The Casanova (The Miles High Club)

by T L Swan

  “So . . .” She raises an eyebrow. “What is it?”

  “What do you mean, what?”

  “Why are you acting weird?” she asks.

  “I’m not,” I scoff as I stand. “I came to visit you, but obviously you don’t want visitors.”

  “Mr. Miles.”

  “Elliot,” I correct her.

  She frowns as she stares at me. “Okay, you asking me to call you that is weird in itself. I’ve been here for seven years and never once have you asked me to call you that or bothered to visit me.”

  “I’ve been very busy,” I fire back.

  “For seven years?” She raises an eyebrow.

  “Precisely.” I move for the door. “And now I know why I’ve been so busy.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you’re a very bad host, Kathryn.”

  A trace of a smile crosses her face. “Are you high?”

  “What?” I snap. “Of course I’m not fucking high.”

  “Okay . . .”

  I inhale deeply as I try to think of something to rectify this fuckup of a conversation. “I’m leaving,” I announce.

  She smirks. “Okay . . .”

  “Is that all you can say today . . . okay?”

  She narrows her eyes. “Mr. Miles.”

  “Elliot,” I correct her.

  “Elliot, are you feeling alright?”

  “I was until I visited you.” I exhale heavily. “Now you’ve completely ruined my day.”

  She smiles as she puts her hand over her chest. “There he is, oh thank God, I thought I was going to have to call a doctor.”

  I glare at her. “Goodbye, Kathryn.”

  She smiles sweetly and waves with her fingertips. “Goodbye, have a nice day, my favorite boss ever.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” I snap.

  She turns back to her computer. “Just being a good office host. How am I doing?”

  “Failing miserably.” I march out of her office and back to the elevator.

  I push the button with force and clench my jaw as I try to think of a reasonable excuse as to why I came down here.

  Nope . . .

  I’ve got nothing.

  The woman’s a bona fide bitch.

  KATE

  I walk out of the front doors of my building an hour later to see Daniel’s big smile: he’s leaning against his parked car on the other side of the road.

  I smile and wave and make my way over to him across one of the busiest streets in London. “How did you find a parking space here?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.” He winks. “I thought we could go shopping for a little bit.” He throws his arm over my shoulders as we stroll along.

  “Shopping?” I screw up my face. “Ugh, I don’t want to go shopping, I can think of nothing worse. I’ll meet you at home.”

  “Well . . .” He pauses as if getting the wording right in his head. “You know how I told you that I got invited to that function on Thursday night and I asked you to come with me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I asked some questions and I’ve just been sent the guest list.”

  “So?”

  “Every potential client in the entire world will be in that ballroom.”

  I screw up my face again. “Will you speak English, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “You need to look fucking incredible.”

  “Me?” I scoff as I point to my chest. “Why me?”

  “Because everyone will know that I styled you.”

  I stop on the spot. “I’m not being your walking billboard, Daniel,” I snap. “I’ve changed my mind, I don’t want to go anymore, take Rebecca instead. She can be your mannequin.”

  “No. I need you.” He links his arm through mine and drags me along. “You have the look that I need and I know exactly what I’m doing with you. And don’t worry, I’m footing the entire bill.”

  “Why would you offer to pay?”

  “Well, I’m returning everything on Friday. Don’t get excited, I’m not that nice.”

  “Isn’t that, I don’t know . . . a crime?” My eyes widen in exasperation.

  “Only a little bit, and if you ruin anything, I’ll kill you. Oh, and I’ve booked you in for a hair and makeup appointment.”

  “What’s wrong with my hair?” I cry.

  He runs his fingers over the top of my head and over the neat bun nestled tightly in the back. “Nothing . . . if you were ninety.”

  I roll my eyes as he drags me along.

  “First stop, Givenchy.” He smiles happily.

  “Are you crazy?” I gasp. “You can’t afford Givenchy.”

  “Oh, shut up already.” He scoffs as he pulls me up the front steps of the swanky building. “I’m faking it till I make it, and if you’re with me, so are you.”

  I look down at myself and throw my hands up in the air in surrender. “I look like a damn Christmas bauble.”

  Daniel on bended knee with a pin sticking out of his mouth. He sticks his hand up the bottom of my dress and fiddles with the hem. “Nothing about this outfit says Christmas.” He huffs. “Name one thing that’s Christmassy.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I glance up at my reflection in the mirror. “Maybe the painted nails, or the big red lips, perhaps the gold string stilettos . . . oh wait, what about the blazing bright gold fucking strapless dress.”

  “You look awesome, Kate, just admit it.” Rebecca smiles dreamily as she lies on the carpeted floor.

  I nervously glance up at myself in the mirror again and brush my hands over my hips. “But I don’t look like me.”

  “That’s the point,” Daniel says as he stands and fluffs my hair. “Your hair is incredible at this length.”

  “I love the blonde highlights too,” Beck chimes in. “How much did he cut off?”

  “Four inches. It was way too long; did you wear it up every day?” Daniel asks.

  “I wear it up for work, that’s all.”

  “No more, you look ten times hotter with your hair down. If I see it up again I’m ripping it out, and I don’t care where we are or who sees.”

  “You’re beginning to become an annoying flatmate,” I mutter dryly.

  “Flattered.” Daniel takes out his phone and begins to snap away.

  “I don’t want to be on your Instagram,” I huff.

  “Oh, will you shut up.” He sighs as he snaps away. “Do you know how many women would kill to be styled like this?”

  He’s right.

  I smirk.

  “And for free, I might add,” he says. “I’m very fucking expensive, you know?”

  “Sorry.” I give him a lopsided smile. “I’m just . . .”

  “Just what, darling?”

  “I feel very . . .” My voice trails off.

  He drops his phone as he looks over the top of it. “Very what?”

  I gesture to my boobs and then down to my hips. “Exposed.”

  Daniel smiles proudly as he holds his hands together. “Angel, if I had a figure like yours, I wouldn’t bother with clothes at all.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s because you’re a raving ho bag.”

  Daniel chuckles with a cheeky shrug of his shoulders. “I am, aren’t I?”

  “It’s not a compliment,” I reply as my attention turns back to the mirror.

  My now shoulder-length hair is a honey blonde and set into big curls, my dress is strapless and gold—it fits like a glove and leaves nothing to the imagination. My makeup is smoky with big red lips. I don’t look like me. I look like someone you would see in a magazine and that makes me nervous as all hell. I put my hand on my stomach. “I’ve got butterflies,” I whisper.

  Daniel holds his arm out and I link mine through it. “That’s the universe’s way of telling you that you look divine.” He smiles proudly.

  “Thanks.” I look down at his black dinner suit. “You look pretty gorgeous yourself.”

  “I know, right?” He winks and passes his p
hone to Rebecca. “One for the gram.”

  Rebecca stands and takes a photo and Daniel’s phone beeps a message, which he checks. “Our car is here,” he announces.

  He kisses Rebecca on the cheek. “Don’t wait up, sweets, we’ll be setting the town on fire all night long.”

  Rebecca smirks and I chuckle. “You’re so dramatic.”

  He whisks me out the door. “Always, angel, always.”

  I link my arm through Daniel’s as we walk into the ballroom. “I’m so nervous I feel like I may throw up any minute,” I whisper as we walk through the beautiful-people crowd. Everyone is dressed to the nines in black tie; it really is spectacular.

  “Why?” he whispers back. “Because you look hot for a change?”

  He leads me through to the seating map and I glance over and see Elliot Miles. “Fuck,” I whisper as I turn my head away in disgust.

  “What now?”

  “My fucking boss is here.”

  “So?”

  “So . . . he’s a giant twat,” I whisper angrily. “I can’t see him, looking like this.”

  Daniel looks over my shoulder in his direction. “Oh . . . hell,” he whispers. “That’s your . . . boss? Casanova Miles is your fucking boss . . . are you kidding me?”

  “Why did you call him that?”

  “That’s the press’s nickname for him. Well earned from what I hear.”

  I glance over my shoulder at him: Elliot is talking to his three brothers. Oh no, they’re all here. “Don’t be fooled by his good looks, he’d cut your kidneys out with a blink of an eye,” I say.

  “Baby . . . he could cut anything out and it would probably still feel good.”

  I roll my eyes in disgust.

  “Let’s go to the bar.” Daniel smiles as he pulls me along by the hand.

  We get our champagne and his eyes go back to the corner where the Miles brothers are standing; he lifts his glass to his lips. “Well, well, well, he sure does have some powerful friends.”

  “Who?”

  “Your boss.”

  “Oh, him.” I sip my champagne, wishing I could drain the entire glass. “Who cares?” I concentrate on sucking my stomach in. “This dress is suffocating me,” I whisper.

  “Look who he’s talking to,” he replies, totally distracted.

  “Did you hear me? I can’t breathe in these Spanx. Why did I need to wear this fucking ridiculous underwear?” I whisper.

  “To hold your coochie in. He’s talking to Julian Masters and Spencer Jones.”

  I laugh and snort my champagne up my nose. “Coochie?” I cough.

  He slaps me on the back.

  “What is a coochie?” I giggle.

  His eyes stay fixed on the Miles brothers over my shoulder. “That hairy thing between your legs.”

  I burst out laughing. “What the hell?” I continue to choke while I laugh.

  “Julian Masters comes from one of the wealthiest families in the world, he’s a Supreme Court judge,” he continues.

  I sip my drink, uninterested. “For your information, my coochie isn’t hairy and it most definitely doesn’t need to be held in.”

  “Spencer Jones is a player, everything he does is across the tabloids.” He sips his champagne. “All coochies need to be held in. Unsightly things in evening wear.”

  I giggle. “How many coochies have you seen through evening wear?”

  “Too many to count, hideous mounds. Oh . . .” He lets out a low whistle. “And here comes Sebastian Garcia.”

  I frown, and glance over. I definitely know the name of the prime minister of the United Kingdom. “Maybe they’re just seated together?”

  “No, they’re acting like long-lost friends.”

  I look around at all the beautiful people, so many gorgeous dresses. Imagine what it must be like to come to swanky events like this all the time.

  “Oh, look,” Daniel whispers. “He spotted you.”

  “Who?” I sip my drink.

  “Elliot Miles.” He smiles darkly. “And . . . he likes what he sees.”

  “What?” I frown.

  “He’s eyeing you up and down.”

  “What?” My eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he’s fucking checking you out.”

  “Well, he won’t see anything,” I whisper. “Because my coochie is buried under the tightest underwear on earth.”

  Daniel chuckles and taps his glass on mine. “Touché.”

  “Where are we seated?” I ask.

  “He’s coming over.”

  “What?”

  “With his brother.”

  Oh no.

  “Kate.” I hear a voice from behind me.

  “Tristan.” I smile.

  He kisses both my cheeks. “Holy shit, when did you get so hot?” He laughs. “You look incredible.”

  I glance over his shoulder to Elliot standing there; he gives me a stifled smile with a curt nod. He’s not friendly like his brother.

  “Tristan, this is Daniel. Daniel, this is Tristan.” They shake hands.

  “Elliot, this is Daniel. Daniel, this is Elliot.” Elliot gives him a nod and shakes his hand.

  No smile, no greeting.

  Eesh . . . awkward.

  “I’m going to the bar,” Daniel says.

  “I’ll come,” Tristan replies, and they walk off together.

  Oh no.

  My eyes float to Elliot as he stares at me; there’s this awkwardness between us. “Have you come to make fun of me dressed like this?” I ask.

  “On the contrary, I came over to tell you that you look beautiful, but I’ll take it back now. You obviously don’t want to hear it.”

  I grip my champagne glass so tight that it might smash in my bare hands.

  “Is he your boyfriend?” he asks.

  “Um.” I glance over to Daniel and Tristan at the bar. “Friend.”

  Elliot’s eyes hold mine. “What kind of friend?”

  “Not . . . that kind.”

  He nods once. “I see.”

  “Is your . . . girlfriend here?”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Wife?”

  “No,” he replies curtly.

  “Oh.”

  An awkward silence falls between us and I see the muscles in his jaw clench as if he’s uncomfortable too.

  “Excuse me while I go to the bathroom.” I smile.

  He nods once.

  “Lovely to see you, Mr. Miles.”

  “Elliot.” His eyes hold mine. “Likewise.”

  Our gaze holds for a few seconds longer than it should.

  What’s going on here?

  He’s different.

  The night has been a whirlwind. I haven’t laughed so much for as long as I can remember. We’ve danced and drunk and Daniel has schmoozed with the women he needs to style and I’ve had a wonderful time. It’s late and the night is coming to an end.

  “Home time.” He smiles as we sway to the music, then he looks across the room. “Kate . . . what is going on with you and your boss?”

  “Nothing, why?”

  “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoff, but I do have to admit, every time I look Elliot’s way, he’s already looking at me. “He is not.”

  “I’m telling you, darling, I can read men’s minds.”

  I giggle. “And what is his mind saying?”

  “It’s saying that he’s going to bend you over his desk and fuck you hard.”

  I giggle again. “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s so unusual.”

  “What is?”

  “Do you know the kind of women he usually dates?”

  “No, and I don’t care.”

  “Darling, you really need to keep up to date on current events. Don’t you read the tabloids?”

  “No, and I’m appalled that you do.”

  “He dated an acclaimed opera singer, an author, a humanitarian lawyer. H
e never dates run-of-the-mill women, and he wants you.”

  “Should I be flattered to be the run-of-the-mill woman, then?”

  “You know what I mean.” He gives me a cheeky wink.

  I burst out laughing and he spins me around. I lock eyes with Elliot Miles and he gives me the best come-fuck-me look I have ever seen.

  Our eyes lock and for a moment, time stops.

  My stomach flutters and I snap my eyes away.

  What the fuck was that?

  It’s late Tuesday night. I make a cup of tea and sit it on my bedside table, begin to flick through my phone, and click on the dating app.

  You’ve got mail.

  What?

  I open the chat box and read the message.

  Dear Miss Leroo,

  You do sound very tempting indeed. Nevertheless, I have an allergy to cats and with twelve of your own, dating you is an impossibility.

  My best advice is to go outside and look to the ground, there you will find your one true love, although as we both know, dating a shadow would have its own obstacles.

  I’m sure you are attempting (very poorly, I may add) to be witty.

  Life must be pretty boring at your end.

  Good luck in your dating ventures, Miss Leroo. With pick-up lines such as yours, you’re going to need it.

  Keep chasing that sun.

  Edgar Moffatt.

  I click on his profile.

  Name

  Edgar Moffatt

  Height

  4ft2

  Weight

  Snack size

  Appearance

  Very handsome

  Hobbies

  Playing with my small dick

  Favorite pastime

  Watching porn

  Profession

  Garbologist / dick fondler

  Hair color

  Bald as a badger

  Eyes

  Green

  Skin

  All over my body

  A goofy smile crosses my face and I slump back against my headboard as I reread the message.

  Keep chasing that sun.

  That’s what I’m doing, Edgar Moffatt the dick fondler, that’s what I’m doing.

  I sit my head back against the wall as the sweat runs down my chest; it’s around 8 p.m. on Wednesday night and after the longest day in history, I’m in the sauna at the gym.

  It’s hot and steamy and I let out a relaxed sigh.