Wicked Little Games - Book 1 (Little Games Duet)

by Dee Palmer

  “Yes.” I tip my chin, and time comes to a halt…and remains still as I frown at my friend, the statue. Her wide emerald eyes are fixed and focused, though I’m not sure on what. I wave my hand in front of her face, but she doesn’t flinch. Is it possible to be catatonic standing up?

  “Hope? Are you okay? You’re kind of freaking me out.” I look around to see if anyone else is observing my friend’s weird behavior, but no one is paying us any attention. Well, other than the parking officer who is scowling between Dolly and the No Waiting sign. “Hope!” I hiss a little loud, and she blinks and gives a full body shudder, regaining her senses.

  “Four guys?” she asks with a degree of awe in her tone.

  I hesitate before answering.

  “Yes.”

  “At one time?” She arches a brow, and her lips begin to curl into a wicked smirk.

  “Not necessarily. We haven’t actually gone over the logistics,” I reply, a little straight-laced given the topic, after all, we’re hardly in a secret-sharing environment.

  “But they wanted a twenty-year-old?”

  Her incredulous face pisses me off, and I place my hands on my hips and tip my chin, my tone a little on the defensive side. “Well, they got a mid-to-late twenty-year-old, who has worked her arse off to knock the last several years off her clock…literally.” I straighten my back and subtly tighten my tummy in lieu of drawing in an obvious slimming breath.

  “Oh babe, you do. You look smoking hot; don’t worry about that.” She pats my arms and flashes her best friend a reassuring smile. “No. You need to worry more about the fact you don’t have enough holes, because, babe, that’s something you can’t fix at the gym.” She bites her lip to hold in her trademark filthy laugh, but I crack first and she’s quick to follow. She throws her head back, full-on belly aching, dirty laughter falling from her lips, eyes streaming, shaking her head. “Oh my God, you’re going to be kept busy around the cock.” She doubles over at her own joke and waves me down because I think she has another gem. “They’re in the Forces right? They’re going to want everything to run like clockwork.”

  “Okaaaay, then, are we finished?” I pat her back as she attempts to regain her composure.

  “Sorry. So sorry…too tempting. You’re right, you have a flight to catch. The cock is ticking. No time to be dicking around now.” She snorts with another laugh.

  “Hope.” I sigh.

  “Look, Finn. I still think you’re batshit insane, but if you have to go crazy, at least you’ll have lots of nuts to keep you company.” She pulls me in for a final hug, and I can see she’s genuinely smiling. Her face is a little wet from her tears, but her expression doesn’t hold any anxiousness or tension. There’s a little worry, which is understandable. Maybe I should’ve told her sooner. “I want you to promise to do one thing for me.” She clears her throat; her tone is soft but serious.

  “What’s that?” I wait with bated breath for her to tell me what she’ll need from me to ease her mind, and will it be anything within my power. She hesitates a moment before her shoulders start to shake.

  “Pictures…I want lots of pictures.” She snickers some more.

  “I’m gone. I’ll call you when I land.” I turn on my heel and start to push the half-ton trolley away from my best—annoying—friend.

  “With pictures!” she calls after me.

  “Sure, with pictures.” I turn my back to the trolley so I’m facing her while pushing the beast up the ramp.

  “You go, girl. Take one for the team! Oh wait, no. Take four with the team!” She shouts with the volume of a crowd control foghorn over the entire departures drop-off area. I cringe, but raise my hand to wave her off. Her own hands are flapping at me like a crazy person before she sinks into the car. The parking officer has finally lost his patience and points for her to leave or get towed. Dolly wouldn’t survive a tow with all that manhandling. I watch the cream and raspberry car filter into the traffic and disappear. Shit, I hope I’m in better shape than Dolly when it comes to being manhandled.

  Four Months Ago

  “YOU CAN’T BE HERE WHEN he gets home, Hope. It will kind of ruin the surprise.” I slam the oven door shut, having checked the chicken is doing whatever it’s supposed to do in the oven, when I’m not allowed to drench it in a decadent cream sauce or rich wine gravy. The best I can manage within my boyfriend’s tight ‘health freak’ guidelines is a light pan fry to give it some color, and then steam the little fella in the oven to try and keep it tender and juicy. Dave owns an elite gym in the West End of London with a superstar clientele, and appearance has become a bit of a focus for him. I guess it always has been, but I’m more conscious of it now, perhaps, since it’s become less important to me.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” she says, with enough horror in her tone to convince me she isn’t joking. “I don’t want to be here when you start dry humping your man as soon as he gets in the door.”

  “That wasn’t the surprise I was going for.” I narrow my eyes and stick my tongue out at her disturbed expression.

  “But sex is…I mean it’s why, under that coat you look like you’re auditioning for the Rocky Horror Picture Show.” She leans over and pulls the lapels of my Mac wide open. I squeal and re-tighten the loose material, cinching it firmly at the waist. I take a quick peek myself, because now I’m filled with panic.

  “What? You’re kidding right?” I laugh nervously, searching her implacable face for any signs she’s joking. “I was hoping for agent provocateur seductress, not transvestite.”

  She rolls her eyes, tutting and shaking her head with a light admonishing smile.

  “I’m kidding, Finn. Jeez, you’re easy to tease when you’re strung out or frustrated.” She snickers, a deep, filthy, wicked laugh, and reaches for my hand to offer some genuine comfort. I’m all over the place with uncertainty and zero confidence. “You look fucking hot under the Mac. Is that part of the get up? He’s into the whole flashing-in-public thing?” She takes another sip of my wine despite having declined her own glass, and has proceeded to drink nearly all of mine.

  “Hardly. No, I was hoping we could go for a quick drink, and this might turn him on. I mean I’m practically naked under here.” I hate sounding tentative about this, but I’m more than a little out of my comfort zone.

  “Shit, Finn. You could wear a used bin liner, and you’d turn most men on. What makes Dave so special you’re worried it won’t? Does he have a golden dick or something?”

  “No. I just…” I hesitate as I struggle to articulate feelings I don’t really understand myself. “He’s my best friend, Hope, apart from you, obviously.”

  “That’s a given. Continue.” She beams a smile which crinkles her bright green eyes and widens her even brighter painted red lips. Her wild, glorious red hair is slicked back in a severe bun, practical for work but a little harsh for her soft pixie features.

  “Sometimes I feel that’s all I am. I don’t know when it happened but I worry we’ve slipped from lovers to mates, and I miss feeling…wanted…desired, you know?”

  “Um… Only ever one-night stands over here, so not really.” She gives an unapologetic shrug. I didn’t really expect her to understand. Her longest relationship is with me. She was with me when, underage and out looking for fun, we snuck into club. We ran straight into Dave and his mates. In borrowed heels and the tightest dress this side of indecent, I literally fell on my arse at his feet. He owned me from that night on. I never stood a chance. I fell for him and didn’t look back. I do have my doubts about Hope, on the other hand. I don’t think she’d fall if she was hit with a fucking freight train.

  “We’ve been together for a long time, Hope, and I think he’s a little bored. So I thought I’d spice things up a bit.”

  “And is he making the same effort?” She purses her lips in an effort to temper her underlying objections. She does this a lot when we talk about Dave, however, this time, she’s very wrong.

  “I think he’s going to
do more than that.” I rush out the words with a surprised blurt of excitement, which seems to pique her interest.

  “Oh really? What?” She leans in closer to me, her face mirroring my smile.

  “I think he’s going to propose to me on Saturday.” I drop my mouth in mock shock. Well, not mock since I am shocked.

  “Why Saturday?” Her face is unchanged. No more excitement, no less either; however, she looks a little skeptical.

  “It’s his birthday, and he’s been really secretive. It’s not like him. I normally organize everything we do socially, but this time, he’s called all our friends, booked a private room at the new club on the high street. He’s even sorted the caterers. Every time I offer to help he says he’s got it covered, and all he wants from me is to say, ‘Yes’.” I clap my hands together in a rapid-fire mini applause.

  “Fuck!” Now that tone is utter shock.

  “I know.” I giggle and bounce on my toes. “Honestly, Hope, all this time I thought he was going off me. I know he loves me, but he really hasn’t shown much interest sexually for ages.”

  Hope wrinkles her nose with distaste. “Eww…Do we have to? I can’t help having a visual when you talk details.” She sticks two fingers down her throat as if her tone isn’t enough for me to get the level of her abhorrence.

  “I’m serious.” I flick the end of the tea towel and catch her with an impressive snap on her arm. She yelps and scowls, and I ignore the fiery stare. “I’ve been really busy at work, and I haven’t been to the gym in like forever. This”—I grab my squidgy midriff and then shift my hands to my size D-cups—“is not the body he signed up for.”

  “What? The body from when you were sixteen, you mean? Well, no fucking shit, Sherlock. Whose body is? Listen very carefully. You are fucking hot, any size you choose to be, so don’t give me that shit. Has he actually said that, because I will cut him—”

  “No! No, he hasn’t.” I wave her down as she brandishes a spoon as if it was a mighty blade of body-shaming retribution. “He wouldn’t say anything like that. But, I know image is important to him, so I’m sure it’s in the back of his mind, and I can’t help thinking—”

  “The proof of the pudding is in the eating, and if he isn’t eating…” She wiggles her finger in the general direction of my crotch.

  “Exactly.” I sigh. “I honestly don’t remember the last time he did that.” I mouth the last word silently.

  “Too many carbs?” She lets loose an unladylike snort, and I blurt out a laugh. I love that about her; she always makes me feel better. “So the big seduction thing is a preemptive thank you…a timely reminder of how fucking lucky he is?”

  “I hope so.”

  “You know I fucking hate this about you? No, not you. I hate how he makes you doubt yourself. I don’t get the whole marriage thing, but I know it’s important to you and he does too. So the fact he’s kept you waiting all these years chips away at your self-esteem and you’re all, ‘Maybe I’m not attractive to him anymore. Or maybe he sees me as just a friend’. It’s billy bollocks. You fucking rock, and he’s damn lucky to have you. There are hundreds of guys who would think the same as me. You happen to have fallen in love with a bit of a dick.” She holds her hands up to signal the end of her little speech and draws in one more breath. “I’m not judging, just stating fact.”

  “It’s complicated.” I shrug off her tirade, because I have heard it before, and it stings because it’s true.

  “No, it’s simple, although I’m jumping down from my soapbox because, he may be a dick, but he’s your dick, and you are the only one who matters in the equation. Your happiness and you’ve wanted that white dress since we used to play dress-up when we were kids.” She steps around the kitchen island to my side and wraps her arm around my waist.

  “I still love to dress-up.” I snicker, looking down at my kinky ensemble.

  “The outfits have become a little dirtier—a little more leather than lace.”

  Hope wiggles her brow.

  “And at least I fit into the heels.” I lift up my leg to showcase my most spectacular shoes.

  “Killer heels, and if they don’t seal the deal, I don’t know what will. I can guarantee it won’t be that meal you’re cooking.”

  “It’s his favorite.” I try to sound offended and defend my efforts, but she’s right. Again.

  “Bollocks. That’s no one’s favorite: steamed chicken, brown rice, and broccoli. Oh God, I’m going to gag.” She starts retching, and I push her away then walk over to the hob to make sure as bland as this meal is, it’s at the very least perfectly cooked. “Okay, I’m going to be off. Do you want me to meet you for lunch tomorrow? I’m working at the spa round the corner. I could pop in.” She slips her bag over her shoulder, then grabs her keys and phone from the counter.

  “Depends on whether you’re coming to see me for lunch or coming to fuck my boss.” I point an accusatory wooden spoon her way, and she boldly returns my stare with no shame, a fiery spark in her eyes.

  “Well, he is very fuckable.”

  “Hope…” I warn.

  “Fine! Lunch.” She holds her palms flat in an act of supplication. “I promise no fucking. Maybe a quick handjob, but definitely no fucking.”

  So much for supplication.

  She grabs her coat from the kitchen stool and makes to run from the room. Not that I could catch her with my skyscraper slingback stilettos.

  “See you tomorrow. I can tell you all about it,” I call after her.

  “Please don’t. I’ve only just stopped gagging from the food.” She pops her head round the door, her shoulders jerking and her cheeks puffed out holding in pretend vomit.

  “Out!” I point my finger and give my dismissal in a firm and final tone.

  “Love ya’, Finn.” Her reply is delivered sing-song, which always leaves me with a smile.

  “HMM…SOMETHING SMELLS GOOD, RP, what’s the occasion?” Dave walks into the kitchen dropping his gym bag and briefcase. His near-black hair is still damp from the shower he would’ve taken before he left the gym. He is religious with his workouts, and I have to admit he looks damn good because of it. He’s not overly tall, five foot eleven. I’m five foot five, so he’s tall enough. He has wide shoulders, trim, narrow waist. His thighs are kind of weird now though, bulging and distorted with muscle mass, it makes finding jeans that fit a challenge. Every muscle from his tanned nose to his pedicured toes is toned to perfection, if a little bulky for my taste. I felt he reached perfection a few years ago, but apparently, that wasn’t perfect enough. His face is bright with a wide smile, and his jacket strains at the seams when he draws in a deep breath through his nose, capturing the aroma of the meal I have tried so desperately hard to make interesting. He strides straight past me to the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and peers over my shoulder at the pans simmering. He ruffles my hair that I had artfully fashioned into a messy bun. I thought at the time, It is amazing how much effort is required to look effortless. “Why have you got your coat on, if we’re eating in?”

  “I thought we could go out for a quick drink before dinner?” I give him a genuine, shy smile as I feel a surge of nervousness start to grip my tummy.

  “Have I missed an anniversary or something?” He frowns, taking in the fact my face has little make-up and my coat isn’t all I’m wearing.

  “No, I thought we could try something a little different.” I twist around so I’m now facing him, and with a boldness that surprises both me and him, I drag my leg up his thigh. The gap in the front of my coat widens and falls back, exposing my long leg, stocking, and suspender. I press the spike of my heel against his butt, impressed I can, one, get my leg up that high and, two, maintain my balance.

  “You want to go out like that?” His derisive tone is as harsh as a slap in the face, but his mocking laugh is worse.

  “Well, For a start, I’d quite like you to maybe not laugh at the suggestion.” I slip my leg back down. I don’t want to sound hurt or angry, or this eve
ning will be a non-starter.

  On the other hand, right now, I can’t ignore the real pain from the slice of rejection that cut deep with his response.

  “I’m not laughing. I’m a little surprised, is all. This isn’t like you, RP—”

  “Could you maybe not call me RP tonight?” I watch as more bemusement twists his features.

  “Why? You know I don’t mean anything by it. It’s a nickname.” I can see he’s struggling to understand, but I don’t want to go into details. I want a bit of fun and a lot of intimacy.

  “I know. Just maybe not tonight.” I try and keep my plea lighthearted but earnest, because it really is a shitty nickname.

  “Fine. You’re acting really weird, Finn. Are you on your period?”

  “Oh, my God!” I hold my breath and count silently to ten, thanking all that’s holy I don’t have a knife at hand.

  “Sorry. Clearly not, although…” His accusation hangs in the air like a noose swinging silently in the gallows, along with the remainder of my surprise evening.

  “Jesus, Dave.” My voice catches with an equal mix of fury and emotion.

  “What? What have I done?” His tone has switched from confused to inflammatory with a tinge of aggression. “I walk in and, bam, you’re acting all weird, wanting to have sex and go outside with me, while looking like a stripper.”

  “I’m weird for wanting sex?” I take a step back and cross my arms tight around my waist, covering as much of myself as I can. I still feel more than naked, utterly vulnerable.

  “That’s not what I said.” He lets out a heavy sigh, his hands deep in his pockets, and he shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Look, can we start this again, and maybe you can talk to me and tell me what the hell’s going on?” His tone softens, and I think that’s worse. I get an intense prickle at the bridge of my nose, and I have to blink to stop the tears from welling. I won’t fucking cry. I shake myself and straighten, pulling myself together.