by Donna Alam
‘Then why aren’t you more excited? At least the staging won’t be a lot of work.’ As well as her PA and pimple hider, chief toy washer, and lube holder, I’m also sometimes called to help move furniture, wipe clean mirrors, and throw scatter cushions around. All in the name of setting the sexy stage.
‘I know. But there’s been an uptick in the search engine requests for anal. So that’s on the cards for today.’
‘At least it’s not your butthole that’s being pounded.’
‘Really?’ Chastity says, screwing up her cherub-like face. ‘I haven’t even eaten breakfast yet.’
‘And if you were today’s lucky starlet, you definitely wouldn’t be eating breakfast.’
‘I know. Just inhaling more laxatives than a retirement village.’
Chapter 18
KEIR
‘How come you’re free this morning?’ Will peers at me over his newspaper cup. ‘Aren’t you usually dashing around ballet recitals, playgrounds, and Brownie meets?’
‘I’m not free. I’ve already been into the office this morning.’
Sorcha is with her grandparents. They suggested they take her to ballet today, freeing up my day for more work. And that’s partly why I’m here with him. Since Will’s dad passed and he gained the houses, lands, and title of Lord Travers, among others, I’ve been helping him with his property issues. Travers Hall is now under the guardianship of The National Trust, and no longer a rotting albatross of a carcass hanging around his neck. Which leaves the castle in Scotland. It’s a dreary old place, but it’s undergoing a wee bit of a transformation. Bookings are beginning to trickle in for corporate weekends, and I’m pretty sure I’ve found Will the right team to branch out into functions.
Who doesn’t want to get married in an ancient castle? Well, apart from me.
‘Saturday morning in the office,’ Will crows, flattening his broadsheet newspaper and leaning his long frame back in the oxblood leather club chair. ‘I bet Flynn just loved that,’ he says, mentioning my assistant. Will has met him a few times in our recent dealings and witnessed our odd working relationship. The shit he gives me, and the shit I dish back.
‘I believe Flynn’s sentiments were somewhat along the lines of fuck off and fuck no. But he made it in on time anyway.’ Carrying coffee, no less.
‘Of course, he did. He’s Pippa to your Tony Stark.’
‘Except we’re not fucking.’ In his typically crude and laconic way, Flynn slides himself into the spare seat around our small table.
‘The pair of you do act like you’re married,’ Will mocks. Reaching for his coffee cup, he gestures to the waitress for another round.
‘Aye, especially when you’re buying yourself things on my credit card,’ I grumble.
‘The company credit card,’ Flynn corrects. ‘And one of us needs to treat me nice. You know, especially when you’re dragging me out of the warm arms of a woman,’ he says, making a gesture that speaks of large breasts, not warm arms. ‘And just to come hold your . . . notebook.’
In answer, I just laugh as I turn to Will. ‘That’s his way of telling us he scored last night. He’s still thinks he’s Jack the Lad.’ In a mock whisper, I add, ‘We’re supposed to pretend to be impressed.’
‘Ignore him,’ Will says, slapping the arm of Flynn’s chair. ‘Keir’s just jealous on account of his life being one long dry spell.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, mate,’ begins Flynn. ‘He’s getting plenty of action with his girl Friday.’
Friday evening are almost sacred these days, my me time now our time—a time I don’t want to share or discuss with anyone else.
‘Isn’t there a nondisclosure clause in your contract?’ Despite the mildness of my tone, my whole body is suddenly taut, my gaze seeking to convey the things I don’t want to voice aloud. Not that it matters. Flynn is too fucking busy eyeing up the waitress filling our coffee cups.
‘Girl Friday?’ Will’s head turns to me and I just know he’s about to fire shit my way. ‘You’re a dark horse.’
‘And you’re a nosy arsehole, but sadly, there’s fuck all I can do about that.’
‘So who is she?’ His attentions turn to Flynn, who holds up his hands.
‘Don’t ask me, mate. I just book the hotels.’
‘Ah, hotel sex,’ Will says on a reminiscent sigh. ‘Do you know what the fastest car in the world is, Flynn?’
‘Nah. I’m not much of a rev-head myself,’ he says, pushing the thick black frame of his glasses farther up his nose. I think he wears them for effect, not sight issues. Nothing would surprise me. He probably read in some men’s magazine that chicks dig specs.
‘Guess,’ Will encourages.
‘Bugatti?’ he offers with a careless shrug.
‘Nope, a rental.’ I keep my mouth shut because I’ve an idea where this is going.
‘A rental?’ Flynn repeats with more than a note of disbelief. ‘Even a compact?’
Will nods. ‘Because it’s not yours, so it doesn’t matter how careless you are—how hard you ride the arse off it on the highway. Same as hotel sex. That arse doesn’t belong to you for long, so you can ride it any way you like without fear of consequences.’
‘You’re a nasty, nasty man, Lord Travers.’
‘Says the man having sordid rendezvous. In hotels, no less. Without confiding in his friends. Besides,’ he adds, folding his arms, ‘I’m a reformed man these days.’
‘I’m sure Sadie will be overjoyed to hear.’
‘My love knows me as a paragon of virtue. And she knows every saint has a past. And lucky for you, every sinner has a future.’
‘Why d’you have to be such a bawheid?’
‘Me?’ Will asks, pointing his index finger at his own chest. ‘I’m the bawheid? I’m only pleased you’re not gonna be a claw baws all your life!’ I secretly love it when I can get The Right Honourable Will, aka Lord Travers, to drop into the Scots vernacular. Love it.
‘Fuck it,’ complains Flynn. ‘I hate it when you start talking in that foreign fucking language.’
‘Says the immigrant,’ I retort.
‘Lemme get this straight,’ he says, waving me off. ‘You just called him’—he points at Will—‘a bawheid. That’s like saying he’s got testicles for brains? Like he’s stupid?’
‘Aye.’
‘And he called you claw baws. Which is like saying you’re always touching yourself.’
‘That’s enough,’ I grumble. ‘Keep your translations to yourself.’
Will then sends me an arrogant smirk, one that neither befits his rank or station, but definitely his personality. He’s not done with his interrogation, or so he thinks. But me? My thoughts are on another plane as something catches my eye on the other side of the room.
A cherubic blonde. Petite, pink cheeked, and pale hair that curls around her ears. She looks a little agitated, a little uneasy, but more than that, the dark-haired girl with her back to me seems to be very annoyed.
Maybe it’s her annoyance that throws me off because it takes me a while to realise the girl with her back to me is Paisley. It’s not even as if I recognise her first. It’s her arse I recognise. Excuse me for going all Neanderthal for a minute, but fuck, that arse. You could stick a frame around it and hang it in the Louvre. On second thoughts, I don’t fancy the world and his wife staring at her derrière, even if it doesn’t belong to me.
It. Doesn’t. Belong. To. Me.
It’s a loaner, so to speak.
I’m considering getting my mind out of the crazy gutter when a man arrives at the table. A big fucker—maybe as tall as me but slim built. Dark slicked back hair, he looks like Clark Kent’s skinnier cousin and has clearly read the same magazine as Flynn, given the style of his eyewear. My stomach curls like my fists—like my hand around the coffee cup—as the blonde stands, kisses the big fucker’s cheek, then hightails it out of the place.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect. She’s on a date. She doesn’t look like she’s on a
date—that’s not to say she doesn’t look gorgeous. She just doesn’t currently look like she does when she meets me. She looks like someone’s hot PA.
A date. Why did I not see that coming? And more to the point, why the fuck does it hurt? We’ve made no promises, and she’s a stunningly attractive woman, so why would she be holding out for Fridays with me?
‘Oi? Are you paying attention?’ Flynn asks, tapping a Mont Blanc on the small table between us. My Mont Blanc.
‘I was thinking.’ I scowl in his direction, though not because he’s “appropriated” my pen. ‘Stop dickin’ about.’
‘I’d wondered what that burning smell was,’ interjects Will. ‘Who pissed on your lollipop all of a sudden?’
‘I’ve just got shit to do. That’s all.’
‘Oh, right. And I haven’t got the tax man breathing down my neck, demanding my firstborn.’
‘Aye, so. Come on. Let’s move this thing along.’ And so we do, though I keep an eye on Paisley and the prat. And I manage. Mostly. At least until she’s drank half of her wine, when I decide to send her an unfair text.
What’s on the cards for trouble today, Trouble?
I watch as she turns over her phone, reads the text with a worried expression, then places it back down again.
I did not see that coming. I turn my attention away from the pair, feeling like I’ve been poked in the chest with one of Agnes’s knitting needles. I can’t look at her. I feel . . . angry. Betrayed. Hurt. Dismissed. Pissed off. Territorial and irrational. I feel like I could tear off some fucker’s head!
Then, through the red haze, the phone in my hand chimes.
No ballet classes and ice cream afternoons for this girl. I’ve stopped by to help Chastity. With work.
How? How is that work? Unless—maybe she’s taking a meeting for her pal. Though his skinny arse can’t be on the top of many women’s fantasies. Unless he’s like a tripod.
I look up again; he’s touching her arm. I am not overly enthused by her interview technique.
‘Ya, fuckin’ bastard,’ I growl, beginning to type on my phone again.
‘What?’ asks Flynn.
‘Nothin’. Just the sports results.’ They return to their meeting, ignoring me and my sudden sour mood.
You’re working on a Saturday? I type. ‘Better not be under him.’
People have been known to have sex on a Saturday. Some might suggest they do their best work on the weekends.
Is she talking about her or about him? My mind begins to reel as my thumbs go into overdrive.
Is that so? I thought Friday nights were perfect. Certainly enough to see you through, given the way you looked when you left the hotel this morning. ‘This fuckin’ morning,’ I grumble, my thumbs striking my phone.
I’m not having sex today, comes her reply. Just pointing out the industry I work in.
The bastard gets up from his chair as I hit send on another text. And another. And another. Okay, I bombard her with fucking series of them.
You’re sure you’re working?
You’re not, say, sat in a hotel bar?
Drinking wine
Talking to some nerd
In a pink sweater
A nerd who wouldn’t know the first fucking thing to do with you
It’s not what it looks like, she responds.
Look at me, I demand. Turn around and look at me.
And she does turn, though slowly. Her expression? I can’t make it out.
Your date is on his way back to the table, and the man who’s fucking you wants to know what the hell is going on
Please understand, this isn’t what it looks like, comes her reply. Give me five minutes.
Within four, she’s gathering her large purse, her cardigan, and her phone, all without looking at me. She straightens and turns, walking into the reception of the hotel, not the door that leads out into the street.
‘I’ve got shite to do,’ I say, pushing my chair back. If either of my companions have questions, they aren’t asking them.
As I walk toward her, her stiff posture and my mood pulling all kind of reactions from me. Still, I can’t help but stare at her arse, my mind filled with inappropriate filth. And it’s beautiful. My thoughts. Her arse. All of it. I want to bite it. Spank it. Spread the cheeks apart and slam myself home.
She reaches the bottom of the grand staircase, and without turning to see if I’m following, she begins climbing the stairs. I come up behind her at the same sedate pace, my feet placed where her feet have been, my hands trailing up the banister.
From several steps behind her, I watch how her tight pencil skirt hugs her in all the right places. Over the twin rounds of her arse and her hips, it slides over her firm thighs, opening in a small split at the back of her knee. The high heels of her shoes tauten the muscles of her calves, and with each step she takes, I get the flash of a red sole.
I’m gonna make her keep her shoes on next time. My dick inside her, I’ll prop her foot against my shoulder and my teeth against her ankle. Because there will be a next time. I need to lock this shit down.
At the top of the staircase, she turns, but this time, she can’t resist looking back. Her countenance is flushed. She looks excited. And then over her shoulder, she smiles.
Game fucking on.
Chapter 19
PAISLEY
What’s on the cards for trouble today, Trouble? It’s past four o’clock, and I’m at the hotel when my phone dings with Keir’s text.
No ballet classes and ice cream afternoons for this girl, I type out, referencing his plans for the day. I’ve stopped by to help Chastity. With work.
It’s definitely a statement that wouldn’t stand up in court. I may have shown up at the hotel under the impression Chastity needed my help, but the reality turned out to be something else.
‘Have you lived in the UK for very long?’ Troy asks. Yes, that Troy. In the flesh. Not in the movie or even Iliad Troy, but the one Chas mentioned just this morning. Just this morning. The sly beast. She didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed about railroading me into meeting him. Just introduced us at the bar before turning tail and getting the hell out of the place.
And I have a lot to say about that. But in the meantime, it looks like I’m having a drink. With Troy. While talking to Keir via text.
‘I’ve lived over here for more than two years.’
‘You’re from Upstate New York Chastity said?’
I nod and take a sip of my wine. It’s cold but kind of vinegary. Or maybe that’s just my mood. It’s not Troy’s fault—and he seems like a decent guy. But he’s not my guy. Not that I’m suggesting Keir is mine, but I can only concentrate on one man at a time. Hard enough trying to talk and text two men.
You’re working on a Saturday?
People have been known to have sex on a Saturday, I type back, giving Troy an apologetic smile. No doubt he thinks I’m talking to Chas. Under normal circumstances, I might be. But it’s hard to convey anger via text satisfactorily. Some might suggest they do their best work on the weekends.
Really? comes his immediate response. I thought Friday nights were perfect. Certainly enough to see you through, given the way you looked when you left the hotel this morning.
I bite back a smile. I thought he was sleeping. He wasn’t, and he still let you go. A niggling voice echoes inside my head even as much lower pulses with remembrance of the evening. I looked well and truly fucked. Because I had been—right into the early hours. But at least I’d taken clean clothes. I’ve learned since our first Friday together. I might leave looking well rode, but I’m also usually well dressed. Matching shoes and everything.
I’m not having sex today, just pointing out the industry I work in.
Troy engages me once more in conversation, asking polite questions which I try to concentrate on. But as my phone burns a hole in my skirt with its incessant buzzing, I’m finding it hard. Keir really is going to town with his texts.
When
Troy excuses himself to visit the bathroom, I quickly unlock my phone. My heart sinks.
You’re sure you’re working?
You’re not, say, sat at a hotel bar?
Talking to some nerd
In a sweater
A nerd who wouldn’t know the first fucking thing to do with you
My heart beats like hooves pounding in my chest, my shoulders rolling inward as though their shadow could deny the evidence of his words. I almost don’t want to look behind me for fear of what I’ll find. But I know I don’t have much time before Troy comes back. He doesn’t deserve this. Neither does Keir. Neither do I!
Chastity. What the hell have you done?
It’s not what it looks like, I text without turning.
Look at me, comes his response. Turn around and look at me.
I turn slowly in my seat. He’s easy to spot, sitting ramrod straight, his expression so fucked off, his eyes burning bright. And not in a good way.
My phone dings again.
Your date is on his way back to the table, and the man who’s fucking you wants to know what the hell is going on
Please understand, this isn’t what it looks like, I type back. Give me five minutes.
I don’t look at my phone as it chimes again.
‘Troy, I’m so sorry. I’ve got to go. I-I’ve just had a text from Chastity. She has’—a death wish—‘some kind of emergency.’
‘How awful.’ As I stand and gather my jacket and bag, Troy also stands. ‘Let me walk you to—’
‘No!’ In a much saner tone, I add, ‘There really is no need. Thank you for the wine. I-I’ll be in touch.’ Sometime never.
I don’t shake his hand or do the European two-cheeked kissing thing that Londoners are so fond of. In fact, I’m pretty sure I must look like the hounds of hell are chasing me as I hightail it out of the bar and into the hotel reception.
Keir follows. I don’t know how I know, but I do. Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking at this point.
The Bawdy House isn’t a large venue. More a boutique kind of hotel. There’s no marble reception or high-powered elevator, but rather the space looks like it could have been lifted from a BBC period drama. A grand sweeping staircase dominates the reception, the walls lined walled with oil paintings ranging from portraits of severe faced matrons to those a touch more erotic. I pause as the toe of my shoe touches the worn Oriental carpet at the base of the staircase, realising I still have the keys to the rooms Chastity booked.
