Bad Guys

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  Feeling a little upbeat, I decide to go home, get dressed up and keep my date with Robert.

  If anything, perhaps I’ll get a free meal out of it and let myself be seen at the Dorchester. In London, you just never know who you’ll bump into.

  Chapter Four

  I dig out the sexy underwear I bought ages ago. I only picked it up because I have this fantasy of fucking a beautiful man while wearing something like this. Whenever I feel down or lonely, I pull on this underwear to walk around the house in and feel instantly better. It’s incredibly sexy and I know that if tonight is the night, Robert won’t be able to stop himself once he’s sees me in this.

  I bathe and carefully lather my arms and legs. I always keep the downstairs trim but I’m extra careful to make sure there is nothing out of place, smoothing a razor along my bikini line. I don’t need to worry about my armpits or legs because I have those waxed regularly. Perhaps once I’ve taken my vagina out for a spin so to speak, I’ll decide then whether it’s worth me going through the pain of having that waxed, too.

  I pull on the black lace thong first, admiring my arse in the mirror. It’s my best feature and everyone always says so. I have a full bottom and I love to dress myself in things that showcase its voluptuousness. I pull on my suspender belt next, the lace pattern perfectly matching the thong, then I pull up some black stockings, attaching them to the belt. I consider not wearing a bra. I don’t need one. I’m a B cup and they don’t sag or droop. They’re nothing major like Lily’s or Chloe’s, but I do like them. I sigh, admiring myself in the mirror. I shuffle my feet into a pair of heels and wonder what Robert would be doing right now if he were here. Would he be stroking himself… or wouldn’t he be able to keep his hands off me? Would he allow me to admire myself like this, or would he tell me to stop being so confident? I hope he’s a man who likes a woman who likes herself.

  I decide to go for the bra. Why not? It wasn’t cheap and it matches everything else. It’s a cute bralette with intricate details and thin straps that are very, very sexy. He has to have something to unwrap, right?

  I shake my head at myself.

  I’m getting way ahead, aren’t I?

  I suppose I’m just trying to mentally prepare for the possibility… and the truth is, my dreams lately have been full of him and I’ve woken up in a pool of sweat many times. Oh, my god. I’m screwed, aren’t I?

  I pull on a tight pencil skirt that just covers my knees and makes my body look longer. Then I match it with a white military jacket which has feminine epaulettes, several rows of button detail at the front and a zip to fasten it shut. I zip it all the way to the top. This has to be the most covered-up I’ve ever been outside of work… but Robert is different. I want him to know that I love my body but I won’t give it away, not without a fight. I fluff my hair and smooth down my clothes, appraising the look with some gratitude for Chloe, who left this jacket behind when she went to Oz. She could never wear it without leaving the zip mostly open, thankfully I’m able to have it fully zipped up, if I like. We’ll see where this night takes me.

  A cab drops me off outside the Dorchester at 7.15 and I sashay through the hotel, guided by one of the doormen towards the modern restaurant on site. I tell the maître d’ I’m meeting a Robert Shah and without looking down at his list, he grins and ushers me gently, “This way, miss.”

  I like being called miss. It means I’m not old yet. I may be turning twenty-six next week – and alongside Theo I’m one of the oldest of the group – but hey, I’m still the best looking.

  I see the back of Robert’s head first and the tremble in his hand next as he lowers the glass he was just drinking from, having seen me approaching, my reflection in the windows next to him, I think.

  “A drink?” the man asks, helping me into my seat.

  Robert isn’t given time to kiss me or anything, it’s all rather formal as I’m seated.

  “I’ll have a vodka tonic, thank you.”

  “Which brand?” I’m asked.

  “Russian, of course.” I wink at the gentleman.

  “Wonderful.” He leaves our side and I turn my eyes to Robert, who is flushed with surprise and desire.

  He gets up from his chair and asks, “May I?”

  I nod once.

  He comes over and leans in, his hand resting on the back of my chair. He brushes a kiss across my cheek. “You look absolutely beautiful.”

  I blush and look down at my place setting, trying not to look embarrassed. He looks absolutely gorgeous in a heavy cotton white shirt, the collars and cuffs with tiny buttons. I watch him as he sits back down on his chair, his butt filling his black Levi jeans to perfection. The insides of me heat up and when my drink arrives, I have to try just as hard to keep my hands from shaking.

  “You’re even prettier than I remember,” he says. “Maybe it was the disco lights at the wedding or something, but in this early evening light, you look so beautiful. I’m seeing more of you now.”

  “Robert, please. Okay?” My cheeks are red and I’m going to have to lower the zip on my jacket in a minute if I don’t cool down soon.

  He pinches his lip between his teeth and holds his hands up. “I’ll stop now.”

  “Please, we’re in public. And I’m Russian. It’s just not done, Robert.”

  He grins, totally unconvinced. “Please call me Robbie.”

  “Okay.”

  I pick up my menu as he picks up his.

  “I was sure you wouldn’t come,” he comments, eyeing me over the top of the large, table-dominating, leather-bound menu.

  “I was sure, too. Then I had a productive day at work and it cheered me up. I got to metaphorically smack a few arses and felt positive. So, here I am.”

  He licks his lips, laughing. “You’re a tough boss, hmm?”

  “The toughest,” I tell him, absentmindedly, “they love it, though. I work them hard and get the best out of them. Then I take all the credit.”

  “But you have the toughest job,” he says, “managing it all. If it goes wrong, it’s all on you.”

  “Yeah, but things can’t go wrong for me. I wouldn’t ever allow it.”

  “Really?”

  I look up over my menu and glare. “Do you want to get oysters to start?”

  “If you like.”

  “Lovely. We’ll do that, then.”

  I go back to perusing and it’s a choice between veal or seabass for my main. I’ll drool over the desserts later. If I look now, I’ll only be thinking about them instead of the first two courses.

  “What are you eating, then?” he asks.

  “Hmm, stuck between the veal and the seabass. What are you thinking?”

  “I was thinking the bass.”

  “Great, I’ll get the veal and we can have a bit of each. Shall we toast?”

  He chuckles when I hold up my glass. “Russians have to toast?”

  “We have to, it’s the law,” I tell him, “every day we’re alive… is a day to celebrate.”

  “To that,” he agrees, clinking his glass of whisky against my vodka tonic.

  The waiter arrives at our side and introduces himself, “My name is Gideon, I’ll be serving you tonight. Please, let me know if you would like any help in deciding. I can guarantee the swordfish… and the pie. And we have wine for each course, if you wish, to match.”

  He’s wearing a big grin and I can tell he’s willing us to need help. These people… I know a lot of patrons must love it, but seriously, I’m all about no fuss. I’m like give me it on a plate. Don’t explain to me which lake it was fished from this morning. I don’t care. As long as it’s dead and cooked.

  Robert has his hand over his mouth, as though anticipating some barbed reply from me. I’m just too used to doing everything my own way and people who try to influence me… can fuck off… no matter how well meaning.

  “We’ll have a dozen oysters and then the veal for me and bass for him. The Barolo, does that come without any song and dance?” I grin wick
edly at the server and he takes a step back, mortally offended.

  “Very good choices,” he says. “And the oysters… with all the trimmings?”

  “Yes, please,” Robert bellows. “Thanks.”

  We’re relieved of the menus and I throw back a little more drink.

  “Wow, you really don’t get out much.”

  I look out of the window at the busy city streets nearby and pout. “I believe in economy. Sorry.”

  “Well, I thought this would be nice.”

  I keep looking out of the window, avoiding his eye. “Most men think they know what nice is. Yes, it’s fancy and all that. But is that me?”

  “Isn’t it?” he asks.

  I turn my gaze back on him… his broad, solid shoulders… his chest, two perfectly outlined pecs pushing against the front of his shirt. His throat, which is slightly pink… and the very fine dusting of hair peeking just above his open collar.

  I smirk and lean in a little. “Guess what I’ve had for Christmas dinner the past three years and will probably be having again this year?”

  “I don’t know, what do Russians eat?” he asks. “Stewed meat with cherries on the top?”

  I grin in a devilish, churlish sort of way. “I meet Chloe at McDonald’s and we get all the crap on the menu we love, everything.”

  “Why?” he frowns.

  “I’m usually alone,” I sigh, “and Chloe’s mum usually forgets what day it is.”

  “And what about this year, if she’s in Australia?”

  “I don’t know, I guess I’ll be ordering alone. Perhaps I’ll take the train to Paris and have a French Maccie D’s. Or Rome. Somewhere away from here, anyway.” I get lost in thought, wondering if I should try to approach Christmas this year as if it’s any other ordinary day.

  Then the oysters arrive and Gideon is about to explain everything, from the chilli dip to the squeezed lemon to the vinaigrette on the little piles of salad sitting on the side.

  I give him a little shake of my head and smile, and his mouth contorts, but then he’s off again. Once he’s across the other side of the room, he looks over his shoulder and grins, watching as Robert and I get stuck in and go right back to our conversation… which is the only thing apart from this food I’m interested in tonight.

  “What do you do for Christmas? Do you celebrate it?” I ask, between slugging down oysters covered in chilli. He throws back one covered in the same and I watch as his thick throat swallows.

  My god.

  He dabs his mouth on a napkin and then licks his lips anyway.

  “My mother always does the whole traditional dinner and everything. She didn’t convert to Hinduism for Dad. And I’m neither one or the other. They brought me up allowing me to make my own decision about which to follow, if I wanted to follow any at all.”

  “And you decided you don’t believe in it?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, shrugging, “I believe in something, like, higher than us. I obviously went to a British school and did the nativity plays and all that.”

  He must have been so cute as a little shepherd or something. I eat a couple more oysters, struggling to keep myself dry in more ways than one.

  “What about you?”

  “Oh, my parents are Orthodox but had us all christened when we came here. They wanted us to go to a good school. Needs must.”

  “Didn’t that piss you off a little?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug it off. “I didn’t know any better at that age. But would I christen my child just to get them into a good school? Probably not. I’d rather homeschool.”

  “You want children?” he asks, rather boldly.

  “You’re forthright!”

  “Sorry,” he chuckles.

  “I don’t know, maybe. If the stars aligned, I suppose.” I mull over the possibility and am grateful when Gideon brings over the wine and pours without ceremony. “That’s wonderful, Gideon. Thank you.”

  “Bien sur,” he says, bowing and walking away mostly backwards, like I just made his day.

  I go back to the subject. “I just love my job, but maybe in the future.”

  “Me too,” he says. “My job takes all of me right now.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “It’s one of the reasons why my relationship didn’t last. She didn’t enjoy being on her own so much.”

  “God, I love being alone,” I laugh, but only half-joking, I hope he realises. “Maybe a little too much, it seems. You just get used to what you’re used to, right?”

  “I don’t know,” he grimaces, “I’ll never get used to nights.”

  “Ah, yeah. That’s one downside to being a hot doctor, eh?”

  He laughs and covers his face. I realise he’s either laughing at my deadpan way or just the sheer double standard… or else he likes that I think he’s hot.

  “All those nurses,” I mutter, “you must stir something inside their scrubs, surely?”

  He takes it in his stride, tipping more whisky down his throat now he’s had his six oysters. I still have two to go but I’m so nervous, I’m not sure I can keep them down.

  “Mum and Dad brought me up on a couple of rules with regards to romance,” he says, grinning. Then he starts counting on his fingers as he reels them off. “First, you don’t date where you work, they learnt that when they almost split up after working together for so long.”

  “Interesting. And the other rule?”

  “Don’t ever, ever break a girl’s heart. And I don’t intend to.”

  My stomach flips and I feel woozy. Wow. He’s going to be the undoing of me. I think I may already love him. If he is indeed authentic… then, definitely, I may be already in love with him.

  “Please have the other oysters,” I tell him. “I was greedy and need to save room.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay.”

  It gives me time to drool over him as he tackles eating without making a mess.

  Chapter Five

  By the time our main meals are delivered to the table, I’ve settled in a bit more and so has Robert. The sun has gone down outside and candles have been lit all around the restaurant, lights are twinkling and it feels a little less intimidating now.

  I watch him as he eats, precisely and delicately, a trait that got him into surgery, no doubt. He doesn’t pile stuff up on his fork the wrong way; he uses the back of his fork to feed himself little bites. He even passes over a little bite for me of his bass. It’s melt-in-the-mouth delicious and I offer him some veal, but he declines.

  We get halfway through the meal before I have to take another sip of wine.

  I’m trying to think what we can talk about next. We’ve already covered so many topics. Our jobs. Families. We even touched on our hopes for the future. More shocking, I admitted my ritual Christmas Day sin… eating McDonald’s.

  I take up my knife and fork again, ready to tackle some more food, when he opens his mouth to speak so I give myself another breather, swilling my wine around its glass.

  “Do you think you’ll ever live anywhere else?” he asks, gesturing at the city we’re in.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Another city, I mean.”

  “I’m not averse, though I think it’s more likely I’ll end up working abroad than going back to Leeds.”

  His dark eyes blaze with surprise. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I work for an American company. It could happen. They’re already talking about bringing me in on a couple of projects in New York. It would just be a little bit here, a little bit there, but you never know.”

  “Amazing,” he says, grinning. “So, you’re pretty much slaying your field, then?”

  I eat a corner of veal and grin. “I’m just lucky, I guess. Plus, I am a perfectionist. It’s a blessing and a curse.”

  “Me too,” he says, “but definitely a blessing.”

  “I imagine.” I finish my meal and sit staring at him as he meticulously eats ever
y scrap on his plate. “What’s it like when you see someone’s chest open?”

  “We rarely do,” he admits, “it’s all keyhole now. It’s only if several things have gone wrong we have to really, you know.”

  “I see. And don’t you get nervous? What about when you’re holding a knife?”

  “A lot can be done with robotics, Saskia.”

  I watch him closely. He might not even be a heart surgeon for all I know.

  How do I know anything he says is true?

  And why didn’t I google him? If he is a surgeon, maybe he’ll be on some surgeon website or something?

  “But you control the bots, though?”

  “Yes, we instruct bots that can wield the tiniest of instruments but we’re at the helm of that exact response.” He looks contemplative as he places his knife and fork down, his plate cleared. “It’s much different in the US. I have to admit, I’d be tempted. It’s much more advanced. It’s got to be. The diet over there is killing people.”

  “Well, it’s trying to kill people. Somehow they still manage to afford health insurance.”

  “Another reason to be tempted… the pay, better hours… probably better patients, less angry.”

  “You’ve had angry patients? Even though you’re fixing their hearts?”

  “Oh, god yeah. They’re impatient… want to get back down the pub… back to work. Don’t believe us… thinking we’re lying to them. We see it all. It’s amazing.”

  “Bloody British.”

  “Yep,” he says.

  Gideon sails over towards us and takes our plates, happy to see Robert’s is empty and all I’ve left are a couple of carrots and some green beans.

  “Dessert?” asks Gideon.

  I look at Robert for his answer.

  “What would you recommend?” Robert asks, indulging the man.

  “Well, we have a melting chocolate sphere with hot caramel source, perfect for two.”

  Robert looks at me and I nod. “Please, that’d be great.”