Insecure

by Ainslie Paton

  He captured her hands and raised them above her head, grasping them both in one of his and she bucked underneath him, slamming into his hips in a way that made him tense and his breath come hard. He slid a hand around her back and pinched her bra open, pulling it off her shoulders and she stilled momentarily, her lips parted, as his eyes went to her breasts, small and high on her chest.

  He curled forward to take her wet bottom lip between his and she fought to free her hands. He gave her teeth, enough pressure to make her moan. He ran his tongue along her top lip and she snatched a kiss and there was no more teasing her, he got focused on the warmth of her mouth and the sounds she made.

  He wasn’t conscious of releasing her hands, only that her fingers were digging into his skull. The flower petal softness of her, the scent of her, expensive perfume and a fragrance of the long, disappointing day and the seedy bar filled his head.

  He did what he promised, he held her and kissed her and undressed the rest of her, carefully, slowly, making her tremble. That was a shock, a buzz. Whatever they had together was shredding her control. It was testing his, almost unbearably. His whole body felt strung out like a faulty code. He’d thought she’d be reserved, contained, the sex efficient, pleasant enough but routine, forgettable. He wasn’t prepared for her to shed her skin and let him see into her heart. He hadn’t been sure she had one, but now he saw it, bright and deep and filled with longing.

  She wasn’t going through the motions. She wasn’t riding the alcohol, the hormone high, she was stripped down to her most basic programming and inviting him to overwrite her. He saw it in her eyes, blown wide and clear. Her open abandon, the radiance of her, spun him out and he couldn’t tell how much of it was the lack of food, the shock and disappointment of the day, or the woman, and he didn’t care. He let go too, buried himself in her and took the drag of her nails down his back and her sharp gasps as confirmation she was getting what she needed from him.

  She was rigid and liquid, straining and tremulous, and he was the same until the glass ceiling disappeared, and the room went away, and her fire went out and they were drunk on each other floating in the stars and the clouds.

  3: Half Light

  Whirring woke him, or was it the sun, or the crazed woodpecker in his head? He opened his eyes to see the glass wall turn opaque and block out the sun and the skyline. A fancy bit of window tech that beat curtains. He needed water. He needed a pistol for the woodpecker, and the bathroom.

  Jacinta was curled on her side, with her back to him, but close enough he could feel her warmth. Her breathing had an exhausted quality to it, like a length of sighs strung together. Gingerly he launched an experiment in sitting upright without disturbing her and found it disorienting. The room wobbled, his eyes wouldn’t open past slits and his tongue had become a pineapple overnight.

  Technically it was morning, a squint at his watch confirmed 6am. He could wake her, say goodbye and go. He could leave a note and disappear. Practically, it felt like it should be the middle of the night and he didn’t have it in him to do more than stumble to the bathroom, guzzle water, find his bag and hope there were headache tablets there, then flake out for another couple of hours.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tested the floor. Felt solid even if he didn’t. Standing produced stumbles, then sharp pain under his instep and involuntary hopping that flooded his head with seasickness, but not enough to drown the woodpecker or stunt his curses.

  She rolled over and he froze as though she might not see him if she woke and he was standing still instead of lurching about. There was a pool of blood under his foot. Last night’s glass embedded in it. Shit. He wasn’t equipped for a bleeding emergency. He snagged his briefs off the floor and hobbled into the corridor leaving a blood trail. In the bathroom he pulled a piece of glass from the fleshy part of his foot and dripped into the bath.

  The look of his red blood in her huge white tub made his stomach lurch. And now he had to clean up. It was an easy decision to turn the rainwater shower on and let the water pelt over him. He stood there till the blood flow slowed, then borrowed a towel to dry off and put his briefs on. He needed something more substantial over the cut; it was going to bleed again when he put weight on it. She didn’t keep bandaids in the bathroom. She didn’t keep anything there that looked like regular male visitor either, though she’d had a supply of condoms in a bedside drawer, which was lucky, because he’d never been that kind of a boy scout. He only carried tools when he was hunting in grounds likely to hold easy prey. And he only hunted rarely and never at work.

  He hobbled up the hall to the kitchen. Worst case scenario he could tie a tea towel around his foot, take some drugs and go back to bed.

  The kitchen was a wormhole of cupboardry with no visible access and too posh for a tea towel over an oven rail. He tried pushing; he tried to find an edge to get his fingers under a door and gave up. He went to his bag and dug out his gym singlet, that’d do. And there were headache tablets and half an energy drink, not cold, who cared.

  He sat on the exploded chair and tied up his foot and then he saw what he should’ve seen five minutes ago.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Whoever this was had watched him bleed, stumble about and fail at cupboard opening 101.

  “That’s my question.” There was a towelling robe over a thick bare chest and legs. A cleft chin under a distinct pout. “Where is Cin?”

  She’d been hot like a bad deed last night, but who was this intruder to call her that? Was he the one who wouldn’t hold her? The one who dished out kink she didn’t like? “I’m telling you because?”

  “Funny. Have you been here all night with her? That’s a, well, right. She’s okay?”

  Mace stood. The guy was big and puffed up with whatever he thought entitled him to an answer. Did he live here? The place was certainly big enough; there were doors he hadn’t seen behind. But she’d said she lived alone. It was morning, she wanted him gone. He’d go. Jacinta, this dude, it was more trouble than he needed and he had things to do. He bent to his bag and ignored the way his head felt too big for his body.

  “What are you doing?”

  He pulled on his jeans. “Getting the fuck out.”

  “You don’t have to. You’re bleeding.”

  He did have to because he wanted to go back to Jacinta’s bed too much, and it was less about his throbbing head than the idea of waking with her, being with her again. He looked at his feet; he wasn’t going to be able to get his runner or his work shoe on over the makeshift bandage.

  “Let me get you a plaster to put on that.”

  Mace swallowed three of the headache tabs and watched the guy navigate the kitchen with the ease of someone who knew not only how to open the cupboards, but what was inside each of them.

  “They’re soft touch. You were going at them like you were trying to break rocks.”

  Soft frigging touch. What happened to handles? “You live here?”

  “I’m a frequent flyer.”

  What the fuck did that mean? The guy was in front of him with a palm-sized sticking plaster and a glass of cold water; lifelines. He took both.

  “If she wants you to stay, don’t leave because of me.”

  Two A-class reasons to go.

  “Look, she never brings anyone here. You must mean something to her. Don’t go because of me.”

  Mace put the glass down on the floor, rummaged for a shirt. He was already gone. He’d crash at home for a few hours, get his head straight, then get on with the day and the subsequent weird of seeing Jacinta Monday in one of her armoured suits.

  “I see you two have met.”

  Jacinta stood in the room, some kind of Hollywood slinky gown with big sleeves covering her, but she was naked underneath and holding her head. “God, Jay, if you have to be here, get me a couple of tablets for this headache.”

  Bustle was the best way to describe how Jay went about that, as though he lived to jump to Jacinta’s command.

 
“Mace, this is my friend, Jay. He lives across the hall and has trouble keeping to his own apartment, even though it’s bigger than mine.”

  Friend, what did that mean? Supplies in the bedside drawer. Not that it mattered. He was still out of here. He wanted to get to Buster early. She’d be worried if she’d seen last night’s news.

  “Mace, Jay’s going now.”

  “I thought we’d watch the marathon together.” Jay was pouting. He handed Jacinta tablets and water.

  “Go home, Jay. Mace, come back to bed.” Jacinta held out the hand without the glass in it and beckoned him. He’d forgotten about the marathon. He needed to go before he had to walk, limp really, miles outside the perimeter for a cab.

  She dumped the glass on the long kitchen counter and advanced on him. He should go right now. “Come back to bed.” She took the t-shirt he was holding out of his hand and dropped it on the floor. She tucked her fingers in the waist of his jeans and yanked. He resisted. “You showered, you smell so good. You don’t really want to go.”

  He didn’t have the motivation to deny that.

  She was gloriously tousled and she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her lips to his chest. He wanted to be beside her, inside her again, if she wanted it. He looked at Jay over the top of her head.

  The man closed his eyes and groaned. “I brought us breakfast, you ungrateful bitch.”

  Jacinta unwrapped the front of her robe and pressed her hot funky little body to him and he groaned against her lips, then into her mouth as she opened to him. Did Jay see her flash, did it matter? Jay wasn’t the one with her warmth pressed against him.

  “Okay, I’m going. I don’t need a floor show.”

  He might get one. She was a hangover cure to beat what the drug companies had to offer and he held on to the therapy of her, the promise of recovery. He kiss walked her backwards, past Jay, around the edge of the sofa and down the corridor to her bedroom. He missed the doorway and backed her into the wall and she hit her head and cringed into him with a kind of laugh sob that told him she was too sick to do much more than fool around a little, despite the come-on. He carried her to the bed and that was dumb. He didn’t know where the rest of the glass was and he hadn’t checked his phone, and he’d be stuck here now till the marathon was well and truly underway.

  It was one of the best decisions he’d made in weeks.

  They didn’t do anything more than get naked and cuddle up and it was a kind of astonishing to be with her, with anyone, that way. He didn’t have this in his life, this softness and ease. He didn’t have time for it. It was a shit he had to write himself off with a one night stand to get it. But he simply didn’t know anyone who kissed him like she’d die without his lips and wanted to tuck her head under his chin, sprawl across him and trust him to fall asleep in seconds.

  He combed her hair away from her face and felt her go limp and heavy and loved the peace of it. Why didn’t she have someone she could do this with, be at rest with? If not Jay, there’d have to be a queue of eligible fuckers. Available was his standard, but for her to be the same was a failure he was too brain-numbed to define, but not too lacking in awareness to realise was a problem.

  He was into her and it wasn’t the plan. It was far more weirdness than he’d signed on for.

  4: Locked Out

  Jacinta woke him with kisses across his jaw, over his throat. “We need food.”

  It made him smile. He opened one eye. Yeah, light-headed didn’t cover how he felt. Hollow and threadbare, like an old soft toy with plucked stuffing came close.

  She scrambled over him and he wasn’t awake enough to stop her leaving. “I’m showering, then I’ll get us fed.”

  He watched her grab her robe, her back to him. “Watch the floor for glass.”

  Her eyes swept the floor. “How did that get there?”

  “You, we... There was wrestling.”

  She looked back at him, shrugging into the silk. “There was? I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  “You don’t remember?” That was probably helpful.

  “I was very drunk. My head is full of pygmies with drums. Did I win?”

  He grinned. She was holding the robe closed in front of her, but there was a lot of smooth lean leg on display; leg she’s wrapped over his hip last night while she panted in his ear and dug her nails in his back.

  “Don’t go. Let me feed you. Jay was here, he’ll have brought something amazing.” She might not remember last night, but did she remember the cuddling part this morning?

  He struggled upright, rolling his head to stretch his neck.

  “God, look at you, Mace. Tell me I took enormous advantage of you?”

  He twisted his neck to watch her. “You really don’t remember?”

  She pushed her hair away from her face, pressed her hand to her forehead. “There’s no way I just passed out.” She peeped through her fingers. “Is there?” She was laughing at him.

  He shook his head and his brains must’ve shrunk; everything in his skull rattled.

  “Just don’t go yet.”

  He squinted at her. If she didn’t remember there was no point staying. “I have, ah, things to do today.”

  “You can do them after I’ve fed you. It’s the least I can do.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  She came over to the bed, speared her hand through his hair and tipped his head back. “You were good to me last night.”

  He jerked out of her hold. She was guessing. “It was nothing special.”

  A frown flickered over her face. Why did he say that? That’s not how he felt, but he didn’t need this to get more complicated. He needed to get out of here.

  She stepped away from the bed, her arms folded tight over her chest. “Was I awful? Did I say dreadful things?”

  He could pull the same memory trick. “Not that I remember.” It was smarter than telling her she’d turned intrigue into a drill bit that’d torn into his senses, putting a hole in his self-contained existence.

  She nodded; a sharp little movement that tossed her hair and must’ve annoyed the pygmies because she closed her eyes. “I’ll have you out of here fed in half an hour.”

  He could do breakfast. It’d be smart to feed his hangover. “I’d offer to make the coffee but I can’t work your kitchen. If you tell me where to find a dustpan, I’ll get the glass.”

  “Join me in the shower and I’ll show you.”

  “What?” His hands were fists in the sheet. That wasn’t going to cure him. That was giving this disease he felt for her new symptoms. “No. I should. I need. Ah.”

  She gave him a half smile. “Don’t worry. I get it. I was vapid, boring or just...” she sighed, “awful.”

  “No.” He let go the sheet and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The night was over. It was back to the world where things occasionally blew up for no good reason. “I have stuff to do.”

  “Of course.” Her smile went professional along with her words. She turned to leave the room. “It’s under the sink.”

  He got dressed in his jeans and yesterday’s t-shirt. He soft touched the cupboard under the sink and found the dustpan, some designer thing that could’ve been a sculpture. He cleaned up the glass, mopped up his blood trail, thankful for polished wood floors, then put his shoes on, stuffing his cut foot, protesting, into his runner.

  He checked his phone. Four increasingly terse emails from Dillon, nothing from Buster or St Ags, but almost no battery either, eight percent. There was only a lick of life on his laptop as well. He hadn’t expected to need chargers. Jacinta had the full corporate kit he sometimes had to service, so he knew her brand of chargers weren’t going to fit his personal gear. He really had to get going.

  She came out in a short summery dress and bare feet. Her hair was wet but piled on her head with a clip. He stared at her; this other woman without armour plating. She clattered about in the kitchen. He should’ve offered to help, but he didn’t want to make this
into something it wasn’t. They weren’t friends. They weren’t even colleagues. She only knew his name because Nolan had drafted him to the takeover campaign team because he’d had the idea about polling. If it hadn’t been for that, she’d never have laid eyes on him. She sat at the right hand of God and the board; he worked the IT support desk and did software testing. She was on the thirty-fourth floor of Tower A and he was on the second of Tower B. They didn’t even share an elevator shaft.

  They had one night written all over them for good reason.

  He avoided her by watching out the window. He could see the back-end of the marathon participants massing on the street directly below. They’d been gathering for hours. This was the family zone of the event, the parents with little kids and strollers, people in animal suits, or dressed as nuns, the folk who’d walk it, make a day of it. Only four floors up, he could see faces. The official starting line was further up the street and the race half an hour from kick-off. He realised he’d have to wait until this lot moved off before he could get out of here.

  He could smell bacon and coffee and his gut rumbled. Breakfast would settle that and clear the fog in his head, the shadow on his heart.

  “The tail-enders always amuse me. No hope of winning.”

  He turned to find Jacinta close behind him. Her whole life was about success, she must think the fun run folk were ridiculous.

  “They’re inspiring,” she said. “It one of the reasons we sponsor the event.”

  “You find the losers down the back inspiring? That’s condescending.”

  “Wow, Mace, you really don’t like me do you?”

  “I—ah.”

  She gave him a stop sign hand. “Don’t apologise.” She rolled her eyes. “Please. I don’t need you to humour me.”

  She didn’t need him for anything. But he was stuck for a while and there was no reason to be so antagonistic toward her. What was wrong with him? For God’s sake, he liked her more than he should and the sex had been better than expected, a lot better. Maybe that was his problem. He was pissed off she didn’t remember last night and he’d let himself get all soft towards her this morning. That was the drink; he was usually better at this kind of stuff, took pride in his detachment because it kept him focused and clear about what mattered—not random hot sex with women who saw him as some kind of cheap thrill.