by Alam, Donna
Her cheeks could be flushed from the cold outside, though if I know June, and I do, I’d say she’s probably a wee bit excited. She’ll have a stroke one of these days, and not the kind she’d like to receive, because I’ve seen the way she flutters her lashes at Mr. Poletti, the ancient barber from the shop along the street.
‘Is it the Gaga?’ she asks eagerly, hurrying her ancient frame across the room. She may be only a kick in the bum off her ninetieth year, but she can move pretty fast if there’s filth involved.
‘Oh, God. Harder! Yes—right there.’
‘Goodness!’ June exclaims.
‘It’s so much better with sound,’ Nat crows.
I begin to make my way around the low table to Natasha, if for nothing else than to stop her little show. But is it odd to think the audio—the girl on the receiving end of that sausage—sounds a little like me?
‘Fuck, that’s so good, darlin’,’ a deep voice growls. ‘Come on, get there. Get there for me.’
‘Is that a Scots accent?’ June asks her granddaughter a little excitedly.
That must be it—where I hear the similarity—or I’m imagining things because that sounds a little bit like . . .
‘Fuck me, Dylan. Fuck me harder!’
‘Aye, he’s from out west.’
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
Blood drains from my entire body, weighting my feet to the spot. I think it’s possible my heart actually stops because I do know those voices. And I know that sausage—I mean—that man. I also happen to be a member of the show playing out on Natasha’s phone. A cast of just two. It was another time, another place, and another person, but yes, that person was me.
Something twisty and needling pokes me in the chest followed quickly by a cool coating of relief. I must be in shock because I shouldn’t feel comforted by the fact that—
‘Gonna flip you over and make you come on my tongue.’
—comforted by the fact I haven’t forgotten the sound of him. That delicious husky rasp. The accent he’s famous for. And though I know his voice to be deep any time of the day, but during sex, there’s a huskiness to it that, even now, hits me right between the legs.
And a moment later, I hate myself.
‘Oh, God. Dylannnn.’
I sound . . . well, fucked.
‘Your pussy feels like heaven, baby.’
‘He’s got a terrible, filthy mouth!’ exclaims June, more compliment than complaint.
‘Edera . . . Sei molto bella!’ Grunting. Skin meeting skin. ‘Dolce figa . . .’
‘I wonder what it means?’ June squeaks over the top of Dylan’s dirty Italian.
Hurt, anger, longing, and lust are pushed aside as clarity hits me quite suddenly upside the head. Yes, the past me is getting screwed, but in the here and now, I’m about to be really and truly fucked as I recall two things:
I’m not the only viewing party here.
And things are about to go horribly wrong.
‘Is—is that?’ Still glued to the spot, I raise my arm, pointing my finger like some bloodless harbinger of doom. I expect I look just as pale.
‘Aye, Dylan Duffy’s massive schlong has just hit the internet!’ Much like June, Nat’s answer borders on glee, her eyes unmoving from the screen. Which is probably just as well, given the state of shock I’m in. ‘Lucky girl, whoever she is. She’s got a fantastic arse.’
‘Turn it off. I said turn it off!’
Panic balls in my throat as I remember, vividly, what comes next.
So this mightn’t have been the only time Dylan and I recorded our lovemaking.
So I may have watched it more than once or twice.
So I might know exactly what’s coming next. Me, obviously. The moans are a pretty big clue.
But more than that, this recording shows the essence of our relationship. As it was.
We’ll come—together because, yes, that is an actual thing—and moments later, Dylan’s arm will catch my waist and pull me up from my post-orgasmic collapse across the bed. He’ll crush me to his chest, and we’ll both look up at the camera he’s holding.
We’ll smile.
We’ll look so happy.
Blissed out.
And so in love.
And when that happens, right here in my tiny flat above my newly opened beauty salon in the bum hole of Scotland, my friends will learn what an awful person I am. They’ll discover I’ve been keeping great whopping secrets from them. That I’ve lied. So many lies. And I’ll have to come clean and tell them the real reason I left Los Angeles—the whole sordid tale. I’ll have to admit I know the man currently screwing me on-screen a little more than just biblically.
Dylan damn-him Duffy.
One truth will lead to another, and I’ll have to confess that I not only went to bed with Hollywood’s hottest bachelor, but that I also married him without breathing a word to those I know and love.
And as if that’s not going to be hard enough to say, I’ll have to tell them it’s over.
And that it’s all my fault.
‘For the love of fuck, just turn that thing off!’
Chapter 2
Ivy
Can I be bitter even if it’s my fault? Technically, I mean.
Whatever. At least, I can’t take the blame for the leaked video footage because I’d deleted my copies—yes, that’s right, plural—from my phone and hard drive months ago.
Ivy Adams, now available on hard drives everywhere . . . being driven hard.
Nope, I’m definitely not to blame for the release of the Dylan Duffy sex tape currently breaking the internet, according to Nat.
But I can’t describe my relief that whoever is responsible for invading my privacy deleted the ending. Presumably to protect their asses and prevent a lawsuit. Or maybe the ending hit the cutting room floor as it lacked that all-important p-in-v action? Whatever the reason, the fact that neither of our faces appeared on camera prevented me from losing it—stopped me from falling to the shaggy rug in my living room in a crying, hyperventilating state. It also prevented my subsequent death from heart failure brought on by shame. Because despite my frantic demands, Natasha didn’t hit the stop button. Her excuse? She was just too stunned. Apparently, she’s never heard me yell fuck across a room before.
That’s because I rarely lose my shizz, and I rarely swear. Not out loud, anyway. Outwardly, I’m just a little bundle of Zen even during the times I’m an internal mass of seething f-bombs. At least, I am when I’m thinking of him. Dylan if-it-moves-I-fuck-it Duffy.
Anyway, I’m not sure I believe Nat’s excuse. She’s a bit of a dirty bird and probably wouldn’t have stopped the clip anyway.
But following my mini-meltdown, Nat and June went home, though not before a couple of hours of gossiping and at least fifteen minutes of book talk. In the kitchen now, I ignore the dirty dishes in favour of pulling out a chair and firing up my laptop, while also counting my lucky stars that my best friend and current roommate, Fin, wasn’t here to watch me flip out. She would’ve had me under some tough interrogation right now, and I just don’t have the strength left for any sort of deflection. Mum was right when she said liars should have good memories.
Sodding video. Bloody privacy invading . . . twastards, whoever they may be.
So I’m pleased she’s not here. She rang earlier to say she’d missed the causeway timings and was spending the night in one of the cottages over on the island where she’s working right now—a little island just off the mainland where a hotel development is underway. To be honest, I’m just happy she manages to get out of bed these days. The job may be way beneath her education and skill set, but it’s good for her. My best friend could do without any extra drama in her life, and watching my ass receiving a solid sexing under the ripped body of a movie star is a can of worms she shouldn’t have to see nor deal with the subsequent fallout.
Like me, Fin’s recently returned to Auchkeld after years of living a very different life. Though, unlike me, she
’s here at no fault of her own. Her husband recently killed himself even if she is in denial about it. But that’s a whole other story.
I place my palms on the scarred kitchen table, attempting to centre myself. Deep breaths. Be calm. There is no key to serenity. The door is always—
‘Come on, you piece of . . . of crap!’ Scowling, I rattle my laptop a little, which doesn’t help it, or my inner peace. The chair legs grate against the floor as I push away from the table, standing abruptly. Then I flip the kettle on . . . while flipping my laptop off . . . with a finger. It seems a watched laptop never reboots and instead decides on an evening of updates.
As the heating element in the kettle sets to work, I lean one hip against the counter. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I begin to type, still angry and wanting to make sense of why my bum is currently posted across the internet.
I’m not going to watch it. I’m not . . . even if I did ask Nat to send me the link. Like she’s not going to ask a multitude of questions about that. But I need to make sense of why this is happening. Why now, at least.
Reasons for releasing a sex tape, I type.
Apparently, almost four million explanations exist, according to the results that flash up on the screen.
Seventeen celebrities who have had sex tapes, reads the first link.
I open the article, skimming across claims of stolen electronic items, compromised luggage, dodgy computer repairmen, and vindictive girl/boyfriends. Lots of finger pointing and the threats of lawsuits, mentions of out-of-court settlements, and insinuations of flagging careers and the hopes of boosted publicity.
None of these explanations ring true; Dylan doesn’t need extra publicity because he’s probably at the height of his fame. The current bad boy darling of Hollywood. The man whose exploits titillate and entertain. In fact, I’m sure he’d like a dose of the opposite; more privacy. I expect he must be tired of seeing his drunken exploits splashed across the screen, along with speculations of who he’s screwing now and how long it’ll last. It seems famous people have literally no privacy. The lengths we had to go to keep our marriage a secret were ridiculous. We’re no longer in touch, so it’s not like I can ask him why the world has knowledge of my bum even existing, never mind them seeing it in 2D.
I suppose it’s possible he had his phone or laptop repaired, providing someone with the chance to make a quick buck. Possible, though not probable. He’s more likely to rip out the hard drive and go buy new.
Would he do this on purpose? I don’t think so. I can’t think he’d gain anything from its release, and it’s been months now since I left. No, his releasing a sex tape as an act of vindictiveness doesn’t make sense, no matter how ugly our ending. Besides, my face wasn’t shown. If he wanted to hurt me, he’d out me, right?
And all the while I’m pondering and hypothesising—weighing the whys and why-fors—the elephant in the room taunts me. Go on, you know you want to watch . . . it isn’t anything you haven’t seen before.
Okay, so I have watched myself have sex with Dylan—lots of times—but it doesn’t make it right in this instance.
When I’d asked Nat to text me the link to the video, I’d told myself it was just to be sure it was me; billions of people live on this planet, and we’re all supposed to have a double somewhere. What if my doppelganger was being banged by Dylan’s doppelganger, and they decided to make a sex tape, too?
Unlikely? Yes. Impossible? There’s no such thing. Just ask the hair stylist who married a movie star. Though, technically, I didn’t. I married a man with great arms; a man who worked as a landscape gardener but happened to be a jobbing actor, too.
So I flick through my text messages, trying to convince myself that I’ll delete the link. Of course, I click it instead.
I may as well add weak and masochistic tendencies to the list of things I don’t like about myself.
It takes only a moment for the clip to load, and a white comforter on a bed is the first thing that comes into view. We were on holiday in Puerto Rico, Isla de Culebra, and had spent the morning on the beach—me under the shade of a palm tree and Dylan catching rays. The house we’d rented had direct access to a private and pristine white piece of coastline, and what the audio doesn’t reveal is that the sounds of the lapping waves could be heard from our bed.
In the room, the light is low, the white shutters almost closed, and the late afternoon sun casting the shadows of palm fronds to dance against the walls.
It was the holiday of a lifetime. A belated honeymoon for a couple who married on a whim and then fell in love.
On screen, I hear myself giggle softly after a bit of static. Dylan whispers something low and indistinct as the bumps of my spine come into view. The camera pans out a little more, though it wasn’t really a camera; he’d used his phone. Dylan’s free hand strokes my neck, my shoulder, as his fingers catch the halter string of my blue bikini top.
Slowly, so slowly, he pulls.
My breath hitches as it falls from chest to waist, or maybe the sound is in response to the drag of his finger down my spine. He loosens the lower tie, the camera following the path of his hand; his fingers wrap around my hip, the digits dark and tanned against my pale skin. His index finger hooks under my bikini bottoms and gooseflesh breaks out there. I shiver, both then and now as, on screen, he pulls at the fabric, exposing one rounded, sand-dusted cheek to the camera. His hand begins to touch and roam, to squeeze and hold like he can’t quite get enough. I moan, and the picture blurs for a second, his head now cradled in the crook of my neck as he whispers words the audio fails to catch.
Memories that echo anyway.
‘Get on your knees,’ he’d whispered, right before pushing me forward and onto the bed. ‘God, you’re so fucking sexy.’
My dark hair splays out against the comforter, breath catching in my throat with a distinct gasp. I remember the feel of the comforter against my bare breasts; the drag of threads against my taut nipples as I’d caught my weight against my palms.
My face turns to the camera, visible yet not, the strands of my hair like a veil.
‘That wasn’t nice,’ I say, my words tinged with laughter. The skin of my arms glistens in the light, a peppering of fine sand from the beach shining like a dusting of sugar.
‘You don’t like nice,’ Dylan replies, the laughter in his words less evident, though still lurking there. ‘You like rough. Hard.’
The knot between my thighs tightens, matched by the sensation in my chest. Perhaps, it’s because of the shame of this knowledge—of being called out—or the fact I’m watching us fuck when I said I would never again. I feel sort of furtive like I’m doing something wrong and likely to be caught; a pleasurable angsty stew of aroused and bad.
Back on the screen, my arm languidly rises to move the hair from my face, but Dylan’s hard body leans over me to do it instead. It’s such a tender action, countered by what he says next.
‘You don’t want soft, babe. You just look like a girl who does.’ He brushes the hair from my shoulders. The camera follows the movement, his shadow obscuring my face as my body trembles. ‘Only I know what’s going on in that head of yours. That you aren’t afraid of a dirty fuck.’
‘What kind of dirty?’ I ask, low and huskily, my words wanton in their intent.
‘You like all the bad words, baby. All the best words. Fuck me,’ he whispers, low and rough. ‘Lick my pussy. Harder. Deeper. Just fuck me, please.’
My God. I try to ignore what his voice does to me as I watch myself trembling on the bed. On the screen, his torso leans left and out of the frame, and for a fleeting second, I’m there—absolutely visible. It only occurs to me briefly to be worried because who would be looking at me when a superstar is about to get undressed? But there, in profile, my long dark hair is splayed across the white linens, my lips slightly parted, and my gaze clouded with desire and need.
‘And my personal favourite.’ His tone is laced with promise and feels like a hundred fingertips dancin
g across my skin. ‘Fuck my mouth, Dylan.’
‘Is that what we’re doing now,’ I ask, my voice tinged with need.
‘How did I get to be so lucky,’ he asks, the words low in his throat. ‘Where did I find you?’
‘On the strip,’ I say with a sultry giggle. ‘I was waiting for you.’
‘Waiting for my cock? Because you love it, don’t you?’
His murmurs were often a mixture of satisfaction and malevolence, but it worked for us. His taunts and the teasing always preceded mind-blowing orgasms. For us both. And sex wasn’t always like this. Sometimes, it was slow and sensual, and sometimes, fast and rough.
But it was always good.
I watch Dylan slide his fingers under my tiny bikini bottoms, grabbing the fabric and pulling it away from my body until it’s stretched tight and outlining the space between my legs. The friction caused by the action is enough to make me moan.
‘Good?’ My response is just a garbled noise; his responding chuckle dangerously edged as he pulls the fabric higher still. ‘Where’s it good? Where you feelin’ that?’
The camera focusses between my thighs, specifically where the blue material is pulled tight and dampening. I recall I’d shaken my head, refusing to answer; not that anyone watching would know because the camera had other places to watch. Especially as Dylan loosens his grip, bringing his hand down hard and fast.
In the kitchen, my body jolts, the same as it does against the bed, and my face grows as red as the handprint on the screen.
‘I asked you a question. Don’t make me ask again.’
‘My clit,’ I moan softly, right before the hand comes down once more. ‘Feels so good,’ I groan. Then he asks me where. More explicitly. And who it belongs to.
‘My pussy,’ I moan out, libidinously. ‘My pussy belongs to you.’
Whispers of praise and sounds of pleasure play through the audio as Dylan makes a show of smacking my flesh—grabbing it—making it pink, and pulling the bikini bottoms against me until they’re visibly damp and I’m writhing beneath him.