Best Served Cold

by Limey Lady

  Penny allowed herself a final pause before pressing the doorbell. What did God think about all this? They were His vows after all, weren’t they?

  Maybe they were, but she’d dealt with that before Amsterdam. Over a three week period, when she’d convinced herself they were all in this together: God, Geoff and Penny.

  Vows made together. Vows cancelled together . . . well, Geoff had cancelled them verbally and God saw and heard everything, didn’t He? God hadn’t objected and she’d just voted along with the boys.

  Anyway, wasn’t it a bit late to be fretting now? She’d already enjoyed five new thingies (not to mention Paula) without being struck down by lightning.

  So fiddlesticks to vows, fretting and anything remotely negative.

  She pressed the button.

  Ronnie answered at the “R” of “Ring”. He was wearing tracksuit bottoms, a sweatshirt and a tentative smile. ‘I wasn't sure you'd turn up,’ he said as he shut the door behind her.

  In reply she grabbed him and stuck her tongue halfway down his throat. He kissed back even harder and, as their passion rose exponentially, they inched their way towards the staircase. Not that they were ever going to make it all the way to his bedroom. They were already fumbling at each other even before they tripped over the first couple of steps. Then they were stripping the clothes from each other and she was as good as naked, with her bum perched on the fourth or fifth stair. And then she was guiding his hot, rigid thingy into her wet, hungry thingy.

  ‘Oh my Goodness,’ she sighed.

  ‘Good God, yes,’ he agreed.

  Gallant gentleman or not, Ronnie hadn’t forgotten what to do. Gasping encouragement, they humped away at each other. Faster and faster and suddenly he was ready to finish, triggering one of her biggest ever thingies, making her wail.

  ‘Again,’ she yelled. ‘Again . . . please do it again.

  Ronnie’s thingy never lost its backbone. He carried on humping and she carried on humping back at him. She could imagine thingy tricking out of her and dribbling along his thingy as their bodies clashed, the sounds of sex squelchy and louder than any she’d heard in her life.

  And even if it was pure escapism, it was sheer bliss. No, it was ecstasy personified.

  He lasted much longer that second time, but only too soon they were done and clinging together, both of them laughing and panting.

  ‘How rude of me,’ he said. ‘I never asked if you wanted a coffee.’

  ‘You just gave me what I came for,’ she replied shamelessly. ‘And I certainly didn’t need asking.’

  ‘I’m going to ask anyway. Do you fancy a coffee?’

  From their more recent conversations, Penny knew that Ronnie really did have many years of bonking to catch up with. And he was eager to make up ground; she could still feel the evidence of that throbbing deep inside her. Come to that, she was more than a little eager herself.

  Refreshingly wanton, she tugged his hand under her unfastened blouse, guiding it up onto her boob; chuckling when he drew in breath even more sharply than she did.

  ‘Never mind hot drinks.’ She smiled archly. ‘It’ll be ages before we get round to hot drinks.’

  *****

  There had been a time when Harry Williamson watched every Leeds United game, home and away. That was long ago, though. Since their appalling fall from grace it wasn't fun anymore; it was painful. Normally, if invited to spend ninety minutes in an executive box, he'd have wriggled his way out of it. To be frank, he would have rather spent ninety minutes in a wooden box than one at Elland Road.

  But some offers were impossible to refuse.

  Macka was in his fifties now. Back in the Glory Days he'd been one of the elite. The tales he could tell! Of pitched battles with Scum and Scum City, a thousand-a-side; playing the world's first game of Supermarket Sweep before the far bigger robbery of that European Cup final in Paris; afternoons on Clockwork Corner and ambushes on Zulu Hill. The guy had been there through the best of times.

  Nowadays Macka went by the more formal Ewan Mackintosh, and was a partner in a city centre law firm. He'd sounded very posh when he rang the other day, cut glass tones and all that. Then, after maybe a minute of batting the breeze, he'd reverted to his voice of old: 'Fucking be there, you twat. We'll have a few bevvies then run the Walsall lot down the Dark Arches.'

  No self-respecting Shipley White could resist an invitation like that, even if he couldn't imagine Walsall bringing too many warriors.

  ‘What's wrong with meeting them at the station?' Harry had said, laughing. 'I'll bring the garlands of flowers. We can check ‘em out for hay fever.'

  It was strange going to a game in a suit, but not as strange as it had been going into the pub. In his youth he used to roam The Old Peacock's car park on match days, asking anyone without colours for a light, wanting to hear their accent. Fuck knew how many beatings he'd administered on that car park; it must have been hundreds, possibly thousands.

  Today the Peacock had been quiet. There again, it had been early. He'd been in and out before one o’clock, needing to get to the ground in time for the pre-match meal. As he'd left he'd assured himself the rush would come soon. Surely, even in these times of 20,000 crowds, there had to be a rush.

  For fuck’s sake, surely . . .

  The box was swish and Macka was in his element. He was obviously not just representing his gang of bewigged thieves; in his mind he was representing United and everywhere north of Watford. Although the bar was supposed to be pay-as-you-go, he refused to let anyone else even think about opening a wallet. Back in his cut glass tones, of course. He looked as if he couldn't possibly enjoy himself more . . . until the great Norman Hunter popped in to say hello, making him fawn and almost weep.

  The other guests were exclusively male and all of them solicitors of one flavour or other. Harry could rub shoulders with just about anybody but felt out of place with this lot. Glad that he’d hidden most of his tattoos, he drifted over to a wall plastered with pictures, taking them in as he drank. There were a handful of photos of modern teams and players: a big one of the winning '92 team and dozens and dozens of The Team. His scar stretched as he grinned. No other fans on the planet revered an old team the way Leeds fans did. He'd been too young himself, but he wasn't deaf or blind; you couldn't come to this ground even once without learning the history . . . and getting the bug.

  ‘Don's gods,' a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. It was Macka. 'Marching on together,' he sang, relatively softly. 'Fuck I miss them.'

  ‘You're lucky to have seen any of it.'

  ‘I only caught the arse-end. '73 was my first full season. They'd already peaked. Still far and away the greatest, though. I haven't seen a player since who'd get in that side.'

  ‘Not even Cantona?'

  ‘Well, maybe him and Tony Curry, but only on the bench. Come on, let's have another drink.'

  ‘Don't be ignoring your guests. They’re the ones bringing in business, not me.'

  ‘Fuck 'em. Where were they when we were fighting in the subway at Wolves? Have they ever gone toe-to-toe with the Blunts or the Wendys?'

  ‘Well,' said Harry, 'if you're putting it like that . . .'

  *****

  DeeDee sighed as she switched off the ignition.

  ‘I promise you Pat, we'll get there in time.'

  ‘The Bees kick off soon.'

  ‘If you stop arguing about it we'll get there quicker, won't we?'

  Pat had to laugh as he got out of Dee's Range Rover. He had forgotten just how bossy she could be, even though was ingrained in him that she never left room for debate; never, not ever. Once Debra Dwyer got an idea in her head and decided to do something, it got done.

  ‘Just don't get in a fight with him, okay?'

  ‘Me?' she said, batting her lashes. 'Would I?'

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m trying to give him money, for Christ’s sake. Even he can’t cut up rough over that.’

  The Kings Head's tiny car park was at th
e back of the building. DeeDee had stopped in the solitary vacant slot which, according to the initials on the wall, was strictly reserved for "SD".

  ‘You’ve nicked his space. Hardly the best start, is it?’

  Chuckling together, they held hands and strode through the impressive smoking area, entering the pub, passing the toilets and immediately spotting their quarry at the bar.

  Shit, Pat thought. Why does she have to be with him? Then, nervously: I hope she's kept her trap shut.

  ‘Hello Sean,' DeeDee began, 'and Ms Hunter. What a small world.'

  Ms Hunter was stunning as always. Today she was wearing skin-tight blue jeans and an even tighter white T-shirt. Pat, a life-long admirer of nice tits, found it a struggle to keep his eyes in their sockets.

  ‘Hi DeeDee,' Heather said in reply. 'How's it going? You're looking good.'

  ‘You do too. I didn't expect to see you here, of all places.'

  ‘Didn't Pat say? I'm almost back with Sean again. We've been on and off again for a few weeks now.'

  ‘More on than off,' said Sean. 'I must have lost a stone.'

  ‘Don't listen,' Heather objected, 'it's still very occasional. And I’m going easy on him,'

  ‘You don't have to go easy for my sake,' said DeeDee. 'Not until we've finally sorted out Mum's estate, anyway. Can I borrow him? You can have Pat in exchange.'

  ‘How could I refuse an offer like that?’ said Heather, laughing.

  Pat found an interesting patch of carpet to study. This was the first contact he'd had with the jet-haired sex bomb since . . . Well, since that strange, almost unbelievable evening in and outside the Shama. And he had no inclination to volunteer anything he didn't have to.

  ‘For God's sake,' Sean grouched, 'how many times do I have to tell you? I don't want an inheritance.'

  DeeDee smiled at him. 'In that case you won't mind signing a few documents, will you? Come on, five minutes and I'll never mention it again.'

  Still muttering good-naturedly, Sean let his big sister lead him into The Meeting Room.

  ‘It’ll take a lot more than five minutes,' Pat said moodily. 'She wants to make it all legal and binding, so she’s going to force him to accept something, even if it’s only a quid.'

  ‘I’m sure she’ll succeed. She seems very determined.’

  ‘She's eager to get things moving. She has plans.'

  ‘She has plans?’

  ‘Yeah, grand designs, even. She wants to be a property developer.'

  ‘Nothing wrong with that,' said Heather. 'I'm toying with the idea myself. Aren't you having a drink?'

  Pat turned to the bar, mentally crossing his fingers. 'The usual please, Hayley.'

  Hayley had already pulled him a Stella. Result! His grin nearly split off the top of his head as he asked Heather what her "usual" was in the Kings.

  ‘I have a few usuals,' she replied, grinning back at him. 'Today it's Tetley's.'

  ‘You drink beer by pints as well as lager?’

  ‘But of course.’

  They chinked their full glasses, eying each other.

  ‘Dee was right. You are looking good.'

  ‘You're not so bad yourself, McGuire. Does she know?'

  Pat indicated a quieter corner of the room, way over by the red-topped pool table. They moved out of the range of inquisitive ears before he spoke again.

  ‘I haven't told her anything.'

  ‘Not even about us accidentally meeting up for a curry?'

  He stared at her, trying to read her expression . . . failing miserably.

  ‘It was an accident,' he said finally. ‘It just happened.’

  ‘Patrick McGuire, I am devastated. I thought you'd deliberately tracked me down, determined to make it happen. That’s why I behaved so wantonly. Honest.'

  Her eyes were green, shining and wicked as sin. Pat was lost in them. He struggled even to lie.

  ‘Well,’ he managed, ‘I did sort of hope you might be there. It was late though. I expected you to have been and gone.'

  ‘That's a better answer. We'll leave it at that for now. And by the way, I am so glad to see you aren’t entirely consumed with guilt.'

  Pat stared at her again. He had been consumed with guilt for a while. He had also been tormented by demons. The urge to actually fuck Miss Incredible still burned strong.

  ‘What about Sean?’ he resumed. ‘Have you told him anything?'

  ‘No. Relax, won't you? It was weeks ago. We've got away with it. Not that “it” was much, anyway.'

  ‘Not much? Who gave you the definition of sex, Bill Clinton?'

  ‘I have my own definitions, thank you.'

  ‘Okay then, define what we did.'

  She almost sneered at him . . . the tease. ‘Don't get pushy with me, McGuire. I've still got a full sample of your DNA, remember? And stop staring at my boobs.'

  ‘I can't help it,’ he said sincerely. ‘I've never seen you out of your work clothes before.'

  ‘You saw me that time at the rugby club.'

  ‘Not in a T-shirt like that. Honestly Heather, you shouldn't be allowed.'

  ‘You say the sweetest things.'

  ‘Not as sweet as the things you said after midnight, on the phone.'

  ‘McGuire, stop it! We had a bit of a flirt and shared a few cums. It was friendly adult fun. Don't keep going on and on.'

  ‘Me? It's you who goes on and on about sex all the time.'

  ‘No I do not. I have lots of topics of conversation.’ Heather took a large, unladylike swig of best bitter. ‘You're the one with the single-track mind.'

  ‘I talk about all sorts,’ he said defensively. ‘Cars, rugby, beer . . .'

  ‘So you’re quite the raconteur, eh?'

  ‘I have my moments . . . unlike some.'

  ‘All right, what do you want to talk about?’ Heather’s eyes flashed; she was clearly a girl who rose to a challenge. ‘Shall we do Greek mythology; the Holy Roman Empire?'

  ‘No need to show off; just because you went to a posh school.'

  ‘How about banking?'

  ‘You do that all day. It’d be like me talking about cars.'

  ‘I thought cars were among your better subjects?'

  ‘They are. But I wouldn't want to bore you.'

  ‘Hmmm, is "bore" an appropriate word?'

  ‘See, you're off again.'

  ‘What about tree climbing?'

  ‘What?’

  ‘They have a world championship in tree climbing. Somebody mentioned it in the canteen the other day. I went on Google, to make sure it wasn't a leg-pull, and it’s not. I'm thinking about getting back into practice.'

  ‘You reckon you’re good at tree-climbing?'

  ‘I used to be a very good tree climber, McGuire.'

  Pat remembered the way she’d swarmed up his body. ‘It was obviously part of your Greek mythology course,' he said, hoping he wasn’t blushing.

  ‘It was part of my upbringing, if you must know. I was born on Hunters Farm.'

  ‘Sorry, never heard of it.'

  ‘That's because it's slowly disappearing beneath hundreds of houses. It was a working farm when I was only a young, innocent child.'

  ‘Did you get to milk the cows?'

  ‘And the goats,’ she said, ignoring his sarcasm. ‘I delivered lambs and chopped chicken's heads off too. And I’ve shot more crows and rabbits than you’ve had hot dinners . . . unless you’ve eaten rabbit pie every day for the last ten years.’

  Pat took opportunity to give her a very close once-over. He couldn’t fail to remember the feel of her so sexy six-pack . . . and her tits! Christ! As he could very easily see, they were big, but not too big. And hard and round! Every titman’s wet dream!!

  ‘You don't look like a farm lass.'

  ‘I'll overlook that inane, sexist comment, even if I am mildly flattered.'

  ‘Listen, Heather, about the other night . . .'

  ‘It was friendly adult fun, McGuire. Leave it at that.'

  ‘Okay, tree
climbing then. What's that got to do with farming?'

  ‘Nothing directly, but we had a lot of trees. The local lads all wanted to climb them. So I made sure I could climb them quicker and higher. The same as I ran faster and farther. And swam and rode bikes and horses . . .'

  ‘I bet you like to go on top, don't you?'