The Mad British

by Leick, Hera

  “Adelaide,” she laughs. “All you have to do is hang up on—”

  I hang up without a goodbye and run to the bathroom, wiping my hands clean on an old T-shirt.

  Oh God, what to wear? I stand in front of my closet, taking a mental inventory of what he’s seen me in already. April has been quite cold at night so I pick a short white dress and Chloe's cute black ankle boots—the ones I haven’t given back yet—and a fitted leather jacket, lots of mascara, and small come-and-bite-me earrings. James loves to bite my ear. And I love it when he bites.

  After getting ready I go into the living room. "You need a chiffon scarf," Chloe says from the sofa, where she’s curled up with a glass of red wine and a book. I can see a shirtless inked muscle-bound man on the cover with the title ‘Thrust Me, I’m Bad’.

  "Take the blue one in my dresser."

  "You're the best," I call, trotting away.

  "I know I am and I won’t mention you're wearing my boots again."

  James is ridiculously punctual. He knocks on the door exactly at seven when I’m still shoving my purse and keys and other detritus into my handbag on the kitchen table. He is wearing jeans, which is a new development, and underneath his black leather jacket is a navy-blue shirt. He looks lush. And manly.

  "Hi," he says, in that deep, husky voice.

  “Hey James,” Chloe calls out.

  He lifts a hand toward her in greeting. “Nice book,” he says, his dimples making an appearance.

  I haven’t seen Chloe blush in a long time, but she finds her way back immediately. “You’d love it, James. Teach you modern men a thing or two. I’ll lend it to you after I’m done.”

  “Oh great. Can’t wait.”

  "No neckwear," I cut in.

  "Ah. I had someone dress me." He does his usual sweep of my body that never fails to turn my legs into jelly. "You look beautiful."

  I give him a teasing look. "Thanks. Was it Steffen?"

  "No, but if I had to do it again, he'd probably be at the top of my list. He told me exactly what improvements he would make to me the night I gave him a ride home after we left Cryo. It was actually my sister."

  "Huh, really? She did a great job." I grab my bag. "Bye Chloe."

  Chloe lifts a hand without looking up from her novel. "Bye kids. Stay out of trouble. And don't get my boots dirty."

  "You first."

  We exit the Chinese restaurant and step out into the street. I hold up the folded fortune from the centre of a cookie, the red printed writing on the outside.

  James stretches his shoulders and asks, "You really want to know how many girls I've slept with—not including you?"

  "This is important information that I have to share with my friends so they can judge you."

  He shrugs. "Count of three?"

  The streets of London are busy on Saturday night, and we join the pack of pedestrians waiting to stampede across the road on the Embankment.

  "Three." I unfold the paper, read the number, and we both look at each other at the same time. We start laughing immediately.

  He stares at his strangely, then smiles in that way he does. "You've been busy."

  "You haven't?" I snicker. "This isn't physically possible, James."

  We keep walking shoulder-to-shoulder along a footpath. "Neither is twenty-three thousand. That's, what, averaging more than six or seven a day for the last ten years? You would have died of dehydration or something."

  I hold up my paper again. "I don't think you're telling me the truth either. How can you sleep with negative six people?"

  "It's a lot easier than twenty-three thousand. Did you even take a day off for Christmas or anything?"

  I hit him lightly on the arm. "Negative six? How does that work?"

  "So between us, we've got a total of 22,994." He smiles again, burying the fortune in his jacket pocket. "Where’re we going?"

  "Ah, over this way. It's a surprise, because you look so good tonight."

  "Finally on the Hatter train, love. Maybe I'll make it out of the negative numbers tonight."

  I lead him down the dark streets, the crowd growing younger and trendier with each street. A small crowd has gathered outside of a warehouse-like building. They’re smoking cigarettes and drinking, wearing ironic hats and T-shirts.

  “These people actually appear normal,” he says. “Not like the crowd at the last exhibit. I don’t feel so out of place this time.”

  "I’m glad. This guy has been setting up this installation for a while."

  We enter and I wave at someone I know across the floor, and lead us both through a maze of boxes painted black, grey, and silver, piled in stacks up to the ceiling. The rafters are exposed in the warehouse, and the floor is uncovered concrete. Some sort of slow, dreamy music is playing in the background.

  "How does it make you feel?"

  James is staring up at the boxes. “Is there anything inside anchoring them down? Or will it come crashing down on our heads any second?” He looks at me. “Queen, is this your way of forcing me to save you so we can have a moment?”

  “You wish,” I chuckle. “So?”

  "Honestly? Like I should be driving a forklift."

  "Interesting," I say, still laughing, "so do I."

  He waits until I take my hand out of my pocket as we walk, and when I finally do to curl a piece of hair behind my ear, he reaches over and clasps it in his own. I smile, my gaze falling to the floor for a second, and then squeeze back softly.

  "You know, when we first met, I thought you were a bad boy. But I can't see you being anything but a good boy your entire life. That's why you're so successful, right? You went to school, made good grades, went to Cambridge or something and now you're. . . well, have everything you need." We’re wandering outside now, checking out the exhibits in the back, which are actually getting more creative in my eyes, and probably weirder in James'.

  "‘Thrust me, I’m bad’.”

  We both crack up laughing and I hide the fact that I’m eager to read Chloe’s book next. It’s part of a series we’re reading together and the last book ended on a cliffhanger.

  “Really?” I ask him once our laughter subsides. He nods, and I edge closer, pulling on his sleeve. "Why? What’ve you done to be bad? You have to spill now. Don't be embarrassed. My brother's been arrested for public indecency and he’s still a productive member of society. There's no judgment here. What did you do? Overfeed your sister's pony?"

  We pass a trio of pregnant women, their stomachs exposed and painted purple. It’s an interesting medium for an artist who is probably out of ideas. James does a double take, then tries not to stare.

  "How did you guess?”

  I prod him on the side. “Tell me.”

  “I, uh, got busted with a lot of drugs and got kicked out of public school."

  "What?" My scarf slips off my neck and he swipes it off the ground in a single motion. "How much is a lot of drugs?"

  He passes my scarf over. "Enough to get me arrested."

  "Oh my God. How old were you?"

  "Fifteen.”

  “Bloody hell, James.”

  “Yeah. . . It was really stupid on my part. I know everyone who's gotten caught says this—but it really wasn’t mine. You see, Travis, you remember my friend Travis?”

  I nod. “Lassie.”

  “Yeah, Lassie, he's an interesting guy, absolutely brilliant, but when we were in school he was going through this obnoxious white Rastafarian phase, or maybe he read the Communist Manifesto or something that year. He was looking for an excuse to break off the shackles of his middle-class existence and live like a true follower of Jah or something because he decided to stick it to the man—his parents—and stocked up on every illegal pharmaceutical he could get his hands on. "

  "What kind of drugs?"

  "Oh, Christ, everything. Coke, E, acid, an eighth, Ritalin, Oxycontin—it was all hidden in my locker."

  "That's enough for intent, isn't it?"

  "Unfortunately for me
, yes. Travis would have been screwed seven ways from Sunday. He was a scholarship student, didn’t have the resources to keep himself out of prison, so I just let everyone believe it was me. Travis nearly blew it, though. I had to punch him in the mouth to keep him from confessing. He said he would never leave a comrade to take the fall for him. Like I said, he was a confused kid. You should have seen his dreadlocks."

  "So what happened?"

  "Lucky for me, my dad kept me out of juvenile prison, but he couldn’t keep me in Eton, even though his good friend was chairman of the board." He shrugs like it’s no big deal. "Ended up going to a state school. So did Travis. He said it was the least he could do for me for saving his arse. I still don't think Travis’ mother has forgiven me for that. She thinks I talked him into it so I wouldn’t have to go alone."

  "Everything worked out anyway, right?"

  "It wasn’t bad," James admits. "I mean, all of my friends thought it was the most humiliating thing that could happen to me, and that I would go mad and drop out or something, but it was just. . . normal. Everyone I met was pretty normal, and at first I was pretty lost. It was the first school where I didn’t have to wear a uniform and I had to eat in a cafeteria and share desks and books for the first time, and everyone was treated like a student, not a little prince in training. But I got used to it quickly. Played football and ran for student council and just did normal high school things."

  He stops and thinks for a second. "I think that was what turned me into a human being. All my old friends from Eton. . . I mean, their lives are fine, on the surface. They’re all rich and powerful and all that, but when you talk to them now, they're . . .” He trails off, thinks for a bit. "They couldn’t care less about people they think are below them. They yell at waiters and old people and cheat on their wives and girlfriends and are pretty much alcoholics. They’re miserable people with too much power." He exhales tiredly, and I wonder if this is the first time he has admitted to something like this out loud. "Put it this way, I'm glad I'm not like them."

  I lean against him. "I'm glad you're not, as well."

  We reach a wall, suddenly in the middle of the exhibit, with a huge dragon painted on it, with something that looks like paper and sand mixed in with the paint. I reach out and trace the textures, my knuckles flecked with old paint that the Lava soap hadn't been able to remove.

  "Interesting," I murmur, almost to myself. The mural is coming apart in my mind; I’m removing the green parts and filling them in with grey washes instead, the dragon twists round, and parts of his body start to stripe. I settle into a crouch as the imaginary brushes in my hands redraw the clouds he sits on.

  James reaches out and lifts my hand from the painting, bringing it to him, and by extension, bringing me to him. I face James now, looking directly into his eyes, still shaking off the clouds in my head, my face expressionless, as if waking from a deep sleep. Slowly, he backs me up against the painted wall, against the dragon’s threatening, dangerous eye. It seems to mirror James’ eyes that never leave my own. His body presses hard against mine, increasing the pressure little by little.

  He touches my face softly, running his fingers across my cheek, then the curve of my jawbone, and using two fingers under my chin, pulls my face up and places a firm kiss on my lips. I return it, hard, pressing my mouth fully against his, my body stretching upward to make up the height difference, and let the waves of desire wash over my body like an electric current.

  I press my hands against his hard stomach, feeling the bumps and ridges of the muscles underneath. All of a sudden I’m grinding myself against his legs, the heat and want of my body taking over my mind.

  Someone catches us and yells, "Hey, look at those people making out against Jonah's mural. Get a room, you two."

  We break apart. James’ face is wild, his breathing laboured. “I want to take you up against this wall right now, Adelaide.” His voice is gruff, tortured.

  “Anything you want,” I breathe out, repeating his words back to him. I grab the front of his leather jacket and yank him down. "I should have never left that morning. Take me out of here. Now."

  We end up folded together again on the pavement, and somehow James manages to hail a taxi, the driver giving us a long distasteful stare as I practically jump in after and pull James' body to me, planting hard kisses on his neck.

  James pulls something out of his pocket and pushes it through the slits in the clear plastic partition. "For your trouble," he gasps, as I push him against the door and attack him again.

  A second later, the taxi driver suddenly perks up. "Thank you, my friend. You can make as many babies as you want to back there."

  I would bet anything that James slipped him a hundred. I giggle through another kiss as he rips my scarf off. I grab his head, steadying myself. His eyes are glassy, and such a cloudy blue, that I take a moment to remind myself to try and mix the shade later.

  I kiss him, gentle and long, feeling the heat from his mouth, and moments later, we are entangled again, breathing and writhing against the cramped backseat.

  The driver clears his throat. "I'm sorry to interrupt, my friend, but where am I taking you?"

  I surface and blurt my address. James stops his kisses on my neck and pulls back. "It's all right," I reassure him.

  The flat is dark when we stumble through the front door. Cheshire is perched on the countertop eating leftover cheese from a plate, his eyes narrowed as if he’s challenging us to move him. But I’m only concerned with James’ lips, and I clasp his shirt, tugging him tight against me. It’s all the encouragement he needs. He moans, his tongue thrusting into my mouth. I grind my body against his, feeling his arousal throbbing against my stomach.

  He pulls away, yanking off his leather jacket and I follow suit. He grins wickedly and then tries to yank my dress up over my head, but in his enthusiasm, I hear a slight rip. "I never really liked this dress anyway," I say hurriedly, wrapping my arms round the back of his neck and desperately assault kisses on it.

  "I think we should continue this in a more private place,” he murmurs. “We’re being watched." He looks toward Cheshire. We both quietly laugh and I lead James by the hand through the darkness to my room.

  Oh no. . .

  Before opening the door fully, I hesitate, feeling rooted to the spot. "It's, uh, a little dirty."

  “Good. I like dirty.”

  He pushes me in and closes the door behind us. Pressing me hard against the door, his fingers brush my hair away from my neck. He holds my gaze for a beat and my pulse speeds up as I flush under his stare. He begins to trace my body—similar to the way I’d done earlier with the mural—the gentle pressure from his fingertips sending ripples of want through my body.

  I’m sure we could have heard a pin drop in the silence of the room as we stare each other down for a long, sensual moment. My tongue flicks out over my lower lip and he immediately tracks it, his heated eyes darkening as he flicks them back to my own.

  He seems to want to say something, his lips parting, but instead he closes his mouth. I let out a shaky breath the instant before my hands go to the top button of his shirt and start undoing them, one after the other.

  "Whatever you want," I murmur.

  He shrugs out of his shirt. "Adelaide. . ." Our lips fuse together immediately, his hands tangling into my hair as I practically tackle him. The momentum pushes me back hard against the door, but I don’t care, because when he grips my neck and hair tightly, it makes me gasp out loud in pleasure. “You’re going to drive me to madness.”

  I push him backward toward my bed, and take in the curved, well-developed muscles of his shoulders and biceps. I run my hands along them. “Madness is a great place to start. You’re gonna love it.”

  He leans down to take my mouth again when my hands move to his belt, deftly undoing it and pulling it apart so I can pop the button on his jeans and pull the zipper down. I try to push him again toward the bed, trying to take control, but he grabs my arms and spins me r
ound, grinning devilishly as he pushes me backwards onto the bed. He stares down at me as he snakes his jeans down over his hips, shucking his socks along the way.

  Taking off my boots, I shove a few sketchbooks and a bar of chocolate to the floor, slightly apologetic that I hadn’t made the bed that morning. “Seriously babe, do you think I give a damn right now?”

  He moves onto the bed where I’m sitting up, my hands propped behind, and leans over me. He runs a hand slowly up my leg, over my knee, and up my thigh, my body spiking with need. I lie down, letting out a soft, anticipatory moan.

  In hindsight, it was a poor decision to wear this outfit. My dress zips up at the side, and even with my burlesque training there is no way to remove it in any way that will be even remotely sexy. I have to sit up and wiggle it over my shoulders, and then lift it over my head. James is smirking at me.

  "What?"

  "Nothing," he says, clearly amused about something. We turn serious very quickly as he unclasps my bra and lays me back down on the bed. He slowly inches my knickers down over my hips, and I gulp, lifting up, my eyes raking over his hard, muscled body, inked in the blue moonlight coming from the window.

  He is utterly in control of me now.

  He nudges my legs open and leans down, settling himself between them as he returns his lips to mine for more slow, torturous kissing. I could come just from this moment. Just from this touch.

  His tongue slowly strokes mine with the tip before twisting round it. His lips close over my bottom one, drawing it into his mouth and suckling gently. He kisses along my jawline until he finds my weak spot.

  I am going to die just from this.

  I lift my hips against his. "James, please," I whimper. I moan when he thrusts his hips back against mine, pressing me to the bed.

  "You’re talking too much," he mumbles against my skin, sending little vibrations rippling over the surface. "I need to taste every inch of you."

  Chills flood my body and my hands slide down his side, gripping his hips. He continues his downward trajectory, placing suckling kisses slowly down my neck. Dipping his head, he draws my nipple between his lips and into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it. He pulls away from it languidly; his lips tight round it, before turning his attention to my other breast. I squirm beneath him, whining softly.