The Varlet and the Voyeur

by L.H. Cosway

  I read the message again, which made twenty-one times in total.

  Josey.

  I shouldn’t have been focused on a single text message from her when we’d just won our match. I should have been celebrating with Bryan, talking strategy with Ronan and Coach, giving interviews to locker room press, covering post-match analysis.

  But I wasn’t. I was in the toilet stall, reading and rereading Josey’s message.

  Feeling a little tired . . .

  The last few days had been exhausting—amazing, but exhausting—and not just because of the morning sex. Or the (daily) shower sex. There was also the bathtub sex, the bending-her-over-the-couch sex, the we-can’t-wait-so-we’ll-do-it-on-the-floor sex, and, my most recent favorite, the waking-her-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night sex.

  Tossing and turning, thinking of her alone in her bed across the hotel suite, wishing she were next to me, I’d finally decided to carry her into my room three nights ago. I woke her with kisses on her neck and shoulders.

  Each time afterward, she’d left immediately for her own bed once we were done, and I was alone again.

  But no matter when—or where—we had sex, Josey liked it rough. She liked it hard, the more frenzied the better. Every time I tried to slow things down—take a moment to enjoy her body, the sweetness of her sounds, the warmth and feel of her—she’d say, “Harder,” or “Faster,” or something like, “You can spank me if you want.”

  . . . heading to the hotel for a nap.

  I wasn’t surprised she was tired.

  Hell, I was tired. She’d worn me out. Maybe I would take a nap. Josey and I were set to meet the team for a late victory dinner, leaving me just about three hours to catch up on sleep once I made it back to the hotel.

  Or maybe, we wouldn’t go at all. Maybe, we’d nap together. . . I frowned at the thought.

  The uneasiness that had been simmering on low since our double date with the musician and her producer was now raging. I’d been ignoring it because I wanted her. But our conversation in the Botanical Gardens yesterday had turned it up to boiling. She doesn’t want to get married.

  We’d held hands this past week while we were out, usually out of necessity when navigating a large crowd.

  She’d stayed to cuddle a few nights ago after we were together and had almost fallen asleep in my bed, only to get up suddenly and leave after a random discussion about movies.

  She’d even bought me a book two days ago as a gift, explaining it away by saying, “It’s no big deal, something friends would do, and definitely not a romantic, hearts and flowers gesture.”

  We’d gone on a few dinner dates—they were definitely dates—just the two of us.

  All the rules had been bent if not broken.

  Except one.

  No kissing.

  The real question I should have been asking myself was, If you know the rules, why do you keep pushing for more?

  She’d made it very, very clear—every time she lifted her chin, turned to give me her cheek, and interrupted my distracted stares with a joke—that kissing her was not going to happen. That was her hard boundary.

  I knew this, but I couldn’t seem to accept it, just like I couldn’t seem to stop wanting to hold her hand when we were out, and I couldn’t stop wanting her in my bed at night, and I couldn’t walk past a gift shop or a flower shop or a jewelry shop without wanting to buy her something.

  Glancing at her text message again, I admitted to myself that I was falling in love with Josey. Furthermore, I’d never been in love before.

  Not like this.

  I’m given to understand that most people, when they realize they’re in love, feel a sense of happiness.

  I did not.

  Cold and clammy and feverish and sick to my stomach? Yes.

  Regret and remorse and dread? Yes.

  Happiness? Nope.

  Not even a little.

  This is a disaster. A mistake.

  This was a mistake.

  The thought was a new one, a whisper at first, not fully formed, more like an impression. But as I continued to stare at the message, my longing for more with her, the persistent unease, and the whisper matured. They solidified, until they thundered between my ears with each beat of my heart.

  What had I done?

  I needed her, and if she ever found out that I’d broken the rules . . . she’ll leave you.

  I was still frowning at my phone—half-panicked—when I received an alert for a new email and stiffened when I saw the name of the sender. Tapping on the alert, I opened the message from Kean Gallagher that I’d been waiting days for.

  To: William Moore

  From: Kean Gallagher

  Subject: Emails

  I hope you two will be very happy together. She’s a selfish twat. You deserve each other.

  * * *

  I reread the email twice, both times trying to scroll lower, searching for more to the message. There was nothing. I hit reply and typed,

  * * *

  To: Kean Gallagher

  From: William Moore

  Subject: Re: Emails

  I have no interest in disrupting your marriage, nor do I have any interest in Aideen. I hope you two can work it out. It was never my intention to hurt either of you. If you are in a bad way, please call someone. The suicide hotline is on the Samaritans website.

  * * *

  After I sent the email, I waited several minutes, my knee bouncing with nerves. I hoped for . . . something. Not absolution, but a sign that Kean Gallagher wasn’t a danger to himself. Just as I lowered my phone, another alert announced the arrival of a second message.

  To: William Moore

  From: Kean Gallagher

  Subject: Re: Emails

  Save your concern. I’m not as bad off as all that. I know I’m better off without her in any case.

  You should know Aideen is the one who called the press about you. She paid a prostitute to spread the story, gave her all the info on you needed to make the lies look real.

  How do you like her now?

  * * *

  This news knocked the wind out of me. But before I recovered, he sent a third message.

  To: William Moore

  From: Kean Gallagher

  Subject: Re: Emails

  Aideen knew the rules, but she ignored them. You’re not interested in her? Good. She deserves what she gets. She made her own bed, now she has to sleep in it. I hope you break her heart and then I hope someone breaks yours.

  After reading Kean’s messages, his revelation kept echoing around in my skull, and—in a bizarre way—I was happy for the distraction. Aideen had been the one to sell the story to the press. Aideen. I’d been foolish to think I could trust someone I barely even knew.

  No, not foolish, I’d been naïve.

  When I really thought about it, it all made perfect sense. I rejected her. She wanted to get back at me. I felt both angry and stupid for ever thinking I could put my faith in a random couple I knew so little about.

  With my head all screwed up, I didn’t want to see anyone.

  Except Josey.

  I left quietly, slipping out a side entrance, and made my way back, brooding about the revelation and ignoring the warning bells as I drew closer to the hotel.

  But when I walked into the room and I found her asleep on the couch, I couldn’t escape or distract myself from the truth.

  I wasn’t falling in love with Josey because I was already in love with her. And I didn’t go to my room for a nap because I couldn’t bring myself to leave the living room.

  This was the first opportunity I’d had to study her while she slept since she wouldn’t sleep with me, and I wasn’t going to be a creeper who snuck into her room at night and watched her in the dark.

  Instead, I was a creeper who watched her in the light, in the living room, where no sneaking was necessary.

  Much better.

  Or so I’ll tell myself.

  But it wasn’t better. It was just
one more item to add to the list.

  Nevertheless, sitting on the couch across from hers, I indulged myself in the sight of her prone form, my chest and stomach an aching, rioting mess. Everything about her sharp and stunning features had relaxed. The effect was mesmerizing. She was peaceful, the slight rise and fall of her chest captivating. I was reminded of that fairy tale with the sleeping woman kissed awake by a man.

  My thoughts were chaotic.

  Biting my thumbnail as I leaned back in my seat, I asked myself, What would happen if I kissed her now?

  Josey was the definition of a sleeping beauty. Like the woman in the story, Josey would definitely wake up. Unlike the woman in the story, Josey wouldn’t be pleased.

  We had one more full day, a little over thirty-six hours left in Australia, and the thought of an end to us crippled me.

  This was a mistake.

  The sinking sensation in my stomach returned, quicksand, a heady combination when paired with persistent dread, only heightened by Kean’s emails.

  Panic.

  I felt panic.

  I loved Josey. I was in love with her, and I had no right to be. I’d thought I was in love once before. I knew now that I hadn’t been. Even so, Eve’s rejection had destabilized me. It was not an experience I would willingly submit to again.

  But more than that, I needed her.

  I thought back over the last week and all the times she’d left me after we’d been intimate, how the axis of my world had changed, and how she was always just the same, unfazed, unaffected.

  She doesn’t love you.

  My attention focused on her lips. Whether or not we kissed wasn’t really the issue. Even if we kissed, even if she let that happen, I shouldn’t have been pushing her in the first place, just like Aideen shouldn’t have pushed me.

  I hope you break her heart and then I hope someone breaks yours.

  I knew the rules. I shouldn’t be wanting more. I shouldn’t be in love with her. I didn’t want to just break the rules. I wanted to annihilate them. I wanted to pound them into dust.

  I couldn’t continue this way. She would leave me and I wouldn’t recover this time, I wouldn’t be able to—

  “Will?”

  My eyes darted to hers. She was awake, sitting up on the couch and looking at me with a small smile. My heart jumped to my throat, my chest ached. I felt sick.

  Mistake.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, scratching her head and yawning. “You seemed deep in thought.”

  The ever-increasing dread I’d been carrying around for days reached its maximum. I’d been pushing her, and that was the brutal truth. I’d known going into this arrangement that it wasn’t going to last, and I’d been fine with that at the time.

  But now, I wasn’t.

  I wasn’t fine.

  This. Is. A. Mistake.

  The dread was now almost completely panic, such that I didn’t know where one began and the other ended.

  I cleared my throat, pulled my gaze from hers, and focused on breathing normally. This—our arrangement—had been a mistake. A huge mistake. The issue now was how to fix this mistake, how to reverse it, how to change course and make things right.

  I shouldn’t want more.

  What I needed was a plan, with new boundaries and rules.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” Josey stood, and the movement drew my attention.

  She stretched, her eyes on me, a wrinkle of concern between her brows as she approached. She was going to touch me. I didn’t want her to touch me. If she touched me, I would keep wanting more, I would keep pushing, I would work to obliterate rules and boundaries. I would betray her, and myself.

  She was closer now, eyeing my lap like she planned to sit on it. “Did something happen after the match?”

  “Combine harvester.”

  Josey froze midstep, just four feet away, her eyes wide with surprise. “Uh, pardon?”

  I shook my head and stood, turning away from her. I grabbed my keys and wallet by the front table. I opened the door.

  “Will?” she called after me.

  I didn’t pause. I closed the door. I left.

  “I made a huge mistake.”

  Bryan squinted at me as though I was speaking a different language. “Uh, hello, Will. Do you want to—”

  “I want to marry her, and she doesn’t want to marry me.” I walked past Bryan and into his hotel room. I didn’t sit on his couch. I paced.

  I’d been walking around Sydney for hours and had skipped the victory dinner. It was late, and I’d just come from the Royal Botanical Gardens, where I’d replayed the conversation with Josey—when we’d spotted the bride and groom and spoken about the future—several times.

  I kept searching for a clue, desperate for some sign that she wanted me for more than just this stupid friends with benefits arrangement. Each time, I came up empty.

  She would never leave Ireland. She didn’t want to get married. She’d been quiet and withdrawn. She always left.

  With each step I’d taken, I’d grown more and more certain that ending the arrangement with Josey wasn’t just the right choice, it was the only choice.

  Before she finds out.

  My friend closed the door slowly, and equally as slowly, he turned to face me. “Are we talking about Eve?”

  “No,” I snapped. “Why would I be talking about Eve? Eve is nothing.”

  “Uh—”

  “Josey.”

  Bryan flinched, stood straighter, visibly shocked. “Josey,” he parroted, like the name didn’t make any sense.

  I continued to pace. “Josey doesn’t want to marry anyone.” The words physically hurt to say.

  His stare flicked over to me, disbelieving. “She said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  He flinched again. “You should—why don’t you start from the beginning?”

  “I made a mistake.”

  “What did you do?”

  I stopped pacing and faced my friend. “I thought I could—we could—have an arrangement.”

  “Arrangement?”

  “No strings.”

  “Ah.” Bryan winced, inhaling slowly through his teeth. “I see.”

  “It was a mistake.” Shit.

  Shit shit shit shit shit.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, scratching the back of his neck, looking confused. “I’m sorry, you need to give me a minute to catch up here. I can’t believe you—I mean, you’ve never—”

  “I thought I could.”

  “With Josey?”

  I nodded.

  “Will . . .” his expression was somewhere between frustrated and concerned. “She works for you.”

  “I know!” I closed my eyes, irritated with myself for shouting. “I know,” I repeated, calmer. “It was a mistake.”

  “So you keep saying.” Bryan sighed. “And now you want more?”

  “Yes. No.” I set my hands on my hips and opened my eyes, staring at nothing. “Fuck.”

  My friend studied me for several seconds before declaring, “You want more.”

  Grimacing, I shook my head. “I shouldn’t.”

  “But you do.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I’d moved on, now grasping on to Bryan’s statement.

  Josey was my employee.

  There.

  There was my reason for ending things early without the risk of losing her.

  “You’re right.” I nodded faster as an idea formed. “She was—is—my employee. I’m a terrible person.”

  “No—”

  “We had an agreement and I broke it.”

  Bryan turned his head, peering at me out of the corner of his eye. “Did you coerce her? Into the no-strings relationship?”

  I breathed out, my lungs on fire. I honestly hadn’t considered that.

  “No,” I said. But then I quickly amended, “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t know. I mean—”

  I licked my
lips, they were suddenly dry.

  I hadn’t.

  Maybe I had coerced her. I had a history of not being able to read people, women in particular. I thought Eve had been in love with me, I thought Aideen felt nothing for me.

  Everything was chaos.

  Pushing my fingers through my hair, I sat on the couch, resting my elbows on my knees and holding my head in my hands. I needed to sort through this, focus on facts.

  “Josey works for me, the time has come to end things, it never should have happened in the first place. It was—”

  “A mistake,” he finished. I glanced at Bryan, he was watching me closely with a wary-looking focus. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to make it right. I’m going to do the right thing.”

  I’d end the arrangement. I’d tell her it’s because she’s my employee. She’d never know the truth.

  She won’t leave.

  “What does that mean? ‘Make it right.’”

  “I’ll—” I searched Bryan’s hotel room, my attention bouncing from his bed to the dresser to the bathroom door. “I’ll end things, now, tonight.”

  He made a choking sound. “You’re going to fire her?”

  “No! Of course not. I’m going to”—I swallowed around a painful knot in my throat—“I’m going to apologize, tell her it was a mistake, that I accept full responsibility, and give her some options.”

  “Such as?”

  “She can. . . stay on with me, living in the apartment, and things will go back to normal, professional. Or I could pay her a severance and help her find a new place to live.”

  Even as I said the words, I knew I wouldn’t give her the second option. I wouldn’t be able to. I would do whatever it took to keep her in my life. I wasn’t a good guy. I was dishonest and unprincipled.

  I’m . . . a varlet.

  Bryan folded his arms, his eyes hazy with thought. Eventually, he nodded, “That seems fair. But maybe also ask her if she has any other options in mind? Ask her for her opinion? See what she says and go from there.”