Floodtide

by Judy Nunn

  Spud picked up his jacket and made for the door.

  'Excuse me, Gerrard.' Trish could finally take no more. The man's eyes were firmly fixed upon her breasts and she had a feeling he was about to proposition her. He obviously thought that any woman who spent more than five minutes in his company found him attractive. Hadn't he heard of women's lib? Didn't he know that women loathed his type? That they always had? She'd love to tell him so to his face, but she didn't. She played the game, as always.

  'Can't stay chatting, much as I'd love to,' she said, shrugging on her suit jacket. Gerrard's eyes jerked upwards to meet hers. 'Duty calls, I'm afraid.' And she marched off to join Mayjay, Miss Bunbury and the Qantas executive.

  Gerrard watched her go, focusing on her backside in its neat pin-striped miniskirt. What a pity, he'd been about to make a move. Great tits, he thought. Good arse too.

  'Hello, Brian, having a good time?' Trish gave Brian Tomlinson a particularly bright smile. Qantas was the ad agency's top client, and its sponsorship of the WA Beach Girl Beauty Quest, an account also handled by the agency, was a cross-marketing coup.

  'Couldn't be better.'

  Trish noted Brian's glance at Mayjay. Another womaniser out to score, she thought. Well, he'd certainly set his sights high, but it was quite possible he'd make it. Mayjay had already slept with the Ansett representative – perhaps she had a penchant for airline executives.

  'And how about you, Penelope?' Trish turned her bright smile to Miss Bunbury. 'It's a big night for you, isn't it?'

  Penelope responded enthusiastically. It was very exciting and she was having a wonderful time, she said. This was the biggest night of her life. Penelope was a nice girl.

  Mayjay had had enough of the social chat. She'd been weighing up her options. Mr Qantas obviously wanted to sleep with her, but she didn't particularly fancy him. Bored, she'd been contemplating whether or not to head off to the Snake Pit where the bouncer had told her she could score some cocaine. Her own stash had run out – she'd snorted the last line in the ladies' lavatory at Farrell Vintage Motors – and she needed something to alleviate the tediousness of the evening. She'd asked amongst the contestants, but they'd been unable to come up with even a speed pill, let alone coke, they were such a square bunch. Obviously not professionals, she'd thought dismissively – stimulants were rife amongst the modelling set in Sydney, who snorted and swallowed with religious regularity in the knowledge that it kept the weight off.

  The Snake Pit had been beckoning Mayjay for the past ten minutes and Trish's intervention was the final clincher.

  'I'm off.'

  Her interruption of Penelope was appallingly rude. Turning on her heel, she was about to walk away, but Trish was too quick for her.

  'Off where?' she asked pleasantly, forcing a halt to Mayjay's flight.

  'To the music. To the dance floor.' Mayjay's petulance clearly said 'Where else?' 'I'm bored.'

  'I don't think that's such a good idea.' Trish's tone remained pleasant, but her smile was now tight.

  'Oh, and why's that?' Go on, Mayjay thought, say it, I dare you. We're paying you a fortune, you bitch, how dare you knock off early. She knew exactly what Trish was thinking.

  'It would be unwise of you to go to the Snake Pit on your own. It's quite a rough place, I'm told.'

  'I won't be on my own. Some of the girls have gone. I'll be with them.'

  'Since when have you been one of the girls, Mayjay?' For the benefit of the others, Trish laughed lightly, as if joking, but she wasn't. God, the woman had a hide. The girls weren't being paid a fortune like her, and Mayjay had made it plain that she considered them beneath her anyway. How dare she try and play it both ways.

  'Besides, the girls don't have a minder and you do.' Trish turned to Brian and Penelope with a self-effacing shrug. 'I'm it, I'm afraid, and I can't neglect my duties.' Then back to Mayjay, still charming, but with a definite reminder that Mayjay, too, had duties. 'I'll be standing by with the limousine at ten o'clock.'

  Trish-bitch-Barraclough had gone too far, Mayjay thought. 'I won't need the limo,' she said bluntly. 'And I'm electing a new minder.' She treated the Qantas chief executive to a dazzling smile. Mr Qantas, she thought, what the hell was his name? Ah yes, that was it. 'Brian, will you accept the position? Will you be my minder for the night?' She tucked a hand through his arm, her eyes settling on his mouth, the tip of her tongue running suggestively over her lips. 'It appears I need some looking after.'

  Brian Tomlinson was no slouch when it came to women, but he'd never before experienced such an overtly sexual come-on, and all in the space of seconds. 'Well, of course,' he said, hoping his voice sounded normal. 'I'd be only too happy to look after you, Mayjay.'

  'Oh good.' Her eyes slid up to meet his and she nestled a breast against his arm. 'That's nice,' she purred.

  For one confusing second, Brian thought she meant the touch of their bodies, and he agreed wholeheartedly.

  'So you see, Trish,' without drawing breath, Mayjay addressed her publicist with only the subtlest change in her tone, 'you won't be needed after all.' Her eyes and the proprietorial hand tucked through the arm of Brian Tomlinson signalled a definite message. See, bitch? Your top client is eating out of my hand. Now tell me I'm not doing my job!

  'You can take the limo home all by yourself,' she said sweetly. 'You can even pretend it's just for you.'

  Trish said nothing. What was there to say? If Mayjay wished to go beyond the call of duty in entertaining the agency's principal client, then who was she to complain? And the woman's intended spite was water off a duck's back. Trish was only too happy to take the limo home herself and get an early night.

  Hitching the straps of her small gold evening bag over her shoulder, Mayjay turned to Miss Bunbury, but she couldn't remember the girl's name.

  'Goodbye,' she said. 'You're very pretty.'

  'Thank you.'

  Trish ignored Mayjay's grand exit as she swanned off with Brian Tomlinson. The woman wouldn't last in the business, she thought. Mayjay was a flash in the pan, despite her beauty – just another rank amateur. Trish had seen them come and go with monotonous regularity.

  'Come with me, Penelope,' she said, steering the girl towards a group of executives. 'There are some important people you need to chat to.' She'd give Penelope five minutes of her time, she thought. Then she'd sneak out the rear entrance to where the limo was waiting.

  *

  Brian Tomlinson put his arm around Mayjay as they were about to step into the street. Presuming that she was coming home with him and anxious to beat a hasty retreat, he was ready to guide her to his nearby car. But she halted at the door.

  'I have to see a couple of people before I leave,' she said. 'Why don't you have another drink? I shouldn't be too long.'

  He paused, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. Was she having him on? He wasn't in the mood for games. If she was a prick-teaser he didn't want a bar of her. She was either going to sleep with him or she wasn't.

  Sensing his misgivings, Mayjay was quick with her reassurance.

  'They're paying me a lot of money, Brian.' Her apology sounded not only sincere but eminently reasonable. 'It's politic of me to say a couple of farewells.'

  She wasn't altogether having him on, as he suspected, but she was certainly using him. Brian Tomlinson had been handy in getting her away from Trish Barraclough. She was prepared to sleep with him however – Mr Qantas was a worthy conquest who could prove useful. But he wasn't her type. The prospect of sex with him didn't thrill her, and Mayjay demanded that sex be thrilling. She needed a line of coke, she told herself – artificial stimulation was essential when fucking a man one didn't fancy. Boris at the Snake Pit, the bouncer had said. You'll find him hanging around La Spiaggia.

  'A few minutes, that's all.' She fed Brian's arm around her and pressed her crotch teasingly against his. 'Five or ten at the most.'

  Her other hand hooked itself about his neck, and Brian couldn't resist the parted lips on offer.
As they kissed, he felt her tongue dart across his teeth and her pelvis gently sway against his growing erection.

  'Stick to the main bar,' she whispered when their mouths parted. If Trish-bitch-Barraclough spotted Mr Qantas on his own, she thought, the cow of a woman would be bound to come on the hunt. 'I'll meet you there in ten minutes.'

  As she turned to go, her hand fleetingly brushed his groin, as if by accident, and she smiled a promise over her shoulder.

  Brian obediently went into the main bar where he caught his breath, ordered a cooling beer and tantalised himself with images of Mayjay naked.

  At the Snake Pit, the band was belting out the Chantays' latest surfie hit from the USA. 'Pipeline', with its pumping rhythm and sexual innuendo, was driving youth wild in nightclubs and dance halls all over the world, and the Snake Pit was no exception. The simple wooden dance floor set out on the sand writhed with a sea of bodies. Bare-footed and frantic, sweat flowing freely, dancers jived and twisted and stomped the night away, the hot air charged with a feverish energy.

  Spud, upon his arrival, had been quick to forgive Mike and Ian for deserting him. 'Knew I'd find you here, you bastards!' he'd yelled above the din as he joined them in their spot on the sand. He'd spent a good five minutes hunting amongst the crowd.

  Mike, bare-footed like the others, trousers rolled up, open shirt flapping, had just come off the dance floor after a rigorous workout, his bare chest drenched in sweat. Ian, collapsed on the sand and swigging back a beer, was in a similar condition.

  'Sorry, mate,' Mike had yelled back, flopping beside Ian to look up at Spud.

  'It's okay. You didn't miss much. The food was good.'

  Spud had known immediately that the boys were on a high, he could see it in their eyes. Well, Pembo was on a constant high these days, with his bloody speed pills. Unlike Mike to succumb though, he'd thought. What the hell, they were having a good time.

  He'd plonked himself next to them, taking off his shoes and his jacket and producing the ubiquitous flask of Jack Daniel's. Might as well join in the fun, he'd thought, passing around the flask and rolling up his trousers.

  They now sat companionably, swigging back the bourbon and watching the girls on the dance floor. They compared notes, differing occasionally on who was hot and who wasn't, but they were all in accord about the redhead. Miss Albany should have won the beauty quest, Mike said, and the others agreed.

  They watched Miss Albany as she walked off the dance floor to join two other girls, also gorgeous, also contest-ants, and as they saw them gather up their shoes, the boys, presuming they were leaving, were about to jump to their feet. The opportunity seemed too good to miss.

  'So these are your mates, Spud.'

  The voice was right overhead, and there was something about it that commanded attention, even in the surrounding din.

  All three of them turned and glanced up to where she stood only several feet behind them, legs astride, sandals in hand. She liked to sneak up on people.

  'I'm Mayjay,' she said, her eyes focused on Mike. 'Don't get up,' she laughed, although none of them had made a move, momentarily dumbfounded by the tanned legs and the perfect body in its form-fitting red mini dress. 'Mind if I join you?'

  She already had, dumping her bag and sandals, seating herself between Spud and Mike, digging her bare toes into the sand.

  'You didn't tell me your friends were so good-looking, Spud.' Again she had eyes only for Mike.

  Mayjay had seen him the moment she'd arrived. Avoiding the dancers, on her way to the kiosk in search of Boris, she'd spied Spud passing a flask to a couple of his mates. She'd been about to avoid him also – she liked Spud, but with Mr Qantas waiting it would be unwise to invite a chat – then she'd noticed the young man beside him, smiling as he accepted the flask, tilting his head back as he swigged from it, his dark tousled hair wet with sweat, his bare chest glistening. She couldn't take her eyes off him. This was the man she wanted, she thought. Bugger Brian Tomlinson, and bugger Boris – sex with this one wouldn't require a line of coke.

  She'd taken off her sandals and made a beeline through the sand. Mr Qantas would be angry, but he wouldn't come looking for her. He'd get bored waiting and go home on his own, and who the hell cared? Here was her challenge. This was where the night's excitement lay.

  'Mike McAllister and Ian Pemberton, otherwise known as Pembo . . .'

  Mayjay dragged her eyes from Mike as Spud made the introductions. The other one was good-looking too, she realised. In fact, despite slightly bat ears, he was downright handsome, and although not as well-muscled as his friend, the sweaty bare chest that he, too, displayed through his open shirt was fit and very attractive. A smorgasbord, she thought, the evening was picking up. Even more importantly, she could tell they were both on a high. Given the dilated pupils, she presumed it was coke. What a turn-on. These two were out for excitement. Well, so am I boys, she thought.

  She smiled at Mike. 'Want to share it around?' She leaned in close to him so she didn't have to shout above the band.

  Mike started guiltily. Had she read his thoughts? The look in her eyes had been so openly inviting that all he'd been able to think of was getting her into bed.

  'Share what around?'

  'The coke, or whatever it is you're on.'

  Ian picked his jacket up from the sand and dived his hand into its inside pocket.

  'No coke, only Dexies, I'm afraid.'

  'That'll do.' She accepted the two speed pills he offered, Spud passed her the flask and she downed them with a swig of Jack Daniel's. 'Thanks.' Handing the flask back to Spud, she stood. 'Want to dance?' The offer was directed to Mike.

  'Sure.'

  He scrambled to his feet and they took off for the dance floor. Spud and Ian looked over to where the redhead and her girlfriends had been. They'd gone. Mike had scored Mayjay and they'd lost their opportunity. Damn it, they thought.

  A male vocalist had joined the band now, and was offering an excellent rendition of the Fortune's latest hit, 'You've Got Your Troubles, I've Got Mine'.

  As they stepped onto the wooden dance floor, Mayjay didn't gyrate independently of her partner as the others were doing, she melded her body to his and they danced in a close embrace. The invitation she'd offered with her eyes, she now offered with her whole body, and Mike, self-conscious of his instant erection, tried at first to steer a little distance between them.

  'No, not like that,' she murmured, her breath fanning his ear, her hand at the small of his back, urging him closer. 'Share it, Mike. Share it.' Her body undulated against his in time with the music and her own mantra. 'Share it, Mike. Share it. Share it.'

  Self-consciousness forgotten, Mike succumbed to the moment. The pills, the alcohol, the music and, above all, the movement of her body combined in a headiness that made him lost to everything about him. This wasn't dancing, this was sex. And it was the sort of sex that could go on forever, slow, sensual, with no frantic need. He felt no sense of urgency and no threat of impending ejaculation as his hands slid to her buttocks and their groins moved in harmony, the pace dictated by her whispers and the music's rhythm. On it went, on and on, Mike's mind and body lost in a state of total sensuality.

  'We're going to take a short break now, folks. Don't go away.'

  The abrupt cessation of the music shocked him back to reality and, as the bandleader made the announcement, he broke away to look around guiltily, wondering if he should be embarrassed. They'd been having sex right in the middle of the dance floor! But to his relief, no-one appeared to have noticed.

  As the band played a final riff, the crowd gave them a rousing round of applause, but Mike was still lost in his own thoughts. God, he'd been horny. He still was. And he'd felt as if he could go on forever. It must be the pills – no wonder Pembo had said they were good for sex.