The Dating Game

by Avril Tremayne

  And heaven help him, he had another gargantuan boner just looking at the sketch. He marvelled there was enough blood left in his body to do what it was doing to his heart: attacking it like a battering ram. Shove, shove, shoving, hard and fast and loud.

  And he could not—would not—be able to do a damn thing about it. At least, not with Sarah Quinn. Not as she had him pegged—as belonging to her friend Lane and therefore off limits. Not when what she wanted was a man for life. Not if he wanted to hold the line and keep his eyes on the prize and paint her. And he needed to paint her. Needed it too much to jeopardize it.

  But maybe if he had the itch scratched by someone else …? Yes, that could work. He didn’t usually go more than a week without sex, so maybe what he was suffering from was a simple case of sexual frustration, and that’s what had caused him to draw Sarah naked. Maybe if he’d done the deed with Anthea last week, he wouldn’t be in this predicament.

  Well, that was something he could rectify easily enough. He’d go on the hunt tomorrow night and Friday night, and have sex with the first and second willing women he saw. That should enable him to keep the monster in his pants flaccid enough to see Sarah on Saturday for as long as it took to get the negs lesson out of the way. And with any luck, he’d have another couple of belt notches before Wednesday, which should keep him from progressing to an anatomical rendering of Sarah’s spread-legged sex organs.

  On that discomforting thought, he tore naked Sarah out of the book and ripped her into four pieces. He thought about ripping the page into tinier pieces but that smacked of a loss of control he wouldn’t entertain. And then he stalked to the laundry where he kept his paper recycling bin, dropped the pieces in, and took a deep breath as he closed the lid.

  Better.

  One more deep breath.

  Much better.

  When he thought about it calmly, it was no big deal that he’d drawn Sarah naked. He was an artist. He’d painted nudes before. So what if this time he’d used an artist’s eye to conjure an image rather than painting from life? It was no big deal. And putting it into perspective, he’d only had to destroy one sketch out of a dozen. He could take some comfort from that, couldn’t he?

  Okay, enough self-flagellation. It was time to put the evening behind him and go to bed.

  But as he headed for his bedroom, he found himself pausing outside the bathroom where Sarah had changed. Her dress was in there. He couldn’t leave it in the bathroom; he had to hang it somewhere. He went in, plucked the suit bag from where she’d hung it, and carried it across the hall to the spare room. He slid open the wardrobe doors but the sight of Margaret’s clothes stopped him from going further.

  Margaret had left a selection of suits, blouses and shoes—with his blessing—for those times she stayed with him. There was plenty of space for Sarah’s suit bag, even if Margaret had five times the amount of gear stored there. But it didn’t feel right to put Sarah’s things in with his ex-wife’s. Not that Margaret would care. But … no.

  He pulled back, suit bag in hand, closed the wardrobe, and headed instead for his own bedroom. His wardrobe was much more crowded, but not so bad he couldn’t slip one slim bag in amongst his own suits. A little rearrangement, a bit of squishing, and he managed to slot it in.

  Right. Now it was time for a shower, and sleep.

  Except that once David was in bed, the image of that last sketch of Sarah twanged into his head like a spear into a bullseye and his body leapt to life. Groin tightening. Heart racing. Palms … sweating? Yes! His palms were freaking sweating!

  He sat up in bed, snapping on his bedside light. ‘For the love of God,’ he cried, catching sight of his tense face in the mirrored door of his built-in wardrobe. ‘You’re too fucking old for this.’

  He was about to turn off the light and give sleep another go when he noticed the bottom corner of Sarah’s suit bag sticking out of the wardrobe, stopping the doors from closing perfectly. He couldn’t leave it like that. The dress might crease and that would be no good for the painting, and God forbid her shoes in the bag pocket might get dented. And … and … well, just and.

  He got out of bed and went to adjust the clothes in the wardrobe so that he could close the doors. But he found himself pulling out the suit bag instead. Unzipping it. The vanilla scent of Sarah’s skin floated into his nostrils, but it was cool and unsatisfying, not as he remembered it. It bothered him, so he took the dress out, inhaled deeply. Nope. He held the dress up, brought it close to him, held it against his chest, waiting for some kind of sexual jolt to shock him. The fabric felt silky, but not as soft as he remembered it. Not as warm.

  He was pretty sure he should be happy that he wasn’t having much of a reaction to the dress—but he wasn’t happy. Scent and feel were tangible things he could relate to. The thing that was missing, as he stood with Sarah’s dress in his hands, was something intangible. He didn’t trust intangible.

  He caught sight of himself in the mirror—a naked thirty-four-year-old man clutching a red dress to his chest, and the jolt came. But it wasn’t a sexual one; it was a jolt of disbelief. ‘Now what?’ he asked his mirrored reflection. ‘Are you going to try on her shoes while you’re at it?’

  His face stared back at him, looking tortured—the absolute bastard of a thing.

  Disgusted, he zipped the dress into its bag and shoved it back into the wardrobe with what was probably unnecessary force, and this time made sure the doors were closed properly. He was going to stop thinking about Sarah Quinn, and her dress, and her shoes, and go to freaking sleep!

  A noble goal, which lasted for approximately three minutes. Because the thought of the red dress kept popping into his head—but with Sarah in it. And it kept merging, then separating, back and forth, with the vision of that last naked sketch of her. And then there was only one image, and that was of Sarah naked in bed with him, under him. And the scent of vanilla that now clung to him was suddenly warm and enticing. So of course his goddamn dick surged right up and would not subside, but just kept growing bigger and harder and hotter.

  Jesus. He had to get rid of the scent.

  The dress, the damn dress! He had to get it out of his room.

  He leapt back out of bed, ignoring the way his erection stood to attention and thanking God he was not a yukata-wearer, because the idea of it poking out between the two sides of such a garment made him want to laugh—and that made him think of Sarah laughing—and the thought of Sarah laughing didn’t help the situation.

  He strode to the wardrobe, wrenched open the door, wrenched out the suit bag, stalked down the corridor to the spare bedroom and wrenched open the wardrobe there. Yep, there was a whole lot of wrenching going on. He slapped the hook of the suit bag onto the hanging rail and wrenched the doors back into place.

  He looked down at his naked body and swore. Erection still standing straight and tall. And it was throbbing like the devil.

  He found he was clenching and unclenching his sweaty hands as he got back into bed, and decided to keep the bedside light on. Darkness would leave his mind too open to infiltration and he did not want to think about Sarah naked when his dick was already pulsating like a vibrator on the high speed setting.

  Oh. My. God. Had he just used the word ‘pulsating’ to describe his own dick? For anyone to use the word pulsating in relation to anyone’s dick was revolting, but to be thinking about his own in those terms …?

  Right. No help for it. He was going to have to jack off. And then he’d see what was pulsating!

  A speedy five minutes later, he was back in bed, and freaking out a little at the prospect that he was heading into premature ejaculation territory.

  Sarah didn’t think much of premature ejaculators.

  Oh for God’s sake.

  ‘Sarah does not want to have sex with you,’ he said out loud to his still-frantic reflection. ‘Got it, dumbass?’ Pause. Silence. And then, ‘Got it,’ he mumbled, sliding under the covers and feeling a little
embarrassed at that uncharacteristically impassioned outburst.

  Wingman, he reminded himself. Male girlfriend. The equivalent of a girl’s gay best friend. He had to keep it light, keep it funny, keep it cute. He’d probably set off her psycho alarm at the end of tonight’s sitting, the way he’d turned all surly and abrupt, practically shoving her out the door.

  So … maybe he should send her a text. Something light, jokey—which was the way they’d started their relationship before his penis had decided to go rogue on him. Just to let her know everything was back on an even keel.

  He reached for his phone on the bedside table. What to say, what to say, what to— Aha!

  He tapped out a short message:

  Wearing a yukata—thought you should know

  He hit send before he could start second-guessing himself the way a lovelorn seventeen-year-old premature ejaculator would do.

  He pictured her in bed, reading the text, giggling …

  Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star sounded—the ring tone he’d set for her.

  He looked down at his phone, anticipating her reaction, and for a moment, his breath caught in his chest as a feeling suspiciously like happiness flooded him.

  He opened the message. Read:

  Will tote gun on Saturday—prepare to be shot

  David laughed, and snapped off the light.

  He was still laughing as he slipped into a warm, deep sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Erica gave Sarah a sharp-eyed look—the tenth since she and Sarah had sat down with their drinks. ‘Okay, I want to know why it is that every time I mention Lane you jump like a scalded cat.’

  Sarah jumped in her seat before she could stop herself, managing to spill most of her drink on the floor. ‘Oops. I’ll go and get another,’ she said.

  Eric’s hand shot out and gripped her wrist, keeping her where she was. ‘Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on.’

  Sarah started to perspire. It was a widely acknowledged truth that Erica had a sixth sense! All it would take would be a handful of words for her to get a handle on the whole thing. She should have cancelled. She would have cancelled, except she’d already postponed one Adam/Lane gossip session and Erica would have been too suspicious to let her get away with it a second time. How she was going to get through four more weeks of such catch-ups she had no idea. Oh God, oh God, oh God. She needed a fresh drink. A double. A jug.

  She swallowed. ‘Nothing’s going on,’ she said/squeaked, and when Erica released her wrist—more a signal of disgust than trust—Sarah jumped again.

  ‘You’re blushing, Sarah. We both know that means you’re lying.’

  ‘I just feel a little … a little awkward discussing the Lane/Adam dynamic.’

  ‘Almost nine weeks they’ve been at this, almost nine weeks you and I have talking about it, and you’re only feeling awkward now?’

  ‘It’s more about what’s going to happen at the end, which is … is imminent. I mean … only one month to go. Lane … Adam … me … D-errr …’ No, she could not say his name. She couldn’t, or the game would be up.

  ‘David …?’ Erica said for her.

  ‘Y-yes …?’

  ‘You’re not sounding sure about that.’ Erica had this thing she did with her mouth, a little moue, when she was disbelieving of something—and she was doing it now and freaking Sarah out completely. ‘You’re holding out on me, Sarah; I can feel it. Is it Adam? Has he told you something?’

  Sarah could laugh at that at least, even if it did come out sounding borderline hysterical. ‘Seriously? I’ve barely seen Adam since they signed that contract.’

  ‘Yeah, well something’s changed. They’ve gone from seven nights a week to two. She tells me it’s ‘as per the contract’ and therefore no big deal, but she’s walking around the house like she doesn’t know what to do with herself. Ever since that event at the art gallery.’ Eyes narrowing. ‘You were there. What happened?’

  Swallow. ‘That was the night Liam dumped me. I wasn’t exactly concentrating on anyone else’s love life.’

  ‘Even if I didn’t know Liam was an arsehole you were well rid of, and that nobody believes for a moment you were traumatized by that break-up given the relationship didn’t even last a week, I’d have to point out that you’re still blushing, Sarah.’ Pause. ‘So perhaps this is where I tell you that every time I … say … your name … Lane gets all … fidgety. So she’s twisting … her fingers … and you’re doing … the scalded cat … thing …’

  Uh-oh. Those pauses were ominous. Suspicious. Sweat started to break out along Sarah’s hairline.

  ‘Come on, Sarah,’ Erica said softly. ‘What don’t I know?’

  ‘Oh all right!’ Sarah burst out. ‘Land and I had a disagreement at the event that night.’

  ‘Over …?’

  ‘Over Adam. Because I think things between Lane and Adam are not as we … you … believed.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘They’re not … romantically inclined.’

  Eyes narrowing to slits. ‘What’s he said?’

  Swallow. ‘H-he?’

  ‘Adam. If he hurts her, brother or not, I’m going to hand him his scrotum, contents included, in a shot glass, blended with the worm from a bottle of mescal.’

  ‘No! No, you’ve got it wrong. It’s Lane who’s going to do the hurting!’

  ‘Lane? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Evidence?’

  Sarah screwed her eyes closed. This was cutting too close to the bone. ‘She … she introduced David Bennett to Adam in a very … very pointed way.’

  ‘Introduced them? But I could have sworn she was over that … She looks so satisfied … loved-up, sexed-up, the works …’

  Sarah opened one eye, saw that Erica seemed to be talking to herself, and opted to shut up and pretend she wasn’t there.

  ‘She’s barely had a night off,’ Erica mused on. ‘My love life should be that good. And she hasn’t mentioned David for weeks. It just doesn’t seem … Hmm …’

  Sarah deemed it safe to open her other eye at that point—and then wished she hadn’t because Erica brought her attention right back to her.

  ‘So I take it you met David that night, too,’ Erica said.

  ‘Yeees!’ Warily.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And … what?’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s … as she described him.’

  ‘Sex on a stick, huh?’

  ‘Um …’ Sarah said, not sure how to give an honest answer to that. Would it be disloyal to Lane, or to Adam, if she admitted out loud the guy was a bona fide sex god, now that she was tied up with him? Worse, that she’d actually kissed him—even if it was only a demonstration and not a real one, the distinction of which would be hard to describe?

  Thankfully, Erica wasn’t looking at her; instead, she was looking around the bar as though searching for an answer to an unanswerable question.

  While Erica was lost once again in a moment of preoccupation, Sarah slid off her stool. ‘I guess I’ll grab that fresh drink,’ she said, wondering if she could steal a moment to text David and tell him not to come anywhere near them.

  But Erica had grabbed her wrist again. Apparently, Sarah wasn’t going anywhere now that something—someone—behind her had snagged Erica’s attention.

  ‘Sex on a stick,’ Erica said again—but this time, it seemed she had the stick in sight. And from the dazzled look on Erica’s face, Sarah knew it was too late to text David.

  ‘Erica?’ she said, feeling faint.

  ‘Sorry,’ Erica said, returning her focus to the table, ‘but there’s a total hottie behind you. Look, but don’t make it obvious. Wait … wait … Now, look now, while his eyes are on the wine list.’

  Obediently, Sarah looked—and kind of wished she hadn’t. David was wearing dark blue jeans, a collarless grey T-shirt with a series
of undone buttons at the throat and a mid-blue and navy hound’stooth sports jacket. He looked so effortlessly cool, Sarah was in real danger of drooling. How had he become better-looking in only three days?

  ‘What do you think?’ Erica asked, sotto voce. ‘Shall we see if we can get tall, blond and handsome to come and talk to us?’ She punctuated the question with a perfect swing of her luxuriously long black hair over one shoulder. There was a whole lot of look-at-me about that hair swing—a move worthy of a shampoo commercial.

  NO! was what Sarah screamed in her head, because it had been an asinine idea to let David loose near Erica.

  What if David and Erica, in all their mutual hotness, fell in love? David would then have to confess his real name, and Sarah would have some explaining to do.

  Worse, what if Erica and Lane both called dibs on David? Sarah would be stuck in the middle, an engineer of the love triangle.

  Actually, it would be a square, if you added Sarah herself in, because she had kissed him, which would leave both the others demanding an explanation.

  Throw Adam into the mix, and it would be a pentagon—and everyone knew pentagons were satanic. They’d all be blaming Sarah and demanding explanations. Including Erica’s boyfriend Jeremy!

  And the addition of him would make it a hexagonal disaster. What had she been thinking to agree to this?

  ‘Actually,’ Sarah said, flicking nervous glances between David and Erica, ‘I thought maybe we should try a different bar. This place … it’s kind of … young, isn’t it? You’ve never liked it. And it’s certainly not … not sophisticated enough for that guy. Just think about the wine. If he doesn’t have a strong constitution he won’t stay past the first sip.’

  ‘Maybe, but he’s here and so are we. Come on, Sarah, you’re between men. Again. What’s the harm?’

  ‘He’s too … too … um …’ Sarah scrabbled desperately around in her head, trying to locate a valid excuse for running away.