The Stand In

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Hmm.’ That vibration? It does nothing for my blood flow but sends my mind to another place. Smutty places. ‘I think that would be lovely.’

  ‘Vodka?’ With a jiggle of my leg, I work her a little way closer to my knee. ‘Or how about an organic, micro brewed beer?’ I cock a brow as I repeat some variation of the conversation going on at the other end of the couch.

  Heather laughs, that velvety bedroom sound. ‘I think I’ll stick with vodka, if that’s okay with you.’

  ‘Has anyone ever told you your laugh is dirtier than the office microwave?’ She laughs harder, this time throwing back her head. ‘I’m serious. If you ever need a side gig you could kill it on a telephone sex line.’

  ‘Do they even have those anymore?’

  ‘I don’t know. You could revive the industry alone.’

  ‘You are a terrible tease,’ she murmurs, her gaze dipping from my face for a beat. And rising just as quick. ‘What?’ Her features freeze, presumably as she catches herself from asking what she was about to ask. It also looks like her finger was about to point out my hard-on. ‘And I’m the one with the dirty laugh.’ She swats at my chest ineffectually when I catch her hand, bringing it to my lips.

  ‘A dirty laugh and a dirty tease.’

  ‘An inadvertent tease,’ she corrects full of faux indignation, which doesn’t help the blush she’s already wearing. ‘Wait,’ she says, drawing closer, her already quiet voice turning to a whisper. ‘You’re really going to the bar like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Archer, stop. You look like you’ve got a bolster pillow stuffed in your pants.’

  At this, it’s my turn to throw my head back and laugh.

  ‘Stop it. You’re making people look, and you can’t climb over this lot—you might poke an eye out!’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? It pays to advertise.’

  For the sake of my modesty, we settle on going together, Heather first, my arms wrapped around her and my body glued to hers. It does nothing for the situation, but I’m not complaining, and I can only laugh as she addresses Haydn once we reach his end of the couch.

  ‘I’m so glad I came, Archer. I’m having so much fun.’ Her smile drops as she turns to Haydn. ‘Even if you’re here.’

  Haydn’s gaze narrows, though he doesn’t speak.

  ‘Babe, remember he’s your boss.’ I chuckle, sliding my arm around her shoulders when she surprises me, taking it one step farther by snuggling in.

  ‘Not right now, he isn’t,’ she says sweetly.

  I pull back a little to better see her face. ‘I suppose you’re right. You’re not at work now.’

  ‘Besides,’ she murmurs, walking her fingertips provocatively up my chest, ‘out of hours, that position is filled by you.’ As an encore, she taps her index finger against my bottom lip. ‘How did I get so lucky?’ She sighs, her head turning to glower at Haydn. ‘Out of hours at least.’

  I realise now that she’s tipsy. It was bound to happen.

  Nerves + alcohol + picking at her food.

  I’d been there myself plenty of times at these kinds of occasions, and woken up once or twice with someone I shouldn’t have. But this isn’t me, this is Heather. And who she’d be waking up with would be me. I can’t say the thought is rejected outright from my brain—I’m a man, after all. And while at the start of the day there’d be a certain kind of satisfaction in getting one over her, or into her, right now I’m not interested in playing that game. Because it stops being blackmail when you want to do it.

  Doesn’t it?

  14

  Heather

  Archer and I part ways at the bar, and I head to the ladies’ room. I’d been having so much fun I didn’t realise I needed to pee quite so desperately. How he’d managed to completely distract me from being amongst those familiar yet unfriendly faces for so long, I don’t know. I didn’t once feel the pull of bolting, figuratively heading for the hills, and I didn’t once reach for my phone to bury my attention in because Archer kept me grounded.

  I realise as I wash my hands that though I’d been determined to be here today, I’d been dreading the experience, anticipating it would somehow be like going back to school in that horribly familiar yet haunting way. Stepping back in time to when the cool kids, who in retrospect were also the mean kids, were up ahead in the hallway, and my stomach would tighten in anticipation of being jostled. Possibly heckled. Definitely made fun of because I just didn’t fit in. School uniforms might’ve been swapped for funky dresses and narrow fitting suits; braces may now be teeth that look like piano keys, pimpled skin luminous, heavy brows sleek.

  While I’m no longer Heather Weirdington, and have made the same kinds of changes as my peers, I still feel like I don’t fit in. It’s at times like these that I miss my pink hair, tutus, and Doc Marten boots. At least then the difference was my doing.

  But with Archer, my worries were unfounded. He’d stayed by my side all day. Made me laugh. Almost made me cry. He pulled me out of myself. At one point, I’d caught myself thinking what an awesome boyfriend he’d be, but then I remembered. Despite his quip, he’s not boyfriend material. He said so himself.

  He’s one-night stand material.

  His specialty cloth is casual sex.

  And he must be a really durable kind, judging by what I was sitting on.

  Yep, I noticed way before he started to jostle me off his knee. I just didn’t know how to address it.

  Hello, Mr Penis, seemed a bit forward.

  I giggle as I wash my hands, wondering if I should lay off the vodka. But the fact of the matter is, sitting there, on his knee, knowing I was responsible for his hard-on? Well, I felt giddy. And a lot turned on. And, yes, I did keep shimmying backwards on purpose as between my legs pulsed and my stomach twisted, and my thoughts disintegrated bit by bit.

  What’s wrong with me today? I silently ask as I stare at my flushed complexion in the kind of rococo-style mirror that girls in fairy tales always seem to find themselves a-wishing and a-hoping.

  If I had one wish tonight, a magic mirror wish, what would it be?

  I run my fingers through the wayward strands of my hair, smoothing it into some semblance of tidy. I swipe my fingers under my eyelids to straighten a slight eyeliner smudge, then examine my teeth for any stowaway grains of wild rice or crumbs of pistachio as I contemplate how, as usual, the vegetarian options were boring. And Archer ate it without complaint. And then, because there are no more distractions, and no one else in the ladies’ room, I address my reflection.

  ‘If I had one wish tonight, it would be to sleep with Archer Powell.’

  There. I can admit it to myself, even if it sounds ridiculous spoken aloud. And then I laugh because I am never going to be the kind of girl who can be casual about sex, despite wondering earlier what it would be like to sit on it, I mean, sit on Archer properly. To seat myself there without a care. To take what my head wants and what my body needs from him.

  But I guess I’ll just have to make do with my dreams.

  Back at the bar, Archer doesn’t appear to have been served yet. I stand on the threshold of the room, almost in the same spot where he kissed me. I don’t stop here just because going back the E11even crowd is like choosing crucifixion over freedom, but because I find I want to watch him.

  One foot propped on the bottom rail, his forearm casually rests against the wood. Broad shoulders, taut thighs, and a bum just crying out for touch.

  If I was another kind of girl.

  I take no more than one faltering step when I halt in my tracks as a woman, probably another guest, sidles up to him—yes, sidles! I don’t think I’ve ever seen such stealth moves before. Something about the familiar scene is uncomfortable, forcing me to take a step back to watch from the doorway. Chestnut hair to her shoulders, she mirrors his stance, and even from here, I can tell the move is to enhance her cleavage, as she flashes Archer a smile. She doesn’t even look for the barman. She’s wearing cream—who wears crea
m to a wedding?—but there’s not a lot of it, the item more belt than dress, a little bit peasant in styling and really pretty.

  Just like she is.

  My veins suddenly feel filled with ice water and though my feet want to flee, my head tells me this is something I need to see. Proof, if you like, that he’s not really interested in me. At best, that he’s just interested in women, and as a card-carrying vagina, I’m game. They’re not touching. Just chatting. It could be about anything, couldn’t it? Even though their conversation seems very specific, as she hips checks him playfully. He smiles back at her, but that’s it. No more reaction. No playful touches or flirting, as far as I can tell. He’s just being nice, I tell myself. That’s all.

  The barman sets a drink in front of him, and Archer taking a sip. He places the glass down only for her to pick it up, placing her lips over where his had been. Ohmygod, she’s really hitting on him! No doubt about it as she wraps her hand around his shoulder, whispering something in his ear. Then Archer’s breaking the contact, shaking his head, grasping a new glass before he turns and takes a few steps. His expression eases as he spots me, and he changes course. My stomach, a mess of tangled knots and nerves, goes weightless in an instant in response to his reassuring smile. A smile that’s just for me.

  ‘What are you doing in the hallway?’

  Watching you, I don’t say as I second-guess myself, trying to decide if he looks guilty. If he looks like he’s about to make his excuses and leave for another secret rendezvous, the kind that is his specialty.

  ‘That woman at the bar. She came onto you.’ Vodka leaves no room for subtlety, it seems.

  ‘She did.’ His expression doesn’t change. No reaction to my statement at all, beyond his confirmation.

  ‘How?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ His eyes narrow a fraction, not sure what I could mean.

  ‘Like, how? How does that happen?’

  ‘You mean, you haven’t noticed how irresistible I am?’

  ‘No. How do you know? How do you come hit on someone without it all going wrong?’

  ‘You know how it goes, Heather. You must’ve been hit on a hundred times.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Would I know? Would I realise? Yeah, I suppose there have been a few times, occasions that I’ve assumed were drunken declarations. Unwanted advances, men I’ve shot down without thought. But how does it happen the other way?

  ‘You said no even though you’ll be sleeping on the floor tonight.’

  ‘We both know that’s not happening.’ He smiles one of the hundred smiles he has in his arsenal, this one provocative and playful as he passes me the single glass. ‘I can be trusted. And I’m not sleeping on a carpet hundreds of pairs of feet have shuffled across.’

  ‘You have something against feet?’ His next smile is one that says I’m being ridiculous.

  ‘You and I? We’re bed mates tonight. You’d best get used to it.’

  I take a sip of my drink, my heart and stomach seeming to jostle for space as his hand reaches out, taking a lock of my hair and rubbing it between his fingertips. ‘Is your hair naturally curly?’

  ‘No, it just doesn’t like the humidity.’

  ‘You know, when someone hits on me, I don’t always take them up on it.’

  ‘How do you know you’re being hit on—I mean, outside looking in? It looked pretty obvious. But it’s not always that simple in my head. How would you come on to me?’

  ‘Are you asking me to show you my best moves?’ His eyes turn smoky, dropping to my lips, and he swipes his thumb against my red cheek. ‘You’re a forward little thing when you’re drinking vodka.’

  ‘I’m really not, though it seems to me you must be used to forward women.’ I swallow again, not sure what comes next. ‘Daisy, my friend, likes to say that alcohol isn’t the solution, but it certainly helps me relax. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help me read the signs. And watching you at the bar, it occurred to me for the first time that I’ve taken advantage of you.’

  ‘That’s usually my line.’

  ‘What?’ My brow furrows.

  ‘I said there’s still time.’ That smoky look is now almost wolfish.

  ‘Sure. That sounds reasonable.’ I find myself wrapping my arm around my waist, wishing for that cardigan again.

  ‘I can’t help being irresistible to single women within a mile radius.’ His eyes narrow almost infinitesimally. ‘Well, most of them.’

  ‘Always so modest, Archer Powell.’

  ‘Always with the chastisement, Heather Whittington. You know,’ he murmurs, sliding his hand from my shoulder down, my skin prickling with awareness of his proximity. ‘If you’re jealous, you could just say.’

  Is that what I am? Is that what this twist in my stomach is all about?

  ‘Why would I be jealous?’ Because I hang around the edges of life and above it at the same time. Never really a part of it. It’s a place I’m tired of hanging out, all alone.

  ‘Forget it. It was a stupid thing to say.’ As he straightens, it’s almost as though something between us is severed. And I don’t want that. I’m not ready for this to end tonight.

  ‘No.’ I reach out, laying my hand over his arm. ‘What if I wanted to take you to bed tonight? Like she did?’ Despite the drink, my lips are parched, my tongue darting out to wet them.

  ‘Hang on, what?’

  Is it silly to say I think he was concentrating more on my actions than my words? I swallow thickly, refusing to go down that familiar path of overthinking. No longer a-wishing and a-hoping, but making it so.

  ‘Heather, ask me that question again.’

  ‘How do I ask you to spend the night with me?’

  ‘You just take my hand.’

  15

  Heather

  Archer holds my hand as we leave the bar and is still holding it when we reach the top of the grand staircase. Under the judgmental glare of the mounted stags head, I try to pull my hand away to ostensibly brush the hair from my face, but his fingers clasped to mine, and he pulls me to a stop instead.

  ‘Here. Let me help.’ I can’t raise my eyes to his; instead, I stare at the hollow of his throat, and the way his jacket sleeve bunches around his bicep as he slides his fingers through my hair. My whole body quivers, my reaction to his touch like that of a cat.

  At the door, I fumble with the old-fashioned key, missing the lock twice as Archer’s arms brush my waist, setting off a tiny series of fireworks as they wrap around my middle.

  ‘Here, let me,’ he whispers, taking the key from my suddenly sausage fingers— they’re about as much use as far as keys and locks are concerned—the key immediately connecting with the lock.

  ‘Of course, you would get it in first time.’

  ‘Is that my cue?’ His breath is hot in my ear, the sensation repeating between my legs. I close my eyes, leaning back against the solid realness of his chest, unable to believe I’m about to do this. I’m nervous but undeterred. Especially as his fingers squeeze mine. It’s a strange kind of comforting.

  ‘Go on, then. I know you’re just dying to tell me how good you are at fitting things in.’

  His lips find the back of my neck as he whispers, ‘Or I could just show you instead.’

  One twist of the key, and the door falls open, and I hasten from the circle of his arms. The curtains are open, and there’s enough light from the moon to allow me to see my way to the bed. Not that I’m desperate to get to that part right now—I’m not about to tear off my clothes and launch myself into it—but I want to switch on the bedside lamp as an alternative to lighting up the whole room. That light would be too glaring. Too much. Too real.

  As Archer’s footfalls sound softly behind me, I’m grateful that he gets that.

  ‘I want this more than anything,’ he whispers, his arms enveloping me again. ‘I want you more than I think you would believe. But it only works if you want this, too.’

  My answer is to turn and press my nose into the triangle of skin where his
top button is undone, taking a deep inhale of the scent; something spicily expensive mixed with the heady yet indefinable scent of Archer Powell. He smells like sunshine. Is that mad? Like someone who bakes in its rays regularly.

  As I exhale, I bring my shaking hands to his shoulders to push his jacket off, wrestling it from his arms, in a not-so-gentle contrast to my sigh. As it falls from his fingers, I throw it on the bed. As I turn back, his lips are on mine in an instant. I’ve been kissed before, but never like this. Long, devastating kisses, the kind that turn my insides to mush, the kind that tug at my soul. Definitely the kind of kisses that steal brain cells. It’s a trade I’m willing to take as his tongue strokes mine, and I find myself moaning into his mouth. As his lips coast my jaw, he holds me tight against him, his fingers digging into my butt cheeks, the solid length of him pressed against me.

  I swear I see stars; I think I forget to breathe.

  ‘You’re so beautiful.’ Is it a line? ‘I want you so badly.’ I can’t argue with the evidence of that, the evidence that has me whimpering into his mouth as his kisses become deeper, wetter, everything all of a sudden heat and wonder. Kisses that feel like velvet and taste like addiction.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ he rasps, the soft play of his lips along my neck making my knees almost give. ‘I think I could spend the full evening and use nothing but my mouth.’

  Oh, God. My body spasms, the thought of just that making me ache with a need I don’t recognise.

  ‘My mouth has watered for the taste of you since you slid your knickers into my hand.’

  ‘You should never bet against me.’ My voice is little more than a rasping sigh as our mouths tumble into another melting kiss.

  ‘Care to lay a bet who’ll be out of their clothes first?’ he drawls suggestively.

  ‘But I’ll need you to get me out of this dress—’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  He begins to turn me in his arms, a flare of panic shooting through me as I resist.