In Like Flynn

by Donna Alam

  With a huff, I chuck my head back against the sofa, ignoring the itch in my fingers to pick up the phone. Until, what do you know, it rings.

  ‘How do you have my number?’

  No hello, no I’m just returning your call. No après sex coyness or seduction. All the same, I’m still smiling.

  ‘Magic.’

  ‘No, really,’ Chastity huffs.

  ‘I should’ve been called Mike,’ I say with a happy sigh. ‘Magic Flynn just doesn’t have the same ring to it.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Her words run together a little too easily, which makes me think she might’ve been drinking. ‘Something tells me you’ve got moves Mike couldn’t compete with.’

  ‘Was that a compliment?’ Alert the press!

  ‘It might be,’ she says, all teasing tone. She’s definitely been drinking. The only compliments she’s ever paid me were in the throes of sex.

  ‘Duchess, I’ve got moves you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘I’m always suspicious when a man needs to blow his own horn . . .’

  ‘Have you met me?’ I say, pointing at my bare chest like she can see. ‘I don’t need to blow myself.’

  ‘You probably could if you tried.’ Her words are an equal weight of titillation and taunt. This woman. I find myself laughing, a deep burst of laughter springing from the depths of my chest.

  ‘Two compliments in one minute? Watch yourself, you’ll get a nosebleed.’

  ‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ she says crisply, her tone all business. Chastity is the kind of woman who can cut you down from the knees with a look or a sharp word. I wonder if I’m turning into a bit of a masochist? It’s hard to reconcile her with the girl telling me she’s imagining me with my lips around my own dick.

  Note to self: Find out her favourite tipple for next time we’re in touching distance. Tipsy chicks are fun.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ I respond. ‘I’ll answer your question if you answer mine.’

  ‘Are you going to ask me what I’m wearing? What colour lingerie I have on?’ Before I have a chance to protest or correct her, she carries on. ‘Pink. And lacy.’

  I close my eyes and tip back my head, my mind going exactly to there. Pale pink . . . no, dusky. Same as her nipples.

  ‘Right, my turn.’

  ‘Sorry, duchess. While that was good to hear and imagine, it wasn’t what I wanted to ask.’

  A frustrated noise rattles down the line before she adds, ‘Oh, go on, then.’

  ‘On a scale of smashed to just tipsy enough to legally consent to me coming around and fucking you senseless, exactly how drunk are you?’

  ‘The latter.’

  ‘Right, I’m putting my boots on.’

  ‘You’re funny, But that’s not happening. Again, I mean.’

  ‘That’s cute.’

  ‘I mean it, Flynn. We can’t keep doing this.’

  ‘What, you mean we can’t fuck once every six months?’ I say, trying to get a rise out of her. A man’s got to get his kicks somewhere.

  ‘No,’ she answers softly, not taking the bait.

  ‘Then I guess you’re never gonna know if I can blow myself.’

  I find my smile widening at the sound of her snort-giggle and not at the thought of blowing myself. I’m not being interested in the taste of my own dick, unless it’s a part of some kind of girl-to-Flynn transference. Plus, I’m pretty fit but not a fuckin’ yogi.

  ‘You can’t stop a girl’s imagination, Flynn.’

  My reply? Just a groan. A carnal groan. God bless this petite blonde purveyor of porn.

  ‘My turn,’ she demands, all business again. ‘How’d you get my number?’

  ‘Chastity, I’ve been inside you twice. Don’t tell me you feel violated by me being able to call you once in a while.’

  She sighs. ‘No, that’s not exactly it. I’m just trying to work out who the snake is. The Judas in our mutual social circle.’

  ‘We have a mutual social circle?’ That’s news to me.

  ‘It’s more like an oval—imagine a Venn diagram.’ I’d rather imagine her tits in or out of pink lace. I’m not fussy. Sadly, I sense she’s on a roll, and as such, probably not receptive to my preferred topic currently. ‘That little overlap between my circle and yours is pretty small, but someone inhabiting that tiny space is trying to make you and me a thing.’

  ‘By giving me your phone number?’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘I don’t know how to break it to you,’ I reply, rubbing a knuckle against the corner of my eye, ‘but no one’s trying to fix us up.’ Though Keir seems to think some kind of relationship between us is inevitable. A man can’t live by one-nighters alone. I’ve done pretty good so far—two for two with Chastity—so it shows what he knows.

  ‘Then how did you get my number? No one has my number,’ she repeats in a slightly panicked tone. What the fuck!

  ‘That can’t be true,’ I half say, half laugh. ‘How else would people contact you? Is there some kind of bat signal I’m supposed to use? A big light I have to install on the roof with a secret sign?’

  ‘Flynn’, she says gravelly. ‘You remember what I do for a living?’

  ‘It’s not the kind of thing you forget.’

  ‘My business is exactly the reason few people have my number. I have a business number too, but I pay an answering service to screen those calls. Do you get what I’m saying?’

  ‘That you get all kinds of fucked-up calls.’ All levity disappears, my molars suddenly clenched tight as her words settle in my gut like a lead weight.

  ‘Well, that’s the least of it,’ she answers softly.

  Fuck. ‘What else?’

  ‘This is not a conversation I want to have on a Sunday afternoon. A Sunday afternoon following a delicious brunch and some good company.’

  ‘Don’t forget the decent flow of cocktails?’

  ‘Yes, that, too.’

  ‘Some other time then?’ I press, suddenly needing to know exactly what it is she means as all kinds of bullshit runs through my head. Dirty phone calls? A stalker? Threats?

  ‘Maybe, if you tell me which of them gave you my number. My money’s on Keir, by the way. Paisley’s just not that good of an actress.’

  ‘It wasn’t one of our friends, but you’re not gonna like it all the same. And just so you know, I like brunch, too.’

  ‘Jealous much?’

  ‘I’m always jealous of people who get to spend time with you.’ Shit. Talk about over-reaching.

  ‘Flynn . . .’ The way she says my name? It’s like disappointment, but it’s a ruse because I can hear the smile in her voice, too. ‘You’re not supposed to say things like that,’ she says softly.

  I sigh as though anticipating a brush-off, but my sigh is also a ruse because what I say next is nowhere near beaten down or overcome. Quite the opposite.

  ‘I took your phone,’ I admit.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When you waddled your way to the bathroom. You know, after we’d fucked.’

  Boy, did we fuck. I’d picked her running leggings from the floor, chucking them on the kitchen bench. Turns out, her phone was in a concealed pocket and the way it hit the worktop didn’t sound too healthy. So I unravelled the fabric and pulled out her phone, just to check that it wasn’t busted.

  ‘Waddled? Are you suggesting I’m duck-like in some sense?’

  ‘Don’t you want to know how I got into your phone?’

  ‘Right now, I’m more concerned what you mean about me waddling.’

  ‘Remember, you’d been well and truly ducked at that point.’

  ‘You’re such an odd man,’ she says so softly, I wonder if she’s talking to herself. ‘Was it my gait? My wobbling bottom? What?’

  I groan like I’m in pain. ‘Chastity, you can’t tell me about your lacy pink undies, then remind me about your fantastic arse. Not unless you really want me to put my boots on and come around there to make you waddle again.’


  ‘Oh . . . so you were the cause of my waddle.’ Her answer is sort of scornful, like I’m talking myself up or something. For the record, I don’t need to. And she knows it. We both do.

  With the meat of my palm, I palm my meat. ‘You were wet.’ Unexpectedly, my voice sounds rough as I recall the kitchen. Her bare arse on the bench and my forehead propped on her shoulder, I’d felt content to stay there forever, cocooned in the warmth of her body. Plus, I happened to be staring down at her tits. But she’d stirred beneath me, so I’d stepped back, sad for the loss of her immediately. Her pussy was pink. Wet. Glistening. Fucking perfect. But I didn’t have long to appreciate the view as she’d hopped down from the worktop. ‘I expect you were waddling because you were trying to stop cum from running down your legs.’

  It’s wrong, but I want to do her bare. Paint her in my cum. Watch the stuff seep out of her and run down her legs.

  ‘Oh, well. I-I’m glad we’ve had a little chat. That we’ve cleared up some things. It was nice chatting with you,’ she says quickly and through gritted teeth, if I’m not mistaken. ‘So . . . goodbye!’

  I’m left with a hard-on, a smile, and a phone beeping emptily in my hand.

  Chapter 10

  CHASTITY

  If anything is going to sort out mixed emotions, it’s a Monday morning. Working for myself is a joy. My hours are mostly my own, but sometimes, I still have to drag myself out of bed early. Like today, for instance when we’re shooting a scene in a five-star city hotel. I’d tell you which one, but I don’t want to get kicked out of the place before we’ve filmed today’s actors, Sasha Savage and Nathan Cox, screwing against a wall of windows, the dramatic backdrop of the city beyond.

  I take pride in the beauty of my work. There’s the obvious beauty in sex, yes, but I also like to make sure my sets are top-notch. I have a small studio, but I much prefer filming on location; Prague, Barcelona, Ibiza, and places closer to home. Like my aunt Camilla’s potting shed.

  Travel cup in hand, I place it on the roof of my Mini Cooper. Yes, I suppose in some ways I am that clichéd city girl. But not only is my car adorable, she’s also very cool. For instance, she has a fabulous name. None of this Mini or Cooper business. It’s Minerva, like the Roman Goddess of warfare. Which is pretty apt as driving in London is a battle.

  I pull open the rear passenger side door to throw in my bag, when a deep voice calls out in greeting from the other side of the road.

  ‘Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’

  Is that . . . the waiter from the restaurant? What was his name again?

  ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ I reply, looking up momentarily into the clear blue sky. This is the song of my people—British people. We’re all about the weather. It’s so erratic, it’s probably been ingrained into our psyche somehow. But it’s also a safe conversation starter. Polite, I suppose. Bugger it. What was his name again? Throwing my bag on the back seat, I close the door.

  ‘How’s your head this morning?’ Now that wasn’t so polite, and neither is the way he’s looking at me, or the way his mouth hitches up in one corner.

  Hmph. I refrain from swapping him a judge-y look for his judge-y comment, though I glance across at him again. The bastard is chuckling and from his garden gate, it seems. Someone new moved in recently. So he’s my new neighbour and not some random out running. Pity because I could’ve told him to jog the fuck on.

  On any other day, I might take a moment to appreciate the sight of a fit bloke dressed for the gym, especially one as easy on the eyes as him. But not today. Today, my head is a mess from my conversation yesterday with Flynn. We aren’t supposed to be building a friendship. He was just a means to get my orgasm back. Which brings me to another sore point in my day. Quite literally sore, from overwork, because my orgasm hasn’t returned. So fucking much for that plan.

  ‘Perfectly fine, thank you.’ My answer is crisp, if not a little belated, as I clear the back of the car on my way to the driver’s side. I am fine, if I discount the fact that I almost gave myself friction burns this morning.

  ‘Have a good day in the stacks,’ he calls. His words almost cause me to falter mid step. How in the hell does he know about . . . Ohhh. It dawns on me that he’s referring to my fictious career as a historian—a historian of the phallus—and not my fantasy of Atonement’s library scene. Bloody Flynn Phillips dominating my bloody thoughts. He has single-handedly spoiled the start to my day, and he’s not even here!

  With a weak wave and an equally weak smile, I open the driver’s side door and slip into the seat before pulling away from the curb. In my rear-view mirror, his assessing eyes follow me down the street.

  ~*~

  ‘Come on, you. Shove up.’

  ‘Oh, you are in such a crabby mood this morning,’ Hillary, my latest hire, moves along the love seat at the end of the bed. Just the two of us are here at the moment, though Paisley is due soon, along with the two stars of the show. ‘Here,’ Hills says, shoving a banana in my hand. ‘Your blood sugar must be low.’

  I murmur my thanks as I take it, peel it savagely, and bite a whacking great piece off the end. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re making my puddings feel all queer,’ he says with a shivery wince. I’ve no idea what his “puddings” are, and I know better than to ask. And despite the misleading name, Hillary isn’t actually a girl, but a Christopher; a one Christopher Hillary.

  ‘Darling,’ I say, one brow raised. ‘You are every inch the queer.’

  ‘You say the nicest things,’ he responds, fluffing imaginary hair. Not that he doesn’t have hair—he has plenty. Red and wiry, it covers both his face and his head. Stylishly so. He’s quite the hipster. And as camp as a row of pink tents—pink tents festooned with floral bunting. He’s also a film student, which makes him super useful and a bit of a love.

  As you can imagine, in my line of work, it can be pretty difficult getting suitable staff. I don’t have a huge budget because Fast Girls doesn’t produce films for the mainstream porn market. My customers are subscribers to my website, and mainly women, though sometimes couples, and are interested in something other than mass-marketed porn. They want tasteful. They want seduction. They want fucking from something other than the perspective of a man deep-throating the equivalent of a Barbie doll. That’s not sexy at all.

  But it is hard hiring suitable crew. I’m told there’s a certain awkwardness in the job—no matter if you’re dealing with lighting or running errands—lurking in the room fully clothed while trying not to look like you’re watching people fucking, I suppose. Once the initial worry of being turned on, and worse still, the possibility of being called out for it, is lost—which doesn’t take long because, believe me, there’s nothing sexy in the production of porn—I’m told it still makes people seriously question their life choices.

  But not me. I make a good living out of this, and I’d say the same goes for the adult actors. And while they themselves always look like they’re enjoying themselves, I know that’s not the case. It’s part of the fantasy, and they deliver because they’re professionals. And if they didn’t like it, I’m sure they’d find some other form of work.

  ‘Shitty morning?’ Hills asks, who is officially my part-time production assistant while he studies film at a local university.

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘I’m a sensitive soul. An empath. Not to mention your aura,’ he adds, waving his hand in the general direction of my head, ‘is sort of the colour of . . . fucked off.’

  ‘Then my aura speaks the truth.’ I pause for a beat. ‘What colour is your aura today?’

  ‘Pink fairy dust,’ he answers with a straight face. ‘Did your gorgeous brother piss on your cornflakes this morning?’ Hills has a crush on Max, one that I tease him about mercilessly, but I’m not in the mood today.

  ‘Max has gone to Goa.’

  Hillary pulls an expression of emphatic disapproval. ‘It’s all right for some.’

  ‘Isn’t it just. My mother probably
paid for him to go just to get him out from under my influence.’

  ‘Families,’ he says with a shrug. ‘So are you going to tell me why your face is as long as an undertaker’s tape measure?’

  ‘I left my travel mug on the roof of my car and drove off.’

  But that’s not the only reason. In this morning’s mail, I discovered a brochure I’d recently sent for when I arrived at the hotel. Not shoes or pretty underwear, but a brochure of men. Statistic of men, anyway.

  Last week, I’d been invited to Ella’s little boy’s birthday party, which was less than fun. Not because it was filled with children and noise, but rather I was the only woman there without a child of her own. Paisley was there, of course, and technically, she doesn’t have a child. Sorcha is Keir’s daughter, but I feel like Paisley doesn’t count that, given that she isn’t heading rapidly towards her thirtieth birthday.

  To cut a long story short, I got home late afternoon and opened a bottle of red almost as soon as I’d stepped through the door. One glass led to two and two led to a third. And a third led to a website for a fertility clinic. Hence, my brochure of sperm donor details.

  I thought I’d feel more excited about it. I’m not going to think about it. I mean it. It’s not like I’m thirty yet!

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ he huffs. ‘That’s not worth getting your knickers in a knot over. You could’ve stopped at Starbucks.’ Now it’s my turn to pull a face. Starbucks, bleurgh. ‘What am I saying?’ he adds, slapping his forehead. ‘We’re in a hotel!’

  Note to self: Never go apply for MI5. Espionage isn’t for you.

  ‘Ohhh! Hillary said knickers,’ Paisley says, breezing into the room. ‘Careful. Say it ten more times and you’ll turn hetro.’

  ‘Sickening, isn’t it?’ His gaze flicks to me, then back to Paisley as he makes a show of giving her a thorough inspection, up then down.