by Bloom, Anna
Curse this girl and her penchant for spirits!
We knock them back, and the whiskey burns my throat on the way down, and not at all in a good way.
The moment I put my glass down, the room starts to spin in an alarming fashion.
This is a little worrying as the room is already spinning and I have a bad feeling the whiskey wants to say hello again.
“You don’t mind if I crash your girls’ night, do you?” Ben asks with a distracting blue eye twinkle and freckle crinkle.
“Yes,” I reply just as Meredith pipes in with, “No.”
“Good that’s sorted then.” He smirks as he shrugs out of his jacket.
I try very hard not to focus on the removal of clothing, ignoring the flash of skin above his jeans, which exposes a strip of firm abs. He catches me looking and gives me a wink.
Damn it.
I flush beetroot red.
I need a cigarette, or Valium, or something.
“I am going for air,” I announce, pushing away from the table.
“You okay, Lilah? You look a bit hot,” Meredith asks, completely oblivious.
“Mmm, great,” I mutter back before turning and attempting to make it to the door without face-planting the floor.
I am so far from cool right now, a heat-seeking missile could pick me out in a crowd.
It is fair to say that Ben Chambers brings out the worst in me. How did I go from sounding like a crazy stalker to agreeing to a date all in one conversation?
It makes no sense.
Why did he even bother to ask me out, when it is apparent I am completely and utterly bloody deranged? Why did I even say ‘yes’ when I know I shouldn’t have done?
He did ask me out, right? Or did I just imagine it?
I could have done. I am heading into Crazyville at a rapidly increasing pace.
Cigarette Break
It takes approximately three minutes for Ben to accompany me down the dingy alleyway I have found, lighting a cigarette of his own. He takes a deep drag and blows the smoke away into the air above him. I am not sure how he manages to make it look so sexy, but he does.
Oh, he really does.
“What’s up?” he asks once he’s finished artfully blowing smoke in a mesmerising manner.
“Nothing,” I say, looking anywhere but at him.
“Really? Nothing?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Any reason you don’t want me around?”
Yes. I fancy the hell out of you but also have a fiancé.
I look up to meet his gaze. “Uh, no not at all.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
“So you’re not ignoring me on purpose then?”
“Um, nope.”
“Okay.” He eyes me with an amused expression on his face.
It makes me want to punch him or kiss him. It’s a fifty/fifty split. “Okay.”
“It’s just I would hate it if I made you feel uncomfortable by kissing you the other day.”
God, this is just mortifying.
“Not at all, Benjamin.”
The smirk gets bigger.
“That’s okay then, Delilah.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
I can feel his fingers seek out my own. I am too scared to look in case he moves away.
We stare at each other for a few moments: blues meeting greys, fingers touching loosely, but not letting go.
“Come on, let’s go and rescue Meredith,”
I tug at his hand keeping my hold on his fingers as we head back inside. Turns out she does not need rescuing. Tristan the Arse is sitting in what was my seat. I am going to tell him something along the lines of "F’off," but then he makes a point of staring at my hand, which is still clasped in Ben’s so I don’t say a word. I just let them get on with it.
23rd September
I am a stalker.
Last night after I was assured by Meredith that she was more than happy with my brother’s company (can’t think bloody why), Ben and I walked out into the pub’s courtyard garden where we played a game of ‘get to know you.’
Well, I played a game of ‘let’s stalk Ben Chambers so I can write it all down in my diary when I get home and re-read it forever more.’
These are things I found out:
Ben’s band ‘Sound Box’ is doing well, but they are at the point of make it or break it.
Ben comes from Dorset (I drunkenly suggested we should go for a walk on the beach there one day because that is where one of my favourite books is based. So kill me now.)
He has never had a proper girlfriend before (This little nugget of information caused me to spray my spritzer all over the table.)
“As bloody if!” I exclaim once we have stopped giggling from my wine fountain, but apparently it is true. Ben says he has always been too busy with the band. Then when he realised maybe he was missing out on something he could no longer work out if the girls were interested in him, or the fact he stood at the front of a stage and played guitar. I thought this was one of the saddest things I ever heard and stared into the blues for a moment contemplating why he thought I was different enough to jump off the stage for, but I shook the thought away without voicing it.
In return I told him:
Nothing.
Well, nothing of any real importance like “Uh, yeah, sorry I forgot to mention it the other day when you had me backed up against a tree, but I have a fiancé.”
I feel bad, but I was having so much fun sitting there with him, I didn’t want to tell him the truth. I am scared that if I do tell him then he will not be interested in me anymore. Deep down I know I would be sorely disappointed if that was to happen almost as disappointed as I was last night when he kept his promise not to kiss me and instead just pecked me on my cheek outside my door.
I fell into bed grinning like a buffoon.
I am still grinning like a buffoon now.
This is not good. Not good at all.
24th September
Apparently there was homework over the weekend. I didn’t do it. I spent most of yesterday reading the same paragraph over and over again and doodling.
I do a fine line in doodling, lots of triangles.
I also spent a reasonable amount of time listening to Ben play guitar through the wall. I resisted the urge to knock and ask if I could sit in.
So, basically, no studying was accomplished which is a problem. I need to try harder, otherwise this will be an adventure in futility and my dad will be proven right.
It was with this in mind that I slipped out of the lecture hall as soon as today’s seminar was over and dashed off to the library before anyone could stop or distract me.
I have sat here for two hours staring blankly at the books.
Oooh, a text message.
Tacos in 15 if you want. B.x
Way-hay! Ben’s number! Think I will store that.
9.00 p.m.
I am lying in bed, listening to Ben play guitar through the wall. It sounds rather pretty.
What a bizarrely domestic evening. When the text came through, I packed up my stuff at superhuman speed then ran it out of the library as quick as my legs could carry me. I am all for the study but I am also all for tacos, especially if they are being served up by a hottie.
The tacos are good. The company is even better.
I do no studying at all. Well, not in the traditional study of books, per se.
I do perform a detailed study of Ben’s bottom, which is deliciously encased in low-slung jeans.
I wash up after dinner as he sits on the work-surface and chats, drying the plates as I pass them along. I manage to drop four plate
s due to extreme lack of attention to my task in hand. It was hard to concentrate on anything apart from my gratuitous ogling. Luckily the plates all bounced. Clearly not fine china.
Ben laughs when the fourth plate slips out of my soapy hand.
“Are you always this clumsy, Lilah?” He chuckles.
The way he says my name makes my stomach take the most alarming dip. I will be eternally grateful I was not holding a knife at that moment.
25th September
Ben waits for me after class and walks me to the library. I melt a little bit into a puddle of drool, grinning like a buffoon.
Again.
26th September
Ben waits for me after class again, standing there leaning against the doorframe looking far more cool than should be legal.
Barbie gives me a glare and I give an imaginary punch in the air.
Stick that, skinny blonde cow.
27th September
Ben waits for me again, handing me a sheet of paper as I approach him.
“What’s this?”
“Notes from class. You did not appear to be listening,” he says with a smirk.
“Thanks.” I am a drooling bright red mess.
He walks me to the library, flashing me a smile as he leaves me at the door, lighting a cigarette as he goes. It seems Ben is not so keen on the library, yet he still seems to know the answers to most of the questions in class. And without burping or going bright red like me.
28th September
I have my Uni schedule well and truly nailed. My agenda goes like this:
Lectures
Library
Ben ogle time
Apparently another one of Ben’s skills other than playing the guitar, being super brainy, and looking shit hot is that he can cook. What a result. I cannot even boil an egg, and judging by how long the smoke alarm was going off the other day, Meredith cannot make toast. We have been rescued from our joint culinary dilemma by Ben, who makes chopping an onion look rather sexy.
Goth Chick and the Sparrow are never here. They have made some new, more interesting friends on a different floor.
Jayne is hanging with us, which is cool. She is really nice, and not at all plain. In fact, she is actually very pretty.
Ben and I are living in a comfortable sort of stalemate. We move around each other, being all polite whilst secretly eyeing one another other up. Well, I know I am eyeing him up, and Meredith, whom I believe is a reliable source, tells me that he spends a reasonable amount of time looking at me. According to the Oracle of Staring, he spent a whole three minutes staring at my arse whilst I rooted around in a cupboard for plates the other day.
There is a crazy sexual tension thing going on, which everyone is beginning to notice, and I seem to be spending most of my time giggling. Every day he sits behind me in lectures, tapping the leg of my chair, and every day I lean my chair closer and closer back towards him. I will land on my arse one day. I know it.
Every night, we sit in our bedrooms next door to one another and have bizarre text conversations that leave me grinning as I go to sleep.
Ben: What you doing?
Me: Filing my nails.
Ben: Toe or Finger?
Me: Camel toe.
Tonight, we are doing something completely different. We are going to the local club that holds a student night: The Fez Club. I am not super thrilled about going clubbing. It is not really my scene. I much prefer a pub and a bottle of wine to standing in a club surrounded by sweating teenagers.
I hate dancing, and I am pretty sure dancing hates me.
Well, actually the truth is that I hate dancing until I have too much to drink and then believe that I can dance. Then I do not stop.
I am worried about how badly I am going to embarrass myself. It could go either way. I have decided to wear a mature outfit of a black strapless top and dark blue jeans, a simple and understated ensemble intended to demonstrate my maturity and dignity.
29th September
Shit. My head. Again.
I am pretty sure that there is a locomotive in my skull performing some form of Morse code with its horn thingy.
It’s official. I am not mature and I have no dignity whatsoever. Well, now I don’t.
I cannot stop being sick but I am not sure if it is the alcohol (let’s be honest, there was a fair amount of it) or if it’s the embarrassment of another incident involving, me, Ben, and alcohol.
This is terrible. I am going to be stuck in my room all over again all because I have willpower with the substance of candyfloss.
Fez club, Shmez Club. I am never going there again.
The Fez Club
I am a bit tipsy. Oh, okay, I am very tipsy. Again.
My excuse is that the drinks are cheap: Two pounds a shot!
My kind of bar.
An hour after arriving, Ben has disappeared off somewhere with his band mates and Meredith and Tristan are in a booth, whispering. When Tristan turns up, I glare at him. How bloody annoying can he be? Surely he must have something better to do.
This leaves me putting it about the multi-coloured dance floor with some strange guy who keeps trying to ruin my solo dance by gyrating in behind me, placing his hands on my hips and attempting to pull me back into his groin.
Yuck!
I am ducking away, when I see Ben over on the other side of the dance floor. He is surrounded by girls, who all appear to be in a state of undress. He gives me a wink when I catch his eye. I want to pull a finger at him for standing there surrounded by skinny, nearly naked teenage girls, but I manage to maintain some restraint.
I move myself away from the greaseball with the wandering hands and circle myself further into the dance floor blocking the view of Ben and his hoard of fans.
The next thing I feel are some hands circling around my waist again. I turn around fast, ready to punch the guy with sticky fingers. Instead, I find Ben right there, standing as close as he can. My mouth flaps open like a fish, not that I would have anything to say even if he could hear me over the pounding music.
He keeps himself close as he starts to dance with me. It is absolutely electric! My entire body feels like it is going to combust. As a general rule the sight of men dancing always makes me laugh. I can’t help it. There is always a serious amount of "dad-dancing" no matter how hard they try.
But Ben does not have this problem. He fits around me like a jigsaw piece, his mouth close to my ear. For a split second I think he is talking to me but then with a shock I realise he is kissing along my jaw and ear lobe. My knees started to shake a little, which is a trifle embarrassing. Laughing against my ear, he tightens his arms around me and leads me away and into a dark corner booth.
The Booth of Truth
Ben slides into the booth, pulling me in beside him, his arm still tight around my waist.
There are a million questions chasing around in my mind but I don’t ask any of them. I just kiss him instead. Fervently. And then I kiss him some more.
I am on fire, literally, as he trails his lips along my naked shoulder his hands brazenly sliding around my back, his fingertips grazing under the hem of my top.
I should stop, but I don’t. I can’t. I just move closer and closer to him.
Hot. Hot. Hot.
How hot can one boy be? It’s wrong on so many levels but right in the moment I don’t care. I don’t care about anything I just allow myself to slide deeper under and melt into him.
And then . . . I give myself a mental bitch-slap and ease away, but not out of arm’s length.
“I can’t do this,” I confess with a sigh that may be a little breathless.
“Why?”
The question sounds less concerned or frustrated than I am expecting.
“Because I just can’t. It’s complicated.”
His lips don’t cease their path up my shoulder and neck.
“Complicated,” he murmurs. “It sounds serious.”
“I am with someone else.”
There it is: the big fuck-off bombshell in the proceedings.
I cannot read his normally bright eyes. It’s too dark, and his eyelashes obscure any reflection.
I am about to apologise or something, I feel I should, when to my complete and utter surprise, he leans back in and kisses me again firmly, his lips opening my own. He is pretty hard to resist, so I don’t bother.
Some point later, he whispers against my ear, breathing warm air along my throat. “I’m going to set myself the challenge to make you mine.”
I throw my head back and laugh in response. “Oh, really?”
“Yes. I like this. It’s something I think I can get used to.”
His lips are still trailing their maddening pattern.
“You sound very confident, Mr Chambers.”
“I am.”
I slide out of the booth and grab his hand to bring him back onto the dance floor where we melt into the crowd, our bodies still pressed together tight, which is where we stay until two this morning, when the bouncers finally empty us off the dance floor.
Meredith?
It was only when we are outside and buttoning our jackets that I realise I cannot find Meredith. Best Friend Award goes to me. After about twenty minutes of frantically searching the crowds and the kebab shop for her, I remember that I have a useful item called a phone in my coat pocket.
First try: No answer.
Second try: “Mmm, yes?”
“Meredith, where the hell are you? I’ve been looking everywhere!”
“At the flat.”
“Oh, okay then. We’ll see you in fifteen, we’re just getting in a cab.”
“Um, not that flat, Lil.”
“Which flat then?”
