by Dylan Allen
I am startled by his abrupt question, but I answer, “Cara.” He looks at Simon and shakes his head before looking back at me. “She isn’t here.” Before I can even ask how he knows, he shuts the door in our faces.
Simon and I turn to face each other. I am confused, frustrated, and now legitimately worried about Cara. Simon grabs my arm again and forces me to walk back up the road. I dig my heels in, but I am no match for him. My resistance means he is practically dragging me.
“Wait, we can’t just leave, Simon. I don’t know where Cara is!” I hiss at him.
“She’s not in there, love.” He doesn’t sound the least bit concerned.
“How the hell do you know?”
“Garrett said so, if she was, believe me he would know. He knows everyone who comes inside. Maybe she changed her mind.”
“What if she’s hurt or something?” I screech. I don’t care I’m yelling at the one person trying to help, I’m worried about my friend.
Back at the station now, we stop walking.
“Listen, where do you live?” he asks.
“Why?”
Nothing about this handsome wannabe savior screams danger, but you can never be too sure. He grins, and I am glad he is still grasping my arms because I might have fallen over otherwise. His teeth are perfect, and his smile reaches his eyes and it is devastating.
“Well, I live around the corner. I have a car; I could pop you home” He offers with a cock of his head in the direction of what I assume is his house.
“I’m not going home. I am going to Cara’s house to see what the hell happened.” Even if I wasn’t going to her house, I am not going off into the night with a stranger. I don’t care how beautiful his eyes are, or that his grin is the sexiest one I’ve ever seen.
Just then, his phone dings.
“Ah.” He snaps his fingers. “Saved by the bell.” He gives me a quick smile before he continues. “Louis just sent Cara’s number. Why don’t you call her?”
As he passes me the phone, our hands brush and good Lord, I feel like I’ve just touched a balloon after it’s had a good, hard rub on the carpet. He must feel it too because he suddenly goes still. His arm stops mid-extension and my gaze rests on our hands. All I can think is that as large as his are and as small as mine look next to them, somehow, they look like a pair.
“Addie?” His amused voice interrupts my musings.
“Yes?” I blink up at him, momentarily confused.
“Cara’s number, it’s in the text message.” Simon says not bothering to conceal his laughter and places the phone in my outstretched palm.
“I know that.” I snap. I press her number and it starts to ring. She picks up on the third ring.
“Hello.” She is clearly asleep.
“Cara! What the fuck? I am out here waiting for you.”
“Out where? Didn’t you get my text, Addie? I texted you five minutes after we talked to say the DJ had cancelled and we shouldn’t bother because without him it would be a rubbish night.”
“No! I did not get your text. I’ve been waiting for you for over an hour Cara. And if it wasn’t for Simon I would have probably called the police by now and filed a missing person’s report!” I shout into the phone.
“You can’t do that unless someone’s actually missing, Addie. Who is being dramatic now?” I hear a rustling sound like she is sitting up in bed. “I am sorry… Wait, did you say Simon?”
“Yes, I did. But I am not talking to you now. I am going home.”
“Addie, wait, did you say Simon? Holy shit, girl, it sounds like I made your night. Tell me!” She is cackles into the phone.
“Fuck off!” I hang up and hand Simon his phone.
He is watching me with something akin to wonder on his face. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. I take it Cara’s fine?”
“Yes, she is great, in bed, actually. Where I should be.”
Without missing a beat Simon unlocks his phone. “Where do you live? I can take you home.” When I don’t respond right away, he sighs and adds, “Or, I can call you cab.”
Without any hesitation this time, I rattle off my address. He slides his big thumb across the screen and all I can think is how they would feel swiping across my nipples. And then my nipples, as if they are wondering too, are throbbing and hard. And of course, tonight the barely there bra I am wearing underneath my clinging top will do nothing to hide this from him.
What the hell is wrong with me? This is the last thing I need.
He puts his phone back in his pocket. “They say it will be about ten minutes. Want some company while you wait?”
He says this with an easy smile I find disconcerting. I’m not sure I want to spend another minute with him. I also don’t want to wait on this corner by myself. Common sense wins the battle. “Thank you. Yes, that would be great.”
He pulls his phone out to send a text. While his head is bent, I finally get a chance to really take him in. He is big. He’s about 6’4 and while he is trim, his body looks powerful. His long legs are clad in jeans that make me wonder how strong his legs must be. His waist is narrow and his stomach is completely flat. His chest and shoulders are wide and his arms are long and stretch the seams of his sleeves as he reaches around to put his phone back in his back pocket.
“Addie.” He says my name almost like he’s asking a question. And I love the way he savors the “d” when she speaks. “You’re American?” He asks. A wicked grin spreads across his face as he takes in my blatant perusal of his body.
I blush, but decide to ignore his amusement and answer the question. “Well, I was born there. My father’s parents were Syrian, but he was born in the United States. My mother was born and raised in Ghana and moved to The States to go to law school.”
He doesn’t say anything, but bursts out laughing. I am bewildered.
When he sees the confusion in my face, he says, “My father is from Ghana and my mother is from England.”
“No way!” I exclaim and I laugh, too. What are the chances?
“Do your parents live in the States?” he asks, still laughing.
“No, well, my father is dead. My mother lives in Maryland.” The lie rolls off my tongue with practiced ease. My voice is flat and my good humor completely extinguished.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked so flippantly.”
“No, it’s okay. You couldn’t have known. It has been a long time. I don’t even miss him anymore.”
His gaze turns quizzical at that.
Then he looks at me with serious eyes and says, “Well, I never knew my father and my mother is in jail.”
And now I feel like a jackass because he has just told me his family’s story because he thinks I’ve told him mine.
“I’m sorry, Simon.” I reach out and put my hand on his arm.
As soon as I do that, the air around us sparks. I feel a tingle start in my fingertips and move up my arm, down my torso, and straight to the center of me.
He still doesn’t speak, but his gaze is no longer calm, it is turbulent and piercing. My face starts to heat. I remove my hand from his arm and reach up to tuck a nonexistent stray hair back into my ponytail. His eyes follow the movement of my hand. He shakes his head, as if to clear it, but takes a step closer to me, and starts to talk again.
“Well, I finished my Master’s in Manchester 5 years ago, and I work for a firm in Canary Wharf. And I live here, in Ladbroke Grove.” I smile up at him and start to respond when the air is punctuated by a loud trilling sound. He stops and reaches into his back pocket to snag his phone. His “hello” is almost musical and I have to stop myself from taking a step in his direction. He looks at me again, his eyes glittering and so fucking beautiful.
And that tingle from earlier becomes a thrum.
He steps even closer. “Your taxi’s around the corner.”
Disappointment, unexpected and acute, lances through me at the thought that our time together is over.
He reaches into the front pocket of his pants and pulls out a small pen and snatches the receipt off the takeaway bag. He puts his foot up on the edge of the short wall that runs along the outside of the station and uses his knee as a desk. He scribbles something on the paper and hands it to me.
I take it from him and try to avoid touching his hands—my body is like a live wire at this point. I fail. Our fingers touch so slightly it feels like a whisper, and I am only sure it happened because I feel that charge again.
I glance down at the paper and see he has written his name and number on it.
I look up at him unable to hide my smile. Before I can say anything, he says, “Call me if you need a tour guide… or a friend who won’t leave you stranded.” His hand reaches out and retraces the path my own hand traveled minutes before, up the side and into the nape of my neck. I stop breathing. His fingers barely graze the skin below my ear before they fall away.
I see the headlights of a car and know it’s my taxi. Before I realize what I am doing, I pull up on my toes and place a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for stopping to help me.” As I start to descend, his hand snakes around my waist and he hugs me. He dips his head to my ear and rumbles, “Don’t thank me. Call me”
And my taxi pulls up, he opens the door for me to climb in and greet the driver. I look back up to say a final goodnight, but he is gone.
August 7, 2014
Well, that was unexpected. I turn and rush toward my flat but my mind is stuck on the woman I have just put into a cab. She is beautiful, her body—those tits and that ass—is traffic stopping.
As I’d approached her on my way home from picking up a late take out, her ass was the first thing I noticed. Perfectly overflowing handfuls hugged by dark denim and topping legs told me this girl was a runner. I could hear her mumbling to herself and I felt compelled to stop. She turned so fast she almost fell, but good Lord, when I saw her face, I forgot all about my dinner and my brother waiting for me at home. I couldn’t believe my fucking luck. It was Louis’ friend’s mate from the other day. When we bumped into them that day, I was totally floored by her. She looked like an Egyptian goddess. But we hadn’t had much time and Louis didn’t know her story. I didn’t think I’d see her again.
Tonight though, her lips—plump, perfectly bow shaped and painted with a light nude lip gloss—were parted in surprise. Her eyes, which in the lamp lit street glinted almost gold, were wide set with lashes I was sure I’d discover were fake. Her skin was flawless and the color of my favorite Chai tea latte from Starbucks. She has a little freckle on her left nostril, and I had to stop myself from kissing it when I said bye to her.
I shake my head. I’m a fool. I don’t have the time or the desire to get involved with anyone right now. Why did I give her my number? My life is complicated enough.
As I unlock the door to the flat, my reality comes into sharp relief. The place is a mess. Boxes are piled in the corners, shopping bags overflowing with clothes litter the floor, and my brother is snoring loudly on my couch.
I sigh and go into the kitchen to heat up my food and eat. Just as I close the microwave door, I hear the noise which has now created a Pavlovian response of panic every time I hear it.
I run down the hall to my bedroom. When I open the door, the baby’s crying seems to increase in volume exponentially and for a moment, I just stare at this red faced, squalling baby I was awarded custody of yesterday.
I scoop him up and almost immediately, he stops crying. My brother, Kyle, stumbles into the room, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “What happened?”
I take him in. He and I are often mistaken for twins. Yet, in fact, he is four years younger than I am. He’s been with me since yesterday morning and has been a bedrock of support since my life went to shit the last eight months. He also stayed with the baby all day so I could go to work and put in my paperwork to take a leave of absence and run a few errands.
Eight months ago, our younger sister—who had been missing for five years—showed up at a London hospital, heavily pregnant, stoned, and filthy. They ran her fingerprints and were able to identify her from the very long criminal record she had on file already. They contacted us and it has been a living nightmare since.
She had been arrested while in the hospital and charged with Child Endangerment, solicitation, and fraud. Due to her drug use, social services told us her custodial rights would be terminated at the birth of the child, and that she would be entering a thirty-day detox program before being remanded to prison to await trial. The child would become a ward of the local authority and would be placed into the foster care system.
Kyle and I immediately contacted a lawyer to find out what our rights were. We couldn’t let our sister’s baby be put into the foster care system. It wasn’t easy. We are two single men and we don’t exactly have the best experiences with Social Services ourselves. We hired a good lawyer and made a compelling case for custody, and yesterday, I was awarded guardianship and custody of little Henry Phillips. He has our last name because Ashley, my sister, had no idea who the father is.
He’s been with us since he was released from the hospital. He was born addicted to the drugs my sister has been ingesting while she was pregnant and will probably have some developmental delays because of it.
This came on the heels of my early and unexpected rise in my company. I studied architecture and had gained a position in a small, but genius firm of architects and property investors in Canary Wharf, which has become the new heart of London’s economic growth. Because the firm is small, it is a true meritocracy and my designs had been used as part of a bid of a new performance hall near Royal Albert Hall. Our firm had won the contract and they gave me full credit for the design.
I went from a junior associate to one of the most sought after architects in London. I had just started to feel that my life was finally going to start feeling less like an uphill climb.
And then suddenly, I was reminded of just where I come from, what my legacy is, and that I’d never escape it. I look down at Henry. I won’t let him fall prey to the same fate as me. Giving him the upbringing he deserves is my number one priority right now.
So, I really don’t have time to be lusting after a beautiful American. Especially one with a Cartier watch on her wrist and tiny diamond studs in her ears. Who cares if her lips promise sinfully good blow job and her nipples got hard just from us looking at each other?
I’m a mess, and if I am lucky, she smelled the baby piss on the shirt I hadn’t bothered to change before I ran out to get dinner, and realizes that. If I have any angels on my side at all, she’ll lose my number, and I’ll never see her again.
August 23, 2014
Cara and I are lying on the grass in Greenwich. We’ve taken the day off to come down here with a picnic basket full of wine, cheese, and edible marijuana brownies. Cara’s been bugging me to try these, and I have finally given in and so here we are. It’s an unusually sunny day in London. We’ve seen the famous Cutty Sark and other sites. But mainly we are just here to get high and relax.
The last couple of weeks have been a whirlwind of work, work, and work. I’ve been spending my nights wearing out the batteries on my Handy Dandies—my cache of vibrators—as I fantasize about Simon, his fingers and body and what I imagine they would feel like—I’ve been giving myself the most epic orgasms I’ve ever had. I lost the piece of paper his number was on a week ago, but it’s okay because I took a picture of it as soon as I got home and charged my phone.
Cara has been harassing me to call him, but I can tell this man will be my downfall if I am not careful. He already has me daydreaming about him at work. What would happen if I actually saw him?
Now though, with wine flowing in my veins and edibles relaxing my inhibitions, I am staring at the picture of his number on my phone.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ad, call him. What are you waiting for?” Cara squawks in my ear.
“I’m not waiting on anything, Care. I just don’t know if it�
��s a good idea. I can’t get distracted. I am working so much. I’ve got an assignment I can’t afford to fuck up. I don’t have time for anything more than something casual.”
Cara pops up from the position she’s been in for the last hour, flat on her back, and sits in a Lotus position. She grabs my phone from me and slaps me on the shoulder. “That’s exactly why you should call him, dumb-dumb! You need to get laid, bitch. Your pussy is growing cobwebs. “
I wince from the sting in her slap and glare at her. “Care, he was too hot. I am sure he has a girlfriend or ten. Also, he smelled a little bit like piss that night. He might be homeless or live in a drug den. I mean what was he doing getting dinner at midnight?”
“What do you have to lose, Ad? He doesn’t know your number, he won’t know who it is and you can just hang up. How can you stand not knowing? How can you deny fate?” Each question is asked with a higher pitched tone than the one before until I finally snatch my phone back and start to dial. Just to make her shut up, of course.
My heart is only racing because I’m annoyed at her badgering and my fingers are trembling because of the combination of wine and weed.
The phone rings four times. Just as I start to think he won’t answer, a voice, cheery but slightly harassed, says distractedly, “Hello? Sorry, I dropped the phone.”
And I almost drop the phone. I’m speechless. A woman with a young, chirpy voice has answered Simon’s phone. “Hello, anyone there?” And then I hear a baby crying.
I mumble, “Wrong number,” and hang up.
I open the picture and look at the number and then go back to my call log and double check that I dialed the right one. I did. My stomach drops.
Cara’s been staring at me expectantly. When I put my phone away she pounces. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
“Well, let’s see. His wife or baby mama, or someone answered. And then, I heard a baby crying in the background.” I relay this in a voice that is barely above a whisper. I feel like such a fool.
