Bad Reputation

by JC Harroway

  Before sleeping with Neve, I’d have tried to shag Amelia, if for no other reason than to shut her up. Sometimes it’s just easier to go along with a stranger’s assumptions and play my designated part than to be real and open.

  Women like Amelia don’t want the real me—the nerdy, tech businessman who works a hundred hours a week and designs software in his spare time. The me I’ve worked hard over the years to reinvent, to separate from everything Slay represents. They want the caricature from my past that, acting out as a younger man, I once embraced. One my father’s team of publicists still churns out because it fits his rock and roll lifestyle. They want the image of me the media continues to spawn, the one who is never spotted with the same woman twice, with the exception of Neve, even though the women I date are equally into casual sex and avoiding commitment. They want to be able to say, ‘I slept with Sid “Slay” Coterill’s son’...

  I spin some crap about wild parties chez Coterill to appease Amelia and feast my eyes on Neve once more, knowing if I could get her alone, bury myself inside her again, I’d feel like myself.

  I’m so selfish. Just like him.

  Because the crap which accompanies my father, and by unfortunate association me, is exactly the reason I should never touch her again. She’s too precious. She’s the only woman I’ve ever told about my famous father who didn’t simper and giggle at the idea of meeting him some day, like a star-struck groupie. And now I’ve fucked things up by fucking her because, no matter what I said on the beach earlier, it’s changed things.

  How could it not?

  Instead of quenching a long-standing fantasy, I want her even more now I’ve experienced her passionate enthusiasm and heavenly body. And my jealousy...? Did that burn as fiercely with Limp Liam or Tris Tosser as the current hellish fire scorching me alive? I could easily climb over the table and gouge out the eyes of my cousins with a dessert spoon just for looking at my beautiful, sexy, funny Neve.

  Where has this possessiveness come from?

  I neck a swallow of beer, trying to ease my parched-with-panic throat. Now Slay is here, I can almost feel her slipping through my fingers. I am so fucked.

  She pauses in her conversation with Mike and looks my way with a small frown. Heat flares from every pore as our eyes collide.

  I try to smile but my face feels frozen.

  Slay’s arrival hot on the heels of the massive shift in our relationship seems to have awoken all my insecurities, reminding me that, no matter what I do, people will always compare us, and maybe they’re right to.

  It’s glaringly obvious I’ll never be good enough for Neve. Never be able to protect her from him, from the pervasive side effect of his fame. From the circus that surrounds him. The only way to do that is to turn back time nine years and ignore her in that student bar.

  Would I have acted out the way I did at nineteen if I had a normal dad? One content to take pride in his son’s achievements and not try to compete for all the attention all the time, even when it meant hurting his only son. I’ve never told Neve my worst secrets about Jane, and what I did the night we split, and she doesn’t understand life under a public lens. At times, it’s made me feel like I’m going crazy, and I don’t want that for her.

  But I can’t lay the blame solely at Slay’s door. The speculation around my private life is due to my media reputation, fuelled by my notorious commitment avoidance. I’m responsible for the media interest in my relationship with Neve. I’ve denied my feelings for her and, through my past immature actions, I’ve offered her up for comparison to the other women I see when there is no comparison. But does she know that? Maybe before this morning, but now...?

  My fists curl with impotence. Why jeopardise what she means to me with something as common as sex? Not that sex with Neve was remotely humdrum—I haven’t stopped craving her since the moment our lips touched. But if my father’s lifestyle proves anything it’s that real, long-lasting relationships take work, commitment and compromise, things I’m certain I can’t possibly have inherited from him, unlike my borderline addictive traits... If Neve couldn’t make it with those serious, upright men of her past, how the hell can I—a man with Slay’s genes—have anything to offer?

  I catch Neve’s eye once more, desperate to know the thoughts behind her unreadable expression.

  As if sensing my distraction, Amelia touches my arm once more, saying something about catching the reunion tour of my father’s band last year.

  Neve’s stare drops away from that hand on my arm before she turns away from me and engages with Rob on her right.

  I grit my teeth, furious with myself. She probably thinks I’m interested in Amelia, when all I want to do is drag her out of here and... What? Shag her again? Remind her just how much like my father I am—a philanderer with the emotional depth of a rock pool? Only the fact that her own appetite for the mouth-watering menu seems healthy enough stops me—I’m that selfish.

  The rest of the meal is torture. I ache head to toe to get her alone. By the time dessert is served, I’m crawling out of my skin, desperate to talk to her and dreading the surprise arrival of the star of the show. I slide my phone from my pocket and message Neve.

  Do you want some of my dessert?

  I deliberately chose the coconut-free chocolate creation from the menu—Neve despises coconut—and I noticed that she chose something else. She’s a self-confessed foodie who struggles with menus because she wants to taste everything. So we’ve developed a routine. I order something different from hers, and she steals a taste of my food.

  She reads my message but simply shakes her head in response.

  I grow restless, shoving away the plate while I try to listen to enough of Amelia’s droning voice to seem polite.

  After five more agonising minutes, as soon as Neve’s spoon hits her empty plate, I try again.

  Want to go for a walk on the beach?

  Her answer comes blessedly quickly.

  Okay.

  I excuse myself from the table and head out into the night to wait for her at the short path that leads from our resort down to the beach.

  She doesn’t keep me waiting long, padding up on bare feet, her shoes swinging in her hand.

  I sling my hands in my pockets because, in my current mood, I’m likely to do something I’ll regret. Like kiss her again. Or fall at her feet and beg her to...

  What? She deserves the moon, not some hypocrite friend who doesn’t know the first thing about relationships, something I’ve avoided for years, because I never again wanted to feel as vulnerable as Jane and Slay made me feel.

  Yes, in theory Neve and I have the best foundation blocks—friendship and astounding sexual chemistry. But I’ll fuck it up, just like Slay did, because we’re father and son. His blood runs in my veins. We’re more alike than I can ever admit.

  Nausea rushes to the back of my throat. Whatever happens during the rest of our time here, I have to keep Neve away from Slay.

  She keeps her distance as we head to the beach, her wary eyes almost crushing me. ‘So you met Mike?’ I say after we’ve walked a few minutes in silence, my jealousy getting the better of me. ‘I’m surprised he let you escape—I haven’t seen him that animated since he met his wife.’

  It’s not her fault she’s kind and funny and gorgeous and I don’t deserve her. Mike is a way safer bet—I should step aside or foster the relationship once we’re back in London. What little dinner I managed to eat threatens to make a reappearance.

  She looks at me as if we’re strangers. ‘Yes, he’s a nice guy. He was kind enough to introduce me around.’

  I wince. I deserve that for being so late. I brought her here as my guest. But I allowed Slay to worm his way into my head, the way he always does.

  ‘How’s Amelia?’ she asks. ‘Waiting for you in your room, no doubt?’

  ‘I’m not interested in Amelia.’ It wasn
’t until I kissed Neve this morning that my life, full of shallow, pointless hook-ups, snapped into focus. Depressing focus.

  ‘I don’t care either way. I’ve spent the past nine years watching women throw themselves at you.’ She strides ahead towards the water’s edge, irritation visible in her rigid shoulders and raised chin.

  I catch up, sickened by how much I’m messing this up. ‘Well, I care if you’re interested in Mike. Are you? He’s a great guy.’ The last sentence takes effort.

  Neve shoots me a murderous look. We retreat to angry silence, following the line of lit torches pushed into the sand, away from the resort. My pulse ratchets up with every step. Not just from the jealousy. Out here in the dark, alone, I’d hoped that we could just be us. The usual us, where I can be myself.

  But perhaps us no longer exists.

  I want to tell her all the things bottled up inside me—how crazy Slay makes me, how fearful I am that I’ll never be able to be my own man, no matter what I do or how successful I become, and how sorry I am for putting that disappointed look on her face. But now we’ve slept together the dynamic has changed. Will she still forgive my thoughtless cock-ups? Can I still confide in my best friend, the only person who knows the real me—good, bad and ugly? Would she admit she liked Mike and wanted to date him? Or do I no longer deserve her confidences?

  My hands curl into fists and, not for the first time in my life, I curse my father. I still recall his sage wisdom when I had my heart shredded by Jane. I’d genuinely fallen in love for the first time and I believed she felt the same way. But when I told her I’d be spending the summer with my mother in London, because I’d needed to get away from Slay, she dumped me out of the blue.

  A year and many casual sex-ploits later, I met Neve, a miraculous woman who’d never even heard of Slay. She’s been a breath of fresh air in my life ever since. But have I robbed myself of that life-giving air?

  ‘Why are we fighting?’ I ask, my vision now adapted to the dark, so I see her still-wounded expression in profile.

  ‘Because sometimes you’re an arsehole,’ she replies.

  ‘This is true, but you knew that the day we met.’ I’m joking; I hope I’ve matured a little in the subsequent nine years, but she’s in no mood for humour. ‘Tell me what’s really bothering you.’ I want to take her hand. Instead, I shove my hands back into the pockets of my chinos.

  ‘You invited me here,’ she says, ‘suggested we have sex, of all the stupid things, and then as soon as it’s over you shut down. Shut me out.’

  Bugger...it does look that way. ‘I’m sorry for deserting you this afternoon,’ I say. ‘But I’ve had to run damage limitation since Slay arrived to ensure he doesn’t upstage Shelley tomorrow with some audacious publicity stunt. It wouldn’t be the first time, believe me.’

  Rather than placate me with suitably soothing condolences as she normally would on this topic, she spins on me and says, ‘I know you think he’s a diva, but he is Shelley’s uncle. She invited him and she must know what he’s like. You flew her entire wedding party here on your company jet, and goodness knows how much it’s cost you to run interference. You’ve protected her wedding day as best you can.’

  I’m struck still, my mouth hanging open. But Neve hasn’t finished the home truths.

  ‘I know you struggle with your relationship with him, but you don’t need him. You’re independently wealthy, you’ve built your own life, a life you should be proud of, and yet the minute he arrives you go running as if for a dose of punishment or something. As if you somehow take responsibility for his actions.’

  I rub my forehead, bitterness burning my throat, because I know I’m responsible for my own actions, and in the past I’ve allowed Slay to mess with my head until I’ve acted shamefully. My biggest regret.

  ‘My main motivation was to keep any media he might attract the hell away from you. I brought you here.’

  Some of her anger seems to dissipate as she comes to a halt and turns to face me. ‘This has nothing to do with Slay. We were in the middle of a conversation earlier today and you rushed off...without explanation...as if I deserved less than common consideration. You said it wouldn’t change our friendship, and then you fail at the first test.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I should have explained. That was rude.’ I try to take her hand, but she snatches her arm away.

  ‘Nine years I’ve known you and you’ve never once introduced me to your father,’ she says.

  ‘Because he’s an embarrassment. A cliché. It has nothing to do with you.’ I curse the mess I’ve made by indulging my need for her. None of this would have happened if I’d just maintained the distance I’ve always kept where she’s concerned. Of course, none of it would matter if I stopped allowing Slay to get to me. Or if I’d been open from the start—but then she probably wouldn’t have stuck around if she’d known.

  She continues as if I haven’t spoken. ‘You couldn’t even be bothered to be on time to escort me to a meal with your family, introduce me properly to people I barely know and who looked at me with...pity or something.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, every muscle strung taut. If someone has upset Neve, they’ll be walking back to London. ‘What the hell is there to pity? You’re amazing—’

  ‘You, Oliver. You. Everyone knows what you’re like—I saw it when they looked at me tonight. Oh, here’s Olly’s sad little friend, always following him around in between his women. Well, you can’t just slot me in and out of your bed whenever there’s a vacancy just because we had sex.’

  The vulnerability slashed across her face cuts me deep.

  ‘I’d never do that,’ I say, aching to hold her until I feel better and she looks at me the way she did this morning, when it seemed like I could do no wrong in her eyes. The same disbelieving eyes that I’m looking into now.

  Her lips move, as if in slow motion, every heartbeat a tick of impending dread.

  ‘I told you it was a bad idea,’ she says. ‘We should never have touched each other.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Oliver

  SHE STAMPS OFF, muttering something about sorting out her love life once and for all.

  My blood runs cold with panic. I race after her. ‘No one pities you. And I’m sorry I made you feel that way.’ I’m messing up this apology because I feel her slipping through my fingers. I’m terrified Slay will meet her, see what she means to me and deliberately screw me over.

  ‘Just forget it. It’s my own fault. I should never have agreed to such a stupid plan.’ She’s still simmering.

  I clutch at straws, so out of my depth. Neve and I have never argued before. ‘Look, I’m sorry I was late for dinner. Kimoto Corp is getting cold feet. I had a to make a few calls to the UK. But you’re right, okay?’

  She stops. Spins. Stares.

  I take a deep breath, broken glass in my chest. ‘It was rude of me to rush off, but I don’t want Slay anywhere near you. He’s...’ I grip a fistful of my hair and tug, searching for the words to make her understand, words that rip me open. Words I’ve never spoken aloud to anyone. Ever since the age of nineteen, since I’ve forgone feelings and relationships, I haven’t needed to worry. But Neve is more than my friend.

  Now I have everything to lose.

  ‘He’s a narcissist. He makes people like him, but it’s not for their sake, it’s for how they fuel his ego.’

  ‘I don’t care about your father. I’m not impressed by his fame,’ she says, her eyes wide, as if she senses how close to the bone this subject cuts me.

  ‘I know, and I’ve always completely adored you for that, believe me. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t try to flirt with you, even in front of his wife. He comes onto anything with a vagina, and I can’t bear to see him look at you that way, okay? Not you. You’re my person.’

  My Neve...

  I’m panting, wound so tight by forebod
ing. I’ve inadvertently hurt her and she regrets what we did.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about the Japanese.’ She deflates. ‘I know how important this deal is to you. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  I step close. I can’t stand the distance any longer. I reach for her chilled upper arms. ‘I got distracted with fears of paparazzi following Slay here—it feels like every time I think I’m breaking free I’m tugged back down to reality. I wanted to blow off the family dinner and just eat with you—just the two of us. Then I saw you with Mike, and stupid jealousy took hold. I’m sorry.’

  Her eyes are round, as if she’s shocked by my jealousy. ‘I don’t fancy Mike. I know you have this notion that I’m sweet, but as far as your father is concerned I can handle myself.’

  ‘I know, but you don’t know what he’s like.’ I press my lips together. She doesn’t know the full extent of his depravity, or mine. I’ve never told her how Slay claimed Jane made a pass at him. How, stupid and heartbroken, I’d rushed to her that night for confirmation and the truth had flashed in her defiant eyes. She’d never loved me. She’d used me because of who I am. Who my father is.

  And I’ve never told Neve how I exacted my drunken revenge...

  ‘I know what you’ve told me, so consider me warned off Slay,’ she says. ‘But you shut me out earlier. Just because we had sex doesn’t mean I’m going to let you walk all over me.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘You do it every time,’ she says.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Unease raises the hairs at the back of my neck.

  She looks at the sand and shakes her head. ‘You sleep with someone and, before they have a chance to get to know the real you, you withdraw. I’ve spent nine years watching you do it. It’s your modus operandi. And why have you never come close to a relationship?’