by Laura Carter
By the time I reach the top floor, I’m out of breath, both from stomping and from my entire body being overtaken by anger. Why in the hell didn’t I tell him to go home? I slam my bedroom door and start pacing by the window.
“Shit!” I can’t outbid Persian Fuels.
I need more money. But I can’t — won’t — go much higher. The well isn’t worth it. Any bank will know that. I know that, and I have to remember the fact. No matter how much I want to see Caspar squirm, I have to stay focussed.
I stop in front of an oak chest of drawers, my hands braced on the edge. Alternative bids. That’s where I need to be if I want to have a chance of winning this. Round two gives each bidder a chance to increase their current bid. Even if I do that, it’s unlikely I’ll outbid Layton Oil. I definitely won’t outbid Persian Fuels. Caspar will go as high as he needs to to win. But round two also gives bidders an opportunity to submit an alternative bid. Something that isn’t just money. Something innovative. A consortium or joint venture bid. SP could form an alliance, bid as a team with another company in the industry, perhaps.
Urgh! There’s no one in the goddamned industry I’d get into bed with. No one I’d trust.
I guess I could consider private equity. That’s all investors do, put up money to turn a bigger profit than they’d make through interest in a bank. It could be a plan. I’d give them a cut of any profits I make from the well in return for an upfront pot of cash. With SP’s blending capabilities we could turn a profit. I could give a private equity house a healthy return, at least in the current climate.
“Argh!” I ram the drawers against the wall, hurting my hands more than anything. A private equity house will know it’s a big risk. They’ll want a huge cut. SP could be left with a nominal profit, or nothing. And they’d do due diligence, take too long to weigh up the opportunity and risk I’m presenting. I need to submit a bid by Friday; I just don’t have that time to waste.
I stare into the mirror, and suddenly the bid, the well, Persian Fuels, Layton Oil, it’s all superseded by a lingering sensation on my lips. They look like they did this morning, but they’re different now. They tingle with the reminder of Clark’s touch.
I wanted to kiss him back. I wanted to tell him that I could forget everything. But he’s moved on. He was almost married. I don’t know if I’d ever be able to get past it, but I know I’m not willing to risk the excruciating pain he leaves in his wake for a rebound shag. He’d have his way with me, and I’d be the one left shattered. Again.
I jump as the bedroom door opens.
“Rach.” I relax a little at the sight of her.
“You okay?”
“Of course.”
She comes into the room and closes the door behind her. “You don’t need to fake it with me.”
“I just… he gets to me. I hate that I let him. One minute he’s being the arsehole I know he is, and the next… he’s the Clark I fell in love with.”
“Was he going to leave?”
I sit on the edge of the bed. Rachel leans on the chest of drawers.
I nod.
“And you stopped him?” Her words are slow, confused and questioning, almost in sync with my own thoughts.
“He must be hurting. He split with Constance two weeks ago. I mean, if they are even split for good. I couldn’t make him leave. A break might help him. I don’t want to see him hurt like that.”
“Like you have, you mean. Let me tell you, if a guy ditched me hours before the altar, like he did Constance, we’d be done. He’d be lucky if I didn’t cut off his balls.”
I laugh hard, a relief. “I’d probably endorse that.”
“So at what point did he kiss you?”
I exhale, long and slow. “You saw that, huh?”
“The whole bar saw that, Dayna. I thought Matty was going to burst a gut to take Clark out.”
“Matty? Why would he do that?”
She waves a hand through the air. “He’s had eyes for you since first year of uni, and you splitting up with him after three months didn’t change that.”
“Christ, that’s all we need, a whose-dick-is-biggest competition.”
“You surely know the answer to that question.”
I chuckle. “Well, Matty was still growing, I think.”
“I knew it. Layton has the looks and the kit.” She sits next to me and nudges my shoulder with hers. “You know, maybe he’s changed, Dayna.”
“Can you tell me why you’re defending him? First Ted, now you.”
“Hey, I’m not defending him. I’m ready to mangle his balls in a heartbeat, just say the word. All I’m saying is, I’ve never known you happier than when you were with Clark. Maybe he’s changed, and you won’t know that unless you talk to him.”
“Maybe he has,” I concede. I guess he was going to be married. I suppose that could be a sign that he wants to put his player days behind him. “But I’ve changed too, Rach. I’m not the girl he walked all over anymore. I’ve seen things, things that have changed me. I’m not the girl he remembers. I don’t think I could be that happy anymore.”
“So maybe you get to know the new versions of each other. As friends. Or not.”
“Or not? I’m not going to be the woman he fucks to decide whether he goes back to his childhood sweetheart.”
“Right. Fine. Settled. You can be a cock-tease instead and make yourself feel better in the process. Torture the bastard for what he did to you.” She winks and I’m laughing again.
“Ladies!” The bedroom door opens. Yvette and Amy stand in the doorway. “You rang?” Yvette dangles a bottle of Bollinger from one hand and two glasses in the other.
Amy pulls another two flutes from behind her back with dramatic flair. “Birthday bubbles!”
“We have plans for you, lady,” Rachel says as Yvette cautiously squeezes the cork of the Bollinger. “You’re going to need that LBD I told you to pack. Dinner, catered. Ridiculous games. And some hot-tub action.”
“Ahh, hence the swimwear.”
“Yep. Then you can really torment Layton.”
“He already looked pretty tormented to me,” Yvette says. “I knew he wanted you back, but I didn’t think he was going to dive in that heavy.”
I take the first glass of fizz from Yvette. “He wants me back?” She lifts her head quickly, and momentarily looks flustered, like she said something she shouldn’t.
“Maybe that’s a conversation for the two of you to have.”
“He’s only just ended things with Constance,” I say, when I ought to be telling her he has no chance.
Yvette hands out the other two glasses, fills her own then puts the much lighter bottle on the drawers. “You might want to ask why he ended things with Constance. And with that foot firmly in my mouth, a toast.” She raises her glass. “To our wonderful, intelligent, caring, hot, sexy momma, Dayna. Happy thirtieth, honey.”
I blush as we clink glasses. “To my girls. Thank you for this weekend and for always looking out for me. Well, except when you let Teddy invite Lucifer to my birthday,” I add with a wink aimed at Yvette.
“Don’t worry, I’ve withheld for the best part of a week in your honour.”
I clink her glass again. “I appreciate the sentiment.”
“WELL, HELLO, FOXY lady.” I do my best impression of sultry — somewhere between burlesque and total failure — as I step into Amy’s bedroom. Her hair is curled across one shoulder and held in place by a crystal slide. Her make-up has been applied, and from the sweet smell of flowers hitting my nose I’d guess she’s already perfumed. But she’s standing in her bra and knickers, holding up two dresses.
She lifts the dresses higher, her head poking through the middle. “Hey, yourself. H. O. T.”
I strike the only red-carpet pose I know — shoulders back, hip out, overdone pout. “This old thing?” I run a hand down the black satin bardot dress that hugs me everywhere where it touches, finishing mid-thigh.
“Those shoes! Heart them,” she s
hrieks.
I kick back one of my Jimmy Choos. “I’ll have broken my ankle within the hour. Go black lace, you’ll look stunning in that.”
“You’ve sold me.”
Whether it’s down to the bubbles or the company of my best girlfriends, I’m feeling lighter, much happier than I have been in too long.
“Holy hell, call the fire brigade. We’re on fire in here!” Rachel appears at the door in a fuchsia mini, more Saturday night club than cocktails and dinner, but she rocks it. She’s busy doing an awful impression of a siren when Teddy and Yvette stop at the door. Teddy is in pristine black tie. “Seriously? You’re the best we could get?” Rachel jibes.
“Can I escort you, ladies?” Teddy asks, deliberately ignoring Rachel.
I scowl at him, unmoving.
“I know you’re not still mad at me, Snot Face. Let’s go.”
Despite myself, my scowl won’t hold, and I hook an arm through his, second wing to Yvette’s first. There’s music coming from the lounge. The lights are down, and I can see the flicker of firelight. When we reach the bottom of the stairs, a smartly dressed waiter appears, holding a tray of what look like French 75s.
“Happy birthday, Miss Cross,” he says, inching the tray a little closer towards me.
“Thank you, ah…”
“Stefan. I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”
There’s a whoop from behind me, followed by Rachel whispering, “How do I get one?”
I don’t want Stefan to feel uncomfortable, but I also can’t hide my amusement. I cover my smile with my fingers and take a cocktail with my free hand, sipping the tasty blend of champagne, gin and lemon. “Thank you, Stefan.”
I move into the lounge, which has been covered with candles. The long wooden dining table has been set and looks immaculate — white linen, black accessories, silver candelabras, crystal confetti. I take in everything, rotating on the spot. “Wow, this all looks—”
I stare at the most mesmerising thing in the room. Clark’s dirty-blond hair is slicked back, and the contours of his face are illuminated by the soft glowing lights. He’s broken with convention; his dinner jacket is velour. Smooth, rich, modern. He’s ditched a bow tie in favour of opening the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt. He sits in one of two high-back chairs by the fire, his elbows resting on the arms, a French 75 in one hand. His legs are wide, long and athletic.
I’ve seen the pose before. I’ve crawled between his spread legs and unfastened his shirt, trailing my mouth down his abdomen with each button. I’ve straddled him in a chair just like that and seduced him, his arms holding my hips, taking my weight, helping me move around him while he was buried deep inside me.
I close my eyes and take a sip of my drink to soothe my suddenly dry throat. A hand grabs my chin, making me open my eyelids. Rachel. “It does look fabby, doesn’t it?” she says through her mouth while the rest of her face screams at me to pull myself together.
“Ah, yes, yep. Does. Yes.”
Well, all the girls are on my side, even if Cupid is firing bloody arrows that conspire against me.
Despite seeing them less than two hours ago, I kiss the others on the cheek — Matty. Tim. Spencer. Clark stands but doesn’t make a move towards me. He just looks at me, neither of us moving, awkwardness stretching between us. He flinches, as if he might take a step, but he doesn’t. For God’s sake. As if this isn’t already complicated enough for the others. I step in to the silverback’s cage. I make the mistake of breathing him in. He definitely doesn’t smell like a gorilla. He smells rich, indulgent, intoxicating. I put one hand on his chest to steady my weak legs. My fingertips slide down his sleek blazer. He bends towards my neck, his hand on the small of my back.
“You said if I tried to kiss you again you’d slap my face,” he whispers. The caress of his breath beneath my lobe is warm and sensual.
“Call it a weak moment.” I press my lips to his cheek and linger longer than I should, giving him time to tighten his hold on my waist. “It’s a shame you’re such a fuck-up,” I whisper against his ear.
He pulls back, rolling his jaw, and jerks his neck. I seem to have wounded the ape’s pride. Oops.
I hadn’t noticed it before, but I do now sense tension between Matty and Clark. Matty’s back is strong, his shoulders back as he watches the exchange. Tim and Spencer on the other hand, seem chirpy, maybe a little boozed already.
We talk for almost an hour, everyone in the group taking a role, everyone laughing and joking. More than once I take a moment to just sit back and watch my friends, grateful that they get along, immeasurably thankful that they’re here with me. Dinner brings with it more joviality and a lot of wine. We finish up a game of Who Am I? over port and cheese, although I abstain from the cheese, knowing there’s bikini activity to come, and skimp on the port because I definitely don’t need more booze.
Teddy was the author of the sticky note on my forehead. I should have known, without having to ask any questions, that he’d have written Drop Dead Fred. Unbelievably, and I suspect thanks to Shiraz, I didn’t guess it right.
Stefan comes to clear the table and tell us that the hot tub is ready. I nip upstairs and slip into a black all-in-one—backless with a thick halter strap, the two pieces of material coming down across my breasts and meeting at my navel, held together by a gold bar just below my cleavage.
Outside, the others are already in the tub. Faking courage I don’t have, I drop my towel and take my skimpy swimwear into the steaming bubbles as quickly as I can. I take the last free seat, cursing silently as I slide into the space between Clark and Matty, not daring to look at either of them.
“Okay, time for I Have Never,” Rachel announces, bobbing into the middle of the tub. “Someone hand Dayna a drink, please. When it’s your turn, you come into the middle, and you tell us something naughty, minxy.” She shimmies her breasts as she speaks, definitely affected by wine. “The rest of us have to guess if you’ve done it or not. If we guess right, the person in the middle drinks. If we guess incorrectly, we drink. Simple?” She sips from her glass. “Right. I’ll go first. I have never… had sex in a hot tub.”
“Bullshit!” I shout.
She opens her mouth wide in protest, then she laughs and drinks. “Tim, you’re up,” she says.
“I can be if you like.”
“Seriously? That’s your line?”
Tim laughs as he takes up position, flexing his muscles as he does. “I have never… had sex in a garden shed.”
I practically spit out my drink.
“Why would you have sex in a garden shed?” Yvette asks.
Tim shrugs.
“Bullshit,” Amy says. “It has to be bullshit.”
“No bull,” Tim says triumphantly, and Amy takes a drink. “I don’t know, man, I guess it’s the tools or something,” he explains to Spencer as he retakes his seat.
Spencer goes next, with sex on a beach in Belize.
Matty goes with blow-job in a Porsche, at which I can’t help but roll my eyes.
“I’m up? Okay…” I move into the middle. “I have never… had a threesome.”
“True!” Amy squeals, her volume increasing with each sip of champagne. “Although I can believe two guys would want you at the same time.” She winks at me then less-than-subtly at Matty and Clark. I, in turn, look for the nearest hole to crawl into as I take a long swig of wine.
Clark waits until I’m back in the sanctity of my seat before he takes his turn. When he gets to the middle, he dips his shoulders under the water and drags a hand back through his wet hair. The man really could be an advert for Gucci or Rolex.
He clears his throat then stares at me. His lips curl slightly, such a small move you’d have to be paying him close attention to notice.
“I have never… made love all night. The kind that takes over you. Your mind, your body, your soul. And you don’t tire of it, you keep going until you forget everything except just the two of you, until your legs go weak, until sw
eat runs between you and your lungs forget how to breathe.”
“Bullshit!” Amy shouts. “No man can go all night.”
My eyes sting, burnt by memories of him, us, those exact feelings. Now I know that he felt it too… but if he knew what I knew, if he’d felt what I felt, how could he end it?
I contemplate charging out of the tub. Leaving, the way he does right after someone has declared how they feel. But I stay, and I remind myself that he probably spent nights just like that, more nights than we ever did, making Constance’s legs and heart turn to jelly, making her mind blank as the most profound orgasms ripped through her body.
I don’t know who won. I drink regardless.
I try to muster smiles and laugh in the right places through another two games, but it’s fiction, all of it, because what I really am is pissed off. At the man sitting next to me, at the way he can get under my skin so easily and spread like a disease. Angry at the whole damned situation. Above all, pissed off that I can’t stop thinking about his naked flesh so close to mine, and that I can’t stop my sex from aching to be satisfied by him, the way he feels inside me, grinding against me, and yes, going at me all fucking night.
Teddy and Yvette are first to say goodnight. We shuffle to wish them sweet dreams. As Clark sits back down next to me, his leg presses against mine. It’s an intentional move, I’m sure. Like the yawn and stretch in the cinema by a fifteen-year-old boy on his first date. But his touch sets off sparks in me, it ignites passion deep in my bones. I don’t want it, or rather, I know I shouldn’t want it, but no one has ever held me, sated me, the way Clark has. I’ve never felt the need to be desired and taken by anyone as fiercely as I have with Clark.
His leg presses harder, more deliberately. He’s talking to Spencer but his hand moves tentatively to my knee. I can’t. I won’t.
I grab his hand beneath the water and squeeze his fingers hard, the same way I’d wrap my fist around a stress ball to vent frustration. “You’ve had too much to drink,” I grate through my teeth. I tell the group I’m going to hit my bed so I can rise early and get in a full day on the slopes.