Twisted Little Games

by Dee Palmer

  I shake my head at the dark spiralling thoughts, halting them before they do their worst. I pull the car to a stop on the brow of the hill over-looking the harbour. This is what I needed. I don’t know why I didn’t come here first. It’s where I healed after mum died. This is not the same, I know, but it was close. I really felt something…I don’t know if it was love but I was willing to go with it because it sure as shit felt real. Bethany had told me it was so…well at least tried to. But after everything happened the way it did, how can I possibly know the truth? How will I ever be able to trust myself to know the difference? I won’t. That was my epiphany whilst travelling. I have shit judgement, but it doesn’t matter because I am not going there again–ever. Returning home, going back to my playground, I am happy to start again and more than glad to erase the possibility that I was ever in love. I have a whole new perspective–well not entirely new. I lived this way long for before Kit, and I’ll do it again. Simply put, I love women; I just won’t let myself love a woman.

  The sun is high and with the tide out, the beach is dark with crammed tourists making the most of the unpredictable English weather. This is a little gem of a fishing town and it’s where I feel most at peace, where I have the most fun. I close my eyes and let waves of calmness wash and saturate me, a deep sense of belonging filling my soul. Yep, this is where I need to be. I crack the door open and walk to the edge. The flimsy, rusted railing is the only barrier to the sheer hundred foot drop of cragged rock into the sea below. Warm salty air rushes into my lungs when I draw in a deep satisfying breath. I feel the first surge of joyful energy permeate every single cell in my body. I may have chosen to lock my heart up for good, but that leaves all my other organs ready to play. This is going to be a great summer.

  The main seafront road to my place is closed, and I had to abandon my car on the outskirts of town. I will pick it up later when the heaving masses have ebbed. I grab my rucksack from the back seat, and make my way to the harbour front. The town has an entirely different feel in the summer as a whole population of people descend to take their holidays. It’s heaving but buoyant with tourists, primed to have a good time. It’s very much a family destination but recently, with the opening of a few trendy bars and eateries, it attracts a fair number of young single travellers. That coupled with the influx of transient tourists looking for seasonal employment, I know I won’t be lonely for long. I make my way to my bar, deciding to check in before I head home. I am only a silent partner, but I was thinking about picking up a few shifts behind the bar. Put my new cocktail making skills to good use and as I push my way through the lunchtime crowd, I can see my timing couldn’t be more welcome.

  “Hallelujah! He answered my call.” Buddy, the bar manager, looks up from drawing two pints, and uncapping a bottle of sparkling water. He doesn’t look flustered. He is pretty much unflappable, which is why I was happy to invest with him when he wanted to set this place up. But he is getting slammed with the sheer volume of orders. I work my way behind the bar and throw my bag into the open store cupboard.

  “Who’s next?” I look over the bar to the next customer just catching Buddy’s killer smile, which at the moment is filled with obvious relief at my opportune arrival. We work seamlessly together; a fluid, easy cohesion unaffected by my lengthy absence. We don’t have time to talk until it is nearly four in the afternoon and there’s finally a break in service. “Wanna tell me why you have no staff? Let me guess…you fucked the wrong waitress and now they have all left?” I take a well-earned slug of my ice cold cider and raise a teasing brow.

  “Not likely. Happily married, remember? Besides that’s your job, as I recall; although, you never manage to piss any of them off. How do you do that, by the way?” He wipes down the bar before he starts to empty the drip trays–always working.

  “Trade secret.” I smile to myself at the truth of that statement. It might be a very distant memory, but strong enough to imprint on my five-year-old self and last a lifetime. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you, and where would I find another hard-working bar manager to keep my pension pot healthy.” He barks out a short laugh.

  “Yeah right, like you need to be planning for your pension. Besides, I know exactly how you stay friends…’You don’t shit where you eat’. You do everything but fuck these girls and they love you for it.” He moves along the bar, still cleaning.

  I laugh out. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Hey, I’m not gonna mess with a rule that works for me. Don’t ask me why, but making some girl fall apart and scream my name any which way I can is fine. But the minute I stick my dick in, it complicates things. So no, I won’t fuck anyone local, but this town triples its population during the summer, so passing trade is fair game and this summer it is game-on.” Buddy grins and shakes his head. I step back and take a look around the place. I can’t believe it’s been over a year since I was here. It hasn’t changed but it looks good. We tend to change the theme and decor every two years to keep it fresh, but we still do a once over maintenance paint in the winter. Buddy is very handy at any odd job, so nothing ever looks too old or tatty. Unless that’s the theme we’re going for. But he has changed the back wall. I had chosen some graffiti-style, large scale paintings to hang above each of the six alcoves. I saw them in a small gallery off Portobello Road. They were eye catching and brighten the place with an urban twist. Very different from the usual display of artists in the competing restaurants and bars.

  “What’s with the paintings?” I nod toward the new display of equally striking portraits, which now dominate the back wall. They are almost abstract impressions, but the brush strokes are so detailed and evocative, I almost envy the artist having such a stunning muse. They are impressive, beautiful, and I am just a little surprised Buddy has them hanging in the bar.

  “Thought they raised the tone of the place. I like the graffiti ones just fine but Sheila showed me these, and well, I thought they looked dead classy.” He coughs and if I’m not mistaken, his cheeks colour. He looks away at my curious stare like he is hiding something. “Anyway, I liked them. They have all sold, but we get to keep them for the season,” he adds, and looks over at me, then back at the paintings. A faint warm smile curls his lips and I am intrigued.

  “Sheila painted these? So this is a life painting then?” Sheila Woodruff, a local elderly artist, has lived here her whole life, but only ever paints from models. “This hot girl is someone you know I take it?” I round the edge of the bar and slide onto an empty seat, facing Buddy, who is still looking at the paintings behind me. He catches my smirk and throws the bar cloth at my face. I catch and flip it back at him, hitting him square in the forehead.

  “Fuck off, Ethan! No I don’t know her; no one does and Sheila’s like a bloody priest at confession, so there is no point asking. Anyway, what do you think? They work, don’t they? They look good, I mean?” His voice holds no uncertainty and his faith in is judgement is sound.

  “She is stunning.” I tilt my head and take one quick glance at Sheila’s muse. The woman in the painting is flawless, but that is the beauty of art; it can be whatever you want it to be, but I know there is no such thing. “The pictures are a good fit for the place. They are all sold, you said?” I finish up the rest of my drink and put the glass in the washer.

  “You sound disappointed.” Buddy has a satisfied expression plastered all over his face.

  “Yeah, yeah, you did good with the paintings. What do you want a sticker with good boy on it?” I pause and lean heavily against the bar, taking my time assessing each of the pictures before I speak again. “I’m surprised that’s all. I don’t think we’ve ever sold all the art we hang, but I can see why. I might have to speak to Sheila, see if she can paint me another.” I mutter, mostly to myself, as Buddy has started to serve a new customer. “Buddy, I’ll be in the office. Come back when you get a break, we can go over all the other executive decisions you’ve made that I’m paying for.” I’m only joking and the easy smile on his face reflects
the fact that he knows as much.

  About an hour passes and I have had a cursory look through the books, inventory, and staffing. As I expected, despite Buddy’s chilled easy attitude to life, he runs a tight ship. Everything is in order and I have just one question when he joins me, holding a fresh bottle of my favourite cider. He cracks the cap open and takes a seat on the low sofa behind me, swinging his long legs up and over the armrest. He lets out a heavy sigh.

  “That was some shift; thanks for stepping in. I had no idea they were closing off the road today or I never would’ve let the girls take the afternoon off.” He drags his hand through his long, wavy, salt and pepper hair, scraping the strands out of his eyes.

  “What girls? You had girls out there waiting on the tables. You don’t normally have them behind the bar?” I spin the chair around to face him.

  “My best girls weren’t here today and one of them does work the bar. She’s pretty good, doesn’t get under my feet and prefers it to working the floor. Anyway, Sky wanted the afternoon–”

  “-Sky!” He chuckles at my sudden interruption. “Sorry, I didn’t know she was working here. It’s not a problem, I just haven’t seen her since–”

  He barks out a knowing laugh. “Oh, I know exactly when you last saw her. Even in my most promiscuous youth, I never hurried one girl out of the door because I had another one in a different bedroom. She just might still love you deep down, but she was pissed and out for revenge the last time she spoke about you.” He chuckles.

  “And when was that exactly?” I take a large pull of ice cold cider.

  “This morning.” He fails to hide a shit eating grin at my expense.

  In my defence, the other girl was Bethany and she had just woken the apartment up with a heart wrenching cry, so my concerns were elsewhere when I got rid of Sky. But even so, in the cold light of day, it didn’t look so good.

  “I’ve got all summer to make it up to her, and it wasn’t just any another girl. It was Bethany and she was upset–”

  “Bethany, your ‘not sister’,” Buddy interrupts, with air quotes to highlight the distinction I was always so happy to make. Bethany is my Dad’s natural daughter that he knew nothing about until last year.

  “Yeah, we’re not blood related and at the time the ‘not real sister’ thing was a bit of a big deal for me, but not now. We’re cool and she’s married, has a kid–the whole happily ever after. She deserves it. Anyway, none of that is important. What is significant, is the cash withdrawals each week. Care to explain?” I’m not worried that Buddy is skimming. It’s his business as much as mine, but it’s untidy and I like tidy.

  “Oh, that’s the new girl I was telling you about. She’s not on the books; prefers cash.” He curls up in a half sit up and pulls his sweater over his head, muffling his voice. He screws his clothing into a ball and bundles it as a make-shift pillow before sinking back down. His eyes are closed in preparation for a mid-shift siesta.

  “I bet she does.” I throw my pencil, which bounces off his curly mess of hair. “But I don’t. So, she’s either on the books or she’s out.” I offer a tight smile in return to his instant scowl.

  He pitches up on his elbow and turns to his side. “Come on, Ethan. It’s just one girl and she’s had a rough ride. She’s really good behind the bar, a real grafter and works any shift I ask. Never complains. Can’t we just–”

  “No, we can’t! What do you mean she’s had a rough ride? You know what? I don’t want to know. I don’t need another fucked up woman in my life. She’s out, Buddy, do I make myself clear?” My irritation escalated quickly, but Buddy shrugs it off. Man, I must be tired to be snapping like that. Not surprising, I have been travelling for twenty-eight hours straight and only stopped for a quick meet up with Dad at Heathrow before I drove here.

  “You’re the boss. Anything else? Because your miserable mood is eating into my naptime?” He rolls over with his back fully turned. “No, there is nothing else…nothing a good night’s sleep in my own bed or maybe catching a few home grown waves, won’t cure.”

  “Sorry, Buddy, didn’t mean to be a dick about it. I’m just tired…I’m gonna head home, catch some zees.” I can see his shoulders shake.

  “Good luck with that.” His parting words sound more cryptic when he continues to chuckle uncontrollably.

  I grab my things from the storeroom where I had dumped them earlier, and make my way along the harbour front toward the island. The road is now open but the pedestrians are reluctant to cede control. The cars that have pushed their way through, move at a glacial pace. I pick my way through a sea of unfamiliar faces, coloured with pinked cheeks and redder noses. The result of a full day under a cloudless sky and a constant, gentle breeze. I do manage to glimpse the odd person I know, permanent residents serving in the souvenir shops, the pasty stand, and ice cream hut. I have been coming here for years. Lived here, made my home in high season and throughout the quieter periods when the town has an ethereal quality, and only a tiny core population keeping it alive. Many of these kind folk are like family.

  My apartment is nestled on the far side of the peninsular, though it’s not really an island. Wedged neatly alongside row after row of fishermans’ cottages, my block takes up the first row, which is why I have the best view of the beach; headland and out to the open ocean. The beach is still packed, and more so as the tide begins to steal back the soft sand with every hungry shallow wave creeping in. The other side of the island is less sheltered and if I weren’t bone weary, I think I would welcome the chance to catch some of the incoming surf. But I am fucking knackered. My legs feel heavy making the final incline to the rear of my apartment block. The communal door is open, which often happens in high season with a steady flow of rental properties on the block, people often get lazy with security. I close the door behind me and I can feel the handrail vibrate with the thumping base-line music streaming loudly from one of the apartments. So much for sleep. Each floor I pass the noise gets louder until I am standing outside my own door gently resting my head on the frame. This will be why Buddy was laughing; there can be only one person brazen enough to break into my apartment.

  I fish my keys from my back pocket and open the door, quietly or with a fanfare it wouldn’t make a difference, the occupants are far too occupied to notice. Holy fuck…I’ve walked into a porn movie in the making. I drop my bag loudly on the floor…nothing. No one even turns to acknowledge me. What I want to say, but I know would be a wasted breath, is ‘Jesus Sky on my kitchen Island?’ To be fair, it does look like she has put a towel over the surface, but the way the guy behind her is pounding into her arse, I think that is for comfort not for hygiene purposes. Her taught, tanned body is stretch across the narrow width of the island. Her bottom is hanging over one edge and she has the faintest tan line in the shape of a tiny blurred triangle. Only visible in between jack hammer man’s violent thrusting. Her arms are being held tight at her side as some kind of leverage from the guy doing the hammering with his back to me. His board shorts are pooled around his ankles and his bright white arse is pumping furiously. The slick, wet sounds can be heard even above the thumping music. Oh fuck! I spot an open bottle of olive oil knocked on its side. That’s my Manni Olive Oil; not the most expensive in the world but pretty fucking close, and he’s spreading it over her arse like it’s fucking Crisp’n’Dry. The rest of the contents is slowly emptying down the side of the cupboard and inching its way toward the cream wool rug. Not all of it, from the high gloss on Sky’s backside it’s clear a fair portion has been used to ease big guys dick into her arse. From the deep moan and extended curve of her spine, she is having a blast; good for Sky. I am all for sexual adventure and pushing limits, but why does she have to push hers in my home? I can only assume this is her warped idea of revenge.

  Her head is tipped back as she attempts to keep pace with the enthusiastic man–I am going to be generous and say is a teenager–slamming into her mouth.

  “Ah jeeze, brother, are you filming this?
” The guy with his back to me groans with breathless pants. From the pitch in his voice, I think he’s nearly done.

  “Yeah man…look smile you’re on Pornhub…ahhh fuck! No fucking teeth, Sky.” He drops the phone he was filming from and threads both hands into her tumble of blonde curls. Easing her to his own rhythm and supporting her head at the same time. What a gent.

  “Fuck Sky, you are so fucking tight…ahhh!” He grunts and jerks pushing as hard as he can, judging by the flex in his backside and the curve of his back. He collapses his considerable weight flat onto Sky’s back and I can hear her groan under the strain, coupled to the prick with his dick still deep down her throat, she is seconds away from suffocating. Arseholes. I rush over and pull dick number one up and shove him to the floor and turn to face dick number two. I push him hard in the chest, forcing him to fall back. A loud popping sound escapes Sky’s lips with the sudden loss of suction. She turns her flushed head toward me and flashes the briefest brightest smile, before a dark scowl dominates her face.

  “Damn-it Ethan, I wasn’t finished!” She reaches her hand to grab Dick Number Two’s shorts. He has already folded himself away and she is fumbling to salvage his diminishing erection.

  “I’ll let you suffocate next time.” I snap back. She is unbelievable.

  “Ooooo, so there is going to be a next time,” she purrs and sucks in her bottom lip, holding back her own laughter.

  “Fuck Sky, you are unbelievable! You break into my apartment for a gang-bang and you’re not remotely sorry.”

  “Just why should I be? You are the one who fucked my mouth raw and kicked me to the curb. I still had your come dribbling down my chin, Ethan!” I flinch at her truthful accusation, but despite her righteous tirade, she’s still fumbling to retrieve Dick Number Two’s cock from his pants. He is fighting her, trying to pull away to join his brother, who has just high tailed it out the front door.