Dirty Bad Wrong

by Jade West

  “Always a bitch, those.”

  “They should just get on with it. I’m a big girl, I can handle the odd grunt in the night.”

  I itched to ask her more questions, to scratch at the pain under her skin until I found her soft and raw inside, but the conversation was over. Her head was firmly back on planet Earth, complete with its accommodation nightmares. I tried to convince myself it was for the best, but one flash of her eyes put paid to that.

  She’d compelled me to talk, bored into my privacy like a hungry worm. For that small deed alone she deserved to go over my knee. Her perky little ass would feel just right under my palm.

  She checked her watch. Game over.

  “We should get to bed. Another early start.”

  “Yes, we should.”

  I summoned the bill and signed the evening to my room as she watched me. We walked up slowly, the silence hanging heavier with each step. She slid her keycard into the lock and turned to me with cold, cool eyes again. Professional Lydia.

  “Thank you, James, I had a great night.”

  “My thanks for a job well done.” She gave me a smile as she pushed her way into the room beyond, and I was there outside the bushes again, autumn leaves under my shoes. “Lydia, wait.” She stepped back, eyes full of questions, and there, underneath them was the tiniest hint of potential. I could almost taste the what-if coursing through her mind, even if she didn’t know it. I took a step towards her, forcing her to tilt her head up to meet my eyes, approaching so close I could feel the heat of her through my suit. “I have a friend who’s looking for a housemate. She won’t pry. No false smiles or interviews, just a room there if you want it.”

  I watched her exhale, the corners of her mouth lifting as she ran her fingers through her hair. “I want it. Thank you.”

  “Don’t you even want to know where she lives?”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Camden.”

  “That works. What’s her name?”

  “Rebecca.” I stared at her awkwardly, my composure well out of kilter. “Goodnight, Lydia.”

  I closed the door behind me without even glancing back, fisting my hands in my hair. Jesus Christ. What the fuck? My mind zoomed through excuses, reasons I could give as to why this couldn’t happen, but it was pointless.

  I already knew I’d never use them.

  ***

  Chapter Five

  Lydia

  Steph hovered while I scoured her apartment for the last of my things.

  “You don’t have to leave, you know, not until you’ve found somewhere decent.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You haven’t even met this woman, what if she’s some kind of psycho?”

  “If she’s a psycho I’ll be straight back on your sofa.”

  She rolled her eyes. “If you’re still alive enough to make the trip.”

  “I’m sure James wouldn’t have suggested the move if she were a complete nut-job.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t know him either. He might be a nut-job too for all you know. You know what they said about Ted Bundy? Charming, smart, attractive... I’m sure he looked damn fine in a suit, too.”

  “Ted Bundy wasn’t CTO of the company I work for.”

  “So? Psychos like to hide in plain sight... Look at the whole privacy thing he’s got going on. Something to hide, I think. Women’s heads in his fridge, maybe?”

  “I’m private, I don’t keep heads in my fridge.”

  “Just take care of yourself, will you?”

  “I always do.”

  Steph gave me a tight, strawberry-scented hug and I felt the slightest reluctance to let her go. This was it, my new life beginning for real. I set off into the unknown with my suitcase in hand, destination Camden and the mysterious Rebecca. I’d quizzed James about her, but typically he’d said very little. Rebecca Hayfield. Approaching thirty and colourful. Nice and no-nonsense apparently, if a little eccentric, with the ability to mind her own business. She sounded good enough to me. I recalled my crazy enthusiasm for the idea, snapping his hand off without even the proviso of further information. Talk about spur of the moment. Spur of that moment, more like it. The memory brought a burn to my cheeks, and once again I fought the urge to face-palm. For the briefest of seconds, as he’d stepped so close in the hotel corridor, I’d thought he was going to kiss me. Of course he hadn’t done, the idea was absurd, but just for that one tiny moment, as our bodies almost collided, my breath froze in my chest. Too many wines, too much talk of sex, too fucking fit a man. Even more absurd was the notion that, for that split second, I think I maybe wanted him to. I really never thought I’d get hooked by the rebound shit: overtaken by a ridiculous desire to fuck a hot stranger in a hotel room somewhere. It had been just weeks, jeez. Weeks. Not months. Definitely not long enough to be hanging out in one-night-stand territory.

  I’d spoken to Steph about it, uncharacteristically desperate to get it off my chest. She’d laughed and given me the thumbs-up, stating a hot, casual fuck would do wonders for my disposition. Maybe it would, but certainly not with James Clarke. An emotionally-devoid fling might let off some steam, but a work rebound? No fucking way. Work flings have trouble written all over them with a capital TROUBLE. He was just hot, that’s all. I was merely joining the ranks of the rest of the female populous at Trial Run, worshipping at the altar of his perfect man-flesh. No big deal. You’re a stupid idiot, Lydia Marsh, crushing over James Clarke like a silly schoolgirl. Still, at least it kept my mind off Stuart, that fact alone made it a plus. That fact alone might even just get me through this emotional wasteland and out the other side without adding more scars to my collection.

  I changed lines at Euston Station, and was soon hurtling straight for Camden Town. Nerves kicked in; the realisation that I was about to move in with a total stranger churned in my gut. I kept my cool: deep breaths in and out as I cruised through the motions, stepping straight out into a sunny winter Sunday and James’ solemn gaze. He loomed tall on the pavement, cutting an awesome silhouette in a fitted black overcoat, double-breasted and clearly tailored, with his collar up against the chill. He could have walked straight out of the office if it weren’t for the dark jeans completing his attire. Skinny fit, like a second skin, showcasing the toned brilliance of his calf muscles. I approached with a smile.

  “Hey, thanks for meeting me.”

  “Let me take that.” He lifted my case, carrying it easily without the need for wheels. I kept close as he set off at pace, crossing the street to the shops beyond and marching a path towards the canal. He stopped outside a huge-windowed tattoo parlour, pulling me into a recess and gesturing to a bright purple door.

  “Rebecca lives above here. It’s nicer than it looks.”

  “That’s great,” I said, pressing in closer as a crowd of tourists pushed their way past.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He looked beyond me, across the street, unwilling to meet my eyes. “I’ve known Rebecca a long time. She’s funny, and loyal and she knows when to keep her trap shut, but she’s also...”

  “Colourful, I know,” I smiled. “I can handle colourful.”

  “She’s very colourful, most of those colours being shades of black...” He leant into me, mouth to my ear. His breath tickled, and not just where it touched. “...Or shades of grey. You’ll see what I mean, just don’t be put off. She’s really nice.”

  “Shades of grey?”

  He flashed me a smile before he pressed the buzzer.

  “Come on up,” a voice sounded, metallic over the intercom. It was followed immediately by the click of the lock, and James pushed open the door, waving me through. A narrow hallway lead to an equally narrow staircase, and at the top was a solid red door. It swung open before I was even halfway up, and the woman referred to as Rebecca stepped out to greet us. Colourful was an understatement.

  “Well, hello...” she purred. Her voice was invitingly husky
, almost posh with an underlying cockney twang. My eyes roved from feet to head as I climbed the stairs towards her. Sloping calves in knee-high boots... slashed black leggings... a tight black t-shirt, with scrawly red print... Bad girls do it better. Too many necklaces to count, wound tight around her neck, beads and sparkles and spikes... then her face... pretty and moon-shaped, big dark eyes with crazy lash extensions, dark burgundy lipstick and cat flick liner, and piercings, lip, nose and eyebrow. Her brows were too artificial to be natural, shaped in a perfect villain arch, and softened by the curls of her black mane. She held out a hand as I reached the top, red nails, lots of rings, and tattoos... an explosion of colour as far as I could see... stars and birds and flowers all wrapped together. “I’m Bex, pleased to meet you.”

  “Lydia,” I smiled. She pulled me into wiry arms, air kissed both of my cheeks, then addressed James over my shoulder.

  “Glad to see you doing the manual labour, got to use those muscles for something impressive.”

  “Watch your lip,” he said. “You’ve had me use them plenty enough.”

  She turned back to me. “James has already moved my furniture around five times already.”

  “Seven,” he countered.

  “What can I say? I like variety.”

  She led the way in, revealing a compact, but perfectly pleasant open-plan living space. The place was immaculate, if a little eccentric, all harsh lines and black furniture with a feature scarlet wall. She’d done a great job on the styling. Everything matched, from the red gloss kitchen units through to the prints hanging on the walls. The place was airy and light, yet stamped with the definite imprint of boudoir. It worked. I was relieved to realise I could cope with this space, even like it. James reclined on the corner suite while Rebecca gave me a whistle-stop tour, finally ending up in the room that would be mine. It wasn’t like the rest of the apartment: entirely neutral with cream carpet and matching magnolia walls. A wrought-iron effect double bed, made up pretty in purple bedding, and light wood furniture: a wardrobe, chest of drawers, small desk and bookshelf. Perfect. I couldn’t stop smiling; mainly with relief.

  “You like?” Rebecca asked, plumping up the cushions on my bed.

  “I like it a lot, thank you.”

  “I made the bed up fresh, but if you have your own stuff feel free to change it about. This is your space, do what you like with it.”

  “This is perfect as it is, thanks.”

  James brought my case through, laying it to rest on the floor by the wardrobe. He looked around the room, weighing it up as though he’d never seen it before. That’s when I caught the faintest whiff of fresh paint. He smiled at Rebecca.

  “I’m done here, I’ll be on my way.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Not staying for a cuppa?”

  “I have a busy afternoon.”

  She poked her tongue out. “Piss off, then, I’m sure we’ll do just great without you.”

  “I’ve no doubt,” he said.

  I followed him down to the front door, trailing behind his purposeful steps. “Thanks, James, for everything.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I watched until he disappeared from view, but he didn’t look back, not even for a second. I took a breath before going back upstairs, making sure my smile was at full beam for my new housemate. Rebecca already had the kettle on. It was scarlet, like almost everything else in the kitchen.

  “Are you a tea or coffee girl?” she asked, holding up both canisters.

  “Coffee, please, black two sugars.”

  “Don’t mind James, the disappearing thing’s his signature move.”

  “I got that impression.”

  “He’s good really, despite what he’ll have you believe,” she smiled, handing me a mug.

  I scoped out the space some more whilst she sat down on the sofa. A collage of photos showed her performing at some kind of event, made up in sequins and feathers and big-holed fishnets, she looked amazing.

  “I do a burlesque act,” she said, following my gaze. “Not so much at the moment, though. Too much else going on.”

  “You look fantastic.”

  “Amazing what a bit of glitter and sparkle can do for you.”

  I took a closer look at the pictures on the wall. They weren’t prints at all, in fact, but originals. I checked out the signature to find a squiggly RH. “You did these?”

  “Sure did. I don’t paint so much these days, but I’ll do the occasional commission.”

  “They’re amazing.” I took my time admiring one of her pieces, a corseted woman, tapping her thigh with a riding crop, stark and stylish and pretty damn sexy. I smiled inside at James’ shades of grey reference. “So you don’t paint fulltime?”

  “Kind of,” she smiled. “I work downstairs.”

  “You’re a tattoo artist?” I walked over to another piece. This one was smaller, but more intricate. Some kind of mythical beast, made up of heavy, tribal brush strokes, the head of a dragon trailing into the body of a lion. It was a strange image, dark and brutal, yet strangely beautiful. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

  “A chimera,” she explained. “One body, two beasts. It was a commissioned tattoo design.”

  “It’s beautiful. For someone’s back?”

  “Chest, although the tail curls all the way around the ribs to the spine.”

  I tried to picture the person such a design would belong to, someone like Rebecca probably, someone else colourful. I took a seat along from her. “I love what you’ve done with this place, it’s very cool.”

  “Really?” She looked surprised.

  “Honestly, it’s amazingly well done, very stylish.”

  “The landlady gives me free rein, so if you have any super cool plans for some interior refurb, let me know.”

  “You sure hit lucky with that landlady.”

  “Yeah, she’s an ex. She owns the tattoo shop downstairs too, so technically she’s my boss as well. Means I get special treatment. I don’t imagine James would have told you that I sit towards the lesbian end of bi. Is that a problem? I promise I won’t molest you in the night.”

  “It’s no problem.”

  “Great,” she said. “So, you work with James? I bet that’s fun for you, his perfectionist tendencies drive me mad at the best of times.”

  “He’s quite a taskmaster. It’s good though... he’s good.”

  She smiled at me, bright and warm. “You can ask, you know. It must be on your mind.”

  “Sorry?”

  “How we met. James and I, we’re hardly two peas in a pod.”

  I grinned. “You do seem quite different people.”

  “I went to school with his wife, known her since we were five. She came to me for an ankle tat a few years back and we got reacquainted from there. Jaz, my ex, and I used to hang out with them, double dates. Then they split up, and we did shortly after. James and I stayed in touch.”

  “He mentioned his wife.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “That’s a first, he doesn’t usually talk about her.”

  “He didn’t say much, only that her name was Rachel and that she was unfaithful.”

  “Well, that is a turn up for the books. Anyway, enough of James Clarke.” She raised her glass. “Welcome, Lydia! Here’s to us, and our newfound house-buddy status.”

  I was happy to toast. All considered, I was pretty damn happy to be there.

  ***

  James

  Scarlet lips pouted at me across the table. “So, why am I here?”

  “I wanted to spend a lunchtime with my best friend. That’s allowed, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, right. I’m sure this has nothing whatsoever to do with my new housemate.”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Sure. So, how’s life in James’ world?”

  I smiled. “So, how are things going with Lydia, Rebecca?”

  “Good,” she said, lighting up a cigarette. I wrapped my coat a little tighter, bracing my collar against the bre
eze. Our coffees arrived and I sipped at mine while Rebecca took long deep drags, puffing smoke all over me. I’d have vastly preferred to sit inside, away from the wind and passers-by, but Rebecca’s nicotine habit put paid to that.

  “Spit it out, James, what do you want? It must be killing you to take a day off from the gym.”

  “I’m an interested friend, curious as to how things are working out. Since it’s been weeks already, I imagine you must have some news.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “We work together, our conversation generally revolves around work things.”

  “Your choice, I’m sure. You want her, don’t you?” she grinned. I felt the irritation rising, the desire to shake Rebecca by her intuitive little shoulders pulsing through my temples.

  “She’s a colleague, which makes her both off limits and disgustingly unattractive.”

  “I don’t blame you, by the way. She’s nice. Funny... smart...sexy as hell.”

  “Can’t say I’ve noticed.”

  “Oh, please. Fuck off with your shit, James.” She leant over the table, still wafting smoke at me. “You could have come over, you know, like a normal person, rather than drag me halfway across the city to entertain your private investigator fetish.”

  “You’re trying my patience, Rebecca. Like I said, I wanted to see you.”

  “You could have seen me last night. People have been asking after you... pussies to be spanked, tears to be shed... it’s not like big, bad Masque to stay away. Where have you been, anyway?”

  “Busy.”

  “And when are you coming back?”

  “When I feel like it.”

  “Please tell me you finally shot your load in some tight little snatch somewhere? Praise the Lord!”

  I met her eyes, conveying my irritation without need of words. “Is she over her heartache?”

  “Lydia? She seems to be but it’s hard to know for sure. She’s almost as private as you, almost.”

  “No sign of reconciliation?”