by Donna Alam
‘I’d have to say, never waste an erection and never trust a fart.’
I set off giggling, hard, as the gorgeousness that is Flynn stretches back along the bed to grab his phone from the nightstand behind him.
‘Far out—the time!’ Like a shot, he’s out of bed and stabbing his legs into his jeans. ‘I’m sorry, babe, but I’m gonna be late for work.’ His expression looks pained as he fastens his pants.
‘Never waste an erection, huh?’ I laugh, staring at the bulge in his jeans.
‘Rain check, yeah?’ With a quick peck to my forehead, Flynn grabs his T-shirt and dashes out of the door.
I flop back onto my back and consider the past twenty-four hours. I don’t really want to dance in Miles’s guts, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy. But Flynn. What do I do about Flynn? I think he could make me happy if I let him. I like him more than is healthy. In fact, there’s a slight possibility I might be in love with him.
Doesn’t that just make me a glutton for punishment?
Chapter 24
FLYNN
Chastity kept me at arm’s length for the rest of the week, making me promise to give her space. If you ask me, space is exactly the last thing she needs, especially after what I’d seen sticking out of her purse the morning I’d left her in a hurry, late for work. Boots in my hand at the hallway, I’d dropped them to the floor to shunt my feet into them when my eyes had slid to her purse on the floor. A big slouchy purse, the contents hanging half in and half out; mail and a brightly coloured A4 brochure thing. I know better than to pry, and I sure as shit wasn’t snooping, but the word Fertility had jumped out at me. So like an arsehole, I’d pulled the brochure out of her bag.
A fertility clinic in London.
I get why—more than ever after seeing her so devastated. I just don’t get how. Not that it’ll come to it. Not if I’ve got anything to do with it because this last week, Chastity has been the only thing on my mind. Turns out, absence does make the heart grow fonder. Absence makes you realise you are in love.
Call me stupid, but if she’s having a kid with anyone, she’ll have it with me.
But how do I go about it? Not the technicalities. I think we’ve got that down. How do I get her to trust me enough to let me be the one?
Hey, duchess. I wanna put a baby in you and not just for the practice.
Nah. That’ll just get me a kick in the balls.
Babe, I know you don’t believe me because you think half of what I say is shit and the other half ridiculous, but I want to be there for you. Give you a baby. Because I love you.
Love. How’d I get to this place, anyhow? It’s like falling into an uncovered manhole. One minute, I’m happy, minding my own business, just plodding along, stoked that a girl as classy as Chastity would have anything to do with me. And the next thing? Boom! Down the fucking hole I go. I’m falling and struggling in the dark. And when I do finally hit the bottom, it all makes sense. I’m in love. Only, I’m alone and naked, and shivering, worrying how long I’ll be in the hole alone.
Far out, I’ve turned into a maudlin fucker. It doesn’t help that I haven’t had more than a few minutes alone with her since I’d arrived tonight. A quick birthday kiss and a few words, and eyes that said a million things, though none of them concrete, before she’s called away to greet someone else. But not before making a promise that we’d talk later.
Talk.
‘Cheer up, pal. It might never happen.’
Keir passes me a tumbler of something amber. I bring it to my nose and pull a face. Music plays in the background, people milling around the open plan space, most dressed in black as the invitation suggested. It’s not like the house parties I usually get invited to, but then, Chastity is a girl with taste. That must be why she likes me. And because she likes me and because I want to get into her undies, I mean, good books, I’ve toed the line in my dress tonight. Chastity was right the day I’d ambushed her at the studio; I do like a bit of Tom Ford. Tonight, this suit is jet black and teamed with a tailored shirt and black tie.
Keir had mentioned I look like a penguin, but he’s just jealous, I reckon.
‘Get it down you,’ he instructs. His expression is amused as he points at my glass. ‘What whisky cannot cure, there is no cure for. Or in other words, it’ll cheer your face up.’
I don’t normally drink this stuff, but then again, I’m not normally such an introspective sap. ‘I accept your magical piss water,’ I say, raising the glass. ‘And if it doesn’t make feel better, may the chunder be on your shoes tonight.’
Keir’s gaze flicks down. ‘You’d better not vomit on these. They’re custom-made.’
With a tip of my head, I chuck the drink down my throat. ‘Fuck! How do you drink that stuff?’
Keir laughs. ‘It’s not so bad. Then again, it’s not Macallan, either.’ He studies the amber liquid in his glass.
‘What the fuck am I gonna do?’
I hadn’t meant to speak because if I had, the words wouldn’t have sounded nearly so plaintive or have the effect they’re having on Keir right now. His expression is frozen in a look resembling horror. See, blokes don’t talk about this shit. In fact, his current look reminds me of a rabbit sensing a fox. Only, the rabbit has realised the fox isn’t hungry. He just wants to talk about his emotions and shit. And the rabbit? He’d rather have his flesh torn from the bone and die a nasty painful death than speak of love.
‘Fuck off, would you?’ I sort of grunt. ‘Go hang out with your girl.’
‘I would be, but she’s hell-bent on interfering with the catering under the guise of help-ing.’ He makes those poncy air quotation marks with his fingers, which is difficult, given the glass he has in his hand.
‘Fucking catering.’
‘It’s not like you to have something bad to say about free food.’
‘It’s not the food.’ The food, in fact, is very decent. ‘And fuck you very much about the freebie thing,’ I add with a glare. ‘You’re just jealous that I can eat what I like and maintain my six pack, meanwhile you’ve got to watch your weight like a girl.’
‘I’ll watch your weight in a minute,’ he bounces back at me. ‘We’ll see how far I can kick your arse across the lawn. What the fuck is wrong with the catering?’ he asks when I don’t bite.
‘Him. The prick who brought the stuff.’
Keir’s gaze follows the direction of my own. ‘He’s Chastity’s neighbour. He lives across the road, apparently. And she got a good deal on the catering, Paisley said.’
‘I reckon the bastard wants to give her more than mate’s rates.’ I glare in the direction of Chastity and the tall fucker next to her. Dark hair and slim built, he looks like he’d be more at home on a yacht rather than in a restaurant, and though I hate to admit it, the fucker looks almost as good in his suit as I do. Almost.
I’ve got my eye on you, mate. And if you touch the small of her back one more time, I might just twist the fucker off. Except I won’t. At least not tonight. Not on her birthday.
Keir opens his mouth, then closes it again. ‘Am I missing something here?’
‘I dunno. Are you?’
‘Are you and Chas serious?’ I frown because I hate that nickname with a fucking passion. It’s too common or garden for someone as special as her. ‘Oi. I asked you a question.’
‘Are we a thing? If a thing is in love, then I’m half of that thing. And half of a thing just isn’t a thing at all.’
‘That’s a load of—’
‘Things,’ I finish for him, agreeing.
‘I was gonna say bullshit. But you know how you find out?’ My head swings to his, pathetically hopeful. ‘You use your mouth. Ah, fuck! Wipe that expression off your face and don’t twist my advice. I don’t want to know where your mouth has been.’
‘Only on her lately.’ I put my empty whisky glass down on the table behind me and pick up the bottle of Camden Pils I was drinking earlier.
Keir shakes his head. ‘You want to know how she
feels? Go ask her.’
‘Oh, it’s Charlie’s new friend! Hello, darling.’ Chastity’s aunt grabs me by the shoulders, placing a heavily lipsticked kiss on each of my cheeks. She’s a tall woman and, at a guess, the wrong side of seventy, but from what I can gather, she has more life in her than most twenty-year-olds. ‘Flynn, isn’t it?’
‘It—’
‘You have a look about you like a young Cary Grant,’ she says, grabbing my cheeks in one age spotted, heavily diamond adorned hand. ‘But something tells me you’re a little more like your namesake, Errol Flynn, than the divine Cary. He was Australian, too.’ Jesus, the woman has some grip. ‘I hope you’re treating my Charlie well.’ I open my mouth to answer, but I must look like a fish. ‘Well, with a side order of naughty. In like Flynn, eh?’ She lets go of my cheeks, sending me a saucy wink before immediately turning to Keir.
‘Camilla Wolf.’ She holds out her hand as though expecting it to be kissed, harrumphing as Keir shakes it instead. ‘Well, you’re no fun!’ she chastises before he can introduce himself. ‘I shall have to find one of those lovely film boys to get me a drink.’ She strides off as quick as she arrived.
‘Well, that was . . . fuck if I know,’ Keir finishes.
‘That, Kier my friend, was Aunt Camilla.’
Chapter 25
CHASTITY
I turn away from the sight of Flynn and Keir on the other side of the room, shielding the goofy grin I’m currently wearing. God knows what my Aunt Camilla had to say, but whatever it was seems to have entertained her no end. She’s a handful that one, and proof age is just a number.
I can’t wait until Flynn and I are alone later this evening, and hopefully I’ll make it up to him about being a bit of a bitch for asking him to give me space. I missed him and I was certain I’d find difficulty not jumping on him when he first arrived, but I didn’t anticipate he’d be wearing glasses. Gah! What is it about a sexy nerd?
But I appreciate everything he did for me—the care he took and the gentle way he treated me—but I’ve needed time this week to work out how I feel about a lot of things, including him. But this past week has given me the time and distance to make some decisions. Decisions that include him and his sexy eyewear.
‘Your home is beautiful, Chastity,’ Sophia, one of my actors, says. It’s not a very big party; just my friends, Camilla, and some business contacts, along with a small number of people who have worked for Fast Girls. The ones I’ve gotten along with, at least. Sophia is one such person. She’s very professional—not a diva like one or two I’ve come across. She’s also a bit of a sweetheart.
‘Thank you.’ I touch her arm and compliment her on her dress. She’s one of the few who chose to wear white this evening. White can be so unforgiving, but with a body like hers, the only forgiveness needed is for being unable not to stare. ‘You look gorgeous, sweets.’
‘And so do you.’ I resist a whole-body shiver as Flynn’s warm hand touches the small of my back, his lips brushing my ear. I’ve been watching you, his eyes say, and I can’t wait to get you alone. That would make two of us. His warm gaze seems to mirror my appreciation and delight.
He looks so handsome in his impeccable suit, his soft hair pushed back from his face. And I’d say Sophia would agree, given the way she’s looking at him. Debonair was how Camilla described him following their introduction. Like a young Cary Grant, she’d said. She’d also said a few other things which Flynn had very graciously chuckled about, not rising to her saucy bait. Meanwhile, her compliments had turned my complexion tomato red.
‘Can I get you a drink, duchess? His low spoken words in my ear are as unravelling as the movement of his stroking thumb. Every nerve ending seems alight.
‘Chas, where did you want these cocktail sausages?’ Tate asks, suddenly appearing to my right, holding a dark coloured rice bowl filled to the brim with the less than stylish offerings. That they’re gourmet hasn’t really satisfied Tate who holds the bowl like its contents offend him.
‘These are for you,’ I say, taking the bowl from Tate’s hand into both of mine. I pass them to Flynn almost like they’re an offering.
‘You’re a legend,’ he says, taking one from the bowl and throwing it straight into his mouth. He winks, and if that wasn’t sexy enough, I’m pretty sure both Sophia and my ovaries sigh as he swallows, then licks his full bottom lip.
‘T-Tate,’ have you met Sophia and Flynn?’ I stutter, turning away from the Devil’s better-looking twin to put the bowl on a nearby table. Unfortunately, I don’t fail to see Tate’s less than impressed expression. If Flynn notices, he doesn’t show it as he picks the bowl up again.
‘Not so fast. These were meant for me and only me.’
There’s a particular note in his tone as he throws another into his perpetually smiling mouth, almost as though he’s relating me to a bowl of sausages. Which makes no sense and is completely Flynn. I can’t help but laugh even as, for an encore, he feeds me a sausage from his fingertips, his smile turning thoroughly sultry.
With a wink in my direction, Flynn holds out his hand to Tate. ‘Pleased to meet you. You’re a neighbour, right?’
Hands are shaken, the slight air of manly posturing permeating the space between the pair. Maybe this isn’t surprising given that one of these men has carnal knowledge of me and, given the signals he’s sending out, the other still want that knowledge. What does surprise me however, is the surprising amount of eyelash fluttering coming from Sophia—so much so, she’s created a small breeze. Okay, not really. But I do find it paradoxical how her social persona is so much flirtier than her work one.
‘Could I steal you for a moment?’ Tate asks rather pointedly. ‘The wrong champagne has turned up, but it’s already on ice, and there’s a slight issue with the gougères.’
Usually, you pay a caterer to avoid dealing with the details, but as Tate is both a neighbour and seems to be running the catering at a loss, judging by the invoice, I feel obligated to be involved.
‘A drink,’ I say, turning to Flynn, placing my hand on his chest. His eyes darken as I splay my hand wide under his jacket, the tip of my little finger brushing his nipple. From our position and proximity, no one notices but us. A secret between two people who are more than just good friends. ‘I’d love a G and T.’ And there’s my promise to return.
What is it they say about the best laid plans?
When I return to the room, Flynn isn’t talking to Keir or Sophia. In fact, I can’t see him anywhere.
‘Hey, lady,’ Paisley says, planting a smacker on my cheek. She holds a champagne flute in each hand, one of which she passes to me. ‘How’s your birthday so far?’
‘It’s not actually my birthday until tomorrow, and as you know, tomorrow I’m working.’
‘Bad planning, boss lady. Bad planning. You should’ve booked a spa day or a lazy brunch with good company.’
‘I’d have settled for waking to a certain man in my bed,’ I tell her.
‘Ohhh. Is it a tale I need to hear over coffee?’
‘We’ll catch up next week sometime, and I’ll fill you in on all the details.’
‘I’m gonna hold you to it,’ she replies, her eyes wide over her glass. ‘But I can’t believe that on a Sunday and your birthday you’re off to do a shoot!’
‘Oh, you’re a photographer,’ Tate says, coming to a stop in front of us.
Shit. ‘Something like that,’ I answer, probably with a slightly pained expression because the truth is bound to come out.
‘That answers why your friends are all so attractive.’ Hmm. Yeah. I suppose he’s partially right. Thankfully, he doesn’t hang around, maybe due to the vibes Paisley was throwing out.
‘Awk-ward!’ Paisley sings.
‘Not nearly as awkward as it will be when he finds out I’m a certain type of photographer.’
‘And by that I suppose you mean an erotic cinematographer.’
I sigh. ‘People are so weird. Or is it me? Am I the weird one?’
‘Everyone watches porn in some form or another—look at your Aunt Camilla.’
I choose that moment to do just that. Dressed in a wide-legged pant suit, she’s channelling Bianca Jagger tonight and looks every inch as stylish. Of course, if I was to say this to her, she’d reply that Bianca is the copycat because she wore it first. Either way, I’m not sure she’s a good representative for “normal”, whatever that is, particularly as she’s currently being tended to by another of Fast Girls actors, Nathan Cox, who’s probably a third of her age. But she’s always been a little off the wall and is probably the only woman of her age and station who regularly quotes Anaïs Nin.
‘Everyone,’ Paisley repeats. ‘It’s just not everyone who’ll admit to it.’
‘But watching people’s faces as I tell them what I actually do; shock, horror, intrigue. And the questions? Eww.’
‘Ha, I’ll bet. But at least your job is more interesting than say, running a shop. Although with a shop you have regular hours.’
‘True,’ I agree. ‘But it is what it is.’ And what it is, is actually my own fault that I’m working on my birthday.
I’d cancelled last week’s shoot and barely left the house, opting for complete hibernation. My creativity shut off, and I just couldn’t contemplate spending my time around naked bodies. So while I’m glad I’d taken the time for a little reflective self-care, the flip side to that is I’m hustling now to make an upload deadline. If we don’t shoot tomorrow, I won’t get the filmed edited in time.
‘And the airline won’t reschedule the flights a second time.’
‘Where are you off to again?’
‘Barcelona.’
‘Home of the erotic museum.’
‘Darling, I think most European cities can claim that exact fame.’
‘Yes, but not many have theirs on the main tourist drag.’ True. Museu Eròtic de Barcelona is smack-bang in the middle of La Rambla, often complete with a Marilyn Monroe lookalike blowing kisses from the balcony to tempt people in. ‘And speaking of drag . . .’ Paisley raises her glass, toasting someone on the other side of the room.