by Alam, Donna
Archer Powell is #blessed not to have to suffer through a monthly threading session like some of us.
The shadow of dark hair covers his face, a semi-permanent look for him. Why do we find stubble so attractive on men? The bad-boy look that suggests a devil-may-care attitude. Sorry, it says, I didn’t have time to shave today because I was up late last night doing other things. And by doing things, I mean doing other people.
Charming, right?
And then to round off the ridiculousness, the man has freckles. Not a face full as I did as a kid, but rather a dappling, like a shower of light kisses bestowed from the sun. They seem far too light-hearted and frivolous to appear on such a man, but now that I’ve seen them, I can’t help but think he’d look almost ordinary without them.
He smiles down at me again, and I find myself thinking he’s so handsome, it’s little wonder he has a trail of women following him. I doubt even a wooden leg would detract from his appeal. It’d just make him easier to catch. Because as I understand it, up until now, he’s yet to be caught by anyone from E11even. And plenty have tried, according to Emika. And though Clara is technically no longer a staff member, that’s not the issue here. The issue is she’s the big boss’s daughter, and this idiot has a reputation that’s risking his career. Which just proves the rumour mill right, because only a true man whore would put his libido in front of his livelihood.
‘I’m off to the bar. Can I get you a drink?’ Ah, the old lady’s man moves. Except I find I have to remind myself that I’m not his quarry tonight. This offer is more in the vein of can I detain you for the purposes of sounding you out? Or a please let me get you a drink to give me the time and opportunity to discover if you’ve seen me with the boss’s daughter sitting in that there very secluded corner?
‘Thank you, but I have one.’ I gesture vaguely in the direction of our table, noting this time the fleeting flicker of concern. Yep, that’s right. It appears my table is in the same space as yours. Who’s a naughty boy, then? ‘Do you live out this way?’ I ask, my expression blank.
‘Shoreditch. You?’
I shake my head. ‘Crouch End. You’re a long way out.’
‘I could say the same for you.’
‘Hey, did you eat one of the cupcakes in the kitchen today?’ I ask, because there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Or make the manwhore uncomfortable.
‘Fuck, no. I wouldn’t have fed one to my dog. His dinner looks more appetising than they did, and it comes out of a tin.’
His answer didn’t go quite in the direction I was hoping for. I suppose now would be the time to laugh along with him, to agree they looked worse than his dog’s dinner, to deny creative ownership and make this weird little tête-à-tête easier on both of us. But that would require decent acting skills. And for me to give a stuff, I think, as I feel my expression settling into what my mother calls, murder she smote.
‘Oh, Jesus.’ He presses his hand briefly across his mouth, hiding that beautiful mouth of his, his eyes glittering mischievously above. ‘They were yours, weren’t they?’
I nod, not trusting myself to speak as he suddenly frowns down at me like I’m the one in the wrong.
‘Fuck, Heather, I’m sorry. Sometimes my mouth just runs away from me.’
‘That’s fine.’ You can’t help being pretty on the outside yet rotten to your stinking core. I try for a smile, hoping I’m not baring my teeth at him.
‘Seriously, I’m sorry.’ I instinctively stiffen as his hand touches my elbow again, but then he shoves both hands into the pockets of his pants, his shoulders pushed almost to his ears. When I look back at this later, I’ll probably credit it as him looking genuinely remorseful, possibly even a little confused, but I can’t think about that right now. I can only think about fighting the fresh sting of tears. Ugh. I hate how difficult it is to control them. Using my usual tactic, I jab my nails into the meat of my palm and inhale. And exhale.
‘I only mentioned them to illustrate why I’m on the other side of London at—’ I turn my wrist and glance down at my watch ‘—the tail end of happy hour.’ With a brittle flourish of both hands, I indicate my version of office wear to cement the point. If I were a different girl, I might’ve tugged on his tie flirtatiously instead.
‘Again, sorry, but you’ve lost me,’ he replies, his gaze rising to mine.
Was he just checking me out?
‘I’m here,’ I say, pointing at the floor, ‘for the same reason I took cupcakes to the office, cupcakes I dropped, by the way. Because it’s my birthday?’
‘But shouldn’t it be the other way around? If it’s your birthday, shouldn’t you be provided with cupcakes?’
‘You know that’s not how it works,’ I say, my frustration beginning to rise. I feel oddly slighted, as though I’m not good enough for birthday cupcakes so I had to provide my own. This conversation is veering off course. ‘Why or how do you think cupcakes appear so regularly in the kitchen?’
‘I can’t say I really considered it, but I am now. And I have to tell you, it seems like a pretty piss-poor attempt by someone in the office to scam staff out of cake.’
I open my mouth and close it again with a snap. Fuck him and fuck his inability to play by the rules. And fuck the fact that he seems to regard his dick as some kind of community tool.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Look, let’s just get this over with, shall we? I’m here because it was the most convenient place for my friends and I to meet after work. And you’re here, all the way on the other side of the river, because you’re with the boss’s daughter. Also straight from work.’ I stab my finger in the direction of his table. ‘So, busted. But I’m sure you’ll get over it.’
As I turn, he reaches out, his fingers curling briefly around my wrist, loosening just as quick. I stare at the spot, not because I’m incensed that he’d do such a thing but because of my skin’s electric-like response to his touch. What the hell was that?
‘It isn’t what it looks like.’
‘Really?’ It’s not just my tone that’s hostile as I look up again.
‘Okay, so you’re partly right. It’s true I chose this place because it’s out of the way but only to avoid people jumping to the wrong conclusion.’ Just like you have, he means but doesn’t say.
‘I have no interest in where you are, why, and with who. And I don’t keep up with office gossip.’ Mostly. I suppose I like to know what’s going on as much as the next person, but I don’t use it as currency. ‘So you and your public penis can now return to your companion safe in the knowledge that I certainly won’t be recounting this meeting to anyone.’ I flounce off in the direction of my friends.
‘Public penis?’ he calls after me, and I cringe, my steps faltering. Not because the words are heavy with laughter but because of my outburst and the attention we’re drawing.
‘Yes, like the library.’ I throw the drawling retort over my shoulder. ‘Free for anyone to borrow.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t listen to office gossip!’ he calls happily back.
I feel a giddy sense of satisfaction as I flip him the bird without turning.
‘I’ll catch up with you later, right?’
‘Your dreams, Archer Powell. Or maybe in mine.’ Of course, by this point he can’t hear me.
When I get back to the girls, I find I’m still smiling, the contents of the table providing a perfect cover for my delight.
‘Wow, this looks great.’ Along with a bowl of golden fried potatoes covered in that deliciously fiery tomato sauce, there’s also a delicious-looking charcuterie tray filled with cheese, pate, olives, serrano ham, tapenade, figs, bread—all the yummy things!
‘We’re sorry for teasing you,’ Vivi says as a waitress appears by the table, carrying a silver bucket with a white cloth decorously draped over it.
‘Laurent-Perrier?’ the girl asks, setting the bucket down.
‘Champagne for the birthday girl,’ Vivi declares as the waitress expert
ly pops the cork on the bottle.
‘And nibbles fit for a queen,’ Daisy adds, ‘including these very interesting looking skewers. Chorizo, Manchego, and olives, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘They sound . . . interesting.’
‘I think it’s a modern take on cocktail sticks with cheddar, hot dog, and pickled onion,’ Vee says. ‘All we’re missing is half a Jaffa orange half covered in foil to stick them in.’
‘My grandparents still do those for family parties.’ Daisy stares intently at the stick in her hand. ‘I think I’d rather have hot dog and pickled onions.’
‘But we all enjoy champagne.’ Vee picks up her flute by the stem. ‘Here’s to me and here’s to you.’ She clinks her glass against Daisy’s then mine in turn. ‘Here’s to the men we hump and screw. Here’s to them for fucking us over, and here’s to us; may we only occasionally be sober.’
The champagne is half drunk and the nibbles half devoured before Archer crosses my mind again, and when I glance across the room, another couple is sitting at that table.
3
Heather
Gone. But not forgotten.
Gone, but it’s like I can still somehow smell that cologne of his. Citrus and spice and something I can’t quite identify.
‘You should totally bang him,’ Vee calls from across the table. The music is louder now, and her movements sloppy as she makes as though to prop her elbow on the tabletop, altogether missing the thing.
How did we get onto this topic again?
‘You bang him. You’re more the dick and dash kind.’
‘If I had a chain of hotels, that’s what I’d call ’em, so I’ll take that as a compliment.’ After a quick rub of her elbow, she raises her champagne glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to men blowing their load before hitting the road.’
‘Ew.’ I find myself giggling, my head a little swimmy, probably as a result of the bubbles guzzled and the drinks mixed.
‘Ew? That’s so not ew worthy.’
‘It is to me.’ It’s also unlikely as I can’t get a man to stay long enough to, well, that.
‘Nope.’ She pops the p with relish. ‘Ew would be . . .’ Her expression scrunches before lighting with a thought. ‘I have it; painting her face before leaving the place.’ She throws her arms wide along with her words.
‘Oh, God, Vee, you are officially wasted. Time to round up the troops, I think.’ I look around only now just noticing that Daisy isn’t here. ‘Where did Dais go?’
‘I am not drunk. I haven’t officially told you I loved you yet.’
‘So tell me. Then we’ll grab a cab.’
‘No, no, no, my gorgeous friend-y friend. You don’t understand. I haven’t been through all the stages of inebriated. First there’s tipsy,’ she says, flicking the index finger of her right hand against the little finger of her left. ‘Then there’s giggly. Then there’s talking total shit, then telling your mates that you love them.’
‘So you’re almost drunk.’ I think I feel a little squiffy myself.
She nods heavily. ‘At the talking shit stage.’
‘We’ve all got work tomorrow, so I think this might be also be the quitting stage. Stay here. I’ll goes see where Daisy has gone.’
As I push up from my chair, I wonder where the wobbly legs stage is on Vee’s sliding scale. I weave my way through the crowd, questioning when the space between our table and the bar became a dance floor because people are dancing when before they were standing around drinking.
‘Thursday is the new Friday,’ I grumble to myself, skirting the edge of the throng, but I can’t see Daisy, and the bar seems so much farther away than it was before. I push into the crowd, calling her name, and my heart is suddenly in my throat as people begin to push and shove, their movements pulling me like a leaf down a stream. My chest is tight, and I don’t like the sudden dark. I begin to use my hands and my arms, as though I’m swimming in a sea of people, sweat breaking out on my forehead and my breath tight.
This is all familiar—the sensations, if not the place—but it doesn’t make it any less frightening. Then a hand grasps my wrist, a familiar shock travelling up my arm like quicksilver. It’s like a flow of recognition that everything is okay, the kind of relief that’s like being tethered to safety during a storm. I can feel the thrum of my pulse against his thumb, my heart pounding solidly though no longer in fear.
My hand is brought to the centre of a chest, a very solid and male chest, the beat of his heart keeping time with my own.
‘Hello, a girl not named Holly.’ There’s amusement in both his brilliant eyes and his dark tone. ‘Come with me,’ he says, taking my hands as he begins to walk backwards out of the crowd.
‘I thought you’d left.’
‘Not without getting you alone.’
I don’t have words, and I don’t have breath, the latter escaping in a gust from my chest.
‘I’m still cross with you.’ But that’s not true. Why aren’t I annoyed anymore, and why am I following him like he has all the answers?
‘You only tell yourself that. You’re not really annoyed. More . . . frustrated.’ His fingers are warm as he lifts my hand to his lips, shocking me by pressing his teeth there rather than a kiss. ‘You like me. You just don’t like that you like me.’
‘You are conceited.’
‘But I’m also right, and you also don’t like that.’ I don’t get the opportunity to argue the point as he carries on. ‘You know what you also like? This.’
His hand curls around my shoulder as he presses me against a wall, the sensation of the cold surface drawing shock from my throat. His body follows mine, the hard length of him pressed up against me, that mesmerising and wicked gaze burning down.
‘You make me so hard.’
My eyes fall closed, every one of my nerve endings, every sensory neuron coming alive in anticipation of his touch, and when his fingers feed through my hair, I try to bite back my moan.
‘Oh, I like that,’ his dark voice rasps, his words a bare breath against my lips.
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘You didn’t have to. Yet I can almost anticipate how wet you are from here.’
I don’t have a comeback, not as something hot and sweet begins to twist inside me. I know I should be offended, that I should tell him to let me go, but I want more than anything for him to find out for himself.
My hair in his hand, he presses my head back and his lips travel over my neck. Each press of those divine lips and each swipe of his tongue is like nothing I’ve ever felt before, this all-consuming need to have him inside me. And then our lips meet, but it’s not a kiss. It’s a tasting. A tease. It’s my taut moans and rapid breaths as he holds me in place.
‘Now it’s your turn,’ he whispers, his mouth ghosting mine. ‘Kiss me.’
I make as though to move, shocked by the pain at the base of my skull, but that’s not what keeps me in place. It’s the heavy, wanton throbbing pulse between my legs.
‘What are you waiting for? Touch me. Use your hands.’
My mind goes hazy around the edges faced with his dark and possessive gaze. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. I wet my lips and try again.
‘Maybe I don’t want to.’
‘No? Maybe you want me to make you.’
‘Oh.’ That one breathy sound is neither an adequate nor appropriate response. Neither are the images swirling through my head. My hands in one of his, held high above my head. His other in my underwear, my body undulating and chasing his touch. I have never felt like this before, this yearning for something I know is wrong.
‘I see what you’re thinking. I know what you need.’ His soft lips tantalise the skin at the base of my neck, his teeth coasting my collarbones. ‘It can be our little secret. No one needs to know you like to be pinned. Let me do this for you.’ Soft lips and grazing teeth become sucking bites, bringing blood and yearning and need to the very surface of me. ‘Let me bury myself between your legs.’
‘Fuck you so hard you cry my name and forget your own.’
‘Heather. Heather say yes.’
‘Yes. Yes!’ How is it possible this is happening? How can I be on the verge of—
‘Heather. Heather!’ Archer’s mouth moves, but the voice is not the same. And where is that banging coming from?
‘For God’s sake, girl. You need to get out of bed!’
‘Mum?’ I sit up, raising my hand to shield my eyes as I squint at the room. White blinds, a Parker Knoll chair, and a dressing table that’s seen better days. I’m home. My parents’ home. ‘What the hell am I doing here?’
‘I think it’s safe to say you gave your Uber driver the wrong address last night. Again.’
‘Ugh.’ I flop back against the mattress, my heart and stomach seeming to jostle for space, between my legs aching yet unsatisfied.
‘It’s not like we’re over the moon about it either,’ comes her muffled response. ‘First, your brother comes rolling home at eleven o’clock as drunk as a lord, and then you start throwing stones at our bedroom window because you didn’t have your keys. You know why you didn’t have your keys, don’t you?’
‘Because I don’t live here,’ I reply flatly.
‘I’m glad to see you remember now. I’m thinking of having your address printed on some labels and sewing them into your clothes.’
‘Okay, Mum.’
‘Like when I used to do the same for your things when you were little so they didn’t get lost.’
‘Yes, I get the picture.’
‘I don’t hear you moving in there.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ I mutter, pushing my hair from my forehead.
‘I’m not sure he’s going to get you to work on time.’
Oh, fuck. I have to go to work and face Archer after I just dreamt he had his hand in my underwear.
4
Archer
‘There she goes.’
I look up from my phone just in time to watch the woman I now know as Heather, not Holly, saunter past the meeting room, her blue-haired intern trotting alongside her.