by Jessica Ashe
“Yes,” I reply. “But we can cope without them for now. Back to reading, buster.”
Charles smiles at me again, but he does go back to reading his book. I’m just relieved to have changed the subject. He probably doesn’t believe me when I say I don’t want him, but I need to keep denying it for my sake as much as his. The second I admit to having any feelings for him, this entire relationship goes to shit.
I do have feelings for him. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to admit that to myself, but it’s obvious now. I have feelings for the cocky, arrogant, stunningly good-looking footballer who has a young child.
I’m in deep shit.
Chapter 6
Charles
I feel like shit.
I know it’s not a hangover. When I have a hangover, my head pounds and I feel queasy. I don’t have a headache and I don’t feel sick, but my throat hurts like hell and I feel like I’m coming down from a huge sugar high.
I didn’t even drink that much last night. I can handle my beer, but whatever crap they served at the party last night wasn’t beer. I’d stuck to beer thinking it would be the sensible choice, but all they had was that fizzy piss that tastes more like a soft drink. Now I feel like I’ve drunk four liters of cola.
Predictably, the party had been absolute shit. I swear, regardless of what it says on our driving licenses, I must be at least five years older than the rest of these people. The party was all drinking games and desperate attempts to get women to flash their tits. Maybe I’m just old before my time.
I only went to the party to keep the team happy. Morale is always important in team sports, and I’ve not exactly endeared myself to everyone in the squad. The way I see it, I can earn points by attending shitty parties, and I can then cash in those points when I need to bollock my teammates for acting like idiots. Last night should have earned me a lot of points for all this shit I put myself through.
I drag myself out of bed and head straight over to the library. Becky has set up another study session, and this time she refuses to do it at my house. In order to escape all my crazy fans, we are meeting at seven o’clock in the morning.
How the hell is anyone supposed to study this early in the morning? When I’d been in school, I’d only really been efficient between the hours of eleven and two. Anything before eleven is too early, and anything after two is in the middle of the afternoon lull. Seven in the morning is just impossible, or at least it is for me. When I arrive at the library Becky is already hard at work.
“Morning,” I growl.
Becky looks up at me, but the smile quickly fades from her face. She still looks gorgeous. She must always get up early, because there isn’t a hint of tiredness in her eyes. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Some,” I reply. “Not as much as I’d like. Didn’t get in until one o’clock.”
“Party?” I can already hear the disapproval in her voice.
“Yeah, last party before the season starts. I had to go. Team spirit and all that.”
“You won’t even be playing this season if you don’t get good grades.”
“I know, I know.”
“Do you? If you did, you wouldn’t be going to parties and staying up till the early hours of the morning doing God knows what.”
“I was just drinking,” I reply. “There was nothing sordid. You don’t need to be jealous.”
“I’m most certainly not jealous. I just want you to take this seriously.”
“I am. I can assure you, if I wasn’t taking this seriously, I wouldn’t be here at this time in the morning.”
“Good. I want to go through this week’s assigned reading with you today.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I dig through my bag and find the right book. It’s mercifully thin, although when I look inside I realize that’s largely because of the small print. I’m not complaining. The longer it takes to get through this book, the more time I have to be with Becky. I need to get her to stop thinking of me as just a student, but that’s not going to be easy. She has feelings for me—I’m almost positive about that—but she won’t admit to them. I have my work cut out for me.
“Before I forget, I have a surprise for you.”
Becky digs into her bag and comes out with a handful of pens and different colored sticky labels.
“You bought me highlighters,” I say excitedly. I’m not excited to have highlighters, but I’m excited that she cares enough to buy them for me. When I buy things for women it’s because I want to get them into bed. This is probably the same thing, right?
“You have to actually use them.”
“What do I do? Just highlight important sentences?”
“Yes,” she says slowly, clearly wanting to say ‘no, you idiot.’ “But you can’t just go highlighting things left and right. You need a system.”
“A system?”
Becky takes the pens out of the plastic pocket and holds up a yellow highlighter. “I use this color for lines that really jump out to me as being particularly poetic or inspirational. Ones I might want to quote in an essay.” She puts the yellow highlighter down and picks up a green one. “I use this color for lines that add something to the character’s personality. For example, if a character casually gives money to a beggar then I would highlight that action because the author is clearly trying to communicate something about the character. You should use a similar system.”
“What about all the other colors?”
“You might not need to use them.”
“But you do?”
She nods. “I have a system, but it’s probably overkill to be honest.”
“What about the sticky labels?”
Becky didn’t just buy standard yellow stickies. There were lots of small stickies of different colors and shapes. She even had those labels that lawyers used to indicate where you needed to sign.
“How you use the stickies depends on what you’re reading. I don’t really have a strict system for that.”
“Wow, how rebellious of you.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know, but it’s got me where I am today.”
“Sitting in a small room with a footballer you want to fuck?”
She purses her lips to suppress a smile and shakes her head. “Stop bringing the subject around to sex. Come on, you have work to do.”
Becky and I both read the same passage from the book I have to read for my next class. After a few minutes, I realize she’s frantically highlighting her book whereas my highlighters still remain untouched on the table.
May as well give this a go.
I grab the yellow and green pen and start coloring in my textbook like a young child. I even shove a few stickies in there for good measure.
“What do you think?” Becky asks when I get to the end.
“Okay, I guess. It’s a little unbelievable.”
“Why? Do you mean his reaction to seeing his wife kissing another man?”
“I just can’t believe he fell for it. The text says that his wife despises this other man, but she kisses him because she wants her husband to catch her. That would never work.”
“Why not?”
“If she hates this man, there’s no way she’d be able to make the kiss look convincing. He’d see through it a mile off.”
“Are you telling me that kisses only mean something between people who love each other? That sounds awfully dubious coming from someone like yourself. No offense.”
“It’s not that. You don’t need to love each other, but there needs to be some passion there. She feels no passion for this man and therefore the kiss wouldn’t have been convincing.”
“Actors do it all the time. Do you really think they feel passion for every person they kiss?”
“No, and I can tell. The kisses look fake.”
“I disagree. People kiss all the time. It doesn’t have to be anything special.”
“If you can’t tell the difference, then I don’t think you’ve ever had a really passionate kiss.”
Without thinking, my hand reaches out under the table and lightly brushes against her thigh. She gasps and jolts her leg away, but seconds later she slowly moves it back against my fingers. I’ve always acted on instinct around women, but this is the first time it’s scared me.
It scares me how much I want her. She feels like the first woman I’ve ever touched. The heat coming from her thighs and between them feels unfamiliar and tantalizing. I gently squeeze her leg and watch her reaction, although she won’t make eye contact with me, instead staring down intently at the desk.
She doesn’t move my hand away, but she doesn’t touch me back either. This confirms I’m right about her wanting me, but unfortunately I’m also right about her not wanting to act on it. She’s been with a footballer before, and I can tell it’s left her scarred.
When she finally looks up at me, I expect to hear her protest and say ‘we shouldn’t do this.’ Or ‘someone might see.’ Instead she’s silent.
I act on instinct again, leaning forward and kissing her gently on the lips. Again, she doesn’t push me away, but neither does she return the kiss. My lips are on hers for three long seconds until she finally opens her mouth slightly and lets my tongue slip inside.
I immediately forget we’re in the library. I want her so much I wouldn’t hesitate to take her right now on this table. Becky would probably draw the line there, though.
My hand moves slowly up her thigh, but now she stops me. She grabs my hand and firmly lifts it off her leg, while taking her lips away from mine. She doesn’t say anything, but there’s a slight shake of the head which tells me I’m not getting any further with her right now.
“I don’t want to mess around anymore, Becky. I want you. Now.”
“I can’t. I’m your tutor.”
“We’re both students. You’re not a teacher and I’m not a child. Stop using that as an excuse.”
“It won’t work between us. I’ve been here before.”
“I don’t know what happened with your last boyfriend, but I am not him. You can’t lump all footballers together.”
“I’m getting a lot of déjà vu.”
“I bet your last boyfriend didn’t have a child,” I joke.
Becky smiles and laughs nervously. “Is that supposed to be a selling point now?”
“Not usually, but you’ve met Gemma. You have to admit, she’s pretty adorable.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you because you have a cute kid.”
“No, you should have sex with me because I’m good at it and I have a big dick. You should keep having sex with me because I have a cute kid.”
Becky shakes her head, but she doesn’t argue. I know I’ve won the argument, but I can’t claim my prize. Not yet.
“Spread your legs.”
“It’s usually me saying that,” I reply. “But I’m game if you are.” The prison guard stares at me blankly. “Heard that one before, huh?”
I spread my legs a few feet apart while the guard pats me down. I get that prisons need to be secure, but the people who work here are on a huge power trip. Or at least, the woman working her hands up my thigh is. She has all the charm of a TSA officer after a twelve hour shift.
I suppose I can’t blame her. This prison only has two temperatures—freezing and boiling. Today it’s boiling, and the guards are in full uniform. I’m sweating and I’m only wearing a T-shirt and shorts.
This place is grim. Obvious, I know. Prisons aren’t supposed to be luxury hotels, but the high security, combined with the awful conditions mean I don’t want to be in here any longer than I have to be. I’m being selfish. My father lives here day in, day out and will do for another five years. He has it a lot worse than the occasional pat down from a grumpy guard.
Dad shouldn’t be here. Not because he’s innocent—he’s guilty as hell—but he doesn’t need to be in a high security prison. My dad worked as an accountant for a public company that went down the toilet. Dad had nothing to do with the company’s failure, but he did help cover it up after his bosses put pressure on him. Investors lost money, and the SEC ended up getting involved.
I don’t have much sympathy for millionaire Wall Street arseholes, but these arseholes control people’s pension funds. Ultimately, normal people paid the price for my dad’s crimes and a few years in prison is a probably a fitting punishment. I just don’t understand why he has to be in this prison surrounded by murderers, rapists, and drug dealers.
I step into the visitor’s room and have to look around twice before spotting Dad. He looks different from my last visit, which was far too long ago. He’s thinner, more tired looking. By the time he gets out, his friends won’t recognize him. I feel like I’m watching my dad age before my eyes, the process sped up like a film montage.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, holding out my hand which he eagerly shakes. We pat each other on the back in that way we always did to avoid properly hugging. I love my dad, and he loves me, but neither of us really does the affection thing.
“Hi, son, I’m so glad you could make it.”
“I’m sorry it took so long. I meant to come sooner, I just… you know, what with football, and being at college. I’m busy is what I’m trying to say.”
“I remember how busy I was at college. For the first two years I barely left my house. It wasn’t until I met your mother, and she insisted on making me socialize a bit, that I started going out. I still can’t believe you’re at college. No offense.”
“I can’t believe it either. Thankfully it’s only for a year. As I’m sure you remember, I’m not really the studying type.”
Although I’ve never had a tutor like Becky before.
“I remember. Your mother and I had to practically tie you to the desk to get you to work. And the reports from your teachers were all the same. ‘He’s clever, and he would get good grades if he just applied himself to his studies.’”
“But if I’d done that, then I wouldn’t have been able to play rugby after school every day. I think it worked out okay in the end.”
“Can’t argue with—” Dad erupts with a loud, chesty cough. It sounds slimy, like that of a forty-year smoker even though my dad has never touched cigarettes.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just got a bit of a cold.” He coughs again; it doesn’t sound anything like a cold.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“James is a doctor, and he gave me the once over. He thinks it’ll pass after a week or two.”
“James? As in your cellmate?”
“He’s a doctor.”
“There must be an official prison doctor you can see. That cough sounds nasty.”
“The prison doctor has bigger concerns than a patient with a cough.”
“I don’t care,” I snap. “Make sure you see him.”
I have no right to act concerned about my father’s well-being. He could have had this cough for weeks, or even months, and I wouldn’t know about it because I’ve not been in to see him. That’s going to change now.
“How’s my little granddaughter?” Dad asks.
I know it’s eating up him inside that he has a grandchild he has never seen. He probably didn’t anticipate being a grandfather so early, but it’s a role he would relish.
“She’s a handful,” I reply. I hand him one of the pictures of her I printed from my phone. “This was taken just a few days ago after a surprise visit.”
Dad holds the photo close to his face and grins ear to ear. It’s a picture of me holding Gemma up in front of my face with her laughing hysterically for no apparent reason.
“She’s incredible,” Dad says. I can tell he’s fighting back tears, but he won’t cry. He’s never cried in front of me, and I can’t imagine him starting now.
“You can keep it.”
“Thanks. Who took the
photo?”
“Uh, Dana,” I lie.
“No she didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re smiling in the photo as well. You look happy. From the way you talk about Dana, I can’t imagine you ever looking happy with her around. And the fact that you just lied to me about it, means the photographer is a woman. One who means something to you.”
“When did you become so inquisitive?”
“Answer the question, son.”
“Fine. Her name is Becky. But she’s just my tutor, nothing more.”
“Clearly you’d like her to be.”
“I’m working on it,” I admit. “She’s great with Gemma.”
“Good. I hate to sound like the strict father, but you do need to be more careful about the women in your life now. Having a child changes everything.”
“Tell me about it.”
I can still sleep around if I want to. I only have Gemma two days a week, and that leaves plenty of time for me to get my end away. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. Even if Becky wasn’t in the picture, I wouldn’t feel right screwing around like I used to. Gemma is too young to pick up on how I act, but I’m still acutely aware that I need to be a role model for her.
I’m not going to date a woman just because she’s good with Gemma, but if I happen to meet a woman who is incredible for me and great with Gemma then I’d be crazy to turn a blind eye. Becky is exactly that woman.
“Do you think I can see her one day?” Dad asks, still staring at the photo.
“Becky?” I haven’t even told Becky my father is in prison. That’s not going to be a fun conversation.
“I meant Gemma,” he says with a knowing smile, “but it would be great to meet Becky as well.”
There are other babies here in the room with us, but I’ve deliberately come on a day when Gemma is with her mom. Dad has never seen his grandchild. I know I’m being selfish, but it just feels wrong to bring a bundle of joy like Gemma to a place like this. Mind you, maybe it’s a good idea for the evil genius to get a glimpse of this place. It might scare her straight.