by West, Jade
Three months later
I pulled my phone from my handbag at the ping, calling up the message with one fumbling hand as I carried on up the street back to the office. I shoved it back in my bag without answering. Sebastian and his regular text, the same routine as every other lunchtime these past few months.
Have you come to your fucking senses yet?
No, I hadn’t come to my senses yet. So many nights I’d paced up and down my new apartment living room when my new housemate, Vicky, had bailed off to sleep, trying to make myself see reason and return to the man everyone was continually telling me I was insane for leaving. So many nights I’d failed.
This Friday lunchtime wasn’t any different.
He didn’t even put kisses at the end of his messages. No attempt to tell me he was missing me, or wanting me, or loving me. Just that same blunt question, as though it was inevitable I would one day realise I wanted to go wedding dress shopping and walk up the aisle to him, the god of an ideal existence – Sebastian Maitland and our world of perfect.
Life might’ve been so much easier if I did.
I answered the messages from Mum, desperate to know if I was still alive and free from seizures, then walked into work with a smile at Lucia on reception and dropped myself down at my desk to prepare for the afternoon project meeting. I had my sales strategy notes all mapped out, the coming quarter plotted for Pewter Security’s campaign, and that’s when another ping sounded from my handbag.
This was a different ping altogether. One that did actually have my heart racing.
Trojan from the online dating app. Trojan, the huge specimen of a man who’d been promising me all kinds of wonder in the bedroom if I agreed to a meet-up.
I’d been replying, flirting, asking about his preferences and his wants and his needs. It seemed they matched pretty well with mine. Fire and lust and flesh on flesh. The churn of animalistic excitement and desire coming to life.
Stacey from the marketing team headed on over with a file pressed to her chest, and I dropped my phone on the desk. She was one of the only people far enough removed from my life to avoid giving me scathing attacks at every opportunity.
“Is that him? The hot guy? Trojan?”
I nodded. “Yeah, it’s him. He wants to meet up this weekend. His promises are quite attractive.”
She nodded back. “So, are you going to do it? Bite the bullet and give him a shot?”
I leaned back in my seat and tapped my pen against the desk top. “I don’t know.”
“You’ve got to do it sometime,” she said. “It’s not like the local populous is offering you much fulfilment.” She put her hand over her mouth as Steve from accounts walked on by.
Cringe.
I screwed my eyes shut.
He’d been the last member of the local populous I’d spread my legs for in the hope of getting a genuine orgasm. I’d been disappointed. Same as usual. I’d fucked up in my stupid thrill-seeking. Same as usual.
“Sorry,” she said. “Hopefully he didn’t hear me.”
But he had. He fired me a seething glance from Peter’s desk at the other end of the room, and I cringed afresh. His seething glance could join the club along with everyone else’s, but still, it slammed me hard.
I should never have fucked anyone at work. It was a mistake. Hooking up with a couple of random hot-looking guys after nights out with some of my work friends had been one thing, but responding to Steve’s flirty work emails had been a whole other league.
“At least the online app should be good for anonymity,” I told her.
“Maybe he’ll actually be a good fuck,” she replied. “You’ll have to fill me in with the gossip on Monday. I can always give you an emergency bail out call if you need one. We can pencil one in.”
I thanked her – the one person in my life who wasn’t constantly shaking their head and demanding that I should run back to Seb. My parents were devastated, our entire network of mutual friends was still reeling, my friends too. Even Nicola, my bestest bestest bestie in the whole bloody world.
“I’ll let you know when to put in the call,” I said. “Honestly, I appreciate it.”
She tipped her head. “Sounds like you are planning on hooking up with this one, then.”
I guessed I was.
Maybe he’d be the one who finally got me off and gave me just a scrap of what I needed.
I sent him a reply.
Saturday? Eight pm? Oscars on Bath Street?
He’d replied before I’d even put my phone down.
I’ll see you there, you gorgeous kinky bitch.
Finally, my heart got a flutter. Hopefully my clit would follow soon enough.
The afternoon project meeting went fine, and I finished up another successful work week, at odds with the carnage of my personal life. I finished another day by taking my lamotrigine meds before bed and ticking the chart. Five days with no seizures – a slight improvement on the few weeks prior. I thought about Trojan as I laid there, picturing us as that same burning couple in the club that night. The pair who had ignited each other as well as a shitstorm of chaos for me.
Even one night with that kind of passion would make it worth it, though. Enough to remind me for even just a heartbeat that I was still Anna Blackwell, a woman still herself somewhere underneath the fear and the numbness and the crud of having a brain that couldn’t be relied on to function anymore.
Or so I prayed.
I got ready on Saturday evening with a sprinkle of nerves dancing all over me. Thirty-five years old, and in that moment I felt it – a world away from the early twenties-something girl who could hit the clubs and dance all night without even tossing a thought to the life looming ahead. Hell, what I’d give for a taste of that girl again.
I’d at least have a try at it.
I picked out my finest little black dress and tousled my freshly-dyed jet-black hair, and made my makeup even sultrier than any of my last dates – an ever increasing style since moving away from Sebastian. I was ready, teetering in my highest heels as the taxi dropped me off in the city centre. I grabbed an orange juice from the bar at Oscars, cursing again that my meds made alcohol forbidden to me. And there he was, leaning against the bar at the other end, a beer in his hand as he stared on over with a smirk.
Trojan.
I flashed him a smile back and he headed on over, and there they were again, those nerves dancing hard.
He was huge. Huge and hot. His shirt stretched tight over his chest and his shadow of stubble just right on a firm, hard jaw. Dark hair, dark eyes. Dimples perfectly at odds with the strength of the rest of him.
Yeah, he could well be the one to give me an orgasm. Several if I was lucky. A whole night of them if the universe cut me a break.
“You look even better than your profile picture,” he told me, and I felt my cheeks burn up.
“The feeling is mutual,” I replied. “You’re quite something in the flesh.”
His smirk grew brighter. “I hope you’ll be saying that when the night is done.”
So did I.
Small talk was small talk, but I kept looking at his mouth, wondering what it would feel like pressed against mine. How hot his tongue would be as it sought mine out and ate me up. How solid his hands would be as he took my dress off and reached down between my thighs.
I should’ve told him about my epilepsy to prepare him for any potential seizures but opted to avoid the topic. I kept up on the orange juice as he necked back the beers, and small talk turned to dirty talk, him telling me how much he wanted to slam me deep, and hard and plough my ass with the kind of intrusion I hadn’t felt in years.
Yes, my clit was fluttering.
Finally, it was fluttering.
Stacey called with our pre-arranged potential bail out call, and I told her I was great thanks, and then we were off. Trojan – who was actually called Sean – finishing up his beer and knocking back a double whisky before we headed on out of there.
He didn’t take my hand.
Maybe that was the first sign.
We got into a taxi and he put his hand across to squeeze at my knee, but he didn’t snake it up my thigh like I hoped he would. I gripped his knuckles to encourage him, but it didn’t make any difference. He smelt of beer over the top of his cologne, and his words were more bolshy and less dirty as the journey took us back to mine. More about slamming me hard than how adventurous he could make our encounter.
I encouraged him to find the heat. Holy shit, how I encouraged him to dig down deep for more.
He stumbled a little as we piled out of the taxi and I got my front door key out. He tried to grab me in the hallway but his hands were clumsy. His mouth was clumsier. Hot and wet and swishy.
My clit flutter was fading fast.
I led us through to my bedroom, past Vicky’s lightless doorframe, and got down on my knees as he dropped his pants, and then I sucked him. I sucked him like I wanted him to claim me whole. Like I wanted to love his dick. Like I wanted to taste every inch of him and have him taste every inch of me.
“Fuck,” he grunted. “Fuck, you’re fucking good at that. Too fucking good at that.”
And then he came.
He shot his load in my mouth after one lousy minute, and reeled back clutching his dripping cock.
“Shit,” he said. “I’ll get it up again, don’t worry. You were just too fucking good.”
Bullshit.
He barely even tried while we were waiting for round two. We got cosy on the bed and he rubbed my pussy but ignored every attempt from me to get the rhythm right. I ignored every urge to pretend I was coming just to get him the hell away from me and stop wasting my time.
I stared at him and knew he was hot, but yet again that was flatlining, fading to nothing and leaving my heart in the gutter, abandoning every scrap of optimism for the evening.
“Fuck, yes,” he said with a grunt, and showed me his stiffening dick. “Let’s get this show back on the road.”
Like it needed his dick to be hard to get the show rolling again. Selfish prick.
Still, I gave him another chance like the idiot I was sometimes, glass half full and all that crap. I let him take his fill, squirming away underneath to try to angle him at my g-spot, and letting my tongue find a rhythm with his. But it was shit. No matter how hard I tried, and encouraged, and pulled him closer and lifted my legs up his back, it was shit.
He’d done with round two in no time and ditched the condom, and I wiped his spit from my mouth, my clit hating my guts for believing in this fumbling loser and his promises.
Even Seb had given more of a shit for my pleasure.
“I’ll be more up to it in the morning,” he said, and buried himself down under my covers. “I had a bit too much beer. So damn excited it made me nervous. Your fault for being so hot.”
Sure it was. Yeah.
Even my glass half full mentality didn’t give me faith in this guy’s morning potential. I rolled over on my own side and stared at the wall, just like I had done so many nights of my life with Sebastian, and my thoughts were still going there. Heart, pussy and tummy still screaming out for the passion I’d felt from that couple in that club.
The passion I’d felt in anything.
I wanted that so badly.
I needed that so badly.
I was seriously fucking desperate for that. Just one night. Just one taste of who I was.
The light was streaming through the front window next morning, and I was still awake when he stretched out his arms and headed back over for another go. I shied away, and told him I had stuff on I needed to get to, and he shrugged before slipping out of bed and pulling his jeans on.
“Some other time then,” he said. “That was really damn hot last night.”
I didn’t have any words, just a weak little smile as he smoothed down his hair and said he’d ping me later. Sure thing, can’t wait.
Super-hot Trojan was a big buzzing fly in my optimism ointment. A let down that had me collapsing like a starfish flat under my bedcovers as soon as the front door slammed shut after him.
Fuck you, Trojan. Fuck you.
I was tired and scuttling towards a day of potential seizures. Tired and zany and still reeling. Tired and zany and desperate when I scrolled through my phone to the very depths and found his number. The man who’d burned me up harder than diving straight into Hell.
I had no idea if it was even still his number as I wrote out the text message at eight a.m. on a Sunday morning and fired it off.
Hey, it’s Anna. Long time no speak. Was just wondering how you’re doing.
Damn fucking fuck, I regretted it as soon as the sent tick flashed up.
I consoled myself with the hope that maybe he had indeed got a different number this past decade. I mean that would make sense. A decade was a long time.
I consoled myself with the hope that he was probably busy with a whole new world, with no time or thought to even read my message, let alone fire back a response, as cringeworthy as that may be.
But I’d heard… just the faintest scrap of a whisper at the very edges of our extended social circle… I’d heard he might be single…
I consoled myself with the chatter of my brain telling me I really had been insane and really would come to my senses and return to boredomville and Seb with a smile on my face, resigned to my fate forever.
But then it came.
The ping.
The ping from him. The poison in my veins, even after all these years.
The ping that changed my whole fucking world.
Chapter Two
Lucas
The buzz of my phone was enough to drag me out of my slumber.
I blinked at the sun streaming through my gaping window like a piece of shit to burn my retinas. My mouth was parched, bedsheets crumpled underneath my sprawled nakedness. Anything but a lovely way to greet the morning. Still, a regular one.
I coughed and stretched, and my arm landed on two empty wine bottles, cast away like fallen soldiers. The usual deal. The usual shit.
I scrabbled around for my phone, expecting it to be the alarm bleeping at me, but it wasn’t. My gut did a thump as I saw the text icon, no doubt a spiteful whinge from Maya and a cancellation of me having Millie. Another usual deal.
Only it wasn’t Maya’s flashing name that greeted me, it was number unknown. One that had my attention on full alert as I propped myself up and opened the message.
Hey, it’s Anna. Long time no speak. Was just wondering how you’re doing.
My eyes scanned that message over and over before my brain would accept I was really conscious. I considered it must be a joke. Or a balls up. Some kind of crazy cockup in the communication ether.
It had to be. There was no way that Anna Blackwell would ever be asking how I was doing on a random Sunday morning, or any morning for that matter – I’d swear she’d rather eat her own shit. But still, that message was staring back at me in cold hard text.
My fingers took on a life of their own, typing out a response before my brain had even caught up with the flow.
Very long time no speak. Doing so so. Can’t complain. How about you?
I wondered what the hell she would say, or if she’d say anything at all. I wondered what the fuck could have led her to message me out of the blue, like we were just old friends needing a catch up. I wondered if she’d been on some crazy binge and had her phone stolen by some idiot friends playing some prank.
But no.
I was out of bed and brushing the stale alcohol from my teeth when the next ping sounded.
Life has been quite a whirlwind these past few months. How is yours?
Our old social circle was still attached on the outskirts, but I rarely heard anything about her in passing from distant connections. I rarely heard anything whatsoever these days about Anna, and she certainly hadn’t been keen to forge a friendship from our explosion of a break up. Not at any point this past decade, and I can’t say I blamed her.
> I wondered if she’d heard about my split from Maya. About how much of a train wreck people were judging my life to be these days. About how much of a train wreck people were judging me to be these days.
They had a point.
Maybe this was a gloat fest on her part, but it didn’t feel like one.
I swilled out the toothpaste and let my fingers fire off a reply.
Good thanks. You still in Cheltenham?
I hadn’t heard of her leaving the city, and a weird little twinge in me hoped she was still local. I’d vacated well and truly to the outskirts with Maya and Millie in tow, and had no intention of venturing back onto city turf, but it was still my locale.
I hoped she was still my locale too.
Yeah, I’m still here. In the city centre. You?
I pinged right back.
Close enough.
And then she said it. She actually said it and sent the string of texts to a whole new level.
Fancy a game of tennis?
I caught my smile in the bathroom mirror. One I hadn’t seen on my face in an age. Just a shame it was there under hollow eyes.
Tennis.
Our stupid sport with stupid competition. I remembered her face as she raced to slam that ball back across the net at me. I remembered how she blew her loose straggle of hair back from her forehead and swayed on her feet for the next serve.
I couldn’t stop myself.
I’d love a game of whatever you fancy.
I cursed myself for dashing the fuck ahead, contemplated following up with something less provocative, but it didn’t matter. She texted back before I could manage it.
Let’s start with tennis.
I’d start with whatever she wanted, but today wasn’t the day for it. I had Play Planet and dog walking with Millie and teatime with my mother to follow. Hardly the freedom to schedule in an impromptu session of tennis with an ex-girlfriend.
I pinged back.
When did you have in mind? Today is a bit rammed…
Her reply was instant.
Next weekend? Work is a bit crazy this coming week. Want to have a clear head for it. Maybe I’ll fit in some practice to get me back in the zone.
