by Donna Alam
‘As charming as that offer is, I’m off the market these days.’
‘Christ knows how,’ I answer, still staring at the unopened text. Fuck it. It’s not like I’m not going to look. She’s pretty much all I’ve thought of since I left her in bed in the wee hours, all tangled hair and sheets, a heady perfume filling the room. The clean scent of her sweat and sex.
The recollection is so real; it’s like I can almost reach out and touch her. Taste her still. The thought causes my cock to throb, and though I should probably wait until I get home, I’m kidding myself. My impulse control has been shot since I walked her to her hotel room.
I tilt the phone to my chest a little, surreptitiously raising my head a wee bit, though both Mac and Will seem to have purposely turned their attention to the corner of the room where a football match plays out on the large-screen TV.
‘Hurry up and have your dirty wee peek,’ Will complains without turning his head. ‘I don’t even like football.’
‘Wrong shaped balls,’ I murmur.
‘That what you get for not shagging for so long.’
‘For the love of God,’ Mac protests. ‘Shut your mouth and give your arse a chance.’
‘Agreed,’ I add. ‘He does talk a load of shite.’ As I speak, I unlock my phone, open my texts, and physically recoil.
‘Well . . . that’s something,’ I say, distaste and a morbid sounding chuckle filling my tone.
‘Are you done?’ Will asks, turning back to face me. I hand him my phone, and like a true bloke, no matter what his heart tells him about being settled and loved up, his brain tells him to look at the dirty pictures. And so he does. His face morphs through a myriad of expressions—enquiring surprise, to abhorrent disgust, and everything in between. ‘You’ve shagged a chick with a dick?’ His voice echoes through the bar.
‘Keep it fuckin’ down,’ Mac growls.
‘This is your fault,’ I say, laughing at his abject horror. ‘And you’re still lookin’ at it.’
‘It? Why? Why would she send you a picture of a manscaped dick?’
‘On account of your stupid first text,’ Mac says, snatching the phone out of his hand and plonking it face down in my palm. ‘Go sort this out. We’ll need to leave soon.’ To get back to Ella and the kids.
I nod, the stab of guilt resurfacing, though I turn and make my way outside as the call connects. It’s begun to rain while we’ve been in the pub, the grey roads now slick and shiny.
‘Hello?’ Over the patter of the rain overhead, I hear how her voice brims with laughter even in that one spoken word. The tightness in my chest seems to loosen almost instantly.
‘How are you?’ Alcohol softens my tone, my enquiry warm.
‘I’m as hot as hell.’
‘That’s maybe a little conceited but also very true.’
‘Conceited? This from the man asking me to send intimate images. Via text, no less. Classy, Keir. Real classy.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’ I blow out the words on a long, regretful breath as I rub my hand against the back of my head. ‘But you really showed me, didn’t you?’
‘I sure showed you something,’ she replies, giggling.
‘I’m impressed—horrified but impressed.’
‘Was it the size of the schlong that did it for you?’
‘Ah, no.’ I chuckle. ‘Though that was also impressive. Horrifyingly impressive.’
‘Like you don’t compare,’ she scoffs.
‘I’m not sure what you’re suggesting. Maybe a line up? Tape measures at the ready?’
She giggles again, a light, carefree sound. ‘I just meant, you know, you have nothing to be shy about.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ I return, smiling into the rain-washed street. A car passes by with a hiss of wet tires, kicking up moisture into the air.
‘You totally should,’ she answers, her voice a touch lower now.
‘Is it strange that I can still feel you in my hands?’ I should regret the admission because I shouldn’t be leading her on. But all thoughts of impropriety, guilt, or remorse disappear with her next words.
‘I sort of still feel like I’m in your hands.’
‘How so?’
‘I feel them. Feel your mark all over me.’
My responding chuckle is low, an image from last night reverberating in my head. Paisley, naked and beneath me. Skin sliding against skin. My hands on her. My tongue inside her. My cock . . .
‘Are you still there?’ she asks softly.
‘Yeah. I’m just . . . Can I see you?’ The words come from nowhere, but out in the air, I have no wish to take them back.
‘If you mean in a text message—’ Humour colours her tone, but I cut her off anyway.
‘That wasn’t me. It was my arsehole mate. Can’t leave your phone anywhere, it seems.’
‘So define see me.’
I rub my lips together to stop the images in my head from turning to spilled words. My wants. My desires. The things I’d like to do to her but didn’t get the chance. Sordid things. Fun things. More than fucking in the dark.
‘Dinner. Coffee. A walk in the fucking park,’ I say instead. ‘Whatever tickles your fancy.’
Her laughter warms me from the inside out.
‘Oh, I think you’ve already discovered how my fancy likes to be tickled.’
‘Are you suggesting I know how you like to be fucked?’
Her breath hitches as the door to the pub opens, and an old man in a grey cap steps out into the rain. He heard me—heard the uncharacteristic thing I said to Paisley—I know he did. The look that passes between us isn’t hard to define. Life is short. Make hay while the sun shines. Have sex with the lovely girl.
‘Do you want to skip the niceties and go straight to a hotel room?’
Was that an invitation or a trap? I mentally berate myself for the sudden thought. Not all women are like my ex. ‘I didn’t say that.’ But fuck if I don’t want to. ‘I’m not easy, Paisley. I’m gonna make you work for it.’
‘You’re what?’ she says, giggling.
‘I don’t dole out my favours to just anyone.’
‘Oh, I believe it,’ she replies, still amused.
‘This isn’t Halloween, and my sexual favours aren’t M&M’s.’
‘So what does a girl have to do to get you into her bed again?’
‘I think we should start with dinner on Friday. How are you fixed?’
‘Fixed?’
‘What’s your schedule look like?’
‘I get back from Barcelona midweek, so that could work.’
Her hot as hell comment suddenly makes more sense—though she absolutely is hot—as I recall our initial interview.
‘How is Antonio?’ My enquiry is not without a touch of chagrin.
‘Oh, Antonio’s hanging,’ she responds airily.
While I’m not overly pleased to imagine her surrounded by swinging dicks, I can’t help but be a little confused by what she means.
‘You’re hanging with Antonio now?’ I say, attempting to keep the strain from my voice. And mostly winning.
‘No.’ Static sounds over the phone as though her hair is brushing against the speaker. ‘Antonio is hanging,’ she adds almost in a whisper. ‘On the set. Hanging as in the text I sent.’
‘Jesus, woman,’ I say, chuckling, her meaning becoming suddenly clear. ‘Is it not enough that you nearly blinded me in the coffee shop wi’ pictures of him!’
‘He’s not blinding anyone today, let me tell you. At least, not by poking anyone’s eye out.’ In the distance, someone calls her name. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says quickly. ‘I have to get back. Text me where and I’ll see you next week?’
‘Sure. I look forward to it.’
With warm goodbyes, we end our call, and I go back into the pub.
‘See,’ Will says, taking in the splashes of rain on my shirt. ‘Even the heavens are weeping with joy because you got your dick wet yesterday.’
‘Yo
u’ll be pleased to know it isn’t an unsalvageable mess, no thanks to you.’
‘You’re going to see her again?’ The surprise on his face hits me like a kick in the nuts. Swift and painful.
‘That’s a grand idea,’ Mac says, downing the rest of his drink. ‘Are we ready to go?’
Chapter 14
PAISLEY
‘Check you out! Where are you off to dressed like that?’
I look down at my outfit, wondering what Chastity means; skinny jeans, heels, and an oversized sweater is hardly worth the look on her face. ‘What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?’ I ask, looking up again.
‘Wrong? Nothing. But I haven’t seen you dress up in months.’
‘I always try to look nice.’ Apart from the weeks post breakup when I wore nothing but stained sweats or my old robe. ‘I look nice for work, don’t I? Smart—smart casual,’ I add, a touch defensive.
‘What she means is you look hot.’ From his position on the sofa next to Chastity, Max’s gaze slides my way—then slides up, then down, taking in my whole outfit. My whole body.
‘Stop imagining me in my underwear,’ I retort, pointing my finger at him. ‘It’s just jeans and a sweater.’
‘And an awful lot of collarbone. And one bared shoulder.’ Max smiles, sort of shark-like, plunging his hand into the large bowl of popcorn on Chas’s lap, stuffing the contents into his mouth.
‘So?’ I huff out, a little frustrated. ‘It’s not like I have a whole lot of T & A on display.’
‘You don’t have to dress provocatively to look sexy. In fact, the less skin on display, the more sexy a look can be.’ Chas then elbows Max sharply in the ribs. ‘Not that he’s supposed to notice.’
‘Oof! That’s rich coming from the woman who makes her living off people wearing no clothes. And I can’t help that I have eyes. Anyone can see she looks like she’s off to get boned!’
‘Max,’ Chas adds in a warning tone. ‘Enough.’
‘Fine, fine,’ he says, sliding his feet from the coffee table. He unfolds his long frame from the chair. ‘I can see where I’m not wanted. The movie’s finished anyway. You,’ he says, clasping my shoulders with his hands, ‘look gorgeous.’
‘It’s still just jeans and a sweater,’ I mutter. ‘Really.’ I want to look nice, and yes, I am off to get boned as Max so charmingly puts it, but I don’t want to look obvious. Or desperate.
‘Absolutely. And I’m fucking Rihanna.’ He bumps the tip of his index finger against my nose. ‘Catch you crazy kids later.’
The front door slams as I slide my butt down the sofa arm, facing Chas.
‘I’m guessing you’re off to meet your hot kilt-wearing stud from the wedding?’
‘You guess correct.’ Leaning over, I steal a little popcorn from her bowl. ‘Keir.’
‘What?’
‘Keir. That’s his name.’ Though without the ability to roll my r’s, it doesn’t sound the same. Keirrrr. Like roarrrr!
‘What else do we know about this Keir, apart from he wears a kilt, and he sent you an offensive text?’
Ah, so that’s what this is about.
‘That was a misunderstanding.’ Leaning forward, Chastity places the bowl on the table, then turns to face me as she crosses her legs. ‘And you already don’t like him.’
‘It’s not for me to like or dislike,’ she answers.
‘Okay, so you worry about me. You think I’m super naïve.’
She shrugs a little reluctantly. ‘You seem to know what you’re doing. You just need to decide what you want from this.’
‘Fun. I want a little fun. A few dates. Maybe hot sex. Nothing heavy.’
‘And that’s all well and good, so long as you keep that in mind.’
‘Chas, look. I like him. He seems genuine, and he’s . . . fun.’
‘Genuine doesn’t—’ she begins, but I cut her off.
‘It was a text message sent by his stupid friend!’ I say, a little exasperated. I didn’t want to worry her, but it looks like I need to go there. ‘Look, I didn’t tell you, but Robin cornered me and was pretty rough with me the night of the wedding.’ She opens her mouth, a million questions written across her expression, but I hold up my hand. ‘He grabbed me. In the hotel. Called me a bunch of names and threatened me. Then he sort of shook me a bit, and I banged my head.’
‘That little fucker,’ she growls. ‘I will literally twist off his balls and feed them to him.’
‘No need. Keir was there. He headbutted him.’
‘Good,’ she says, nodding. ‘I’m glad. I’m going to get a Robin Reed lookalike and use him as a gimp in one of my films.’ I laugh, but it trails off quickly. ‘Why are you grimacing?’’
‘Because I’ve seen him out on the street. At least, I think I have.’
‘You think he’s following you? Stalking you?’ Her expression darkens, her brow drawing in as her lips thin to one flat line. ‘You should go to the police, Paisley.’
‘And say what? I think my ex-boyfriend is following me? Only, it might not be him because he can’t walk around without a disguise. You know, because he’s famous. Famous, and everyone and their grandmother’s favourite. Can you hear how mad that sounds?’
‘Something is telling you it’s him. You should always listen to your intuition, you know. Trust it.’
‘My instinct is telling me Keir might be a good distraction.’
‘Just a distraction?’
I consider her question for a moment, and it really is only a moment. ‘We hooked up at a wedding. That’s the extent of our connection.’
‘That’s it?’ she asks doubtfully.
‘I mean, I can tell he’s a good man. He did squash Robin’s nose all over his face on my behalf. And I am mostly the non-violent kind—’
‘I’m not,’ she almost growls.
‘But Robin did make dog food out of my heart, and then had the audacity to tell me I didn’t know how to conduct myself.’
‘And then tried to dish out a different kind of hurting,’ Chas replies with a dark look.
‘Exactly. Pretty ironic, right?’
‘Moronic, more like. But tell me more about this Keir.’
‘I think he’ll be a good rebound,’ I say, nodding. ‘He’s a little older than I am, is divorced, has a daughter, and doesn’t want anything serious.’
‘What about you? Do you think you’ll be able to stick to those terms?’
‘Absolutely,’ I reply, standing. ‘I’ve known I’ve always been a relationship kind of girl, but so much has changed in my life recently. I think Keir will be a good distraction for me. A good reminder. Good for my ego.’ Good for now, at least.
‘So long as you don’t get too attached.’
‘I’m a big girl,’ I respond, grabbing my bag. ‘I know the score. And on that note, don’t wait up!’
As Keir had suggested I choose a place to meet tonight, I stick to the Chelsea area, just in case things don’t go so well. I’ve come to love London in the years I’ve lived here. I no longer look like a tourist and have a pretty good understanding of my surrounds, and I can navigate the underground like a native! But that’s not to say I’m familiar with everywhere. London is a big place. So when I’d asked Chastity in a roundabout way where would be a good place to eat—somewhere not too over the top and with a chill vibe—I didn’t expect my Uber to pull up to Perro Morrado. A Mexican joint? One complete with a Day of the Dead theme.
So un-Chastity like, I decide, as a girl dressed for Halloween opens the door. Her dark hair is pulled from her face and pinned in a retro style victory roll, adorned with red flowers, and her face painted in a white skull effect. Complete with cobwebs dotted with tiny jewels. This place is very, very un-Chastity like.
I’m led through the bar adorned with South American mosaic tiles and rough-hewn wood, passing a row of brightly coloured woven hammocks to a table at the back. Purple lights hang above, casting my jeans in an eerie glow. I’m early, but that’s me. And I am nervous
despite the line I’d sold Chas earlier. Of course, I like Keir, and I want him to like me. But I’m under no illusions. We’re not looking at long term or to a future that doesn’t include clothes discarded to the floor. And that’s fine. I’m all about the now, and truthfully? I’ve never had sex as I’d had with him. The bone melting, ovary exploding kind. But I still feel like I need confirmation that the sex was as good as I remember. I sure hope so.
And if it does turn out to be as awesome as I recall, I’m might be at risk of developing a little obsession. Except, unlike coke or booze, this kind of addiction takes two for full effect. And there lies the end of that potential problem. It takes two to tango, as my grandma used to say, and something tells me Keir won’t be interested in filling up my dance card for too long.
I take my seat on the dark velvet bench, which gives me a view of at least part of the space. I order a drink as the waiter arrives—it seems rude not to—but decide I shouldn’t listen to that little voice that suggests something potent to soothe my rattled nerves.
‘I’d like a frozen margarita, please,’ I tell the waiter as he appears. Much like the female host, his face is also painted a ghostly white, though only above his strongman mustache and a pointed beard. Matching skull motif suspenders and bow tie accompany his white shirt. Even his order pad has a smiling skull motif.
I expect a touch of barely concealed disdain at my choice of beverage—this place is in the heart of Chelsea, and I’ve just ordered the alcoholic equivalent of a blue raspberry Slurpee. May as well ask them to stick it in a big old thirty-two-ounce plastic cup. It’s not like I don’t feel “other” enough, sitting alone in a bar the affluent usually frequent. The high-born and high-cheekboned, by the looks of things.
My gigantic cocktail arrives on a silver tray as the girls at the table next to me receive glasses of something much more grown-up. I should’ve ordered a champagne cocktail or something equally as fancy. Nevertheless, I take the plastic straw between my lips for a quick sip to find the drink packs a decent punch. Not that this stops me from lowering my head to the straw again.
‘You look like you’re enjoying that.’ I look up to Keir standing on the other side of the table, his mouth tilted in a half smile. Dark jeans and a white button-down that clings to his muscled chest, a sports jacket, and black boots. Unlike the times before, a sandy rasp of stubble covers his cheeks. He looks good enough to eat.
