In Like Flynn

by Donna Alam

  ‘What?’ Paisley trills, her own gaze following his as though expecting to find something wrong with her outfit.

  ‘You had sex this weekend. Lots and lots of sex.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ She straightens, all smiles and bright eyes. ‘And what’s wrong with you two?’

  ‘Because we haven’t.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ I reply.

  ‘Right!’ he scoffs, crossing one leg over. ‘Is that not a face of extreme sexual frustration?’ Hills points a finger in my direction but directs his words at my friend.

  ‘I’m keeping out of this,’ she says, laughing as she slips out of her coat and hangs it in the open closet. ‘I have something for you.’ As a grumbling Hillary moves from the love seat to begin unpacking our gear in the other room, Paisley slides in next to me. ‘Give me that,’ she says, taking the flaccid banana skin from my hand. ‘When I paid the bill at brunch, that waiter guy asked me to give you this.’ She slides a business card into my hand.

  ‘Tate Peters,’ I read aloud. ‘I saw him today.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Looks like he’s my neighbour.’ I shrug, not really wanting to get into this. Since Paisley paired off with Keir, she’s been a little militant about these sorts of things.

  ‘Maybe that’s how he knew your name!’

  ‘How do you work that out?’

  ‘Maybe he’s taken a parcel in for you, or maybe your mail was delivered there by mistake? But at least we now know he’s solvent and not a waiter squatting on millionaire row.’ Looking up, I frown.

  ‘What has that got anything to do with it?’ It’s nothing to be fabulously impressed over. I live in Chelsea. You can’t buy a spot on a park bench for a million.

  ‘Because I know you. And a starving artist isn’t your cup of tea.’ The latter she delivers in a terrible rendition of a British accent.

  ‘You sound like Dick Van Dyke, even if you are right.’ I want a man ready to settle down, not one who needs babying.

  ‘Thank’e gov’nor.’ She doffs an invisible cap.

  ‘Careful, someone will steal you and shove you up a chimney.’

  ‘Are you two talking about lesbian porn in there?’

  ‘No!’ we yell simultaneously.

  ‘Good looking, solvent, owns his own business, according to that card.’ She pauses from counting off on her fingers, pointing at the business card that speaks of quality and expense. Tate Peters, Owner. ‘Appears sane,’ she adds, continuing with her count, ‘and he likes you.’ Her smile is a touch indulgent in response to my scrunched expression. ‘At least you won’t have to travel far in your walk of shame?’

  ‘And if he turns out to be a terrible person, I’ll have to move or spend the rest of my life sneaking around to avoid him.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ she grumbles.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ yells Hills.

  ‘Just go for a drink with the man before you decide he’s giving out Fatal Attraction vibes. Unless there’s something or someone keeping you from dating?’

  I make a noncommittal noise, our conversation halting as Hillary appears rather dramatically. Framed by the connecting double doors, he throws his head back, his hands clasped at his chest.

  ‘Very Gloria Swanson,’ Paisley teases.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ I add, ‘you’re ready for your close-up now.’

  ‘It’s the kind of close-up that worries me,’ she continues. ‘I’m not holding the pussy light up for him.’ And yes, that is an actual thing. For close-ups and I’m saying no more.

  ‘Are you two quite finished?’ he asks. Paisley and I look at each other. I nod, and she shrugs. ‘You’ve totally stolen my dramatic effect,’ he grumbles, one hand now on his cocked hip.

  ‘A do-over?’ I suggest. Hills shrugs before making a show of theatrically “centring himself”.

  ‘Ladies and straight people, as Fast Girl Media’s official cock-ficionado, I’d like to announce that your stars are here.’

  ‘Sasha’s arrived?’ I ask. She’s not the best time keeper, I’ve found, though she is a lovely girl. Really sweet.

  ‘She has. As has Nathan. He’s currently in the bathroom preparing. You know.’ Hills ducks his head an inch, the small movement speaking volumes. Not that it matters as he makes a swift rude gesture with his hand.

  ‘I’m surprised you haven’t offered to help him with that,’ Paisley says, picking up her hefty makeup bag.

  ‘Nathan doesn’t even go gay for pay,’ Hills pouts. ‘But it’s just as well I work on straight shoots, really. All those hetero pheromones flying around keep me in line and stop me from the pet shop dilemma.’

  ‘What’s a pet shop dilemma?’ she asks, slinging the bag over her arm.

  ‘Let’s just say my flatmates wouldn’t be impressed with me coming home with handfuls of irresistible and adorably cute merchandise.’ Paisley sniggers. ‘And boss lady here wouldn’t like me coming on the cute merchandise.’

  As the three of us make our way into the other room, I slap Hillary’s butt.

  ‘Sexual harassment in the workplace!’ he trills.

  ‘You should be so lucky.’

  ‘Don’t I know it, babe.’

  Chapter 11

  CHASTITY

  Saturday afternoon, I’m working in my home office, which doubles as my editing suite, when my phone rings. Still concentrating on the screen, I answer it without looking at the screen.

  ‘G’day, duchess.’

  Flynn. Was his tone always so seductive? As if his accent wasn’t hard enough to resist. As if he isn’t hard enough to resist.

  ‘Flynn,’ I reply, surprised my words sounds so even, almost serene, because it feels like a flock of small birds are beating their wings against my chest. Okay, knickers. ‘So nice of you to call.’

  ‘That’s me—that’s nice Flynn Phillips, not to be confused with bloody Flynn Phillips.’

  ‘Oh,’ I answer, biting back a grin. ‘I wonder who refers to you that way.’

  ‘I heard this cute blonde chick telling her mates I annoyed the shit out of her at a barbecue recently.’

  ‘A barbecue, you say? I have to wonder what kind of company you’re keeping. It’s hardly the weather for standing around outdoors. You must be hanging out with a strange crowd.’ He laughs softly, which makes me feel all kinds of warm and satisfied.

  ‘Nah, they weren’t all weird. Only the idiots stood outside. The sensible ones were indoors, sharing secrets.’

  ‘If you tell me there were pyjamas and feathery pillows involved, I’m afraid I’ll have to spoil it for you by telling you I’ve already seen that film.’

  ‘Fuck, you must be the perfect woman.’ I sort of snort and laugh at the same time at such a ridiculous notion, and even though this is just a silly, joking conversation, his words still warm my insides. ‘Smart, sexy as fuck, and you like porn.’

  ‘What makes you say I like it?’

  ‘Babe,’ he answers solemnly. ‘Are you tryin’ to make me cry? Please don’t say otherwise because that’d be like telling a kid there’s no Santa Clause.’

  ‘I do watch a lot of it,’ I admit. ‘Mostly in a professional capacity.’ I consider turning the volume up on the ménage clip playing out on my screen but decide against encouraging him.

  ‘I feel like this could be a marriage made in heaven.’

  ‘What a pity that I don’t take proposals over the phone.’

  ‘Get a lot of them, do you? Proposals?’

  Once. I’ve been proposed to once in my life. And look how that turned out, my mind pipes up. I push the thoughts away, matching Flynn’s enquiry with a taunt. ‘Well, you did just say yourself I’m perfect.’

  ‘Yeah, apart from that mouth of yours.’

  ‘I don’t remember any complaints in St. Lucia.’ Fuck. Why did I say that? I don’t have long to process the thought as he groans—yes, that kind of groan—the kind that hits me right where it shouldn’t. It’s the kind of noise a man m
ight make while being tortured. By a tongue. ‘Sorry,’ I add quickly. ‘Don’t answer that.’

  ‘Jesus, duchess, I can’t. All the blood from my brain has drained to my crotch.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say again, without feeling sorry at all. It’s hard to feel any sort of contrition when imagining his erection. While imagining Flynn Phillips with his erection in his hand.

  So not sorry.

  ‘Actually . . . ’ He draws the word out like a taunt, all smoky and sort of sexy. ‘You might say I’m currently watching a poor interpretation of exactly that thing.’

  It takes me a moment to work out exactly what he means, his tone a spike of heat to my bloodstream. ‘Exactly what thing?’

  ‘She doesn’t have your technique, but I like the way she stares up at him with his balls in her mouth.’

  ‘You’re . . . watching porn while talking to me? God, you are such a bloke,’ I huff, the heat in my veins now fuelled by something else.

  ‘Nah, not really. It’s just playing in the background. Nothing could be more interesting than spending time with you, even if I have to make do with the sound of your voice.’ I do not feel placated. ‘Say something sexy to me,’ he adds, humour colouring his tone.

  ‘Next time I see you, I’m going to kick you in the balls.’

  ‘Calm down, killer.’ Kil-ah. ‘I’m just yanking your chain. But you and me? We could make a beautiful team.’

  ‘If you and I were the last people on the planet, the world would go extinct.’

  ‘Nah. You wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off me.’

  ‘From around your neck, maybe.’

  ‘I know I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you.’

  ‘Well . . . that’s probably a little closer to the truth,’ I reply snippily. Even though I feel slightly mollified, it doesn’t hurt to hear he finds me desirable. ‘I have to get back to work.’ Before I say anything else ridiculous.

  ‘I could come around and help?’

  ‘Oh, tempting,’ I reply even though I sound like I mean the opposite.

  ‘I’m a connoisseur of porn—I could consult.’

  ‘All for a small fee?’

  ‘I’m sure we could come to some arrangement,’ he replies, his tone back to smoky. ‘We could make it mutually beneficial. What do you say?’

  ‘I’d say you’re pushing your luck, and I’m hanging up now.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

  ‘Goodbye, Flynn,’ I reply right before I hit end.

  ~*~

  Sometime later, the doorbell rings, which is strange enough. I don’t get many callers, not without a prior arrangement, at any rate. I glance at the clock on my screen and realise three hours have passed since Flynn called. But it’s not quite eight yet, so maybe it’s a package. Or, as has happened before, a takeaway delivery to the wrong address.

  When I open the door, I discover its none of those things. Except, I suppose it’s the kind of package I want, even if I seldom admit it to myself, because Flynn Phillips is the full package.

  Standing on my doorstep, a black leather jacket coats his broad shoulder, dark denim clinging to long legs, the same boots from his Mellors gig completing the rugged look. I don’t know whether it’s the sight of him standing there or his cocky grin, but the words that fall from my mouth aren’t exactly sane.

  ‘You really don’t miss a trick, do you?’ I push the door wider, one hand on the door handle, the other on my hip. And then I realise what a state I must look. Boyfriend jeans turned up at the ankle to hide the ragged seams, though there’s no concealing the holes in the knees. I didn’t buy them like this. They’re just old. As is the tatty man’s shirt I’m wearing. Pink, of all colours—my complexion doesn’t like pink.

  ‘What . . .’ I stop myself from continuing as I notice he appears to be holding something behind his back. Do I really want to know? ‘What are you hiding?’ Apparently, the answer to that is yes.

  ‘Duchess,’ he says, his mouth curved in his perma-cheeky grin. ‘This is where you’ve got to play along—be a little creative. I know you’ve got it in you, or at least you will have, if things go to plan.’

  ‘I’m not having sex with you today,’ I blurt out.

  ‘But we’re good for tomorrow, right?’ In the absence of trusting my own words, I just shake my head. ‘Hang on, we’re gonna start again.’

  ‘Start what again?’ I ask, exasperated. This is the Flynn Phillips’ effect. One minute, I want to kiss him, and the next, slap him across the face.

  ‘Play along. Look—I’m ringing your bell.’

  ‘You’re—’ Apparently, he’s a man of his word, though why he’s ringing my doorbell when I’m right here and the door is open, I don’t know.

  ‘Oh, whoever can that be?’ I ask, deadpan.

  Flynn stares at me with a playful kind of intensity, the kind of look that makes my heart skip a beat, sending the pulse elsewhere. And then I notice his arms moving as though to reveal what’s behind his back. A motorbike helmet. Jesús, María y José, the man rides a motorbike. Of course, he does, my consciousness cries because apparently, God is laughing at you today!

  Definitely laughing as his other hand reveals a pizza box emblazed with the name of my local Italian joint.

  ‘Pizza delivery.’ The words sound like a taunt as I bring a hand to my mouth and begin to chuckle. A chuckle that turns to the kind of laughter that has me clutching my sides

  ‘Surprised?’ Flynn asks, his gaze still filled with the same kind of confidence, the same kind of daring. I notice the skin around his eyes is creased in the outer corners, as though he’d spent his childhood laughing and running around in the sun.

  ‘Just a little.’

  ‘None of that,’ he cautions. ‘Back into character. I’m about to start my lines.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ I begin.

  ‘As serious as turning up to dig your flower beds.’

  It all comes back to me in a flood of heat and sensation—the image of Flynn in my kitchen, his tanned and toned body over mine. The feeling of the cold kitchen counter under me, and the fiery brilliance of my well overdue release building between my thighs. I swallow and ignore the pulsing sensory memory. That day, he might not have been able to conjure a library for me, but he did channel a little bit of rough in the guise of Mellors. Truthfully, I’d never had sex like that before, so urgent and frantic, and it resulted in the best orgasm I’ve ever had. But that could be the result of not having come since the last—the first—time we’d had sex. Then to cap it all, Flynn above me, with his perpetual cocky gleam in his eye, told me about his pizza plot. And his expectation that we do things his way next time.

  This is madness.

  ‘Dug my flower beds,’ I repeat with a touch of asperity. ‘There’s a euphemism if I ever heard one.’

  ‘That would be ploughed, babe.’

  ‘Are you always this . . . happy?’ I’d wanted to say annoying, but the truth somehow falls from my mouth instead.

  ‘Happiness is a choice. It’s also a result of being around you.’ He doesn’t give me a moment to process that little vignette. There’s not time to be irritated or flattered or to call him out. ‘Come on, play along. I told you it would be my turn next.’

  ‘I chose Atonement—a wonderful piece of literature, and your fantasy is pizza delivery porn?’

  ‘Porn shaming is beneath you, Chastity,’ he says with a pout. ‘That’s not what you’re doing right now, is it?’ Damn him and his infuriatingly sexy grin.

  ‘No, absolutely not,’ I answer. ‘But I’m still not having sex with you.’

  ‘See this,’ he says, holding the box aloft. ‘This is the next best thing to sex. And if you’re a good girl, I might give you some.’

  Oh, the innuendo! I shake my head not quite believing that, despite my words, he’s winning me over—that I’m about to play along. But I suppose that’s the thing about this man. He’s persuasive. And irritating. And has a m
agic dick, which apparently, makes me easy.

  ‘Oh, mister pizza delivery boy,’ I begin, aiming to channel some breathless, sultry coquette.

  ‘That’s mister pizza delivery man.’ His lips twitch, belying his deep, sombre tone.

  ‘Okay, Mister pizza delivery man. I ordered a pizza and now I can’t find my purse to pay you.’ I flutter my lashes dramatically, pleased my front door is concealed from my neighbour’s view by a large hedge.

  ‘Jeez, lady. That’s too bad, lady.’ He makes to turn, and I can’t believe he’s trying to make me work for this, the total git!

  ‘Wait!’ I say, reaching out to grasp his strong forearm. ‘I’m hungry. Really . . . hungry.’ Rawrr! ‘Is there a way we can come to some kind of deal?’ Never mind the hedge, I hope my neighbours can’t hear this.

  ‘Deal?’ Flynn’s gaze falls to where my hand touches his jacket, and when his eyes rise to mine, pure blue heat burns there.

  ‘It would be such a shame to let this go to waste,’ I purr, pulling my hand away and accidentally brushing my knuckles against the hardness of his dick.

  ‘Wasted sausage is never right.’

  ‘Is that what you have for me there?’ I ask as Flynn takes a step forward, backing me into the house.

  ‘Yeah, I got sausage for you. And it’s extra-large.’ Extra-laaj.

  ‘Flynn, no one likes sausage pizza.’ I gasp, trying to tamp down my giggling.

  ‘Come on,’ he cajoles. ‘I was almost there!’

  ‘So soon?’ I say, resuming my role. ‘You came awfully fast.’

  ‘Now who’s adlibbing?’ he responds, pushing the front door closed with his foot.

  ‘Well, it’s such a lazy plot device. Is there extra cheese?’ I add, sniggering still as he continues to back me farther into the house.

  ‘You’ve seen my dick. You know it’s cut.’

  This time, I laugh loudly. ‘Maybe you could consult.’ God knows he’s open enough.

  ‘Truthfully, duchess, the only consulting I’m interested in is with your pussy.’

  ‘I have a confession to make.’

  ‘Go on.’ Flynn drops the pizza box on the console table and his bike helmet to a chair.