Wicked Little Games

by Dee Palmer

  “What’s with the paintings?” I nod toward the new display of equally striking portraits, which now dominate the back wall. They are almost abstract impressions, but the brush strokes are so detailed and evocative, I almost envy the artist having such a stunning muse. They are impressive, beautiful, and I am just a little surprised Buddy has them hanging in the bar.

  “Thought they raised the tone of the place. I like the graffiti ones just fine but Sheila showed me these, and well, I thought they looked dead classy.” He coughs and if I’m not mistaken, his cheeks colour. He looks away at my curious stare like he is hiding something. “Anyway, I liked them. They have all sold, but we get to keep them for the season,” he adds, and looks over at me, then back at the paintings. A faint warm smile curls his lips and I am intrigued.

  “Sheila painted these? So this is a life painting then?” Sheila Woodruff, a local elderly artist, has lived here her whole life, but only ever paints from models. “This hot girl is someone you know I take it?” I round the edge of the bar and slide onto an empty seat, facing Buddy, who is still looking at the paintings behind me. He catches my smirk and throws the bar cloth at my face. I catch and flip it back at him, hitting him square in the forehead.

  “Fuck off, Ethan! No I don’t know her; no one does and Sheila’s like a bloody priest at confession, so there is no point asking. Anyway, what do you think? They work, don’t they? They look good, I mean?” His voice holds no uncertainty and his faith in is judgement is sound.

  “She is stunning.” I tilt my head and take one quick glance at Sheila’s muse. The woman in the painting is flawless, but that is the beauty of art; it can be whatever you want it to be, but I know there is no such thing. “The pictures are a good fit for the place. They are all sold, you said?” I finish up the rest of my drink and put the glass in the washer.

  “You sound disappointed.” Buddy has a satisfied expression plastered all over his face.

  “Yeah, yeah, you did good with the paintings. What do you want a sticker with good boy on it?” I pause and lean heavily against the bar, taking my time assessing each of the pictures before I speak again. “I’m surprised that’s all. I don’t think we’ve ever sold all the art we hang, but I can see why. I might have to speak to Sheila, see if she can paint me another.” I mutter, mostly to myself, as Buddy has started to serve a new customer. “Buddy, I’ll be in the office. Come back when you get a break, we can go over all the other executive decisions you’ve made that I’m paying for.” I’m only joking and the easy smile on his face reflects the fact that he knows as much.

  About an hour passes and I have had a cursory look through the books, inventory, and staffing. As I expected, despite Buddy’s chilled easy attitude to life, he runs a tight ship. Everything is in order and I have just one question when he joins me, holding a fresh bottle of my favourite cider. He cracks the cap open and takes a seat on the low sofa behind me, swinging his long legs up and over the armrest. He lets out a heavy sigh.

  “That was some shift; thanks for stepping in. I had no idea they were closing off the road today or I never would’ve let the girls take the afternoon off.” He drags his hand through his long, wavy, salt and pepper hair, scraping the strands out of his eyes.

  “What girls? You had girls out there waiting on the tables. You don’t normally have them behind the bar?” I spin the chair around to face him.

  “My best girls weren’t here today and one of them does work the bar. She’s pretty good, doesn’t get under my feet and prefers it to working the floor. Anyway, Sky wanted the afternoon–”

  “-Sky!” He chuckles at my sudden interruption. “Sorry, I didn’t know she was working here. It’s not a problem, I just haven’t seen her since–”

  He barks out a knowing laugh. “Oh, I know exactly when you last saw her. Even in my most promiscuous youth, I never hurried one girl out of the door because I had another one in a different bedroom. She just might still love you deep down, but she was pissed and out for revenge the last time she spoke about you.” He chuckles.

  “And when was that exactly?” I take a large pull of ice cold cider.

  “This morning.” He fails to hide a shit eating grin at my expense.

  In my defence, the other girl was Bethany and she had just woken the apartment up with a heart wrenching cry, so my concerns were elsewhere when I got rid of Sky. But even so, in the cold light of day, it didn’t look so good.

  “I’ve got all summer to make it up to her, and it wasn’t just any another girl. It was Bethany and she was upset–”

  “Bethany, your ‘not sister’,” Buddy interrupts, with air quotes to highlight the distinction I was always so happy to make. Bethany is my Dad’s natural daughter that he knew nothing about until last year.

  “Yeah, we’re not blood related and at the time the ‘not real sister’ thing was a bit of a big deal for me, but not now. We’re cool and she’s married, has a kid–the whole happily ever after. She deserves it. Anyway, none of that is important. What is significant, is the cash withdrawals each week. Care to explain?” I’m not worried that Buddy is skimming. It’s his business as much as mine, but it’s untidy and I like tidy.

  “Oh, that’s the new girl I was telling you about. She’s not on the books; prefers cash.” He curls up in a half sit up and pulls his sweater over his head, muffling his voice. He screws his clothing into a ball and bundles it as a make-shift pillow before sinking back down. His eyes are closed in preparation for a mid-shift siesta.

  “I bet she does.” I throw my pencil, which bounces off his curly mess of hair. “But I don’t. So, she’s either on the books or she’s out.” I offer a tight smile in return to his instant scowl.

  He pitches up on his elbow and turns to his side. “Come on, Ethan. It’s just one girl and she’s had a rough ride. She’s really good behind the bar, a real grafter and works any shift I ask. Never complains. Can’t we just–”

  “No, we can’t! What do you mean she’s had a rough ride? You know what? I don’t want to know. I don’t need another fucked up woman in my life. She’s out, Buddy, do I make myself clear?” My irritation escalated quickly, but Buddy shrugs it off. Man, I must be tired to be snapping like that. Not surprising, I have been travelling for twenty-eight hours straight and only stopped for a quick meet up with Dad at Heathrow before I drove here.

  “You’re the boss. Anything else? Because your miserable mood is eating into my naptime?” He rolls over with his back fully turned. “No, there is nothing else…nothing a good night’s sleep in my own bed or maybe catching a few home grown waves, won’t cure.”

  “Sorry, Buddy, didn’t mean to be a dick about it. I’m just tired…I’m gonna head home, catch some zees.” I can see his shoulders shake.

  “Good luck with that.” His parting words sound more cryptic when he continues to chuckle uncontrollably.

  I grab my things from the storeroom where I had dumped them earlier, and make my way along the harbour front toward the island. The road is now open but the pedestrians are reluctant to cede control. The cars that have pushed their way through, move at a glacial pace. I pick my way through a sea of unfamiliar faces, coloured with pinked cheeks and redder noses. The result of a full day under a cloudless sky and a constant, gentle breeze. I do manage to glimpse the odd person I know, permanent residents serving in the souvenir shops, the pasty stand, and ice cream hut. I have been coming here for years. Lived here, made my home in high season and throughout the quieter periods when the town has an ethereal quality, and only a tiny core population keeping it alive. Many of these kind folk are like family.

  My apartment is nestled on the far side of the peninsular, though it’s not really an island. Wedged neatly alongside row after row of fishermans’ cottages, my block takes up the first row, which is why I have the best view of the beach; headland and out to the open ocean. The beach is still packed, and more so as the tide begins to steal back the soft sand with every hungry shallow wave creeping in. The other sid
e of the island is less sheltered and if I weren’t bone weary, I think I would welcome the chance to catch some of the incoming surf. But I am fucking knackered. My legs feel heavy making the final incline to the rear of my apartment block. The communal door is open, which often happens in high season with a steady flow of rental properties on the block, people often get lazy with security. I close the door behind me and I can feel the handrail vibrate with the thumping base-line music streaming loudly from one of the apartments. So much for sleep. Each floor I pass the noise gets louder until I am standing outside my own door gently resting my head on the frame. This will be why Buddy was laughing; there can be only one person brazen enough to break into my apartment.

  I fish my keys from my back pocket and open the door, quietly or with a fanfare it wouldn’t make a difference, the occupants are far too occupied to notice. Holy fuck…I’ve walked into a porn movie in the making. I drop my bag loudly on the floor…nothing. No one even turns to acknowledge me. What I want to say, but I know would be a wasted breath, is ‘Jesus Sky on my kitchen Island?’ To be fair, it does look like she has put a towel over the surface, but the way the guy behind her is pounding into her arse, I think that is for comfort not for hygiene purposes. Her taught, tanned body is stretch across the narrow width of the island. Her bottom is hanging over one edge and she has the faintest tan line in the shape of a tiny blurred triangle. Only visible in between jack hammer man’s violent thrusting. Her arms are being held tight at her side as some kind of leverage from the guy doing the hammering with his back to me. His board shorts are pooled around his ankles and his bright white arse is pumping furiously. The slick, wet sounds can be heard even above the thumping music. Oh fuck! I spot an open bottle of olive oil knocked on its side. That’s my Manni Olive Oil; not the most expensive in the world but pretty fucking close, and he’s spreading it over her arse like it’s fucking Crisp’n’Dry. The rest of the contents is slowly emptying down the side of the cupboard and inching its way toward the cream wool rug. Not all of it, from the high gloss on Sky’s backside it’s clear a fair portion has been used to ease big guys dick into her arse. From the deep moan and extended curve of her spine, she is having a blast; good for Sky. I am all for sexual adventure and pushing limits, but why does she have to push hers in my home? I can only assume this is her warped idea of revenge.

  Her head is tipped back as she attempts to keep pace with the enthusiastic man–I am going to be generous and say is a teenager–slamming into her mouth.

  “Ah jeeze, brother, are you filming this?” The guy with his back to me groans with breathless pants. From the pitch in his voice, I think he’s nearly done.

  “Yeah man…look smile you’re on Pornhub…ahhh fuck! No fucking teeth, Sky.” He drops the phone he was filming from and threads both hands into her tumble of blonde curls. Easing her to his own rhythm and supporting her head at the same time. What a gent.

  “Fuck Sky, you are so fucking tight…ahhh!” He grunts and jerks pushing as hard as he can, judging by the flex in his backside and the curve of his back. He collapses his considerable weight flat onto Sky’s back and I can hear her groan under the strain, coupled to the prick with his dick still deep down her throat, she is seconds away from suffocating. Arseholes. I rush over and pull dick number one up and shove him to the floor and turn to face dick number two. I push him hard in the chest, forcing him to fall back. A loud popping sound escapes Sky’s lips with the sudden loss of suction. She turns her flushed head toward me and flashes the briefest brightest smile, before a dark scowl dominates her face.

  “Damn-it Ethan, I wasn’t finished!” She reaches her hand to grab Dick Number Two’s shorts. He has already folded himself away and she is fumbling to salvage his diminishing erection.

  “I’ll let you suffocate next time.” I snap back. She is unbelievable.

  “Ooooo, so there is going to be a next time,” she purrs and sucks in her bottom lip, holding back her own laughter.

  “Fuck Sky, you are unbelievable! You break into my apartment for a gang-bang and you’re not remotely sorry.”

  “Just why should I be? You are the one who fucked my mouth raw and kicked me to the curb. I still had your come dribbling down my chin, Ethan!” I flinch at her truthful accusation, but despite her righteous tirade, she’s still fumbling to retrieve Dick Number Two’s cock from his pants. He is fighting her, trying to pull away to join his brother, who has just high tailed it out the front door.

  “Get out of my apartment, Sky, before I do something you will regret.” My tone is serious enough, she narrows her eyes before they flash with an idea; never a good thing with Sky.

  “You know Ethan, you don’t have to jack off in the shower. I am more than happy to help you out with that.” Her eyes widen and drift to the stretch in the front of my jeans. She sucks in her bottom lip and I feel my cock twitch at the invitation, because however angry I am at her break-in, I have just witnessed a live porn show and my dick doesn’t give a shit how pissed I am. “We could all go and have some fun in the spare room–” Her voice is thick with lust and filth, and I am so fucking hard. I draw in a deeper breath. The last thing I need is more complications with Sky, even if my balls think otherwise. My voice is low but stern.

  “Leave, Sky…Now!” I stand back as she scrambles for her clothing, which is scattered around the kitchen. The Dick Number Two men is already at the door when she spins with fury and venom in her eyes.

  “You used to be such fun, Ethan; now you’re just another prick!” She roughly pulls her slip of a dress over her head, snatches her sandals and slams the door, but it’s a fire door, so it closes frustratingly slow. I let out an exhausted breath. I’m too tired to be dealing with this shit and now I have a hard-on from hell. Fan-fucking-tastic. I slump down on my sofa and unbuckle my belt, before I pull myself free, I think better of masturbating in the open plan living room when Sky still somehow has access. I don’t want to literally be caught with my dick in my hands. I kick my, jeans, underwear, and shoes off on my way to my bedroom, pulling my T-shirt over my head as I go.

  The door handle seems stiff when I realise its locked. What the fuck! I shake the handle and yell,

  “Open the fucking door!” I no longer contain my rage, not giving whoever has the audacity to lock themselves in my bedroom, time to comply with my demand. I step back and with one fierce kick I boot the door wide open. A sharp shrill scream competes with the sound of the cracking door frame and splintering wood.

  Not what I was expecting. The trembling girl in front of me, her white knuckles fiercely gripping the handle, though her hold is wobbly, is weakly waving my baseball bat at me. I step forward and swipe it from her grasp. She yelps and jumps back against the wall. Her dark blue eyes are wide with terror and I get a sudden pang in my chest that I’m causing her distress. I drop the bat and walk to my closet, all the while keeping my eyes fixed on her. She looks scared shitless, which is understandable. I guess I might look a little scared, if some strange naked guy crashed into my room. But this is my room and I’m not the stranger, she is. But yes, I’m naked and I need to fix that. I pick the first set of shorts I can find and slip them on. I can see her visibly relax and I like having done that.

  “Who are you?” Her voice waivers, but she coughs and straightens her shoulders in a display of faux confidence. It makes me smile which seems to irritate her.

  “My apartment, darling… I get to ask the questions.” My tone is clipped. Yeah, I can be irritated too. I have had way too little sleep and currently have a hard on that won’t go away. Her eyes keep dipping to take in the tent at my crotch, which honestly isn’t helping. “What are you doing in here? Taking a break from the performance?” She is almost naked herself. Her slim, bare legs peek below a skinny T-shirt that looks familiar. It’s mine or at least used to belong to a girl I went to school with. She must have left it here when she visited from University. It has St. Andrews University blazoned across the front, and it’s far too small to fit me. So ap
art from my clothing, she doesn’t appear to have anything else on; certainly not a bra. Interesting.

  “What?” Her shocked tone piqued with insult, halts my wayward thoughts.

  “Are you taking a break from the show I just broke up?” I speak slowly and I know my patronising tone is causing the fury to flash in her crystal blue eyes. I tip my head toward the other room, to highlight my point and the scene of the crime.

  “Oh absolutely! The locked door is all part of my foreplay!” She crosses her arms tightly around her chest, which just lifts her breasts that little bit higher.

  “It’s effective.” My face fails to hide my amusement. “Rude to point.” I fail again to hold in a laugh, but then I’m not really trying. This is the most fun I have had in a long time. She instantly cups the offending nipples with her hands and flashes bright red.

  “Oh, my God! Sky said you were cool, but you’re actually an arsehole!” Her haughty tone, however, is my breaking point. I stride over to her and grab her elbow. She yelps at my tight grip and I easily drag her from my room. There is practically nothing to her–except delicate, soft skin under my fingertips, masses of unruly, dark chestnut waves, and fierce piercing blue eyes. I open the front door and unceremoniously deposit her outside on the landing in her bare feet. I’m closing the door–

  “Wait!” She screeches. I hold the door and regard her coolly through the gap. “My clothes…all my clothes are in your washing machine.”