In Like Flynn

by Donna Alam

  I look down at the latte glass in my hands, my mind a beat behind Paisley’s words. ‘No,’ I answer with a slight dazed shake of my head. ‘I was at a loose end, so I came early.’

  I watch as she unfurls a lengthy floral scarf from her neck before sliding onto the banquette opposite me. Her complexion is rosy, and though the weather is a little brisk, I know the flush in her cheeks has nothing to do with the weather.

  ‘That’s not like you. You’re never not busy. And coffee?’ With a slight frown, she looks down at my almost empty glass.

  ‘I wasn’t going to start on the booze without you.’

  She shrugs off my response, pausing for a beat to examine me. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ In answer, I raise one brow as I lower my now empty glass to the saucer. ‘You saw,’ she says, her soft American accent tinged with accusation.

  ‘Sweets, the whole restaurant saw.’ I wouldn’t be able to bite back my smile even if I wanted to. ‘That was some kiss. And when I say kiss, I mean—’

  ‘A mauling.’ Her shoulders hunch as though anticipating a blow.

  ‘I was going to say a fantastic display of frottage but mauling also works.’

  ‘Oh, my God. I can’t believe I let him do that.’ Hands on her heated cheeks, there isn’t a hint of regret in her words. Just a little embarrassment.

  ‘Let him? It looked to me like you were pretty complicit in that whole bump and grind.’ Maybe that’s what has me in a funk, watching Paisley and Keir be so into each other, they forgot about the passing world. ‘It looked like a precursor to sex—an appetiser course before the main meal.’

  ‘Actually, it was more like a palate cleanser between courses.’ Her eyes sparkle with the admission. ‘And I plan on returning to the buffet table many, many times over the course of today.’

  ‘Someone has a child-free Sunday,’ I tease. Paisley married Keir, the serious Scotsman who swept her off her feet last year—totally unfazed by the fact he has sole custody of his daughter. Sorcha must be eight or nine years old and a bit of a livewire. I do wonder if my best friend will be as chill when her stepdaughter hits her teen years.

  ‘Sorcha’s with her grandparents. All. Day.’ She comically widens her eyes.

  ‘You should’ve said. We could’ve met for brunch another weekend.’

  ‘No way. A plan is a plan. Besides, it’s just business as usual, if you know what I mean. We just get to be a little more creative and a little less furtive when Sorcha isn’t around.’

  ‘Tell me more,’ I reply, propping my elbow on the table between us, my palm cupping my jaw. I might flutter my lashes innocently for good measure. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m always on the hunt for new material. That the things they say and do, the stories they tell, are fair game in front of me. I imagine it must be the same as being an author. We all have to get our material from somewhere.

  ‘No way,’ she repeats, this time her words wavery with a barely suppressed giggle. ‘Get your sexy scenarios someplace else. It’s bad enough that a dozen people saw my husband dry hump me against the side of the car.’

  ‘After he helped you from it,’ I supply. Keir is a man who takes care of those he loves, and he loves Paisley a whole lot. ‘He was every inch the gallant until . . .’ I allow my words to trail off, thinking better of mentioning the fact that the restaurant and I got a glimpse of her stocking tops as her husband trailed his hand up her outer thigh, dragging her woollen dress higher as it travelled. Not that I’d be complaining were I in her stockings, not that I have a thing for Keir. But to have someone look at you like that—need you like that—must be heavenly.

  I’ve no idea why my mind seems to think it’s appropriate to remind me of Flynn’s wicked sapphire gaze at this moment. The persuasion and the challenge. Probably because of the fact that any climax I’ve reached recently, while few and far between, has been down to him. I feel myself frown as I push the thought away. I thought yesterday might’ve reset the blip in my system. Unfortunately, it has not.

  ‘That’s Keir.’ Paisley’s words bring me back to the moment with a snap. ‘He’s always a gentleman. Until he isn’t.’

  ‘If it helps, this place is quiet today. Not to mention, you looked like you were enjoying it.’

  ‘If I find this as the basis of one of your films . . .’ Paisley points a warning finger in my direction. ‘I’ll be very unhappy.’

  ‘You should be so lucky,’ I reply, which is pretty much bullshit. I’ve already slipped the sexy little snippet into my work bank. Not to be confused with my wank bank.

  ‘Speaking of being lucky,’ she says, ‘What’s going on with Flynn?’

  At the mention of his name, my stomach does an anticipatory flip, though outwardly, I project something a little like an iceberg. Serene. Reflective. Cool. ‘Going on?’ I manage to say, though as a response, it’s not very genuine. When I think of Flynn—see afore mentioned wank bank—the things that go through my head are a little more like.

  Hard. Glorious.

  Absolutely annoying.

  A little bit too full of himself.

  And a little bit too much length to fill me.

  See point one re: hard and glorious.

  Yep, Flynn is a big boy. If he was to star in one of my films, I could meta-tag it as hung. Not very inventive, but as a description, it’s pretty apt. I could also use cocky and annoying and needs a slap, but that wouldn’t help my subscribers find their joy.

  Or course, I don’t say any of this. Just like I don’t tell her that Flynn has stolen my ability to orgasm. Because that would just be mad, even if it feels true. I thought yesterday’s gardener shenanigans had put an end to my drought, but it seems like it was only a temporary reprieve. Because this morning, when I’d attempted to play back his visit, a sort of Flynn/Atonement mashup, accompanied by a little two-fingered knuckle shuffle, frustration struck again.

  At this rate, I’m going to need therapy.

  ‘Don’t play innocent with me.’ Paisley interrupts my thoughts sounding a little too happy. ‘You two are like . . . explosive. Ka-pow!’ I recoil as she slaps her palms together before doing a weird sort or jazz-hand thing when she pulls them apart. ‘Sparks and fireworks and all that sort of stuff.’ I’d forgotten how you were at the wedding, but it all came flooding back on Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ I nod. ‘You’re right. We’re highly combustible on account of not being able to stand each other. We’re not a good idea. Like dynamite and a match.’

  ‘Apart from that one time,’ she taunts as she slides the menu into onto her palm.

  ‘I thought we agreed that what happened in St Lucia, stayed in St Lucia. Wedding hookups are almost inevitable.’ I’m not going to tell her about yesterday—I’m not!

  ‘Even with people you don’t like?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  Start with a romantic beach wedding, add a little sun, a lot of rum, and a whole heap of hot looks and dangerous chemistry, and the result is the hottest one-night stand I’ve ever experienced. The same hot one-night stand that has damaged my solo sex life, it seems.

  ‘Stop looking at me like that,’ I add blandly.

  ‘You mean, like I’m not sure who you’re trying to fool?’

  I fold my arms on the table and lean forward, my denial hitting the air in a rush. ‘He just rubs me up the wrong way.’

  ‘I’ll bet he’d just love to rub you up in all the ways,’ she answers, sniggering.

  ‘Ew. Bad pun alert.’ Ella’s amused tone pulls both of our attentions to where she stands at the edge of our table. ‘Do me a favour and never pun again in my presence.’ Pulling her denim jacket from her arms, she slides onto the banquette next to Paisley. ‘Shove up, skinny butt.’

  ‘Like your ass is big,’ Paisley grumbles good-naturedly.

  ‘It needs more space than yours. This place looks nice,’ she says, glancing around at the industrial chic interior of pales floors, exposed brick and steel beams.

&nb
sp; Londoner Ella is someone pretty new to my social circle. As the wife of Mac, one of Keir’s best friends, she was bound to become an acquaintance of Paisley’s at least. But she’s become more than that, the sweetheart that she is, and I’m only surprised her friendship extended to me. Not that I’m unfriendly—quite the opposite. I have lots of acquaintances, just not many friends.

  ‘You’ve escaped without your brood, too, I see.’ My words are a touch droll, maybe to hide my disappointment. Ella’s daughter, Juno, is the most adorable toddler and Louis, her stepson, is four-foot-three inches of pure inquisitiveness, and his French accent is as adorable as his gap-toothed grin. Broody, me? Absolutely. Though that’s not up for discussion today, either.

  Ella nods enthusiastically, taking the drinks menu from Paisley’s hand. ‘Mac’s parents are down from Scotland, and they’ve taken our tribe for the day, thankfully. The addition of children does not improve a girly brunch. Besides, Mac seemed very excited when I told him I’d be making the most of the afternoon by drinking lots of cocktails.’

  Paisley snorts. ‘Like he needs to get your ass drunk to get you naked.’

  ‘Maybe cocktails make me a little more compliant.’

  ‘And by that, she means all hot and bendy,’ Paisley interjects, sniggering again.

  Mac is a great bear of a man who owns a chain of gyms, but somehow, when Paisley suggests “hot and bendy” I don’t think she’s talking about Bikram yoga.

  ‘Maybe,’ Ella answers. ‘But what I do know is talking about cocktails won’t get us cocktails. Ladies, let’s get this show on the road!’

  As though summoned by her enthusiasm, the waiter appears.

  ‘What can I get you gorgeous creatures this fine afternoon?’

  An address like this would normally dial my irritation meter sky high. I’m not a raging feminist—I like a compliment as much as the next woman. Or man. However, I’m not a fan of flirty waitstaff in search of a bigger tip. Or twenty-year-old’s using overly friendly terms of address. But as I turn to the waiter, my mouth closes with a snap. Dark hair and dark chocolate eyes, he’s pretty. And on the right side of thirty. Which would be the plus side of thirty. I’m so over boys.

  He looks familiar. So, of course, I imagine him with his clothes off—for professional purposes—but come up blank. He’s not someone I’ve used in one of my films before. I don’t think. And not someone I’ve sought out from the Adult Actors Guild. I can’t shake the thought of his familiarity, though. Or the way he’s looking at me.

  Paisley takes charge of our order—seems we’re all getting mimosas to begin.

  ‘He was totally into you, babe,’ she says as the waiter leaves.

  I watch his retreating form and note the ease and confidence in his stride—okay, his broad shoulders and tight arse—and my mind goes to where it usually does.

  I wonder if he has good swimmers? As though a girl can tell just by looking. And yes, I totally mean sperm. I bet Flynn has good swimmers. What a pity a child of his would be Satan’s spawn.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think I’m a little too old to be screwing the waiter in the bathroom.’

  Paisley gives me the look—the why you got to be so cynical look. ‘I’m not suggesting you screw him. I’m suggesting you get his number.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Companionship. Friendship. And maybe, okay, a chance to get laid.’

  ‘I have you two, don’t I?’

  ‘Sorry, babe, neither of us swing that way.’

  ‘Besides, we haven’t a dick between us!’ exclaims Ella . . . just as the hot waiter passes by, his footsteps faltering and bringing him to a stop.

  ‘They really don’t,’ I say, peering over the table as though to make sure there isn’t an actual dick sitting on the velvet banquette between them. I raise my gaze to his stunned expression. ‘Which is a pity, to be honest.’

  ‘Really?’ he says with a half-smile. ‘A disembodied dick is really no dick at all.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Paisley interjects. ‘Chastity here could probably tell you a thing or two about the phallus.’ I’ll credit her as trying not to snigger. Again. And I suppose she’s referring to the dildos and all manner of sex toys available for sale on my website.

  ‘Is that so?’

  I nod reasonably. I’m told my appearance is misleading. I have the look of an angel which hides the tenacity of a terrier. I can be very persuasive when I want to.

  ‘I’m a history professor,’ I say with a very straight face. I’m not lying because I’m ashamed of what I do. I just happen to have an aversion to being asked a million questions and becoming elevated to the oddity of the day. ‘Yes, Priapus, the Greek god of fertility is a particular speciality of mine.’ I know a little about him. Enough, at least, to shoot a scene around him. If you plan on googling him, just prepare for an eyeful.

  ‘Beautiful and smart.’ Oh, man. This guy is slick as well as easy on the old eyeballs. ‘The son of Aphrodite, wasn’t he?’ Slick and good looking and, apparently, well-read.

  ‘Fun factoid,’ I supply. ‘Priapus the origin of the term priapism.’

  ‘What’s priapism?’ Ella asks.

  ‘A pain in the dick,’ I reply. ‘Literally.’

  Ella turns pink as our waiter throws back his head as he laughs, flashing a mouthful of pearly white teeth. Strangely, it does nothing for me, not that I’m not a fan of oral hygiene—who isn’t?—I just mean I’m not interested in general. The pretty man doesn’t make me fluttery where it counts, I realise. Sure, I can objectively appreciate his handsomeness, but that’s as far as it goes. If I were to cast him in a ménage, he would be the second guy.

  Oh, God, I suddenly think. Maybe this is early onset of menopause? Losing my orgasm and a lack of interest in the opposite sex? But then I’m assailed by another image of Flynn—a sensory memory this time—of his body pressed against mine, his short, choppy breaths in my ear. The sounds he made as he’d come.

  The fine hairs on my arms stand to attention, my insides suddenly pulsing emptily. I release a long breath. It’s definitely not menopause or the waiter that has left me a little wet.

  ‘Ah, here’s Sam with your mimosas.’ Our waiter, who I suddenly realise isn’t dressed like the rest of the waitstaff, begins lifting our drinks from a young blond’s tray. As he places mine in front, our eyes connect. ‘Priapus was also the son of Dionysus. Now there’s a god who knew who to have a good time.’ He winks. ‘I’m Tate, by the way.’

  ‘Orgies are your thing, are they?’

  ‘If you’re offering, I’m in.’ And with that, he takes his confident self back in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘Oh my God, he was so flirting with you. Hard!’

  ‘Agreed,’ Ella adds.

  ‘Which makes him so your type!’

  ‘Thank you for that insight, dating guru. Maybe I just bring out the competitiveness in men?’

  Ignoring my snark, Paisley turns to Ella. ‘She digs an alpha.’

  ‘Oh, me, too,’ answers a nodding Ella.

  ‘Yeah, but she likes the whole push and pull. Sparks and insults flying, that kind of deal.’

  ‘Really? Since when?’ But apparently, I’m not part of this discussion, just the topic.

  ‘Maybe Tate isn’t captain of industry enough?’ Ella suggests.

  ‘No, that’s not it. It’s all in the attitude, not the suit. Or wallet. I know she sounds like the queen, but don’t let the accent fool you. She’s an equal opportunities woman. The hating thing is just like foreplay to her, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘That is not true!’

  ‘Tell the truth and shame the devil.’ Ella giggles. ‘I saw you and Flynn interacting at the wedding. And can I just say, I almost needed a cigarette afterwards—and I don’t even smoke!’

  ‘But she’s suffered a bit of a drought since their hookup.’

  Ella’s head whips from Paisley to me, then back again. ‘You mean, she slept with him?’ And bac
k to me again. ‘You slept with him? At the wedding?’

  ‘Oh, there wasn’t much sleeping going on.’

  I take a mouthful of my drink, unsure how I’d forgotten it was there, its sweetness and bubbles rolling across my tongue. I clear my throat. ‘Something tells me I’ll be needing a few more of these today.’

  ‘If mimosas will make you spill, I say bring them on!’ Ella raises her glass. ‘Cheers, lovelies. May all our ups and downs be between the sheets!’

  Chapter 8

  CHASTITY

  Two more mimosas, a generous portion of eggs benny, and a sharing jug of Long Island Iced Tea later, things have begun to get personal. Very personal.

  ‘She’s afraid of commitment,’ says Paisley. ‘Her last proper relationship was years ago.’ She’s right, but I won’t allow the conversation down this painful path.

  ‘It’s hard to meet men in my line of work,’ I protest.

  ‘Aren’t all the men hard in your line of work?’ asks a giggling Ella.

  ‘I hate to burst your porn bubble, but that’s not always true.’ Unfortunately. ‘Sometimes they need a little help.’

  ‘Like a fluffer?’ she asks, her voice almost pitched high enough for only dogs to hear.

  ‘No, like Viagra.’

  ‘That’s disappointing.’

  ‘I’ll say.’ Though my perspective is a little different. A leading man with a lack of functioning equipment often results in costly delays. ‘Do you watch much porn?’ I ask Ella. I know Paisley has a subscription because it’s part of her employment package.

  ‘Well . . . I . . . ’ She ducks her head, not that it hides her embarrassment.

  ‘Don’t answer that,’ I say quickly. ‘Being in my line of work sometimes removes my brain to mouth filter. Sorry.’ I think I’m largely desensitised to things that should ordinarily shock.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ she says, raising her head again. ‘I’m just a little shy, I suppose. I, that is to say, we—Mac and I—do have a subscription to Fast Girls.’ She hides her nervous smile behind the rim of her glass. ‘We like it. Quite a bit, actually.’

  ‘That’s so fab to hear. Can I just take this opportunity to say I’m also open to suggestions.’