by Emily James
It’s more minimalistic than animalistic.
I dig further, knowing this is not the case. In a silver box, deep in the drawer of his bedside table, Six keeps a stash of condoms. Not just any condoms, no, Six buys, as advertised on the packaging—Trend Magazine’s overall winner, for four years running, in the pleasure for her and resilience categories: Stallions sheaths in an extra large, of course.
Trust Six to need giant condoms to wrap up his enormous appendage.
I continue to snoop, just for a moment, and I have a good idea.
As I smugly close the door to Six’s apartment and let myself into my own, a comforting thought calms me. He may have won the battle, but the war is mine.
Chapter 9
“FOUR, I WANT MY CONDOMS and my trombone back, now!” Six calls through the door of my apartment.
“Move the car and they’re yours,” I taunt him, calling back through the door. Mikey gives me a questioning glance.
I ignore him.
This is his fault for needing fresh herbs. Fortunately, for Mikey, he promised to bake me homemade cookies in order to apologise.
“Not your space, Four!” Six calls back.
I mimic his voice in a childlike, squeaky voice.
“I can hear you, you know. Quit being childish and give me the condoms and the trombone or face retaliation,” he threatens, as if his tantrum will spark a fear of retribution.
Instead, I play a little tune on the trombone, practising some badly blasted notes. I think I remember reading somewhere that playing the brass family of instruments improves oral sex ability. It’s something to do with breathing and vibrations. I flush a little and put the trombone down.
“If you damage it, you’re buying me a new one, Four. I’m counting to six, if you don’t hand back my stuff, consider it a declaration of war! One... Two... Three... Four... Five...”
Trust Six to be so self-obsessed he counts to six.
“Right, that’s it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he advises. Then I hear him explain to Two that yes, he did say trombone and he’s sorry to disturb him. I hear Two chuckle and the squeak of his door closing. “Four, you have been warned,” Six whispers through my door.
Bring it on, Six.
I WAKE UP ON SATURDAY with a spring in my step. Last night’s date, number four, wasn’t what I expected, not that I was optimistic.
Peter Palmer is a professional pharmacist and founder of Voldy’s Video Game Club. Peter likes Sci-Fi and Potter and arranges his hair in a bouffant, Falcon Twist on the top of his head. Sadly, for him it’s thinning around the top and looks more frightened ferret than falcon funk. Having said that, he was nice, sweet even; the polar opposite to Six. He met Melinda’s brother, Graham, back in 2006 at University and they have been friends ever since. He explained that he was most surprised when he received an SOS email from Melinda asking for a data analysis of all his single friends and he bravely put himself forward.
I met Peter in town. He bought us cappuccinos and we walked to the Friday Night Video Game Championships held at a local skittle hall.
Peter had been knocked out of the league following a tense tournament last week. He gave me the tour and at the end of the night, Peter said thank you for my company, but regretfully informed me that he didn’t think he could ever truly feel at home with a woman who didn’t know her Starship Enterprise from her Millennium Falcon. We agreed to be just friends.
MIKEY AND I SPEND THE day preparing my hallway for a fresh coat of paint. After seeing Six’s apartment, I have decided that mine badly needs updating. We sand the woodwork and cover the floor in plastic sheathing and while I head out to buy paint, Mikey bakes cookies. He’s been invited over to Chef’s place tonight, to experience a culinary master class and wants to take a gift to impress. Mikey doesn’t mention whether there are any other guests attending, but I suspect not. Things really do seem to be hotting up in the kitchen for Mikey and Chef, and I suspect the bitching and arguing are just an act of foreplay. Unlike Six and I, who I haven’t even seen since he asked for his stupid extra large condoms back.
I get to the store and back in record time, considering it’s a Saturday and the shop was full of love-sick couples. Couples I don’t even normally notice. I buy two tubs of prison issue grey and some white paint for the ceiling.
Normally, I’d be impatient to get started, but tonight I have date number five and I don’t want to turn up with paint in my hair.
“Oh my, they smell amazing,” I remark as I come through the door. “I could smell them from the foyer, top marks, Mikey. You are really getting the hang of the baking. I’m so proud of you. Now, let me at these cookies.”
“Do you mind if I get in the shower first? I don’t want to be late for Chef, he goes all Gordon Ramsey on the tardy kids. There’s a plate of cookies for you on the counter,” he sings.
I’m starving and since tonight’s date is a meal, I only had a light lunch. I check my newly purchased, highly coveted watch. I’m being picked up at seven. It’s almost six already but since Mikey is practically fizzing with excitement, I relent and agree that he can get ready first and off he goes to shower.
I follow my nose to the kitchen and spot the plate of cookies cooling. They look like raisin, which is nice, but I was sure I could smell chocolate.
I glance around.
Hidden in a Tupperware, in Mikey’s open duffel bag, is a big stack of chocolate cookies. I take two and replace them with the raisin ones to teach him a lesson for hiding them from me.
The cookies are delicious, bitter dark chocolate and perhaps a hint of ginger, whatever the ingredients, I love them so much I even inhale the crumbs from my palm.
AT SEVEN P.M. ON THE dot, Damien Watkins sounds the intercom to inform me that he has arrived to pick me up. I wouldn’t normally agree to being picked up from home, but Melinda reassured me that he is a police officer and a salt of the earth type of fellow. She knows him personally and vouches for his character.
So far so good.
I opt for a classic little black dress with a high neckline and skyscraper heels to lengthen my legs. It also reveals an ample side of thigh, but since we will be sitting down for most of the evening, it seems a safe enough option.
I’m already feeling unusually positive about the evening as I strut down the corridor like a runway model. I realise I’ve been too down on men and life in general. I’m a confident, thirty-something woman who is in total control of her destiny. There are only good things ahead for me from now on.
When I reach the foyer, I’m not even alarmed to see Six, who looks like he’s just finished at the gym in his little shorts and vest top, even though the weather is still cold with a chance of rain.
I smile sweetly. I’m a strong, confident woman after all.
“I still want my trombone, Four,” Six warns.
I want to retaliate, to say something like, “You’ll just have to blow on something else,” but my mouth is suddenly so dry I can barely talk, so I ignore him and wave to my date, who is actually very good looking.
Damien has a ‘boy-next-door’ vibe going on. His hair is shiny and blonde with a slight kink to the edges. I splutter at the thought of the word ‘kink,’ causing Six to look at me and then to Damien.
Trust Six to be jealous.
The thought pleases me and I smirk. I take my longest strides to emphasise the wiggle of my butt as I sashay towards my date: Nice Damien, the police officer. Perhaps if I ask him nicely he can get me some of that crime scene tape to put around my car parking space. I decide I’ll ask him for some.
Damien’s car is red, like a cherry. He drives carefully and it feels like eleven hours before we get to the restaurant, but when I check my watch, it’s only been ten minutes.
My stomach groans the whole way but Damien doesn’t notice because I fill the time with impromptu giggles and random conversation. Suddenly, I want to know all about him, his family, his cat, his favourite colour. I start a conversation about wheth
er rats or mice would be worse as guests at our table. He looks almost endeared by my descent into crazy and answers my odd line of questioning with a smile.
Damien parks outside the restaurant, a cosy red brick building just outside of town that advertises two-for-ones on main courses. It’s the type of establishment families and groups of friends frequent because of its value for money and large portions, which really is fine by me.
The waiter looks to be about twelve years old and stares at my legs as we walk in. I’m not sure if it’s because my legs look good or because I take out a stray toddler on the run from its parent.
“Oops,” I say with a smile. “Isn’t he cute. I like kids. They’re so little and crazy. Would you like kids, Damien?”
Shit. Why did I say that?
“I mean not that I want them. I find them a bit weird to be honest. I couldn’t eat a whole one.” I snort a laugh.
When did I start snorting?
Damien smiles to placate me. I wonder if he is already regretting this date. The waiter points to a booth with red plastic benches and a chequered tablecloth.
Damien sits opposite me, instead of beside me, to keep a respectful distance I expect.
We order our food. Everything looks so delicious. I’m ravenous so I order a starter, a main course and two sides.
“You must be starving,” he asks, his smile meets his brown eyes and I stare into them, mesmerized.
“Such nice eyes, just like chocolate,” I say with a dreamy tone. “Oh no. Did I just actually say that aloud?” I laugh. I really laugh, and the couple at the table beside us raise their eyebrows and roll their eyes at me. I pick up the menu and hide my face, and snort like a five year old.
Damien’s a gentleman and he hands me my wine when I start to choke. I try my best to stop with the giggles and am relieved when our food is finally served and I can calm my nervous stomach by stuffing it full of food.
Sated by food, I lean back in the chair and twiddle the ketchup bottle, which is shaped like a tomato. It really is lovely.
Damien studies me with a look of confusion. I bashfully smile and my face warms.
“You have a little...” Damien uses his index finger to point to the corner of his own mouth.
My mind catches up to the gesture and I begin to apologise. I’m not usually so uncouth, but instead I ungracefully burp in response. The smell of lemon and garlic and onion rings hangs in the air between us like an unwelcome neighbour.
“I’ll be right back.” I smile and excuse myself to the bathroom.
I stumble but mostly manage to stay upright on the skyscraper heels. I nearly take out a waiter, but thankfully his reactions are quick and he holds me up while balancing a tray of drinks.
I can’t work out what has gotten into me. I’m not normally so unstable. I start to wonder if Damien is as darling as Melinda suggested. What if he spiked my drink? You hear about it all the time, don’t you? Young, single female goes on a date with a hot, trustworthy looking guy and turns up dead two weeks later in a park, naked and found by joggers.
I quicken my pace to the bathroom. I’m too young to be murdered; my life has barely just begun.
I knock a teenager out the way to take the last cubicle first and turf the contents of my clutch out on the seat of the toilet. I’ll call the police. They can come rescue me, take a swab of my mouth or a urine sample and prove that he’s corrupt.
Shit!
He is police; they’re probably all corrupt. They’ll find drugs in my system and I’ll end up doing hard time. I’m too pretty to go to jail. Tears start to fall down my face and I search for my phone on the seat of the loo.
It starts to ring.
“Melinda? Oh, thank god. I’m trapped in the toilet. I think I’m on drugs and I might be about to be murdered. Melinda, I don’t want to go to jail. Don’t let him murder me.” I cry real tears in the hope she’ll speak to her friend, the police officer, and he won’t kill me out of respect for their friendship.
“Joanie, you need to listen really carefully and answer all my questions, okay?” She says it slowly, perhaps she’s with the police right now and they need this conversation to nail the murderer.
I nod profusely.
“Where are you?”
I describe the cubicle in such meticulous detail, my police officer friend outside would be proud.
“Okay, Joanie, now that we’ve ascertained what the toilet looks like and we know they need to clean the seat more thoroughly, let’s hear which restaurant you are in.”
As I reel off the name of the restaurant, panic rises up in me. I must be in real danger. I hear her repeat the address to someone in the background.
“Melinda, I feel funny and I’m scared,” I tell her.
“Right Joanie, you’re doing really well. Something happened tonight, something bad. But I don’t want you to panic. Someone’s on their way to get you.”
Being told not to panic is like throwing gas on the flames. I move my stuff so I can sit on top of the loo seat and wait to hear this awful news.
“Joanie, did you take the cookies from Mikey’s bag?” Melinda asks.
I nod. Yes I did. My thoughts don’t quite catch up to her point.
“Don’t panic but Mikey made some special pot cookies, and now, well now you’re stoned off your nut having dinner with a police officer. But it’s okay. Help is on the way.”
I drop the phone and hold my head in my hands.
Pot, cookies, stoned, police officer.
Oh, I guess it all makes sense now. I pick up my phone as if it is my life source, and cry into it, “Melinda! I’m stoned.”
“Yep.”
“I’m having dinner with a police officer!”
“Uh-huh.”
“Fuck! Melinda, I ordered a starter, two sides and a main course!”
“Standard issue stoner dinner, Hun.”
“I ate all of Damien’s onion rings!”
Melinda starts to laugh and it’s catching. I slide off the toilet and onto the floor clutching my sides. My brain has eloped with my sanity, nothing makes sense but everything is hilarious.
“Melinda? I’m too pretty to go to jail,” I say between gasps, as though vanity is a valid reason not to go to jail.
A deep male voice echoes into the female bathroom.
“Sorry, excuse me, let me through. Joanie?”
I stay hidden behind my cubicle door for protection, in case it is a trap.
“Melinda, someone’s calling my name,” I whisper.
“It’s okay, I sent help to rescue you. You can open the door, help is at hand. I phoned Damien and told him you’re not well and he’s gone home now.”
I cautiously open the door and am so relieved I jump into the arms of my saviour.
Trust Six to rescue me.
Chapter 10
MY BODY IS THE WEIGHT of a prehistoric animal that’s attempting to stretch and bring its heavy bones back to life.
I had the funniest dream. I was in the jungle trying to eat a dinosaur with a knife and fork—I’m not a savage, after all. It felt so real, like it was actually an achievable task. I chuckle to myself, realising I’m not in the jungle I’m safe at home, in my own bed with my fleecy, Chesney Hawks blanket wrapped around me. It’s bliss.
I stretch and pull the comforter, to tug it up to my chin. It jolts but won’t come closer.
Strange.
I manually open my right eye with my finger and thumb. There’s a big person lying on my bed, weighing down my comforter. It makes a light snuffling sound when I prod the dark mop of hair that falls over the intruders face.
It’s Six.
My eyes widen. Six is snuffling on my bed and stealing Chesney without a care in the world.
I lick at my finger, wipe away my eye-snot, and check the odour of my dry mouth before Six awakens. My fears are confirmed, my breath smells as if I died last night.
“Hmmpff...” Six snuffles again.
I watch him. My dry mouth is ma
king it almost impossible to swallow, but I lick my lips anyway.
What is Six doing in my bed?
I carefully check my clothes. I’m wearing my little black dress which has shrunk to a Barbie sized ensemble and now ends at my navel.
Please God, don’t let Six have seen my Power Pants. The ones that neither sit inside nor outside of my derrière, meaning I have to discretely pick them out at regular intervals. The ones that I wear because they also keep any lumps and bumps to a minimum.
I quietly wrestle against the tightness of my dress, desperate not to wake Six, at least until my modesty is covered. Then, he’s being shown the door.
My desperation to pee is in direct conflict with my desire to cover my ass. The tightness of my hold-me-in knickers only making matters worse. I’m sure I can hear Canadian waterfalls and London rivers as they gush.
It’s no good. The material of my dress won’t pull down unless I remove the blanket from its tangled state, and in doing so I risk waking Six. It’s a risk I must take, peeing in the bed with Six would definitely be worse than him seeing my granny pants.
I carefully unravel Chesney from the twisted straight jacket that he has become, and pray the mattress doesn’t squeak as I crawl off it.
When my feet touch ground, I chance a glance back. Six’s T-shirt lays on the floor beside my bed. He’s sleeping shirtless, reclining against my black faux leather headboard that in this light matches both the hair on his head and the fine smattering of hair between his square, hard pectoral muscles. He looks so good, like an Adonis male model resting between shots.
Trust Six not to get snotty-eye or garbage breath.
My phone is on my dresser. I’ll have to be quick, or I really might pee on my floor. I open up the camera app, no need for a flattering filter today and take a quick snap. I make a fatal error.
What happens next is in slow motion.
The camera clicks in an audible snap. Six snuffles, and one eye, his right eye, opens in a flash.