Soldier Boy

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Do you want to go to the movies?’

  I’m not sure what I expected in response but it sure as shit wasn’t a derisory snort as her chin comes up, meeting my gaze again.

  ‘You don’t want to take me to dinner, but you’ll take me to the movies?’ She bites the corner of toast aggressively.

  Remind me not to get my dick in the vicinity of those chompers.

  Then I remind myself that’s the plan. Platonic.

  ‘I wouldn’t take you, exactly. We’d go as friends.’ Something pinches tight in my chest though I force away the discomfort with a deep breath. And as for dinner, the food in the cupboards is my version of feeding her.

  ‘When,’ she answers flatly. Not exactly a question. More a demand.

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Can’t.’ She shoves the rest of the toast into her mouth—a sizeable corner—looking now to her fingers as she dusts off the crumbs. She swallows the half-masticated lump uncomfortably, chasing it down with a mouthful of orange juice before delivering the rest. ‘I have a date.’

  Yeah, I know, I don’t reply. Call me a masochist for trying. For wondering if she’d blow the dentist off for the suggestion of a platonic date with me. As if anything between us could be remotely nonsexual. But I guess that showed me, didn’t it?

  ‘Another day.’ She shrugs, nods; it’s all very noncommittal. And gut-tightening. And maddening. And while it’s also a little of what I expected, it’s not nearly as much as I deserve because only a creepy fucker keeps tabs on someone’s phone. ‘I’d like it to be friends, Nell.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Not me, too, or I’ll think about it, or the thoughts of that makes me want to puke. She’s well and truly retreated from her dealing with me, and that in itself speaks volumes. ‘Well, I have to go,’ she says, not really looking at my way again as she drops her juice glass into the sink.

  I’m sad to see her go, and fucking confused—it’s like I just engineered that whole exchange just to dig the knife in a little more. But onward and upwards—I have things to do. More renovation jobs to complete, for sure, but I also have a little reconnaissance work going on. Picking up my coffee cup in one hand and my running shoes in the other, I make my way into the living room where my laptop sits on the coffee table . . . covered by a furry lump of cat.

  ‘Come on, off you get,’ I coax in the same sing-song tone my granny used to use when talking to her cat. What was her cat called again? Prudence—that was it. I always thought it an odd name for a cat but not quite as mad this fuzzy fucker’s tag. Smalls is a total misnomer because the thing is almost as big as a beagle. ‘She should’ve called you Biggy, not Smalls because you are one B.I.G. mother fucker. Ow!’ I snatch my hand back. ‘You little bastard!’ I growl, examining the two-inch scratch on the back of my hand. ‘So this is the way it’s going to be? In deference to your owner, I won’t make a pair of flippers out of you.’

  It’s no wonder the thing has a superiority complex. Nell doesn’t make time to buy decent food for herself, yet I’ve noticed the cat eats gourmet.

  ‘Go on, fuck off.’ On my second attempt, I don’t go for the laptop but rather scoop my hand under its bulk and chuck him onto the chair. He’s not impressed, but I don’t have time to mess about as I might’ve, sort of, hacked Nell’s Tinder account. Okay, I definitely did hack it, and the best time to execute my plan is while she’s driving to work when there’s no chance of her looking at her phone.

  Opening my laptop, I go straight to her messages, reading her conversation with Jarrod the dentist again. I might’ve tortured myself over the last couple of days reading their bantering over and over. Every day there’s the new exchange, each getting progressively more open and comfortable. Familiar.

  And tonight, the icing on the cake, it the fact that she’s going on a date with him.

  I wonder how familiar she’ll get with him tonight. She’s not a fuck-on-the-first-date type I don’t think, even if I didn’t get into her knickers pretty early on. But we have a history, I remind myself. She’s not going to screw a random bloke, even to get back at me. I hope.

  And if she does? I’ll have to deal with it. I mean, I’ll have to deal with it at some point, won’t I? She’s going to move on. I’d just prefer it to be at a time I’m not here to watch. It’s for the best, I tell myself. Same as my screening her new messages is for the best, too.

  I log into her account without an ounce of guilt.

  Okay, a touch.

  But not fucking much.

  Jack: Hey bb. Your profile pic is so fiiine! If I flip a coin gurl what r the chances I’ll get head?

  What are the chances I find out where you live, Jack, and teach you a lesson on how to speak to women—and yes, I do mean beat you to a fucking pulp—before enrolling you in English lessons?

  I type my—Penny’s—reply.

  Penny: There’s a 100% chance you’ll be giving it to yourself.

  Naz: Hey, babe. Great picture. How about a quick-fire getting-to-know-you-round? Tell me two truths and a lie and—go!

  I think I like playing Penny. Well, Naz . . .

  Penny: I have a penis. I prefer women. I swiped right by accident.

  Get to know that, Naz with the nice hair!

  Henry: Hey, beautiful. I love your profile pic. Are you down to fuck like a bunny, too?

  Penny: Are you enquiring with regards to my fecundity, Henry? Did you know a doe bunny’s ovulation is triggered merely by mating? That they’re capable of falling pregnant within hours of having given birth?

  That’s a lot of babies, Henry. Are you willing to support a large family?

  Are you financially able to?

  Are you vying for an invitation to impregnate me, Henry? Are you??

  Oh, sorry. I get it now! You want to fuck like bunnies because you can only keep it up for sixty seconds.

  Respectfully, Henry, I say no.

  Art: Hey, gurl. You DTF?

  Really? Firstly, whoever names their child Art needs a punch in the head. Secondly, being Penny is so much fucking fun.

  Penny: After a day spent looking at your profile pictures I’ve already married you, divorced you, and stalked you and your new girlfriend, all in my head. Thank you for the memories and for not pressing charges. P.S. I’m taking the doll collection, and I’m taking the cat. I brought both into this marriage, I’m taking them out, and there’s nothing you can do about it. It was nice knowing you, Art.

  Next!

  Grant: Hey, lady, how’s your day so far?

  Unimaginative, Grant. Pathetic.

  Penny: Wow. I cannot BELIEVE they let us use this app in prison.

  James: So you’re a doctor? That’s pretty good because I’m dying from how cute you are.

  Jesus Christ. The average London male, according to Nell’s inbox, not only has no game but also has an IQ of about 13. Not even going to answer this one.

  Delete!

  Sam: He’ll only leave you. He doesn’t belong.

  Well, that’s fucking weird.

  I flip to the profile. Only one photograph shows up on the bio. It’s a rear view of man in army fatigues. It could be anyone—it could shit hired from a fancy-dress shop.

  The bio reads: Soldier. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

  Fucking weird. Why would Nell of shown an interest? Maybe it was a mistake or Melody messing around. It doesn’t explain the message though. I make a mental note to speak with Mel. Without letting her no I’ve been snooping.

  The precautionary alarm sounds on my watch—once a soldier, always a soldier—Nell will be arriving at work around now. Time to log off. I set my laptop on the coffee table again, though resolve to put it somewhere out of the cat temptation while I go for my daily run. They’ve been longer and harder this week because I have a lot of frustrated excess energy to release. So I run, and I renovate, and by the time I see Nell, I’m too exhausted to raise an eyebrow, let alone my dick.

  Leaning down, I pick up my shoes, noticing my socks are
missing. I’d shoved a pair in the right shoe earlier on. I wonder if they’ve fallen out on in from the kitchen, but as I stand, I see the fat furry fucker has them in his mouth.

  ‘You little . . .’ I lunge for the thing, but they don’t call them cat-like reflexes for no reason. As Smalls makes for the stairs, I follow him, taking the treads two at a time. As I reach the first landing, I catch the tell-tale evidence of his tail as he makes for the next floor, then again, as he disappears into Nell’s bedroom.

  ‘I’d like to say I have you cornered,’ I tell him, following him in, ‘but without doors, we both know that’s not true.

  Smalls sits near the headboard of Nell’s bed, his tail swishing angrily, my socks dangling from his mouth.

  ‘Drop the socks, and we won’t talk of this again.’ My granny went a bit nutty towards the end. She talked to her cat, too. Maybe this is the start of me losing my marbles.

  As I make my way to the side of the bed, Smalls jumps to basket under the table acting as a nightstand, knocking the lid from the wicker basket. And that’s when I stop looking for my socks.

  Chapter 20

  PENNY

  ‘How was your date?’

  Closing the door behind me, I drop my keys into the little dish on the table, wishing I sounded as excited as Melody does.

  ‘It was nice. He’s nice.’

  ‘Nice,’ she repeats in a tone similar to my own. Sort of flat. ‘Nice is hardly a ringing endorsement.’

  ‘It’s better than not nice.’ Bending, I grab the heel of my shoe, dropping it to the floor before giving my toes a quick rub.

  ‘Yes, but nice is a dress with pockets or a new pair of shoes that don’t pinch.’

  ‘Pretty sure that one is a fallacy,’ I reply with a satisfied sigh as I repeat the process with my other foot.

  ‘Nice,’ she continues, is not what you want for a first date. Unless you mean it was niiiice. That Jarrod is pretty fiiiiine!’

  ‘Jarrod is pretty fine,’ I agree. ‘But the date? That was just nice.’

  I switch on the kitchen light listening to the quiet sounds of the house, realising with a slight pang that Ben still isn’t home. I’d hoped he’d have been home before I left this evening, chiding myself that the effort I’d gone to in dressing wasn’t for mine of Jarrod’s benefit. Stupid, I know.

  ‘What was it, then? Was he boring? One of those men who only talk about themselves? Did he talk with bits of food stuck between his teeth? That would totally turn me off.’

  ‘No, nothing like that. In fact, there wasn’t any one thing in particular. He is nice looking and very personable, and we got along fine. There just wasn’t that spark.’ Not like the is with Ben. Was with Ben. We had a spark where we now only have politeness.

  ‘Still, you should give him another go. A dentist is sure to have mad oral skills,’ she says, tittering.

  ‘Ugh.’ I’m not in the mood for puns.

  ‘I thought that was pretty good. For me, at least.’

  ‘What would be good is a hot cup of tea, a shower, and a decent night’s sleep. And that’s what I’m aiming for right now,’ I say, filling the kettle.

  ‘Just a shame it’s alone. Well, apart from the cuppa. Hot tea and sexy times sounds like a recipe for—’

  ‘Third-degree burns and a trip to accident and emergency,’ I add.

  ‘You going to go out with him again?’

  ‘I think so. I mean, we’re good on paper, and our messaging game was strong. The execution just . . .’

  ‘Nice,’ she finishes for me.

  In the end, I forgo my cup of tea and make my way up the stairs, pulling my blouse out of my skirt as I reach the first landing. The house is dark, and though I know it like the back of my hand, I’m still conscious of Smalls being about, every ready to attack. At least, these days, there’d be someone around to discover my lifeless body at the bottom of the stair.

  Though not for much longer.

  As I reach my room, I drop my unbuttoned blouse to the bed, shimmying out of my skirt. Dropping my earrings and bracelet to the dish on the tall chest of drawers, I resting my folded arm and head against it with a sigh. What an anticlimax. My day had been long but my evening pleasant enough. I’d met Jarrod in Primrose Hill, part way between where we both live. I’d forgotten how pretty the area is and how so many of the houses are painted the colours of delicate French macarons. We’d agreed to meet at a pub there though I was a little concerned when Jarrod had mentioned he’d made reservations at a local restaurant. Alarms bells started to ring— too much, too soon, I’d thought, which then made me laugh. Wasn’t I the girl who let Ben strip her naked five minutes into our reacquaintance?

  We ate, I drank a glass of wine. He encouraged another. We were sitting outside in the garden area, decorated like a tiny piece of Paris. It had been a warm evening, but the minute the sun dipped, I became a little chilled. Jarrod had insisted I take his jacket.

  More discomfort. Was it the pressure of his expectations? As it turned out, he was the perfect gentleman, only kissing my cheek before I’d stepped into a cab to leave.

  Does it make me especially wicked to have been dining with one man while thinking of another? Of the deep sound of his laughter? Of how he slept on his stomach, his strong arms curved around the pillow beneath his head. Of his touch?

  I close my eyes, turning to rest my cheek on my forearm as a breath of evening breeze from the window crosses my bare skin, bringing with it a shock of sensory memory. Ben’s breath, hot and tight in my ear, his body over mine. The dish containing my recently removed jewellery chinks as I retract my hand and, without any real cognisance, bring my fingers to the elastic of my panties.

  I haven’t orgasmed since Saturday evening. This business of no doors is so inconvenient. To hell with him for rousing things in me—I’d gone from being too tired for sex to damn near obsessed by it—obsessed by him.

  I slide my hands over the gossamer fabric, holding myself fully in my hand, my sigh ragged as I as push, rotating into my palm.

  ‘God, I need to come.’ My whisper echoes in the air as I recall the sensation of Ben’s body over me, hard and warm, pinning me to the bed with the solid weight of him. The feel of his muscled back, flexing beneath my fingertips, the scruff of his jaw and chin abrading my neck so deliciously.

  My hand won’t bring me the same pleasure. Not as I slip my fingers inside. Not as I coat my clit in my own arousal. But it will do.

  ‘Oh . . . ’ It will do.

  At the first brush past that little bundle of nerves, my body begins to quake as I imagine my hand is his. I begin to pet, sliding my fingers in that well-practised rhythm. A toy might be better—I could prolong the action. Give myself the orgasm I deserve. But for now, I want this. I want to imagine the feel of him behind me, caging me in as he paints small circles against my clit.

  I arch my hips in the direction of the chest, pressing myself harder into my hand, needing more pressure as I widen my stance.

  As I reach that point of no return, my knees lock, my thighs trembling as I being to apply pressure to that swollen bundle of nerves, listening to the sound of my laboured breath as I recall the filthy hum of his whispered words.

  That’s it, sweetheart. Fuck my fingers. Fuck them hard.

  I can feel how your tight little pussy is desperate for my cock.

  I rock into my hand, the images his words invoke pushing me over that blinding hot edge as I cry out his name.

  My pulse hammers in my ears, my clit pulsing beneath my fingertips as I pull them from my panties, but for all of this, my orgasm was barely adequate. I should shower, I think, then decide against it. I don’t want to wake up but rather to crawl into bed, blackout, and see what tomorrow brings.

  I stretch my arms above my head and stretch, reach for the lamp on top of the chest, then pull open the drawer to grab my pyjamas, balancing them on the open drawer as I reach around and loosen my bra, turning to drop it onto the bed.

  ‘That was the
hottest thing, half-pint.’

  I squeal, then shriek, holding my pyjamas to my chest as though they could somehow stop my heart from beating out of my chest. Meanwhile, Ben lies in front of me, on my bed, entirely unconcerned. Well, apart from the obvious erection his jeans barely conceal. A million things run through my head, none of them making much sense, and none I’m able to form into words currently.

  ‘Hands down, that was one of the top three hottest things I’ve ever seen in my life.’

  ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ I eventually shriek. Like a harridan. Or someone who’d just experienced half an orgasm. ‘You nearly gave me a stroke.’

  ‘You didn’t look like you needed any help stoking.’

  If I wasn’t red before, I become so immediately. ‘What are you doing here, Ben? ‘Apart from looking like the devil sitting on his throne?

  ‘I came to see how your date went.’

  ‘This is a conversation we could’ve had in the kitchen—’ He arches a brow. And yes, I know, conversations have begun in that room that left me in fewer clothes than I’m currently wearing, but still. ‘Or the lounge.’

  ‘I’m happy to have conversations like this anywhere. Just say the word.’

  ‘You can’t come barging into my room whenever you feel like it,’ I grumble, throwing my pyjama pants onto the edge of the bed before stabbing my arms through the T-shirt, dragging it over my head. As I push the hair from my face, I notice his gaze glide from the bra on the bed to my panties before rising to my face with a scowl.

  ‘I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but there’s no door, half-pint,’ he replies in a cool tone. ‘I’m sensing a lot of frustration here.’

  ‘Of course I’m frustrated. This is an invasion of my privacy.’

  ‘Says the woman who came into the bedroom already half undressed.’