Sweet Child of Mine

by London, Billy

  “How do you know?”

  She stormed up the stairs, her trainered feet banging on each step before she reached the level. “Fine. Then you’re off. No more playtime for you.”

  “Look, you’re the one that offered me an escape. Continue.”

  She rolled her eyes and marched to the last bookshelf on the left. “This one here. No one can see in this corner.” Moving past him, she crouched down to the skirting board and tapped it twice. The board popped open and she extracted a rainbow-painted box. “There. Condoms. Ten… Eight. Eight? Goddammit.”

  “Sure you want to be kneeling there?”

  “Try to be nice and ensure teenagers don’t reproduce...” she muttered, closing the box and sliding it back into its secret compartment.

  As soon as she stood up, he recognised they were far too close. Too close for him not to wrap his arms around her waist. Definitely too close for him to ignore the warmth of her bare skin beneath his hands or the way her lips parted when they touched.

  “Liam, you’re drunk.” Her warning was all breathless anticipation.

  “I’m fourth-generation Irish, this isn’t drunk, this is just normal.”

  “It’s a bad idea.”

  “No, no, no. This is what our parents have been praying about. God’s work.” He lightly traced her bottom lip with his tongue. She tasted of strawberries and cream. Intense and sweet. “Did you eat the mess?”

  Her lashes lifted and she gazed at him with her honey-dark eyes. “A little. While you were up here. Come on, let’s go.”

  “No. Let’s test the sturdiness of your shelves. Health and safety and all.”

  As soon as his mouth touched those plump lips, his heart raced in his throat, heat rushed over him in waves, and he was certain time stopped to allow him to appreciate the woman in his arms. Underneath the traces of pastry and flour on her skin, he scented peonies and freesia. Paperbacks and hard-backed books with their heady perfume made him kiss her harder, press her against the bookshelves until the sensation of her curves moulded against his body overwhelmed him. He couldn’t help spanning his palms over her bare waist, squeezing her hips, stroking the sides of her lace-covered breasts with his thumbs.

  Abigail moaned against his lips, curling her arms around his neck as his hands traced her figure. He took a mental picture to later recall every bit of her from memory. Her fingers speared through his hair, bringing him even closer. Too much to drink? Woman was crazy. He hadn’t felt this sober, this aware, this aroused in years. The taste, the feel, the scent of Abigail in his arms was enough to make a man feel light-headed.

  Cupping his hands around her waist, he dragged her against him, sliding his thigh between hers so she straddled his leg. He could feel heat there, almost burning through the denim. The way she began to rub herself against him... Jesus. He started to unbutton her jeans. God, the need to feel if she was as wet as he hoped caused a rumble to rise in his throat.

  “Liam, Liam, Liam,” she gasped, tearing her mouth away. “Your phone.”

  Was that what that insistent buzzing and music was? “Fuck it.”

  “Go answer it.”

  He stared at her for a moment, fingers paused on the last button of her jeans, exposing her polka-dot-printed panties. It took him several breaths to remember why he might be called, and he made his way downstairs. The strains of “Bohemian Rhapsody” sounded loud from his jacket pocket. His mother.

  “Hey, Mum.”

  “Are you coming home?” Shelia blustered. “Leila’s asleep and I’m exhausted.”

  He glanced upstairs as Abigail descended. “Yeah, I’m getting a taxi.”

  “Taxi? I thought you drove?”

  “No, I had a drink. Several.”

  “You’re your father’s son, I’ll tell you.” His mother snorted with dismissal. “Hurry up then. I’d like to go home sometime today.”

  “All right. Give me a minute.”

  He ended the call and Abigail instantly launched into a speech. “You’ve got a lot going on, I know. So don’t worry about it.”

  Not so fast, sweetheart, he thought. “You’re going to have problems if you don’t test things out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The shelves,” he said, stepping closer to her and nodding up to the stairs. “Can they take a bit of a workout?” She frowned at him in confusion but he continued. “How’s your carpet for rug burn?” He stood directly in front of her and cupped her face with his hand, stroking his thumb over her mouth. Touching her felt different now. Before it was simply distraction. Now it was all intent. She should know he was serious. “If I fucked you hard enough on the floor upstairs, would we go straight through the ceiling? I think those are important points for potential health hazards you need to consider. Just in case someone thinks about suing you. I’d be happy to help you with that.” Her eyes widened in shock at his words. Her disbelief amused him. “Yes, I have baggage. But you weren’t thinking about it when I kissed you. And I’d guess if we used a few of those condoms up there, it wouldn’t be something you’d recall. Breathing would be a priority for both of us.” She didn’t say anything for a long time. “That’s what I thought. Shall I help clear up?”

  “I called a cab for you. It should be here soon.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll help in the meantime.” Collecting the glasses, he took them to the kitchen, with Abigail following him, the bowls of Eton Mess in each hand.

  “Dishwasher is just there.” She pointed to the machine next to the sink. Carefully loading the glasses inside, he shuffled out of the way and watched her bend over to include the dessert bowls. He gave careful consideration to cupping his hand over her bottom and changed his mind. She had dishes in her hand. She may want to throw them. Pointing the way out to the dining area, he left the kitchen and perched a butt cheek on their now-cleared table. Abigail scratched her head and looked down at her trainers.

  He said her name gently and before she could rack up some excuse about them being no good for each other and how all the problems he had wouldn’t be solved by them messing around, a car horn blared long and loud from outside.

  “That’ll be your cab.”

  “It can take us both. Lock up and I’ll make sure you get home safe.”

  “Liam...”

  “No arguments.”

  “You don’t understand. I have OCD. I won’t sleep if the dishwasher is left on all night.”

  He caught her by the hand. “Leave it. Go home. I’m not going to leave you here, so either Mr. Cab Man gets money to wait or we go now.”

  She huffed. “Fine. All right.”

  Picking up her keys, he walked out as she switched off the lights, set the alarm and lowered the café’s shutters.

  He gave the driver his address then indicated Abigail. “Lady first, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  They slid into the back seat and the driver smoothly pulled away from the café and headed in the opposite direction to Liam’s own home. He took advantage, placing his arm along the back seat and allowing Abigail’s head to rest on his forearm. Moving closer, he curled his arm around her shoulder, pulling her in. He’d missed this. Being able to hold a woman in peace. Abigail slipped her arm around his back and buried her face in his neck like a little cat.

  “This is what you get for being nice,” he murmured. She giggled.

  “You’re in trouble when you get home.”

  He made a noncommittal sound in his throat. “Meh. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure. Give me your number.”

  “What for?” she asked, her tone horrified.

  “So I can call you?” He made a circling motion with his free hand. “Come on.”

  The car pulled up outside Abigail’s home just as he typed her number into his contacts. He looked up at the house, thinking how glorious it would be to pay the cab driver, take her upstairs to bed and undress her slowly, expose each part of her body to the moonlight and lose himself in her entirely. Instead, he watched as she
gathered her belongings. “Night, Liam.”

  He caught her face between his palms and kissed her lingeringly on the lips. A promise of more to come. “Good night, Abigail.”

  He kissed her again and allowed her to escape. On his insistence, the cab waited until her door was closed and the lights were on before he allowed the driver to make his way to Liam’s home.

  “Good date?” the driver threw over his shoulder.

  Date? It hadn’t even occurred to him. She’d offered an ear for him to bend and before he knew it, he was trying to get her underwear off. Sounded like a date to him. “Surprisingly good.”

  The driver chuckled. “Good for you, mate.”

  Indeed...

  Chapter Four

  “Dad.”

  The voice penetrated his alcohol-induced sleep.

  “Dad! There’s someone on the phone about site maintenance.”

  Liam cracked open his eyelids. All right, maybe the two-year break had lowered his alcohol tolerance, but there was no need for him to look at anything at... Ah. Ten thirty in the morning. Could be worse. Could have been two hours earlier. “Got it, baby,” he grumbled, picking up the phone. “Leila?”

  “What?” He could still hear her huffing down the line.

  “You can put it down now.”

  “Yeah, you’re welcome.”

  A click ended her part of the conversation. “Hello?”

  “Yes, Liam, this is Carol from Bugs You Like. All our orders have stopped coming through. I wondered if you could help.” Why him? Why today? He just wanted to roll over, close his eyes and remember what Abigail’s breasts felt like against his chest. Ah. Hangover fading fast...

  “Sorry, Carol. That’s Gorang. He deals with crashes. I’m the creative brain of the organisation. Let me get you his number and he’ll talk you through resolutions, okay?”

  Scrolling through his phone, he read out the number and ended the call shortly after. He then sent a text to his business partner to warn him of disaster forthcoming. Gorang texted him back in a split second. Did you tell her to turn it off and turn it on again?

  Fuck off.

  Nice. Thanks for that. How about you do something? For all of us. Get. Laid.

  Nice. Gone were the days when it was a simple matter of strolling down to the local pub, picking up a woman and banging the night away. How would he live with himself if Leila saw a procession of women leaving the house at the crack of dawn? Everything he did from now on was a piece of his daughter’s psyche. How she valued herself. What she thought was acceptable behaviour. He’d already threatened one little lothario who thought he could try to talk his little girl into sending him racy pictures. What was sauce for the goose needed to be sauce for the gander. There was no way he could hope for her behaviour to improve if he didn’t set a better example. But dammit, if he didn’t want to have Abigail in his bed now.

  Getting up, he showered, forwent shaving for the eighth week in a row and dressed. Leila was slouched in the front room, the fifty-inch screen bright in the darkened space, curtains drawn and an empty bowl beside her.

  “Can you take that to the kitchen, please? It’s only one bowl so you can wash it instead of sticking it in the washer.”

  “Morning to you too.”

  “Kitchen,” he repeated. With a huff, she dragged herself from the sofa and followed him into the kitchen as he turned on the coffee machine and waited for the dark nectar to soothe his aching head. His daughter watched him from the corner of her eye.

  “What time did you come home?”

  He glanced around. “Are you talking to me?”

  “Who else is here?”

  “About my timing?”

  “Yeah. I am.”

  “I’m sorry, did we switch bodies in the night where I’m the child and you’re the adult?”

  She shrugged, drying her hands on a kitchen cloth. “I just think it’s unfair.”

  No, he had no patience for this in the morning. Not when he wasn’t in reach of coffee or paracetemol. “You can tell me that again when you’re paying the mortgage on this house.”

  “Fine. I want to go to Rebecca’s.”

  His child’s short-term memory was in action again. “Remember Saturday, when you were dragged home by Miss Yeboah because you threw eggs at her café?”

  “I didn’t...”

  He sent her a single look and she closed her mouth. “That little stunt means you’re not allowed to see Rebecca. It means stay at home and enjoy these effortlessly decorated four walls. Try out the trampoline we spent a couple of hundred pounds on. Paddle in the pool. Play some music. But you stay here.”

  “You’ve got my laptop and my phone!”

  “You’d be right. But you’ve got the TV.”

  “Why are you so mean to me?”

  God help him. “This isn’t being mean. When you do things that are wrong, morally and criminally, you need to understand there are consequences. Being without the Internet for a week should do it.”

  Tears filled her eyes and as much as he wanted to comfort her, take it all back and apologise, he stood firm. It was for her own good. Shaking her head, she dashed from the kitchen. He could hear her sobs all the way to her bedroom. For once she didn’t slam the door and the fact she didn’t made him sigh heavily. Jesus. Why would any woman, let alone a woman as sharp as Abigail, be interested in wading in his dramas? He figured he was good in bed, but nothing, he realised, was worth the grief that Leila McNamara in full-blown tantrum mode could provide. Then again, what harm would sending a text message cause?

  ***

  “All right, talk,” Haillie demanded, filling Abigail’s glass with sangria before moving on to Laura’s.

  “What do you mean?” Abigail blinked, with innocence that had long since passed.

  “She means you’ve been looking all moo faced since we sat down,” Laura explained, taking a large gulp. “We should do this more often. Why don’t we lunch more often?”

  “We don’t have enough bank holidays to do so,” Abigail reminded them. Having returned to the café to ensure her dishwasher hadn’t overflowed and flooded the café overnight, she left her assistants to deal with the bank holiday crowd while she met her friends for a postponed lunch. Rearranged because they were all far too busy. It was a world away from their days at university, when they had time to skip lectures and hang around in bars hour after hour. Haillie managed somehow to make a living from interior design—it helped her clients were obscenely rich—and Laura was a picture editor for a women’s magazine. It was her first day off in almost eight months. Only due to her assistant physically pushing her from the café, was Abigail able to commit to the lunch and turn up.

  “Tapas? Yes, tapas,” Haillie agreed, picking up the menu. “I see you’re not talking.”

  “About who?”

  “Gotcha!” She laughed. “Gave yourself away there, girl. Business studies,” she scoffed, picking up a piece of apple from her drink and chewing slowly. “What’s his name?”

  There was no fighting this. They’d just keep digging until she broke. “Remember my mother’s been trying to set me up with that woman’s son from church?”

  “Baby father?” Laura asked incredulously. “You met up with him?”

  “We sort of had a date. Last night.”

  “How do you sort of have a date?” Haillie wondered. “That makes no sense. You either have a date or you don’t have a date.”

  Laura pointed at Abigail. “Look at her face. It was a date. What happened?”

  If I was all of five years younger, he’d still be in me right now. “Nothing I’m particularly proud of,” she admitted, swirling her drink around. “He’s got a lot of stuff going on.”

  “See, this is why I don’t go out with single dads,” Laura proclaimed. “What’s his deal? Baby mother still in the picture?”

  “No. She died.”

  Haillie and Laura chorused in understanding. “Ooh. That improves things.”

  She s
ent them a disgusted look. “Don’t be mean.”

  “What about his kid? Cute?”

  “Fucking nightmare.” Abigail shuddered.

  “That’s why I don’t go out with single dads,” Haillie agreed. “Playing second-fiddle mum to someone who’ll always say to you you’re not my mum, you bitch! She’s never going to like you for competing with her dad for his affections. Girls are horrific pains in the arse.”

  “That’s what he said.” Both women stopped. “Yes, he admitted his child’s a pain in the arse. And he’s smart. And he’s self-deprecating and good with his hands...” She ignored the looks her friends exchanged with each other. “I can’t wish he didn’t have a child because he loves her. Even if she causes his blood pressure to spike, he loves her very much. And isn’t that what we all want? A man who loves his children?”

  “Yeah. His children with us, not his additional demon spawn.”

  “Oh God,” Abigail groaned.

  Haillie looked serious. “I didn’t think you even wanted kids yourself.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re so driven.” Her friend shrugged apologetically. “It doesn’t fit with the Abbie-Big-Boobs we know and adore. Please don’t get your hopes up with this man.”

  “I haven’t!”

  “You have—I can see it in your face. You like him already. More than’s good for you.”

  “That’s the thing, Abbie. You’re always going to be the number-two woman in his life. Is his mum still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  Laura winced. “Number three.”

  Haillie tried to make her see sense. “We all know why marriages don’t work out. It’s mainly because the spouses stop caring what happens to each other and they make everything about the kids. Kids number one, mortgage comes next, then they’re last on the list. At least give yourself a chance with a guy who will give a few years of himself to you before downgrading you to the bronze podium.”

  “Why are you both being so negative?” There was potential for sex—why weren’t they encouraging her?

  “Because nothing good comes of dating someone who is already a parent. You’re on two different planets. Only war will ensue.”