My Book

by Alam, Donna

  ‘It has when your employer asks me to step in.’ Was it impolitic to mention it? Probably, and what Griffin, my friend, would call a dick move. But had she turned up to my office drunk, she’d be sacked immediately for gross misconduct. No matter how pretty she is. ‘Eat,’ I murmur, hoping I sound a little kinder as I push the plate toward her, then splash the San Pellegrino over the ice in the glass. ‘And drink some water, too.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘I don’t recall asking.’ Her retort drains away at my quelling look, and she drops her gaze.

  ‘And I don’t recall you being so bossy,’ she mumbles.

  ‘Perhaps you didn’t pay enough attention.’ My jaw flexes, my gaze narrowed. I held back because not everyone wants the darkness. Especially not the first time. ‘How’s your knee?’ And the skin of your inner thigh. And while we’re on the topic of your delectable self, how is your sweet, sweet pussy? Fine, you say? Perhaps you’d like a second opinion. Up on the table now and spread those legs for me.

  Don’t begrudge a man his daydreams.

  ‘You’d better not be a feeder,’ she mutters, pulling the plate closer. I close my mouth against the madness of telling her exactly what I’d like to feed her. ‘And this is just a plain panini,’ she complains, her expression thoroughly disgusted as she raises her head from examining the opened halves.

  ‘God, give me strength,’ I mutter, folding my arms.

  ‘If he’s listening, I’d prefer him to smote you for being a bossy prick.’

  ‘Just eat a little. It will soak up some of the alcohol.’

  ‘Maybe I want to stay drunk.’

  ‘I don’t apologise to the inebriated.’

  ‘So you’re sorry?’ She folds her arms across her chest, pushing her breasts together with the action. God give me strength.

  ‘I’m sorry for a lot of things. But mostly, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up. Because the plans I had for you would’ve kept you there all day.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ She quirks a brow. ‘What plans? And what kept you from them?’

  ‘Eat and I might tell you.’

  ‘God, you’re so bloody bossy.’

  Something else to ignore as I pour us both a coffee because she has no idea just how big a pain in the arse I could really become, but with the way she’s going, she could certainly end up finding out.

  I add a dash of cream to her cup and push it towards her.

  ‘I only drink skinny lattes.’ She tears at the toasted bread, mostly just making crumbs on the plate. ‘I’m basic like that.’

  ‘There’s nothing basic about you,’ I find myself sniping. ‘You’re the very antithesis of uncomplicated.’ Unless she is just a drunk, but I sense not.

  ‘You’re just trying to butter me up.’

  ‘Yes, because drunk girls are always such fun.’ I suddenly feel weary. What happened to the girl from the kitchen? I don’t recall her being such a brat. ‘Drink the coffee. It’ll make you feel a little more alert.’

  ‘I’m suddenly plenty alert finding you here. What are you doing here?’ She presses her elbow to the tabletop and props her cheek on her fist.

  ‘Have some coffee, and I might tell you.’

  ‘God, how can you be so pretty yet have such a stinking attitude?’

  ‘How strange, I was just thinking the same. About you.’

  ‘You can’t flatter me, not a second time. Fool me once, shame on you,’ she says, waving a finger back and forth between us. ‘Fool me twice, and I’m the dummy.’

  I raise my own coffee cup to my lips as though her words barely register.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Am I boring you?’

  ‘Immensely.’ The word is delivered with a hard edge.

  ‘Fine, I’ll drink your god-awful bloody drink.’ The dark liquid spills over the rim as she grabs it. She swallows and is still grimacing as the cup meets the dainty saucer again. ‘That’s foul.’ A shiver wracks her whole body. ‘I told you I only drink lattes.’

  ‘Good medicine always tastes bitter.’

  ‘Is that what you think you’re doing here? Making me feel better? Newsflash—I feel like shit.’

  ‘I’m not here to remedy anything, but it appears there’s no one better qualified to babysit you right now.’ I push the dainty jug of cream and matching sugar bowl her way.

  ‘Fine,’ she mutters, grasping it. ‘A splash of “I don’t give a flying flip”.’ She adds so much cream that the colour no longer resembles coffee. ‘A cube or three of get stuffed,’ she mutters, dropping in three squares of raw sugar next. ‘Stir and . . . There.’ She pushes the concoction my way. ‘You choke on it.’

  Pulling her cup closer, I replace it with mine.

  ‘You want to have a conversation about why I wasn’t there in the morning, and I have better things to do than deal with silly drunken girls. I’ll be back when you’ve eaten a little of that.’ I point at the plate. ‘And have drunk both of those. Perhaps then we can discuss this like adults.’

  I slide out from the booth and walk away without a backward glance.

  * * *

  I weave through the tables once more coming to a stop where Beckett and Olivia stand. We make small talk basically, waiting for the evening to wrap up. But all the while, half my attention is focused on the girl across the room. Despite her earlier attitude, she looks so forlorn sitting there all alone. Something about her makes me want to go to her, to take her in my arms and tell her that whatever it is, I can make it better because something is obviously going on.

  But that’s not me—I don’t do complicated—so I stay where I am.

  And I watch.

  The crowds of would-be daters begin to dissipate, taking their drinks and their further introductions elsewhere as three men nearer her age slide themselves into the booth, one next to her and two opposite. She smiles and is polite enough to answer their questions, but they don’t seem to pick up on the fact that she’s not in the mood for company. Not acquaintances. Not friends. Not lovers. She’s not flirting at all, and her body language isn’t at all relaxed. The most they’re getting are small, forced smiles. But at least they’re getting her smiles.

  ‘I’m sorry, what was that?’ I turn to Olivia with what I hope is a blank expression. ‘I was miles away.’

  ‘I said I don’t know what’s gotten into her tonight.’ She gestures in the direction of Miranda. ‘She looks like she’s sobered up a little.’

  ‘Carbs, coffee, and water in that order.’

  ‘Harry, you sound like a man who knows his stuff.’ That she uses the moniker that Beckett introduced me with is entirely normal. No one calls me James unless I’m in trouble. Or your name happens to be Miranda.

  ‘I’m sure we’ve all been there,’ I answer evenly.

  ‘She’s usually so together. It’s just not like her to be so careless.’

  ‘You don’t think someone could’ve spiked her drink?’ My gaze slides back to the booth, my hands suddenly balled as tight as the fist that’s clutching my innards.

  ‘What? You mean the Lust Island guys? I don’t see how. It wouldn’t be good for their image in the first place.’

  ‘I take it they’re some kind of celebrities?’

  ‘Reality TV,’ she says with an apologetic shrug.

  ‘In my experience, the accolade tends to make them feel above such things as good. But on second thought, she’s too lucid to have been drugged.’

  ‘I agree. She’s been drinking, but she’s not wasted.’ Her expression twists. ‘Heather, our intern, said she had a phone call earlier in the evening and that she hadn’t been the same since then.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Even though it shouldn’t be. Why should I give a fuck?

  She’s just some girl I . . . I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.

  ‘There’ll be a disciplinary, of course.’ Beckett’s arm sliding around his wife’s waist.

  ‘Maybe there would be if you were in charge,’ she says, placing her ha
nd on his chest as she sends him a withering look. ‘But as it’s my company, I think the answer is not. Oh, save your glowers for someone they work on,’ she adds, her hand now in the air between them like a stop sign. ‘Quit while you’re ahead.’

  ‘Never.’ He pulls her closer to his chest, her face tilting in anticipation of his kiss. ‘I’m wise enough to know I’m never ahead when you’re around.’

  It appears the beast is tamed.

  And, as I glance back at Miranda, it’s time for me to leave.

  ‘It was lovely to meet you, Olivia.’ And even lovelier to hear where I can find the girl with the Batman underwear Monday through Friday. There’s obviously little point in talking to her this evening, so I’ll bide my time. And I don’t think I’ll say goodbye, not while she has an audience.

  ‘Thank you so much for Miranda-sitting.’ Her gaze slides from where Miranda sits, warm and sincere.

  ‘It was my pleasure.’ And dammit, I can’t seem to help it as I take one more look.

  Was that Olivia’s way of telling me she’s too young for me? She can’t be much older than Miranda herself. And she married Beckett, of all people.

  Talk about making your life difficult.

  ‘She’s really quite sweet,’ I murmur, unable to help myself. It’s a generic compliment, but I mean it. Maybe not tonight, but that first night . . . she tasted like silk and honey, and I didn’t get my fill. As I walk away, my tongue darts out to wet my bottom lip. It’s almost as though I can still taste her.

  * * *

  My car is parked outside, but I don’t leave immediately, preferring, or perhaps needing, to make sure all is well with Miranda.

  It would serve me right, of course, if she did leave with one of the minor celebs. And if she does leave with one of the celebs, I’ll probably be arrested for breaking his nose. Drunk girls are easy quarry, and yes, while she’d been drinking that night—our night—she was in full possession of her faculties. At least until I was between her legs.

  I tilt my head back against the headrest, indulging myself for a moment in one of a hundred snapshots of the evening that seem to lurk in my head, just waiting for the most inopportune moment to flood my memory, robbing me of my senses.

  I was above her, my knees balanced either side of her thighs as she’d whimpered, the sound caught somewhere between desperation and need. I’d paused in the action of rolling on the condom, realising she was watching me from under her lashes, enjoying the sight of my cock balanced in my own hand. The feel of her fingertips trailing through the coarse hair of my thighs still makes the muscles twitch there today.

  Reaching down, I adjust my stiffening cock against the confines of my pants when movement up ahead catches my attention. Miranda and the younger girl step out from the pub, alone thankfully. Arms linked until one of them reaches out, opening the door of a black cab. They climb in, and I watch as the cab’s lights grow smaller and smaller as it travels farther away. When the cab pauses at a traffic signal, I start my own ignition, the Vanquish’s engine springing to life with a throaty purr. But what I don’t expect is to see Miranda’s companion come running down the street, her movements hampered by her tight skirt.

  I climb from the car, meeting her before she can reach the entrance to the pub.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ The girl’s gaze sweeps the street, her eyes as wide as saucers. ‘Heather, wasn’t it? I’m Harry, Beckett’s friend.’

  Recognition lightens her expression immediately.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness. I didn’t want to go inside. Beckett’s already so cross with her, and she can’t lose her job.’ Her hand rubs her forehead, the other clasping a large backpack.

  ‘Miranda, you mean? I thought you both got a cab.’ Why aren’t you on your way home? What happened? I want to add.

  ‘We did, we got in a cab. But at a red light, she just got out. Got out in the middle of the road!’ Heather flings out her arm in the direction the taxi travelled. ‘She said she wasn’t going home, that she wanted to go dancing and forget about all the shit that’s gone on tonight. I tried to pull her back in the car—really, I did—but she just hauled her arm out of my grasp and hailed another cab on the other side of the street.’ My hand rasps against the stubble on my chin as the young girl continues her verbal meltdown. ‘I can’t follow her; I don’t have my ID with me. They won’t let me in. And I can’t tell Olivia because Beckett is already in a strop. But she shouldn’t be by herself, not with the mood she’s in. I don’t know what the fuck to do!’

  ‘First of all, calm down.’ I take the girl’s shoulders in my hands as she tips her head with a sniff. Her eyes are glassy, and she’s clearly overwhelmed.

  ‘I’m calm. I am calm.’ She rubs the back of her hand under her nose. ‘But she’s just not herself tonight. Really, she’s not. If you knew her, you’d know she’s always calm and level-headed. She never does crazy shit—not ever.’

  ‘I believe you.’ If it’s crazy to have sex with a stranger, I’d better order a pair of padded white jackets, the ones with the lovely buckles at the back. ‘I’m going to help you. First, we need to work out where she’s heading to.’

  ‘I know where she’s going,’ she answers simply. ‘She said she was sick of being in her own head, that she was going to go dance her cares away.’

  ‘Dance?’ I repeat a little sceptically.

  ‘Yeah. She’s gone to Tissu.’

  * * *

  After reassuring Heather I’d take care of Miranda, I hail her a cab and send her on her way before making my way to a club I’m familiar with. Though admittedly, I haven’t been there in a very long while.

  I’m more likely to be found hanging out at somewhere staid like Whites than this type of club these days.

  I abandon the car nearby Smithfield market, throwing my suit jacket onto the back seat and folding up the sleeves of my white shirt. Ignoring the snaking line, I stride confidently to the front of the club. The key to getting away with most things in life is confidence, I’ve always found. A smile doesn’t hurt. It’s also quite fortunate that there’s a woman at the door this evening.

  Heaven forbid I should lose these boyish good looks.

  Last time I was here, there wasn’t an airport-style security checkpoint, but times change, I suppose. As I put my wallet and phone in the small grey tray I’m handed, the vibration of the music seems to make the walls and floor shake, the techno bass pulses through the soles of my feet as I stand on the threshold.

  Jesus Christ, I forgot this place was so huge.

  There are what? Two, three floors? Two for live acts and one, the main floor, for the house or visiting DJ.

  It’s going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack in this cavernous place.

  But look, I will.

  At first glimpse, the main dance floor looks like a depiction of Dante’s Inferno, demonic forms writhing and begging for release, but then the lights change from red to blue, and the sight isn’t so Old Testament anymore. Some things don’t change, I decide. Wall-to-wall bodies, floors sticky from the overpriced and watered-down drinks that have spilled, the heat, the thump of techno bass, music so loud you can barely hear yourself think let alone carry on a conversation. All the same, the atmosphere is electric, a surge of endorphins washing through the space, keeping rhythm with the music.

  And then, the impossible happens. Through the dark and through the crowds, I see her dancing like no one is watching, which is ridiculous. Because how can anyone not be riveted by her?

  11

  Miranda

  This was the right thing to do. Crazy, yes, but better than keeping the crazy in. Better than taking the crazy to my parents’ home to be met by more crazy, where I’d just dwell on my lack of options and the fucking ring. I’d almost opened the window of the cab on the way over here and thrown it as far as my arm could make it go. But I didn’t—couldn’t. I can’t even do revenge very well.

  I know I might’ve worried Heather, but I just couldn’t go home. I
just couldn’t do it. So I shot out of the car, promising her I’d be safe, that I wouldn’t be alone. And I’m not. I’m here in a club with hundreds of other people. And it’s not like they’re all strangers. I know quite a few. Okay, so maybe know might be a stretch, but since I’ve arrived, several familiar faces have nodded as I’ve passed in that sup kind of way.

  Whatever. I needed this. It’ll be good for my soul.

  Before Cameron—ha, BC—I’d spent many a night in this club with she-who-shall-not-be-named. Or peed on if on fire, come to that. Dancing and having fun, flirting with boys with skinny hips and messy hair, sometimes even kissing them in dark corners before dashing home in the wee hours, up and ready for work again after just a few short hours of sleep. God, those were easy times. When I lusted after boys with game and swagger, and the infatuations never lasted more than a few hours.

  And then I met Cameron, and everything changed.

  Maybe that’s why she fucked him. I wonder if this second chance is suiting her any better.

  No, I don’t—fuck her and fuck him.

  I’m not going to think about it, and I am not heartbroken. I’m just disillusioned with man and womankind. God, I’m so over feeling like this. Like my life is a runaway bus, and I’m just a passenger on it.

  But I’m not going to think about any of it. I’m here to dance.

  I loop my bag over my neck and slide the tiny rectangle to my hip before draining the bottle of water I’d managed to buy at the only bar, which was only three clubbers deep tonight. I drop the empty bottle on a table as I weave in and out of the crowds moving towards the dance floor. A heavy bass pounds through the soles of my feet, clawing its way up my body like a vine, a vine that draws tight across my skin as it demands me to move. It’s been so long since I’ve danced. And I don’t mean bopping around the kitchen, kibble or kitty food in hand, with my furry audience at my feet. I don’t mean tapping my feet or swaying my hips along to the radio as I wait for the kettle to boil at work either. I mean dancing, really dancing. The kind where you lose yourself to the music, conscious of nothing but the unyielding beat.