by Donna Alam
I keep my disappointment to myself as Paisley slides me a pre-poured glass of fairly decent red. Sadie and Will are a lovely couple, but I was mostly looking forward to my Sunday lunch quota of heavenly newborn baby cuddles. I know my friends wouldn’t guess in a million years that spending time with them sometimes leaves me with an empty feeling for the next day or two. It is wonderful to see Paisley and Keir so in love, and by extension, their friends, but it does make me all the more aware of what they have, and I don’t. Love. Partnerships. Children.
‘Here’s to the merry rugby widows,’ I say, holding my glass aloft. I’m not wishing ill on their men. The name is one my friends have coined themselves.
I turn and glance out of the French doors to where Ella’s son, Louis, and Sorcha, Paisley’s stepdaughter, are running around the play area, enjoying the unexpected sunshine. Meanwhile, little Juno, Ella’s toddler daughter, sleeps soundly in her stroller in the corner.
‘Isn’t it amazing how nothing keeps Juno awake,’ I ponder aloud.
‘Poor thing had to get used to it. Ours is hardly a quiet house, what with Louis and Mac and the dog running about. Boys are such noisy creatures. It’s just as well my girl can sleep on a washing line.’ Ella turns, smiling serenely at her sleeping child. ‘Still, let’s make the most of the quiet before the little monster awakes and spoils our wine time.’
‘She doesn’t spoil it. She enhances it,’ I say.
Ella snorts delicately. ‘She keeps the calories off my hips at least.’ Juno is at the age where she doesn’t seem to know that her bottom can be used for sitting on. ‘Although you seem to do the lion’s share of chasing her around the playground when we’re here.’
‘I like to pitch in,’ I respond. And I like to snatch my chubby baby cuddle time where I can, I admit silently as I take a sip of my wine.
‘Have you had a nice weekend?’ Paisley asks. I put my glass down on the table as I begin to cough.
‘Went down the wrong way,’ I say, thumbing my chest. ‘S-same as usual, I suppose. And yours?’ She doesn’t know about Flynn, does she? How could she? Unless he told. And if he told, someone’s about to get butt hurt. With my umbrella.
‘You didn’t see anyone . . . go out for dinner. Maybe sign up to any dating sites . . . ?’
‘You missed your calling. You should’ve been an archaeologist.’
‘Digging? Moi?’ She touches her chest lightly, faux offended.
‘Hey, what’s a yoni?’ Ella asks no one in particular, making me cough-choke my wine again.
‘Honey,’ Paisley begins, amused. ‘Do you want to ask that a little louder. I think some of the people standing at the bar didn’t hear you.’
‘Oh, God. I take it it’s something unpleasant.’
‘I wouldn’t be without mine.’ Paisley snorts. ‘I think the word is Hindi. For your bits.’ Brows raised, I lower my eyes to my lap. ‘You know?’
‘That was very circumspect coming from you, fast girl.’
‘Watch it, you,’ I respond, pointing a finger in Paisley’s direction. ‘Fast Girl is responsible for your pay check as well as mine.’
‘But where did that come from?’ Paisley asks, turning to Ella. ‘And how the hell do you not know?’
‘It’s not really a thing over here,’ I interject on Ella’s behalf. Still, she must be a little sheltered. Or I’m a little too knowledgeable in such things.
‘I read it in a magazine,’ Ella replies. ‘It sort of came back to me just then, so I thought I’d ask.’
‘Most people use Google,’ Paisley replies.
‘Can you imagine what results that search would’ve yielded? Google will literally make me blind one of these days.’ Unfortunately, this will probably happen.
‘That’s on account of you being a dirty pervert,’ Paisley replies with a chuckle. ‘In a totally professional sense.’
Can a person be classed as perverted when they can only orgasm with one person? Not even with themselves? That sounds more like broken than depraved. And that was a bullet dodged earlier this morning. I can’t help that I can’t censor my orgasm outpourings no more than I can my come face. It’s just a shame, and a little bit weird, that they appear to sound so directional.
Oh, there it is . . .
Imagine if I told Flynn this morning he’s the only one that can “find” my orgasm. As if he’s not already full enough of himself.
‘Oh, God, I have to tell you something funny before Keir turns up!’ Paisley is suddenly super animated. ‘So there have been a couple of break-ins in the neighbourhood, and Keir decided it would be a good idea to beef up security, like we really need it,’ she adds, rolling her eyes.
‘We were going out last weekend for dinner. I called a cab, it arrived, but as Keir was coming out of our bedroom, the damn cat ran inside. Princess Kitty should be called princess pain in my ass because the last time she was allowed in our room, she left a calling card in the bathtub, if you know what I mean.’
‘Kids and animals,’ commiserates Ella, indelicately screwing up her nose. ‘Poo.’
‘Exactly. So I did what any sensible woman would do—’
‘You got the hell out of dodge?’
‘Exactly. I got into the cab, but the cabbie seemed a little skeevy. He made a couple of comments on the house, and I don’t know. Something felt a little off. It’s silly really, but I was kind of conscious of not telling him the house was going to be empty for a few hours. Sorcha was at her grandparents, and Agnes wasn’t home. So I tell him my husband’s coming, that he was just saying good night to my mother.’
‘Sensible,’ Ella adds.
‘Up until that point, maybe.’ Paisley’s lips twitch as though holding a laugh. ‘Anyway, Keir comes out and gets into the cab next to me with a face like thunder. The cab pulls away and Keir is still silently fuming. So I ask him what’s up and he answers, Jesus,’ Paisley says, trying to imitate Keir’s Scots brogue. ‘What a pain in the arse she is!’ He sort of explodes just like that. The cabbie catches my eye aghast, but Keir’s on a roll. ‘The wily bitch was hiding under the bed. I had to poke her arse with a coat hanger to get her to come out. She tried to scarper then, but I wasn’t havin’ it, so I grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and held her out of the way so she couldn’t scratch me like last time—I’ve still got the scars. Then I’ve carried her fat arse down the stairs and chucked her into the laundry room. She can stay there all night for all I care. She’d just better not shit in the tub again.’
‘Oh my God,’ she says, tears streaming down her face, ‘that cabbie’s horrified expression will haunt me for the rest of my days!’
‘You can bet your house isn’t going to be burglarised.’ Ella giggles. ‘Imagine their fate if mothers-in-law’s are kept in a dungeon!’
‘Who keeps their mother-in-law in the dungeon?’ Mac’s broad Scots accent carries across the space. Placing his hand on the back of her chair, he leans in towards Ella, bringing with him the scent of soap and clean man.
‘Did you win?’ she asks, tipping her face to meet his lips.
‘It was just a practice, darlin’.’ Their lips meet briefly, but the love is obvious there.
‘If it was just a practice, why does he look like that?’ asks Keir, bringing up the rear as he hooks a thumb over his shoulder.
‘ ’Cause the man can’nae keep his trap shut,’ Mac grumbles, pulling out a chair next to Ella. ‘We brought a straggler with us,’ he says, tipping his head.
I feel my expression twist, instinctively knowing who is sliding into the leather chair next to mine before I even turn my head. It’s a strange kind of awareness, almost as though my body recognises his. The shape of him in the air. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but it’s hard to explain. Whatever it is, every inch of my skin seems to be aware of him.
‘G’day, everyone.’ Much like Mac, Flynn smells of freshly showered man, but the smell of his cologne hits me almost viscerally as heat radiates deep in my belly at the familiar low timbre of hi
s tone.
‘Flynn!’ Paisley exclaims, her expression turning to one of delight, though her pleasure doesn’t completely hide the way her gaze flicks almost questioningly between him and I. Maybe she’s wondering why he took the chair next to me, or maybe it’s more than that—maybe I’m not the only one sensing things in the air between us? Actually, she’s more than likely wondering why I’m acting so weird and sitting so rigidly in my chair. Wondering why I haven’t turned to greet him.
‘I’m so glad you could make it,’ she continues. ‘God knows we’re always inviting you.’
I still can’t bring myself to look at him for fear of what he’ll see on my face. Paisley, too. Sometimes I feel like I don’t need to speak, like my thoughts are telegraphed to her by my expression. Though none of that stops my eyes from following his strong forearm as he reaches across the table for the carafe of water and pours himself a glass.
Muscles engaging, extending, contracting, reminding me of last night. Damn.
‘And this time you said yes.’ I aim for a tone of barely masked disdain—our go-to interaction—as I finally turn my gaze to him. Other than his perma-smirk, it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, given the blue-framed wayfarer glasses he’s wearing. ‘You must’ve had a heavy night last night if you still can’t cope with a little sun at’—I make a show of turning my wrist to look at my watch—‘one fifteen?’
‘A heavenly night more like,’ he murmurs from behind his glass. ‘It’s surprising,’ he continues, setting down his glass, ‘how well pizza and champagne mix.’ Bastard.
‘You can’t help being a bit of a philistine,’ I reply as though bored. ‘I take it your dazzling wit and personality are too much for even you today.’
A low chuckle travels around the table, but Flynn doesn’t speak. Rather, he reaches out, leaning his long arm across the back of my chair as, with his other hand, he slowly lowers the sunglasses from his face.
I gasp. Then I see blood red.
‘What the fuck happened to your face?’ I almost clap my hand over my mouth, my eyes making a quick sweep of the surrounding area. Thankfully, there are no children nearby. However, for anyone caring enough to pay a little attention, that was far too passionate an enquiry from someone who isn’t supposed to care.
‘You should see the other guy.’ Otha guy. Gah! This man and his stupid but irresistible accent.
‘Arsehole.’ Keir chuckles from across the table, his gaze flicking to Mac. ‘I see him, and he looks just fine.’
My head turns to the bulk of Mac who doesn’t appear entirely comfortable. He folds his arms as his deep voice rumbles, ‘It’s what you get for being on the other side.’
‘It was a friendly game, you fucker,’ Flynn responds on a chuckle.
‘Aye, well, Mac doesn’t take kindly to loud-mouthed taunts.’ This from Keir. ‘They’re not all as good-natured as me.’
‘Now you tell me,’ Flynn retorts, making everyone laugh. Except me. I’m still staring daggers at Mac.
The waitress comes to take our orders, but my blood pressure refuses to come down. So I drink—great mouthfuls of wine. I drink to keep my mouth occupied, and I drink to keep the thoughts at bay.
‘Duchess, chill out,’ Flynn murmurs as more wine and beers are delivered to the table. ‘You look like you’re about to go off like a cat in a wheelie bin.’ I turn my head to him and blink as I try to process his words. ‘Stop plotting Mac’s murder. I’m big enough to take care of myself.’ My eyes roam to the swelling under his right eye, the discolouration and swelling, though I refrain from pointing out his injury points to the opposite. Rugby is a violent game, I silently remind myself. Not that it has any effect on how I feel. And how I feel is . . . unwelcome. I don’t want to care about him any more than I would a stranger in the street. No, that’s not fair. I do care. I care in general about a lot of things and a lot of people, but it doesn’t alter the fact that I don’t want to feel this way about him.
‘I was on the opposition, and I might’ve let my mouth run a bit.’
I turn my head swiftly. ‘That doesn’t surprise me one bit. But,’ I carry on, my words a quiet hiss as my glare cuts to Mac, who’s currently bouncing a delighted Louis on his knee as the little boy relays some story about a snail he found outside in the playground. ‘It’s supposed to be a game, not a boxing match.’
Unfortunately, my hiss is a little loud, and all eyes turn to our side of the table.
‘Y’ken, it’s like this,’ Mac begins with a wry expression. ‘Due to the presence of women and wee ones at this table, I can’t tell you what he said to provoke such a tackle. And it was a tackle. I did’nae elbow him in the face or anything.’
‘He’s right,’ Flynn says, beginning to shuck out of his coat. A navy overcoat this time, the kind that city gents wear over suits. Hitting mid-thigh and teamed with jeans and those rugged boots, he looks every bit as good. Okay, infinitely better.
Hooking his coat over the back of the chair, he shoots me a wink. ‘I deserved it for the way I spoke about Mac’s balls.’
Our tablemates start to chuckle, doubly so as Louis pipes up, ‘Yes, because my daddy has funny shaped balls.’ His gaze flicks around the table, his little face scrunched in a frown. ‘Tu ne me crois pas?’ he asks, slipping into French.
‘Si,’ Ella answers, wiping away an escaped tear. ‘Of course, we all believe you, Louis.’
‘Bon. Because my daddy has very funny shaped balls—rugby balls.’
‘Louis, you cheated!’ Sorcha, Paisley’s stepdaughter, appears at the end of the table. Fists curled, she stamps her foot. ‘Inside was out of bounds.’
Louis theatrically slaps his head. ‘I forgot we were playing hide and go seek.’
She isn’t cross long as her gaze falls to Flynn. ‘You came!’ she exclaims, dodging between our chairs and throwing herself into his arms, narrowly missing his swollen eye.
‘Ratbag!’ he says, ruffling her blonde hair.
‘Scumbag!’ she responds with equal delight.
‘Looks like I’ve graduated.’ He chuckles, covering her ears with his hands. ‘One step up from bawbag,’ he says, looking directly at Keir.
‘Why’d you cover my ears.’ Sorcha pulls away with a stern look. ‘I heard you anyway. And I heard my daddy call you that naughty name over the phone.’
‘Thank you, Sorch,’ Flynn answers, holding out his hand for a high five. ‘I’m adding that to my nice little blackmail file ’cause I’m pretty sure your dad doesn’t want to end up in an employment tribunal.’
‘What’s a tribunal?’ she asks, reciprocating as his gaze cuts to Keir.
‘About twenty grand,’ her father deadpans.
‘Oh, good.’ Sorcha bounces up onto Flynn’s splayed knees. ‘Half of twenty is ten. I’m going to be rich!’
‘Sorch is collecting the evidence.’
‘Yes, because Flynn said he would split his payout with me.’
The table erupts into laughter again.
Chapter 16
FLYNN
‘You know what I don’t understand?’
I lean my body close to Chastity’s, though keep my hands in my pocket and, therefore, to myself. I know she likes me touching her in general; back strokes, and cuddles, and my fingers tight on her hips. She’s tactile. But right now, I’m not so sure she’d appreciate the contact given that we seem to be a source of fascination for the gawkers pretending not to look. Yeah, that lot just beyond the window.
Cock-blocking bastards.
Fuck me. I’m the pornographer’s dirty secret.
‘What don’t you understand?’ she repeats with an air of inconsequence. ‘The scope in that question is so wide.’ Stepping away from me, she takes with her the smell of her floral perfume while also giving me a lovely view of her arse. Chastity giveth, and Chastity taketh away. ‘What are you doing out here, anyway?’ She crouches in front of little Juno, the movement making her dress bloom around her, blessing me with a glimpse of her stocking cove
red legs. It makes me wonder what else under that dress as she pulls Juno’s little pink pompom hat more solidly over her ears.
‘Same as you. I’ve come to play with the kids.’
‘Ah, your intellectual counterparts.’
Hands still in my pocket, I dig my toe into the spongey child-friendly surface. ‘You got me there.’ Her soulful brown eyes meet mine, mischief burning there. The connection is broken as Juno wraps four pudgy fingers around Chasity’s index ones, pulling her in the direction of one of those springy rocking horses.
‘Horsey!’ she exclaims, making grabby starfishes of her hands.
‘You want to ride the horsey, sweetheart?’
‘I know what I want to ride,’ I say quietly, coming up behind her again.
‘Stop,’ she whispers. ‘People will see.’
‘Fuck ’em,’ I counter, frowning, though moving slightly away. For her, not me.
‘Flynn, come and show Louis how you make a pound coin disappear.’ Sorcha pulls on my arm, pulling my hand from my pocket.
‘That’s easy,’ I say, looking down at her pleading gaze. ‘Take him to the lolly shop. It’d disappear quick there.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you,’ Sorcha’s says in a singsong reprimanding tune I recognise from my childhood. ‘We don’t have lolly shops. They’re called sweetie shops, unless you’re from ’merica, like Paisley, then sweeties are called candy. But lollies come on sticks, not in bags. And that’s the same everywhere.’
‘Not in Australia, it’s not. We eat red frogs and call them lollies.’
‘You’re so funny, Flynn,’ she says, giggling, her fingers digging into my arm as she lifts her feet from the ground. My bicep strain from the weight of her, but I’d keep her balanced there for hours just to see Chastity look at me like that.
‘Push me on the swings, Flynn. Please! Please!’
‘All right, ratbag. Race you there.’
Sorcha takes off like a shot, allowing me another look, or ten, at Chastity’s arse. At least until she stands. When she turns, she’s holding Juno in her arms.
