I’m not. I’m still on the bus and am going to be fifteen minutes late.
Shit, well, I am the boss… sort of.
Pull the other one, LOL. I’ll tell him you lurve him.
I send him a GIF so he knows I’m really unimpressed. Then he sends one back of toppling love hearts. Sad git.
I get into the office and everyone looks so relieved I’ve arrived. Then people start trying to show me bits of paper and asking if I’ve checked my emails. Well, no, because I had a date last night… though I never usually would have that excuse as to why I haven’t been checking emails during the evening.
“Meeting in ten,” I cry, “and you’d better get my coffee right… someone. Anyone. Don’t all rush at once.”
Nobody goes to get me coffee. It’s a running joke. Nobody makes my coffee but me.
The thing is, nobody quite gets it how I like it… perfect, of course.
It gets to eleven a.m. and though we funnelled our ideas into a more succinct masterplan during our meeting earlier, I’m still antsy with thoughts of Robert. How do I alleviate my fears… my suspicions? I decide to trawl through Adam’s wedding photos on Facebook. These are just the unofficial ones, but I find pictures of Robert standing beside a woman who must be his mother. She has dark hair like me and a petite figure. Papa Shah must have been on call or else he didn’t feel in the mood to attend the wedding of his son’s cousin, someone not related to him by blood.
I get to thinking…
Trawling through Adam’s collection of photos, I discover all the various albums B.S. There are albums he labelled, like ‘Corfu Summer Hols’, ‘Germany Camping Trip’, ‘France Tour ’09’ and various others.
I avoid the labelled albums and look back through other photos, his more personal ones, such as times he was tagged in ones from family gatherings or whatever. There are a few photos he posted in an event called ‘Auntie Manda’s 60th’ and thankfully they were posted by Adam, who I’m friends with, so I’m able to see them. It’s definitely Robert’s mother because it’s the same woman from the recent wedding photos. I wonder if Robert’s mother had already left the evening wedding reception before he moved in on me and spun me around the dance floor, or else he might have told people he was just being gentlemanly in asking a lonely looking girl to dance. Sure, his mother might not like his current wife, but it would still look bad to be twirling a completely new gal in front of her before you’ve even officially palmed off the old one.
“Boring, boring, boring.” I swipe through image after image of middle-aged people dancing the conga and stuff like that, all wearing cardboard hats and looking legless. “Ooh, what’s this?”
There’s a family picture, well, it sort of looks like that. And sat at a table in the background are Robert and a young Indian girl. I can’t make her out but it doesn’t even look as though they’re enjoying being sat together. He looks annoyed and distant, if anything. This tells me nothing except, maybe, he and Adam are telling the truth… he hasn’t been happy in years and really does like me… maybe love, even.
Then a voice cuts into my reverie and I quickly put down my phone and pretend I wasn’t spying on someone via Facebook.
“Saskia, there’s a Skype call for you in the conference room. It’s Gregory. He’s eager to speak with you,” says Lars.
“Coming.”
I grab my phone and power down my computer, heading there. Once in the room, I close the door and smile at Gregory, who’s waiting for me on the screen. He appears to be on his yacht in Florida.
“Hi Gregory, what can I do for you?”
“You could get yourself on a plane, that’s what,” he says, his American accent so much stronger when he’s out there.
“Pardon me?”
“Another potential client, this one based in New York, wants a preliminary… so if you’re able to leave the team to get on with things and fly out? I’ll meet you at the Ritz Carlton and we’ll go from there.”
“Erm, Gregory, I’m between places at the moment and we’re in the midst of a major project…”
“…which you can manage remotely, surely? You just need your phone and laptop, correct?”
I smile, trying not to get annoyed. “I suppose so, but how long would you need me out there for? I’m meant to be flat hunting right now. It’s not looking good, actually.”
He shakes his head. “You should’ve said. My daughter just vacated her place in Chelsea. It’s yours for the time being, until you make arrangements. I was going to let it or sell it, doesn’t matter to me. Think it’s got furniture, at least the basics. She’s gone travelling around Africa for the rest of the year. Burnout she says, something like that.”
“That would be great, actually.” Just so long as there are no bugs hidden in it.
“So, get your ticket and I’ll see you next week.” He looks up, thinking. “Today’s Friday. Well, you could fly Sunday and then have a free day Monday. We’ll meet them Tuesday. I like to do business on a Tuesday.”
“No problem. Okay. And how long will I be out there?”
“Couple of days,” he says. “Nothing major… yet.”
“I see. No worries.”
“See you soon, Saskia.”
“Bye.”
Great, so now I’ve got to spend my Saturday getting ready for a trip. And Saturday is usually my cleaning and shopping day.
I have three or four weeks left on my lease, but now time’s ticking for me to get packed and get out of there.
I really don’t see right now how Robert and I might ever make it work between us.
It’s not feasible.
And he still has a divorce to go through.
I leave the conference room and announce, “Sorry guys, I’m in the US next week but we can consult remotely. Please don’t worry, it’s just more business on the horizon. We’ve got this.”
My words don’t seem to help… they do look worried. They worry the Americans will poach me for good.
I’m carrying a bag of Waitrose stuff home and get halfway up the stairs to my flat when my phone starts ringing. I can’t get to it because my hands are full and I cannot be arsed.
I unpack my bags once inside and smell my flowers on the kitchen table, still beautiful and fragrant. By the time I get back from New York, they may be dead.
My phone rings again and I dig it out, seeing Robert’s name on the screen.
“Robert?”
“Hi, hello. Just me.”
“Sorry, I just got in and had loads of shopping and I’m just about to slam some dinner in the oven. How are you?”
“Back in Leeds,” he says, “conference was good. Little stuffy and all that, but okay. A few familiar faces. We had lunch and then left for home.”
“Oh, so you’re in the marital abode, are you?” I drop my tone to curious.
“Sami’s out tonight. Something with her girlfriends. She thinks I’ve been away to get a cheap shag. Think what she likes, as far as I’m concerned.”
I choke on the diet coke I’m necking. “Well, no, because you haven’t and you don’t want her thinking that or you’ll lose out, in the end. Get what I’m saying?”
I switch the oven on and check the heating instructions for my lasagne and garlic bread. Today is definitely a day for comfort food.
“I know,” he mutters, “I know. Listen, I’ve decided to get a flat of my own. I’ll just have to ask for my parents’ help while I sort out my finances.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“I need my space.”
“You do.”
“It could be a few months yet before we divorce.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“But, I’m open to moving to London. What do you say?”
“What? You moving to London, for me?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“We barely know one another, Robert.”
“But if we spend more time together… just as friends if you like… all I’m saying, I’m open to it. W
hatever it takes.”
I sigh down the line and throw my lasagne into the oven a little harshly, putting the timer on and setting it so I know when to put the garlic bread in.
“Listen, I have to fly to New York on Sunday. I did say these things might crop up, and well, this has. I’ll be there a few days and there might be another project tagged onto the end of this one I’m doing right now. There will probably be more trips across the pond and it’s going to get crazy.”
He goes quiet, then mumbles, “Okay, I see.”
“What do you see?”
“You’ve had a change of heart.”
This is all way too much pressure for something that hasn’t even got started yet.
“I’m being realistic. Yes, we get on well and have a good time, but we don’t know one another very well. You’re going through some tough times with your divorce and I don’t want to be in the way or become nothing more than a distraction. I meant what I said yesterday, I can’t do this… any of this… until you’re single. And even then, we’d ideally date, go on traditional outings like the cinema or for pub crawls or bowling or strolls in the park. I don’t know you well, Robert. It’s all going to take time. It will not happen overnight.”
He grumbles under his breath before speaking. “I don’t think you know what it’s like. I’ve been in a loveless marriage for the past seven years. Almost eight. You come along and the connection was instant. I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t get you out of my head.”
“But how do I know you’re not just rebounding, Robert? These things happen. I watched it happen to one of my best friends who was going out with a married guy who then picked his wife, ultimately. I can’t allow myself to become invested. You’ve got to keep trying to put yourself in my place. Yeah, I really do like you. I fancy you… but… I have an incredibly demanding job and so do you. So, if you’re really sure about all this, you can message me… we can chat on the phone… we can email. But for now, that has to be it, you know?”
“Saskia, when you’ve been starved for so long of something real and then it’s suddenly right within your grasp, how do you expect me to go on knowing it could be everything I’ve ever wanted, but it’s just stupid logistics in the way?”
I move into the bedroom and start taking my clothes off with one hand, struggling a bit with it. “We can be friends and build something solid to work with. It’s either that or nothing, Robert. I can’t deal with anything else. I’m moving house. I have all this work going on. I don’t have anything much to give. It might not be like this forever, but this is me right now.”
“Fine,” he agrees, “friends it is.”
He goes quiet on the line, then says, “You’re undressing, aren’t you?”
“Yes, what about it?”
“I hear you undressing.”
“I just said… I only got in two minutes ago. I’m getting into my pyjamas.”
“What kind of pyjamas?”
“Pink silk, short sleeves, long legs. Why?”
“Fucking hell, Saskia,” he gasps. “I’m going to go mad.”
“Nobody forced you to marry for convenience, Robert. You did that all by yourself. You saw the future and it included a large joint income and a lot of time spent at work avoiding one another. Life is shit. Get over it. At least you’ve got a friend, eh?”
“Now you just went too far,” he says, and hangs up.
My god…
My heart pounds as I stare at the screen, wondering which line it was… the convenience bit… the joint income… or the amount of time he spent at work avoiding having to go home?
I’m guessing all of it.
It’s probably best this way, really.
Everyone always comes a cropper to my sharp tongue at some point. Just the way it is.
He’s already made me feel a little like I’m his crisis crush… that just because I’m beautiful, that obviously means I’m going to make it all better for him.
Time to move on.
Chapter Seven
18 Months Later
Rafe has his head between my legs and is doing all the right things, making me moan and groan and occasionally jump, his tongue sending shocks of pleasure and surprise through my body. God, he’s good.
Men in New York are so different. I found that out as soon as I got here. I’m not here full-time yet… but it’s getting that way. I’ve been enjoying the best of both worlds for too long now. I like this transatlantic lifestyle.
It was during my first few days here all those months ago that I met Charlie, a doorman at the Ritz Carlton. He found me looking confused on the street as he was leaving the hotel after a night shift. He offered to hail me a cab and also meet me later after a nap, so he could show me around. We walked the high line and then went back to his place. He was changing his shirt because the weather was still stifling, even in September, and I saw his rock-hard abs. I wanted him. Plus, it was my birthday and I was ready. I needed it. I wanted to do it. He was gorgeous, blond, tall and incredibly fit. Bold as brass, I walked up to him and kissed him… and he unknowingly took my virginity… only after licking me to three screaming orgasms in a row. He asked if I liked it rough or gentle and I said gentle. He fucked me gently and came quick, filling his condom. There was no blood, maybe because I’d used tampons… or maybe it was that I’d enjoyed one too many sessions with my vibrator. Either way, Charlie didn’t notice at all, and after that first quick shag, he rolled on another condom and fucked me to the most delicious orgasm of my entire life, my body clutching around his dick like a demon possessed. We had that afternoon and one evening together, and then I left. I didn’t see him again. I never told him he’d given me the best birthday present ever. He didn’t even ask for my number. I knew there’d be a dozen beautiful women available to him every day. It was exactly what I needed… pure, gratifying sex. Nothing more.
Since then, I’ve grown in confidence and in knowing exactly what I want. If they give me a good licking, I always stay longer, otherwise I’m gone fairly soon after I’ve got what I wanted. And perhaps if it’s a really good session of cunnilingus, I’ll repay the favour… but only if they’re clean and tidy… and I’ve never swallowed yet.
It’s been exactly as everyone told me it would be. Once you realise entanglement need not always apply, it’s a little addictive, actually. I like to discover what tattoos they’ve got and how many piercings (if any). I like to try and predict how big they’ll be and how gentle or rough.
I never fuck men when I’m in London. I just don’t do it there. I have to compartmentalise things and when I’m back in London, I know there’s more chance I’ll bump into people I know while on a date or that one of the guys I’m fucking might be connected to a mutual friend. Here, in New York City, it’s like an amusement park, except all the rides are unique and there are new ones every day, so you don’t get bored.
Rafe brings me to an orgasm, his tongue on my clit, two fingers inside me, and I hold his head between my thighs as he ekes out the last little flutters inside me.
Then he climbs over me, his ripped muscles covered in black hair and his cock long and thick. Most men here are endowed and the ones who aren’t know how to make up for it. He looks Greek or Italian… and all I know is, he’s amazing.
He rolls a condom onto his big dick and growls, sucking on my nipple. “I’m so hard for this beautiful body.” I also don’t know what that accent is, but I don’t give a fuck.
I can tell this is going to be a good one when he fills me slowly, a dirty grin on his face as he watches our bodies join, then looks at my face for approval. God, but I would be cocky if I were him. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me. For the past year and a half now, I’ve always been waxed because these men like it and I do, too. He likes that he can watch his cock bump against my bare pussy, his beautiful length digging into me, then slipping out, the flesh expanding and contracting, slowly… and I know… god, I know… he knows what to do.
Rafe keeps goi
ng, his body weight held on his arms so we can both see him moving in and out, my legs spread as wide as they will go. He has his knees tucked under him and he’s in perfect control, swinging into me.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan.
“Stroke your tit,” he growls, “and rub your clit. Do it. Now.”
I do as he says and my hips start rising off the bed towards him, tentatively meeting his strokes, his cock pushing so deep inside me, I feel almost winded each time.
“That’s it, baby,” he coos, “slowly, like that, savour it.”
I’m humming every time he slides into me, all the way, then pulls out just as slowly, each time the metaphorical elastic band my orgasm is restricted by getting thinner and thinner, until I can’t help it and he feels me come, filling me full to the brim with his cock as I scream, come around him and bang my hips up against his.
Then he leans down, whispers in my ear, “We’re just getting started, angel.”
He rolls me over, spreads me and enters me from behind, my legs as wide if not wider open than they were before. This time he isn’t gentle or tender. He fucks me until I’m aching, screaming and spurting all over the bed.
Afterwards he lies panting, the baggy condom lying against his stomach, full of cum. I always like to know the condom has worked.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?” he asks.
“Oh, I’m afraid I’m flying back to England.”
“What a shame,” he says, leaving the bed and heading for the bathroom.
Whenever I’m over here working, I stay in one of the company apartments, but I never fuck any of these guys in it. Today, as always, we’ve come to his place. Rafe’s apartment is in Tribeca and I met him at a jazz bar where I was drinking beer and eating chicken skewers after a long day of meetings.
I start to get dressed and he places a kiss on my cheek. “Let yourself out, beautiful.”
He goes into his office and starts work. A graphic designer, so he told me. He wasn’t lying.
I leave his apartment and hail a cab, heading back to my bland digs downtown. It’s nothing special but I can shower there, sleep in peace (it’s a building few people actually live in full-time).
Bad Guys Page 6