Scoring With Sir

by Judy Jarvie

  “Yep. It’s me. Just passing. Thought I heard something dodgy from my car engine so wondered if I could check?”

  I bite my lip. Shit, as excuses come that one’s as lame as a limping clog dancer. And oh, what a hussy of the multifarious untruths am I?

  “Sure. Come through. Great timing! We’ll have a look under the bonnet.” He sounds so homey and regular guy-like and honest—and that fires me to a hornet’s nest of inner tornado mad.

  Would a man caught in the middle of a blow job by his maid use that particular welcome and be so keen to dabble in mechanics? I’m about to find out.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  But already I’m sensing I’m guilty of overdramatized fantasy gone demented. Yes. I should have sat at home. I should have resisted.

  But too late. I’m here and I can’t very well scarper back up the drive and pretend I never came, can I?

  Or can I?

  I’m considering it but the door opens and Will walks out, looking like a demi-god in a vest and track pants low on his hips.

  Bollocks. No surrender. Live the lie and work it like Gaga in a rib-eye steak dress. “Hey, babe. I was beginning to worry,” says Will. He motions for me to click open the bonnet of the car. I oblige and hope he can’t smell my bullshit when he’s under there.

  “What kinda noise?”

  “A faint knocking. Sounded dull… Clanky.”

  Will purses his lips and braces his hands on the car. I lose him for a good four minutes as he bashes and clatters things.

  “Turn her over,” he says and motions for me to start the car.

  I do and of course it starts first time, then purrs like a nursing mother cat who’s been given a box of stray kitties.

  “Anyway, why were you worried? You said you were worried,” I ask.

  “Hadn’t heard from you since last night. Texted and called—no answer. Wondered if you’d given me the brush-off.”

  “I did have brushes off. The brushes of a broken washing machine. He wouldn’t listen to reason so I took his innards apart.” Nor would I, I’m thinking.

  “Shoulda called me. I’m great with my hands.” He grins at his own sultry wit.

  “Wearing Batsuits and saving the world. Fixing cars. Laundry tech. What don’t you do?”

  “See enough of you?” Will leaves the car and comes toward me. He slides his hand around my waist and kisses my neck. But hey, maybe he’s buying time and currying favor while Tessa gets her kit back on inside? I clench my jaw, galvanized not to be such a pushover.

  “So, what about the car?” I ask.

  “Seems fine to me. I’ll give it a drive before you go. Kinda hoping that won’t be for a while, though.” His grin says he’s got extracurricular activities lined up. And some of them involve nakedness.

  Maybe Tessa’s not as thorough as she’d have me believe? I cut to the chase and go for it. “Tessa here?”

  “Why?” Will shakes his head. “She never works weekends. She won’t fix cars—she might break a nail.”

  I keep my grumbles zipped. “Looking tidy after the party. Did she help?”

  “Contract cleaners, um…Iz. What’s with the cleaning OCD? You submitting me for some hygiene test?”

  I let out a breath. “I wondered. How are you in the party’s aftermath?” I’m walking through the hallway, swiftly scanning through the lounge door doing army-surveillance with every step, yet trying to look completely normal.

  “No damage—other than the incident with the snapper. Why didn’t you return my calls?”

  “I was marking.” Liar, liar. Tartan pants on fire.

  “How about we get some up close and personal time? Best way to end a Saturday night I can think of.” His eyes sparkle at me. His dark shadowed jaw is more A-rated chiseled than a sculpture masterclass. I’d love to be in the mood to have him ravish me and throw my caution cape to the wind. But Tessa’s proved to be my devil of discombobulation.

  “Sorry, Will,” I whisper. “I’m not in the mood. Jack’s still in hospital and I was up all night. The party took it right out of me.”

  Shit. I hate to be a cock tease but the way confusion is rampaging around inside me, sex is the last thing on the cards. I’m fit for a cry and a tantrum, not lust.

  “Any chance of a cup of tea?” I ask.

  “Sure. And a hug. I’m great at those.”

  We walk into the kitchen, and when he closes the door, he turns me in his arms. His eyes hold mine steady and I feel the strain begin to ebb as his comforting, warm embrace engulfs me.

  “Hey,” he says, with more soothing power than a team of Florence Nightingales. “Babe. Ease that stress. You need to breathe and let Will hug it out.” He holds me firmly. Some of the feelings ebb away. It’s better. A little. But Will’s still watching me oddly. “You’re not acting pleased to see me. What’s up? I can tell when you’re not yourself.”

  “Dunno what you mean.”

  “Keep it to yourself if you want to.”

  I can’t confess—that I came expressly to catch him. To fit him up. I check around me now and I’m still craning to hear a giveaway noise from a stowaway Tessa. She’s completely done a number on me.

  I stumble on the perfect get out of jail-free­-card. “I came to find out about the photographer. What are the police going to do about it all?”

  He watches me, then his stance relaxes. “All in good time, but first I’ll give you the massage you need. Then I’ll tell you all.”

  I decline the massage. As tempting as Will is. As soothing as his digits would be on my back—and other places—maybe there’s something about having a blonde psycho Fruit Loop confessing past sex exploits with your man that puts a large bolt on the door of future bonk aspirations.

  I can’t get Tessa out of my head. I can’t find a way in to discuss it without coming over as a large jar of nutter butter. I want this properly explored and I need time to hatch an approach.

  Will pulls me into the warm, strong cave of his arms but I’m rigid as a frozen deckchair left in the garden in the snow.

  “So. Photostalker? What’s the news?”

  “Tabloid snapper. He came to try for pictures of me and Ben. Personal effects were taken from Tarquin’s car—he’s been charged. I’m unsure as to why he wanted pics of me.”

  “At least he was caught in the act. Is Ben a decent guy? Is there substance to the story about him being a player?”

  “No way. He’s my friend. Known him years and he’s sound.”

  “I have a friend’s feelings at stake so I’ll take you at your word. And another question—your maid, Tessa. How did you get her?”

  “Why are you asking about Tessa again?”

  He reaches to touch my shoulders and start a massage assault, but I resist. “Just interest.”

  Will narrows his eyes at me. “Has something happened? Is this why you’re acting weird?”

  I opt for a fabrication to justify my comments. “I saw her when I was out—all over a man. You told me she had a husband and kids but the guy she was with was young and the way he snogged her set my alarm bells off. Why would a married man and woman snog in a car like they were scared they’d get caught?”

  “Trust me—that couldn’t have been Tessa. You have it wrong. She’s employed by the property company. She seems efficient. Though she rarely gets the dirty work done herself, as long as the place is clean, that’s not my business.”

  “Something about Tessa worries me.” I’m more warm and woolly than a huddle of hillside sheep. But at least this is my way of broaching things to see how Will reacts. So far, his responses confuse me. How could he say with certainty that Tessa wasn’t where I saw her?

  “Perhaps you should spend less time worrying about others. And more about me. I’m starting to feel neglected.”

  I rise from my seat, steeling myself to be strong and leave. “I’ve marking to do.”

  “Izzy. Have I done something to offend you?”

  “I’m tired.”

 
; “You won’t take a massage. You don’t want to talk. You haven’t touched your tea and now you want to go.”

  “I’ve a busy week lined up.”

  “We were going to schedule in time—experimenting. I want us to go to the room again together.”

  “Not this week, Will.”

  His face hardens and his body language reads of pissed-off man. “If that’s what you want.”

  I nod, but it’s not okay. I’ve put the first mighty spanner in our relationship’s works. If there is something between Will and Tessa, I’ve driven him back into her clutches with my bipolar bender lady response.

  “Why are you following me?” I ask as Will shadows me out of the door, hot on my heels.

  “Car test, remember?”

  “Leave it. I think it’s fine.”

  “Next time we meet, I want full reasons about what tonight was all about.”

  I jump in the car and slam the door, but he’s watching me with a weird expression. I don’t answer his words because I’m too pissed off and perplexed at myself. Shit. That wasn’t cool.

  Not clever. And I shouldn’t have come.

  * * * *

  Such is my confusion and lack of ability to settle that I head straight for Mo’s after making such an arse of myself at Will’s. I sense that there is precisely diddly squat chance of class prep or marking happening tonight. But blame Psycho Visitor’s havoc.

  I head through Mo’s tiny garden, only noticing the shiny, new motorbike under the kitchen window once I’ve rung the bell and it’s too late to reconsider. Maybe she’s ordered pizza and invited the delivery guy for a slice? Then again… It’s a posh bike for pizza runs…

  I hear the ding-dong of her doorbell echo in the hall. My eyes return to the bike. It’s brand new. Gleaming. Has Mo taken up biking? Or bikers, for that matter.

  When she arrives at the door and only opens it a smidge, I immediately jump back in anguish. I’ve seen undone buttons and glimpses of lace.

  “Shit, you’ve a visitor. A man!”

  “Yes, fuck, Izzy. It does happen—don’t sound so shocked!”

  Yes, her bra is visible, but we’re old friends and Mo’s not mad at me, she’s grinning. She has an ample chest that deserves to be appreciated. As much as I’m mad at myself, I’m full of joy for her burgeoning sex life.

  She chuckles. “Yes. I. Really. Effing. Have.” Then whispers so softly I can only lip read the words. “And. He’s. So. Fit. Game. On.”

  “I’d better go.”

  “No, it’s okay. Talk for a bit. Does no harm to let the fire pit blaze and sizzle in my absence. If you get me.”

  “You have a fire pit in the back garden now? You sure? You can’t swing a cat round there.”

  “You’re bloody thick at metaphors. For fuck’s sake, Iz. I mean he’s keen. Let’s stoke up the passion. Waiting won’t hurt him. In fact, I find it stirs him up nicely. Nice to think there’s a baby-oiled, semi-naked man waiting for me stretched out like a starfish in bed!”

  “Holy thunderbolts.” I’m red as the gleaming bike’s paintwork, next to me. In fact I think I’m slightly more scarlet and certainly more embarrassed. “Who is it?”

  “Long. Arm. Of the Law.” She whispers then snorts with laughter, then does her best to shush herself up. “Do you think he’ll take me to a cell if I ask nicely? I want him to read me my rights!”

  I gasp and put my hand up to my lips. “As in Rod the Plod O’Leary?”

  She doesn’t say a word. “Let’s say Stalker Snapper may have done me a favor. And the law’s arm isn’t the only thing that’s impressive and long around here.” She’s laughing like a drain now and my ears can bear no more so I run.

  “See ya!” I’m back up the path like a rat up a particularly scalable drainpipe. “Gotta go.”

  “Call me tomorrow. We can have a rundown of what kinky cops do best. You can use it in your books. What did you want anyway?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait. Never keep a policeman hanging around. He might write you a penalty notice.”

  Mo grins. I sense a constable who’ll be tired on his beat later. And who won’t have to want for chocolate dipping sauce for a very long time.

  “Bye.” Shit.

  Everybody’s busy with fulfilled, unbuggered-up sex lives but me.

  * * * *

  No sooner have I reversed into my usual school car park space than there’s a rap on my car windscreen that startles me. Will’s green eyes stare down at me.

  He opens my passenger side door without asking and slips inside like a particularly deft spy—but without any disguise or code words. His eyes stay fixed on the view from the windscreen and the dilapidated tennis courts—hardly a vista of choice.

  “Stalking. Nice addition to your repertoire.”

  His eyebrows raise a millimeter. “Figured I’d follow your lead from Saturday. Unannounced and unexplained.”

  Touché, Batman. Fuck, he always has a better answer. It’s one of the reasons he drives me mad with lust.

  “What do you want?” I know I sound surly. Hell, I am surly. Surly and seriously peeved. Most of all with myself. As well as Twatty Tessa Sexpot.

  “I’d love an apology for your mucho weirdness lately but as it’s a Monday morning and, going by the bags under your eyes telling me you had as little sleep as me, I’d say that’s a fruitless hope. So instead, I wanted to mark a date in your diary for rampant, teach-you-a-lesson sex. I believe it’s the best kind. Especially if it involves restraints and lots of spanking. I don’t know what you were playing at, what contributed to it or why you haven’t returned my texts, but my hand wants to make firm contact with your arse rather soon.”

  “Nice. You should get out more.”

  He glowers at me and his eyes become slits. “Woman, I swear, I could do your private parts a mischief right now. And it would be fucking amazing for both of us. Sadly, it’s an arsing school day.”

  “Tetchy, Sir. Tut tut!” I know. I’m a surly child who can’t even find a good comeback. But it is a Monday and the toaster broke again. WTF? Will I ever get a decent slice of golden bread again? With Jack AWOL there is no glimmer of hope.

  My stomach rumbles as if on cue.

  “Wednesday. Seven sharp at mine. Make sure you have a carb meal and plenty of glucose tablets before arrival. It’ll be a long night. I have a lot to get out of my system.”

  “Said the septic tank to the plumber.”

  “For fuck’s sake, I should shag you in the car for your lip, lady!”

  My womb high-dives into the center of a perfectly formed lotus of synchronized swimmers. How does this man manage to do this—make my innards turn into a raging estrogen fest and have me melt with longing in a matter of sentences?

  “What should I wear? Armor?”

  “Your choice. Make sure you bring that whip. And the crop. We didn’t get a proper chance last time. Believe me, I’ll make up for it.”

  He clicks open the door and I think he’s gone. Like all the best SAS guys do, he pops back unexpectedly and without a noise.

  “What about tonight? Wednesday is a bit of a wait and I’m on a rolling boil already. Only so many polar showers a guy can stand.”

  “Can’t. Busy. Other men to pester. I’m a busy temptress!”

  His low growl makes me whimper, then as swiftly his demeanor alters completely. His tone becomes almost nice. “Thank you, Miss Tennant. That was most helpful. Have a very productive day.”

  I soon realize why, when Rogerson walks past like the lumbering he-hulk with a briefcase he is. Rogerson stares at Will and smiles. Then stares at me and pretends to. Subtle difference but I see it like a wild pig senses truffles on a Solstice morning. Bastard. And I’m not quite sure whether I mean my headmaster boss or my deranged, domineering lover. I can’t help myself but die for Will’s crazed maniacal touch.

  But he’s still a complete bastard.

  * * * *

  It’s morning break when I learn the party popper-worthy news.
Janey’s been delayed in school but escapes to find me in the staffroom.

  “Had to come see you!” Her expression and shimmering exuberance tell me it’s great news before she does. And she doesn’t confide at all—she presents the evidence on a wiggling finger with a shocking squeal.

  “Fuck me backwards! Bloody love a duck—what a corker of a ring!”

  She squeals a second time and I’m fearful it could shatter her crystal earrings. Then she jumps up and down until I stop her. “He asked me last night. Isn’t it fab? The ring is a bit big, mind, but he’s getting it resized. In Bond Street no less. God, Izzy. Can you believe it? I’m engaged to the man of my dreams.”

  We hug and hug and hug some more and I couldn’t be happier for my most wonderful, beautiful friend in all the world. Her smattering of freckles crinkles as she grins with her sheer exuberance and delight.

  “I’ll need a debrief on details.”

  “Course. You’ll get the full shebang.”

  We hug again. “Was it très romantique? Or hot and hungry sex please à la mode?”

  Janey grins. “Bloody both, Iz. We don’t want to wait long, either. And I’m thinking bridesmaids. All of you will be bridesmaids—maybe a bondage theme and fuck-me shoes?”

  I’m laughing like a drain at that one.

  “But I think you may approve of the best man? Now that I’m engaged, Ben has no secrets—he’s told me you may have a thing going for a man we both know.”

  I blush but the hilarity of the fuck-me wedding shoes hasn’t abated so I’m still grinning from ear to ear. “We might be friends. And I may have seen his willy a couple of times.”

  “Pfffft. Friends. Yeah. Is he the guy who’s causing you to write like a lusty Agatha Christie on LSD?”

  I raise my eyebrows. And hug her again tightly. “Will is my spark, my muse—and the man who drives me crazy. Especially when he’s playing grumpy, angry bastard to sex us both up like he has today.”

  Janey’s eyes widen. “Aren’t we both the lucky ones?”

  “Bloody lucky indeed.”