there’s a definite tightness around his eyes. Not entering the room fully, he leans back against the wall, his body almost crowding me.
‘How’d you get in?’ Walking further into the room, I pick up the remote, interrupting some smoky-eyed singer shaking her groove-thing. ‘I came in behind one of your neighbours.’ He gestures to my book on the coffee table. ‘Bedtime reading?’ he asks with a smirk.
Picking up the trashy novel, I fold it into my arms, hiding the butt-crack cover with my hand.
‘I was aiming for a bit of literary induced bliss.’
He snorts, gaze lowering, where he frowns at my feet. ‘What on earth are those?’
Oh. That’s a good question. ‘Would you believe it if I said I got dressed in the dark?’ I look down at my hideous ensemble. Daggy knee socks, hoodie and uggs. Not to mention a highly probable drizzle of drool at my chin. And God only knows what my hair must look like. My hand goes there self-consciously to pat and smooth.
‘I wouldn’t doubt it,’ he answers. ‘Are they some sort of hideous house slipper?’
‘No.’ Wiggling my toes in their furry covering, I rock back on my heel. ‘They’re uggs.’
‘They’re ug-ly.’
I join him in frowning down at my feet. ‘Would you like a drink?’ As I lift my gaze, I suddenly grasp that he’s probably had enough. Yes, that’s it. He’s a little bit drunk!
‘I didn’t come here to drink.’ His gaze remains on the floor, allowing me to study unhindered the day-worth of stubble on his chin.
‘Okay, then to what do I owe this . . .’
His head comes up fast as he steps into me, hands feeding into my hair. ‘Pleasure?’ he breathes. ‘My god, I want to be the source of all of your pleasure. Your suffering, too.’
What’s that supposed to mean? Brain—wake up! Did he hear me bang my shin?
‘Tell me where you’ve been this evening, Katherine.’
‘Where—’
‘Who you were with?’ His words are soft, barely a whisper but his eyes burn molten amber.
‘I went out with Niamh.’ My voice comes out as a sigh and I feel almost as though his hands are holding me up, preventing me from dissolving into the ground at his feet. Shouldn’t I be pissed off, rather than turned on at this point, especially after the way we left things?
‘And the blond?’
‘What?’ As I straighten instinctively, my hair pulls against his hands.
‘You left with a blond.’
His hands slip to my shoulders, his eyes roaming my face, looking for a sign, some indication, but of what, I have no clue. ‘You can stop with the innocent expression, because I think we both know who.’
‘Innocent wha—have you been spying on me?’
‘Have you something to hide?’
I try to pull out of his arms with limited success. ‘Yes, I left with Matt, my neighbour, if that’s who you mean. We shared a cab.’
His hands drift to my waist, his voice low and husky. ‘You see how this looks. I almost didn’t come.’ His words breathe across my face and I inhale the scent of whiskey and Kai. ‘But I can’t seem to help it, it’s like I no longer have the choice. I move, no, I gravitate toward you like you’re magnetized.’ Pulling on my hips, his forehead rests above my own.
I’m lost for words. Surely he’s got it the wrong way around. I’m the one drawn to him, dancing around his flame, feeling his heat while fearing his burn.
‘Are you drunk?’
‘What I am is unhinged.’ He chuckles darkly, eyes closed. ‘And well lubricated.’ He draws out the last word, exhaling a painful sounding sigh.
Confusion gives way to a flash of annoyance—turning up drunk without even letting me know he was back! When I said maybe I’d see him, I didn’t mean whenever he’d like. And how is it even possible that this gorgeous man doesn’t realise I’m interested only in him?
‘Kai, come on, would you even do me in these socks?’ I pull away, wiggling my ugg covered foot, hoping there’s some levity in the motion.
‘I don’t know what I’m supposed the think,’ he growls, grasping my shoulders. ‘Other than you do this deliberately, to make me jealous. To force my hand.’
‘Force your—Kai, we left together because he lives next door. I have no interest in the man. We shared a cab. End of story.’ My words, part exasperation, part plea, match my hands floundering in the air. ‘Don’t you know what you do to me?’
‘I know what I want to do to you.’
Gravelly and low, the words explode in the pit of my gut, desire both swift and treacherous.
‘Tell me,’ I whisper, unable to help myself.
‘I want to put you over my knee.’
His words are enunciated clearly, each sound sharp enough to hurt. He straightens, fire still flickering in the depths of his gaze and I don’t so much speak as sigh my answer, though he hasn’t exactly whispered sweet nothings to entice me into bed.
Sliding the jacket from his arms, he throws it against the chair.
‘The bedroom. Which way?’
Chapter Thirty
Tense, and perched at the end of my bed, I watch Kai pace the small space. Light from the lamp casts shadows against the wall. As he crosses from light to shade, he looks divine and devilish both. But what happened here, what am I missing? The man of blithe wit and charm, of Shakespearean endearments, where has he gone?
This man, I don’t know him. This fierce, predatory-eyed Kai.
‘Envious eyes and malicious tongues,’ he mutters, almost as though to himself. And I’m pretty sure that isn’t Shakespeare.
‘Your tongue isn’t malicious. Talented, maybe . . .’ I allow my words to trail off provocatively, heart hammering in my chest, every cell in my body on high alert.
From across the room, he stills and his eyes seem to regain focus, as though he’s just noticed me here. The smallest suggestion of a smile sneaks through as his eye rake over me. ‘You’re impossible.’
‘I think you’ll find I’m incorrigible.’ Emboldened by his response, the new Kate returns, full of sass and bullshit. She may even flutter her lashes a little.
He towers over me in a few short steps, fingers toying with a lock of my hair. ‘That you are and I just don’t know what to do about it.’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘I’m not sure you can take what I have in mind.’
‘I think you’ll find I can take whatever you’ve got.’
My words elicit a brief laugh from him. It occurs to me at this point that I could well be writing cheques my arse has no intentions of cashing because, seriously, despite our almost-sex phone call, I’m not doing that.
His laughter fades and he lays a heavy hand on my shoulder, his other cradling my cheek. And then the atmosphere changes.
‘You’re like an obsession,’ he whispers. ‘And what I want from you will never be enough.’
‘I can try,’ I answer. ‘Try to be what you need.’
‘No, habibti.’ His gaze is clear and unguarded, adding gravity to his words. ‘I w
ant to be the thoughts filling your head, the need burning in the ends of your fingertips. The longing between your thighs. I want all of it, every last piece of you.’
All else fades into the background. Thoughts, concerns; washed away by his words. If I’m his obsession, then surely he’s mine.
‘Oh, Kai. Don’t you know you are?’
Air seems to leave his body in a sigh as he closes his eyes. ‘No more mixed messages, sweetheart,’ he says, opening them once more. ‘You agree you belong to me?’
Belong is a strong word. I want to belong.
His relief is almost palpable, his expression so sweet that I almost don’t hear his next words. ‘Have you ever heard of the rule of thumb?’ I shake my head not sure where this is going, his eyes taking on a curious light. ‘It’s an old phrase,’ he continues, his thumb lightly stroking the bow of my lips. ‘From a time when men were the protectors of virtue. Of reputations.’ Do I imagine the emphasis he places of that last word?
‘From a time when women belonged to men as a matter of course. A chastisement by use of an implement no thicker than this.’ Dragging his thumb now against the flesh of my bottom lip, he pushes it inside.
Something dark and delicious instantly floods my veins. He’s talking about history and punishment; that much I get. What I don’t get is how I can be turned on, how I can be sighing softly as I fellate his thumb.
‘Khallas.’ He exhales raggedly, sliding a retreat. ‘I’m done with playing nice. I want you to remember tonight, the night you gave yourself over to me.’
‘Metaphorically speaking?’ I tease, snapping my teeth.
He doesn’t exactly answer. Just smiles down at me looking sinister and sensual all at the same time. How does he manage that? And done playing nice? Does that mean he’s going to play naughty or just not . . . nice?
He can’t mean he wants to punish me, that can’t be what this is about, surely? Not for travelling home with Matt. ‘. . . Because that’s not fair,’ I say quietly.
‘Life rarely is.’ He pouts, his too full bottom lip protruding, pillow soft. ‘If it were easy, it would be a slut. A better aphorism, I think.’
