In Like Flynn

by Donna Alam

  Chapter 21

  CHASTITY

  Over the last few weeks Flynn and I have seen quite a bit of each other, and I don’t just mean in the bedroom. For the want of a better word, we’re dating. It’s been . . . fun. Dinners and movies, brunch after a lazy morning in bed—even an afternoon rowing on the Serpentine. Our friends reactions have been positive, but mostly circumspect, which I get. No one, least of all me, wants to get their hopes up.

  However, the one thing they’ve all agreed on is that I’m crazy. It seems they think conjuring up a birthday party to avoid a family dinner is a little much. What they don’t understand is that these evenings are painful enough without the attendance of my mother and father’s companions; bitterness and younger girlfriend number twelve respectively. Usually, Max acts as a buffer for all involved. So if he’s unavailable, so am I.

  You only get one thirtieth birthday, after all. Unless you’re aunt Camilla.

  Flynn and my friends have had a ball suggesting ideas for my party. Because telling my mother I was having a party wasn’t enough. Now I’m actually having a party. Thanks, friends. So far I’ve the nixed the suggestion of an inflatable bouncing castle complete with a pub and a disco ball, (Flynn) a bright pink bucking bronco penis, (Paisley) and a Margarita van (Ella). It’s just a shame I don’t have the space for a bouncing castle or a huge bucking dick, and I’m sure there would be licensing issues with an ice-cream van that serves liquor on the street.

  So now I’m not lying about having a party. Because I’m actually having a party.

  Well, I am turning thirty.

  It’s a little dramatic, and I mean no disrespect to anyone else, but it’s my birthday, so I can make people wear black and white if I want to. Okay, so that’s not quite how the song goes, but you get what I mean. I’m going with a stylish and tongue-in-cheek theme of black, maybe with a little white thrown in, while asking for charitable donations in lieu of gifts.

  Flynn thinks the idea is “cool as” and promised he’d be a pall bearer for my youth, which, as far as I can tell, means he’s game to be underneath me at some point during the evening. Over the past few weeks, Flynn and I have gotten more comfortable around each other although he insists he’s always been comfortable around me. He tells me his animal magnetism was something I needed time to adjust to. That it was probably the thing putting me off. So nothing to do with the way he makes me feel like I want to wrap my hands around his throat. And not in a—fun?—erotic asphyxiation way.

  The truth is, I can’t imagine him not being around. He exasperates me, while breathing life into the empty corners of my world—spaces I didn’t realise were lacking. There’s more to the man than meets the eye, and while I’m trying not to make plans to see us into retirement together, I’m enjoying my time with him. Enjoying him. And his filthy mind.

  My mind is so caught up in the shower we took together last night. The water raining down against his body, and the way it flowed down between my fingertips, my hand splayed on the ridges of his stomach. The feeling of the coarseness under my palm as I’d slid my other hand up his thigh, my fingers drawn to the dip in his hip. The taste of him, of salt and man, as I’d tracked my lips against him and run my tongue along the head of his cock, holding the base firmly as I toyed with him. As good as he always makes me feel, I wanted to give that back, even as I’d teased and tortured, cupping him as I took his length almost to the back of my throat.

  God, the sounds he’d made as I’d tasted and explored him with my mouth.

  ‘Babe . . . I can’t. You need—’ His words were broken and made little sense. He’d slid his hand behind my head, just to hold me there, his arm travelling with the movement and bobs of my head. Had I ever made any man this senseless? Been responsible for such breathless moans echoing through the small space?

  ‘I can’t. Fuck, yes!’ He’d thrown his head back, allowing water to cascade down his toned body. I slipped my hand between my legs, the realisation that I was responsible for this beautiful creature’s ecstasy an aphrodisiac like nothing I’ve ever felt. I was determined to come—as determined as I was to make him come.

  ‘Yes! Touch yourself.’ There, crouched on the shower floor, the co-ordination had taken some mastering, but his words had served as supreme encouragement, my fingers moving faster, causing me to moan around his length.

  He seemed to like the moaning. The vibration. The way I looked up at him while full of him. God, I’m such a porn cliché.

  Out in the street, despite the brisk weather, my cheeks begin to heat as I recall how his words turned guttural as his hand had held my head tightly in place.

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. Take it. Take it all.’ And I did.

  His darkened eyes as he’d stared down at me, replete, made me happy—yes, I did this! I made this man look like he’d walk on hot coals to receive my attentions.

  ‘You amazingly dirty fucking girl.’

  He’d turned the shower off, then reached down, pulling me to my feet. My body had started to cool in the absence of the steam, the gooseflesh only deepening as he’d kissed me, kissed his essence from my lips.

  ‘Get your arse in that bedroom.’ His long tongue had flicked out, tasting the coating on my fingertips. ‘I’m gonna make your cunt my home.’

  Damn. My purse begins to buzz, so I pull out my phone.

  ‘Babe.’ Flynn’s voice travels down the line in an echo of last night. Yep, that’s still happening. I’m super-hot for the man. ‘Mini sausages.’

  A bark of laughter breaks free. Flynn’s no mini, but maybe he means, ‘I’m not ordering mini sausage,’ I reply, deciding this is where the conversation is heading, my heels echoing against the pavement of my local shopping precinct.

  ‘If you loved me, you would.’

  ‘I-I-’ Don’t have an answer for that, and it’s not something I’m examining. Absolutely, we’re monogamous, but we’re also newly minted in relationship terms.

  You could love him, my mind whispers. If you just trust yourself. But trust isn’t something I’m all that good with. So I stay in the now. Call it suspicion or experience. Call it what you like because whatever you call it, my wariness exists.

  ‘What kind of party doesn’t have snags? Mini snags for added sophistication!’

  ‘I’m on my way to the caterers now. If you’re a good boy, I’ll ask them to supply you with a bowl. But only for you. And you have to eat them out of the way in the kitchen, so the rest of my buffet isn’t contaminated with your lowliness.’

  ‘You’re such a snob.’

  ‘Yet you still like me.’

  ‘Reckon I’m some kind of masochist.’

  ‘Oh, are we talking dirty again?’

  ‘Not when I’m at work, babe. It makes Keir jealous.’

  ‘I take it he’s there with you?’

  ‘He is. The inconsiderate bastard. Listening in like the perv he is.’

  ‘It’s my bloody office!’ I hear Keir complain.

  ‘Better go, love, before he cracks the shits again.’ Or in English, rather than Flynn’s Aussie speak; Keir’s a little angry. ‘See you around seven?’

  ‘Okay,’ I agree, my voice tinged with laughter.

  ‘Great. Can’t wait.’

  And neither can I. I don’t get much farther in my silly, soppy, smiling quest when Tate, my neighbour, appears before me. In fact, right outside of his restaurant.

  ‘Chastity,’ he says, looking genuinely pleased. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you popped in for that coffee.’

  Ah, hell. I did say I would, but things have changed. But as it begins to rain, I decide to do the decent thing and have a coffee and a conversation with the man.

  ‘I do have a little time. If you’re free, we could do it now.’ Not do it, obviously. I’m only doing it with Flynn, and that’s more than enough for me. In fact, it’s sometimes a little too much. The man’s appetite is voracious in all the ways. If he’s eating a meal, he’s enjoying it. If he’s eating me, then we’r
e both pretty sweet. That’s more Flynn-speak.

  ‘Earth to Chastity?’ Tate brings his face level with mine. ‘You spaced out there.’

  It’s happening a lot lately and always when thinking of Flynn. Not to self: I must get a grip.

  ‘I just have a lot on my mind. Busy, busy! But I do have time for a coffee.’

  ‘Great. That’s great. Shall we . . .’ Tate holds out his arm, pushing the glass entrance door wide.

  ‘So how’re things?’ he asks, setting down a latte in front of me a few moments later. He pulls out the chair opposite, sitting down himself.

  ‘Good! I’m good.’ And overly effusive, it seems. ‘How’s business?’

  ‘Also good. And the renovations on the house are about to start. Plans were just given the go-ahead.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realise you were remodelling?’ And so it goes, polite conversation as I wonder how to steer it to the important parts. I’m not unfriendly, just maybe not very good with people I don’t know.

  ‘And how’s work?’

  ‘Ah, you mean the fictitious history gig?’

  ‘You never did tell me what you do for a living,’ he asks, in the vein of someone who’d like very much to know.

  ‘There’s a reason for that.’ A dirty reason.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s top secret,’ I say again, I’m not in the least bit ashamed about how I earn my crust, but there are some things I just don’t talk about. Not until I know a person better, at least. ‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’

  ‘Intriguing.’

  ‘It’s not really. I work in media.’ Sort of. ‘And I run my own business.’ I once was asked if that made me a cam-girl. God, I laughed so hard the guy who asked must have thought I was off my rocker.

  ‘We, er, also said we’d discuss what I’ve been calling you in my head.’ Tate rubs his nose, maybe a little nervous. Or at least good at playing the part of someone who’s self-effacing. But whatever, knowing what he calls me in his head seems like something I don’t need to hear. Too intimate, perhaps. Besides, what if it’s a horrid name? Like fat arse or horse face. Some things are better left unsaid and unheard.

  ‘The thing is, Tate, I’m sort of seeing someone.’ I wrap my hands around my latte cup, surprised that his expression doesn’t change. Strange.

  ‘Oh. Just recent, then?’ He takes a sip from his own cup.

  ‘It’s new.’ And exciting. ‘Things are going pretty good.’

  ‘I’m happy for you, if not a little disappointed for myself. It makes me wish I hadn’t waited. But I’ll be here if. Well, you know.’

  Hmm. Not sure that’s the way things really work.

  ‘Tell me about your renovation,’ I say, hoping to steer the conversation in another direction. And I do. Who knew remodelling a house could be so arduous. Or maybe that’s just the retelling. But conversation moves along as my latte is drained. Halleluiah!

  ‘Oh, look at the time.’ I make a show of glancing at my watch. ‘I’d best dash before the caterers close.’

  ‘You’re catering?’

  ‘My birthday. I’m having a party next week. I’ve sort of left everything a bit late.’ On account of wondering if I could get out of it, I suppose. But my friends weren’t having any of that.

  ‘We offer outside catering. You should let us cater. I’ll give you my friendly neighbourhood rate.’

  I’m not sure that’s an actual thing, but as Tate reaches for his laptop and the menus and pricelists on his website, I see that it is. I leave the place with a decent menu and a strangely reasonable bill, in exchange for an awkward hug I didn’t see coming and an invitation that he should “pop in” next Saturday night.

  Saved from an hour with a caterer, I go shopping instead, honing in on a little boutique I haven’t visited in an age. I treat myself, buying a dress that a sexy, grown-up Wednesday Addams would die for, and some underwear I’m pretty sure Flynn will die a little death when he sees me wearing them.

  I’m just paying up at the counter when my phone rings again.

  ‘Dah-ling!’ My aunt Camilla is a little theatrical. She likes to tell people she used to be a thespian. Truth is, she still is. She just no longer gets paid for her ham-iness. But she’s the one person in my family, other than Max, who really takes any interest in my life.

  ‘I see the familial grapevine isn’t on the blink.’ Sliding my credit card away, I murmur my thanks to the store assistant as I grasp my bags and step out into the street.

  ‘Strange you should say that. I have just got off the phone with your mother.’ She says this with an air of someone having experienced a colonic. She never fails to make me smile. Or feel better about myself. ‘Imagine my surprise when she inadvertently let it slip you were having a little party for your birthday.’ Let slip, my left tit. She was probably complaining. ‘Charlie, darling, I’ll admit I was hurt.’

  ‘Stop pouting. You know there’s an invitation for you. I mailed it myself. You’ve probably just ignored it.’

  ‘Oh, how fancy! No one does proper invitations these days. You young ones are all about the text.’ I hear her heels echo along the parquet floor of her hall. Papers rustle then tear. ‘You are a love. So we have a theme!’ she exclaims. ‘And will there be lots of pretty boys in attendance?’

  ‘It’s like you don’t know me at all—like you didn’t teach me anything!’

  My aunt’s ribald humour rattles down the line. ‘You are a saucy one. You didn’t get that from your mother.’ Aunt Camilla is my mother’s aunt. Like me, she’s always been the black sheep of the family. ‘You are the daughter I never had.’ She tells me this at least once per call, finishing it with, ‘The daughter I could never have coped with.’

  If Auntie Cam couldn’t have coped with me, it was more to do with her lifestyle. Because, truthfully, my parents didn’t even realise I was there most of the time. In fact, most of the time, I was at school.

  ‘Did Caroline say if she was coming to the party?’ I ask, Caroline being my mother.

  ‘She was . . . very cagey about it, dear.’ I swallow a few times, willing the tears away. I must be due my period or something. Normally, I wouldn’t give a stuff.

  ‘I doubt Dad will come. Something to do with prior plans.’

  ‘It’ll be that floozie he’s seeing. Number forty-three, isn’t she?’

  ‘Oh, you know that’s not her name.’ I’m not touching that, even if I don’t like the woman. ‘Nor is she girlfriend number forty-three.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you’re right,’ she answers, unchastised. ‘I doubt there are forty-three women on the planet stupid enough to live with him. It’s a good job you got my genes, darling. So, this party. Tell me a little why you think thirty is elderly.’

  I laugh loudly. Trust Cam to bring the topic back to her. We chat a little longer before we say our goodbyes. I drop my phone back into my purse, hitching it higher on my shoulder when something farther down the street catches my eye.

  A family. A husband, I assume, and his wife. She has a toddler balanced high on her hip, the husband wearing one of those baby carriers, the tiny bundle dangling from his chest. On any day this might tug the strings to my heart’s desire. My longings. But today, all I feel is panic.

  ‘Chastity. H-how are you?’

  I realise I haven’t moved from my spot outside of the boutique doorway. Stupid. Stupid! I should’ve turned and walked the other way. At a decent pace.

  ‘Miles. How are you?’ I’m surprised how even my voice sounds. Surprised and grateful.

  ‘Have you met Helena, my wife?’

  ‘No.’ I send her a quick smile as we murmur our respective hellos, the tow-headed toddler she holds on her hip wriggling to the ground.

  ‘And this is Isobel,’ he says, smiling happily down at the gurgling bundle in his baby bag thing. ‘And this wriggling fellow is Freddie. Say hello to the lady, Freddie.’

  I suddenly want to be sick. Freddie. What the fuck is wrong with h
im? Why would he want to hurt me? And “the lady?” Is that what I am these days? I’m not the woman you used to like to fuck while you pulled her hair and called her bad names?

  The tow-headed tot ignores him completely, trying to pull free from his mother’s hand. That’s right, Freddie, you ignore your daddy because you can tell what a twat he is already. I do the right thing—make the right noises about their family. Smile, even if it doesn’t reach my eyes.

  ‘Isobel, oh, how sweet. What a gem.’ Two children, a marriage, and a receding hairline. ‘And Freddie, such a lovely name . . . how old is he?’

  ‘One and a half,’ his mother says, smiling down at him as he picks his nose. A habit he has in common with his father, then.

  I do the math in my head. Eighteen months plus nine months, plus at least six months for a whirlwind romance. Thirty-three months. Less than three years. What have I done in three years?

  I blink, my throat suddenly tight. I’ve made a home, started a business, and those are important things—achievements—things to be proud of. But nothing quite like bringing new life into the world. My heart suddenly aches for what could have been, for what was, even if for a short time. Not that the lack of physical presence ever really took the ache away.

  Less than four years ago, I lost a little piece of me. A surprise, you might say, though welcome all the same. I housed her in my body for a little while and almost as soon as she arrived, she was gone. I say her, but that’s just a feeling I had. And this man in front of me? The man so full of his own blessings? He held my hand as I was wheeled into surgery. He promised me I’d be okay. That we’d have other children.

  Well, at least one of us has.

  Surgery left me with more than just physical scars.

  I built a business. Made a home. Adopted new friends. And never really got over my loss. And in the face of his golden love, I want to slit his throat and dance in his guts.

  Does that make me evil?

  Good, because evil is better than tears.