Easy

by Donna Alam

  I don’t get to hear his imagined start point and, more importantly, his destination as I fumble with my purse. It falls to the floor, the contents scattering all over the lurid reds of the oriental rug. It’s ridiculous enough that his smooth words elicit such a physical reaction from me—all the throbs and tingles—but they also render me a klutz.

  ‘Fuck!’ My eyes fall closed as I mutter the harsh curse.

  ‘Planning on a lot of that this evening, were you?’

  The contents. Of my. Purse.

  Money, the strange English stuff. Emergency credit card. Lip gloss. Two condoms; one just in case, and one just because. And three more because I’m fucking delusional!

  ‘They aren’t for you,’ I mutter icily, dropping to my knees to gather the fragments of my dignity. I really am on a roll as I imagine he mutters a strained utterance of side boob before, in four long strides, he’s crouched next to me, handing me my things.

  ‘I bet you were a Girl Guide,’ he murmurs, offering me the last of my condoms like they’re cookies.

  ‘Girl Scout,’ I correct as he takes one of my hands gently in his.

  ‘My sister was a Brownie. She had this motto to learn.’ His words are all velvety as he turns my hand palm up. ‘A sort of ethos, I think.’

  ‘Oh?’ I purse my lips, not liking the delivery of that one shaky word.

  ‘Yes.’ His gaze drops from my eyes to my mouth, and my lips begin to tingle like this touch is a physical thing. ‘Always put others first.’ He folds the condom into my hand by curling my fingers over it. ‘I promise you this evening, whatever your plans, you’ll come first.’

  The heat in his gaze causes a wave of want between my legs, but the spell is broken by the ding of my phone.

  ‘The cab,’ I state unnecessarily.

  In one fluid movement, he stands. ‘I take it we have a party to go to?’ he says, holding out his hand this time.

  I nod but don’t speak. I don’t trust myself. I also don’t take his hand for the very same reason.

  Wordlessly, we make our way to the door, Sir Lancelot trotting to follow.

  ‘Bed,’ Will commands as I reach for the door handle. Is it wrong that I almost turn and head that way? ‘Wait,’ he says in the same tone, and it takes me a moment to realise the first command was for the dog, the second for me.

  I turn my head as he takes my hand in his. He’s so close that the heat of his body feels like it’s burning me from behind.

  ‘Let me get the door.’ His breath is minty, and his cologne heavenly.

  ‘I’m capable of opening it myself,’ I murmur.

  ‘Manners,’ his voice rumbles. ‘What kind of man doesn’t ensure a lady both comes and goes first?’

  I’m not touching the nuances in that question. The phrasing must be an English thing.

  Once downstairs, the cab is nowhere to be found. The mansion block is gated, overlooking a row of private parking bays filled with expensive cars, and a strip of manicured lawn beyond. I step out onto the road to see if the cab is waiting outside the electric gates. No such luck.

  Fuck.

  ‘He’s gone.’ I scramble with my purse, pulling out my phone and dropping the invitation in the process. ‘I’ll call another.’

  ‘No need.’

  Will picks up the invitation, glances at it, then presses it back into my hand. A car alarm beeps twice nearby, its lights briefly flashing. Low and dark and sleek, the car is very European looking with a branding so subtle, I couldn’t swear to the actual kind. Beyond expensive. Will stalks towards it, all confidence and swagger, so I guess it’s his?

  Maybe I shouldn’t think of him by his name. Not that I want to depersonalise him, but I have to remember that my attraction to him is based on a lie. He provides a service built on fakery—his job is to make women feel attractive. The flirty smile, the opening of doors, and the things he says. His delivery is so flawless, it’s no wonder I have to remind myself not to be sucked in.

  ‘Shall we?’ He stands at the passenger door, opening it wide. As I lower myself onto the inky leather seating, he doesn’t let go of my hand until I’m fully seated.

  ‘This doesn’t seem right,’ I murmur. I lack charge, both in tone and in reality.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘You driving. It doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘Who’s escorting who here?’ With a flirty wink, he closes the door with a discreet thunk, shutting out some of the daylight. Summer evenings in London are long. It’s eight p.m., and the sun is still out.

  ‘You’re pretty irritating,’ I complain as he gracefully slides into the driver’s seat, having taken off his suit jacket before climbing in. ‘You know, for someone in the service industry.’

  The car engine turns over with a throaty hum.

  ‘I prefer to think of it as providing a full package deal,’ he says, hooking his arm over the back of my seat and easing out of the parking space in reverse. I don’t jump as he does so, nor do I notice the bulge of bicep in his tailored white shirt, or the triangle of tan skin at his throat. And I certainly don’t find the whole manly reverse manoeuvre sexy at all. ‘Maybe I’m just a little old fashioned.’

  ‘So you offer the boyfriend experience.’ I nod my head as though the notion has just dawned on me, but really, my tone is just plain sarcastic.

  He laughs, somehow without an ounce of humour, before answering. ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Then you don’t intend to wine me, dine me, then at the end of the experience . . .’ I roll my lips inward. Some questions are best left unanswered.

  ‘I’m sure you know how the end of that rhyme goes.’ He shoots me a dark grin before returning to watch the ornate gates as they take approximately six years to open.

  ‘Oh, I know how it goes. I wonder if you provide an itemised bill.’

  The sound of his deep laughter this time is genuine.

  ‘If I did, it would be a first time,’ he murmurs, navigating his way into the Friday evening traffic. ‘But I can see why you’d ask.’

  ‘You can?’ I ask, a little incredulous.

  ‘A souvenir or reminder, most likely.’

  ‘An evening with you isn’t memorable? Maybe you shouldn’t put that on your business card.’

  ‘Sweetheart, you’re more likely to black out from pleasure.’ He turns his head, his gaze flicking over my body, my nerve endings—and nipples—springing to life. ‘At a guess, I’d say at orgasm number four.’

  ‘You’re pretty full of yourself.’

  ‘I have the goods to back up the talk.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I think I’d prefer you not to talk.’

  How is it possible to be so irritated by someone yet, at the same time, so turned on?

  ‘I can do that. I’ll just drive, and you can continue to surreptitiously eye fuck me instead.’

  I restrain my frustrated growl, but only just. Twisting my body in the direction of the passenger window, I find it’s not so easy in the low-slung sporty seats. Arms still folded, I resolutely ignore the cocky man sitting next to me and stare as the city passes by. People mill on sidewalks or sit at outdoor café seating, some dressed in the colours of summer, some still in office wear, but all appear to be enjoying the respite of the cool evening air. I might have only been in London a few days but many of my preconceptions have been dashed. The grey weather for one, as the sun has shone almost continually since I arrived. Truthfully, I’m finding the city heat almost oppressive.

  In the absence of our sniping banter, anxiety begins to creep in. The prospect of seeing Julian again, while a little thrilling, is also a lot terrifying. What happens if he doesn’t remember our meeting the same way? What happens if he’s met someone since then? And then there’s the proximity of the man next to me, and my undoubtable attraction to him. Will. I have to remember that this is his job—that I’m his job. And his reaction to me is nothing but make-believe. Fake prettiness spun to make a woman feel good.

  ‘What’s the plan for t
his evening?’

  His deep voice pulls me from my reverie. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I suppose I should at least know your name.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Unless you’d prefer for me to call you Mistress?’ he says, ignoring my questioning. ‘I knew a dominatrix once. Lovely girl.’

  How can I not ask about that? ‘You knew a dominatrix? In the professional or personal sense?’

  ‘Now, that would be telling.’

  ‘That’s generally what happens when someone asks you a question—you tell.’

  ‘Not on this occasion. What I will say, though, is I’ll try most things once. How can you tell you won’t like something if you haven’t at least tried it?’

  I sense he’s goading me into more questions, but I refuse to budge. Besides, I think his reasoning is off. What if someone peed on me and I discovered that was my thing? I don’t want being peed on to be my thing!

  ‘So, Mistress, we’re are we off to?’

  ‘We’re going to a party.’

  ‘Gate crashing or invited?’

  ‘Why would you even ask that? You saw the invitation.’

  ‘An invitation not addressed to you.’

  ‘The invitation was a mass one.’

  ‘You also seem nervous, and I sense that’s not a reaction to me.’

  It strikes me that he’s right, and that maybe Kallie was wrong, and I am actually quite mad. I’m being driven through unfamiliar streets by Will—a complete stranger. Shouldn’t that give me cause for concern?

  I can almost see the headline: “City Tourist Murdered by Posh Gigolo”.

  She would’ve gotten references or something, surely. Paid by a credit card, at least?

  ‘So this party. Birthday? Wedding? Anniversary?’

  ‘Birthday.’

  ‘No card?’ He uses the question as an excuse to glance at my lap, I’m sure. ‘No gift?’

  ‘Not necessary.’ Maybe the gift will be me. I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.

  ‘Then the concern isn’t the party but rather, a certain someone attending?’

  ‘Yes.’ I turn my gaze away, staring out the door window again.

  ‘You’re going to have to give me more than that if I’m to act appropriately.’

  ‘All you need to know is that you’re here in the place of Kallie, my friend. The lady who so kindly booked your services.’

  ‘I like Kallie already. What kind of a friend is she?’

  ‘The best,’ I add simply, turning to face him again.

  ‘The kind who encourages you to branch out? To try new things?’

  ‘The kind who encourage me to follow my heart.’

  ‘Pity,’ he says, biting back his smirk.

  We fall quiet again. I should’ve known it wouldn’t last long.

  ‘Come on then, what’s the story?’

  ‘Why does there have to be a story?’ I respond, exasperated. ‘And if there is a story, though I’m not saying there is, why do you have to know?’

  ‘To set the backdrop so I know how to behave appropriately.’

  ‘Something tells me you couldn’t behave appropriately no matter what the occasion.’ His deep burst of laughter fills the car, his next question catching me off guard. ‘You’re a teacher, aren’t you?’

  ‘You couldn’t possibly have guessed that.’

  ‘I knew it! I’m guessing primary school?’

  ‘Pre-K. Four-year-olds,’ I add in explanation.

  ‘I bet you’re everyone’s favourite, aren’t you? With a pep in your step and love in your heart, sweet Miss . . . ?’

  ‘If I tell you, will you stop talking?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Sadie.’ I don’t so much say as hiss across the car. ‘And please don’t tell me you know a girl called Sadie.’

  ‘Sweet Miss Sadie,’ he says with a sigh and a smile. ‘I’ve never had a Sadie before. You’d be my first.’

  ‘You just dream on.’

  Chapter Five

  WILL

  ‘This is it?’ she says as we pull up to the vast glass frontage of the hotel.

  There’s valet parking, at least.

  ‘Yep. Up to the top.’ I point skywards, Sadie’s eyes following the direction of my finger.

  ‘All the way up there?’ As we stand in front of the hotel, she tips back her head, bringing her gaze back to me with a shiver.

  ‘Did you happen to read the name of the venue on the invitation?’

  ‘Yes, it said Air Bar. But I didn’t think—’

  ‘That’s where we’d be? I’m afraid so. Partying in the heavens.’ Her neck moves as she swallows deeply, all of a sudden looking a little queasy.

  ‘I hate heights,’ she whispers, her eyes falling closed.

  ‘That’s entirely normal.’

  ‘It is?’ Her eyes spring open, her expression hopeful.

  ‘Of course. We all fear heights to one degree or another.’ Given the opportunity of her distraction, I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her to my side. Reassuringly? Hopefully. Taking advantage of the situation? Absolutely. ‘Do you know that as much as fifteen percent of the population suffers from one phobia or another?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Those who fear heights can be treated through varying therapies developed to help deal with the range of symptoms . . . ’ I keep up a steady stream of clinical observations and statistics—some made-up, though mostly fact—as we make our way into the hotel lobby and, subsequently, the lift. Thankfully, though the interior is also largely glass, the elevators are a little more traditional. I can’t imagine I’d be able to distract her from whizzing upward towards the twelfth floor while encased in a glass box.

  As we reach our destination, a greeter scans our invitation before wishing us a pleasant evening. Sadie’s face is a picture as she suddenly takes in the view; the wall of glass, the terrace, and the buildings beyond. At least, the tops of them.

  ‘I-I can’t,’ she murmurs, wide-eyed and terrified.

  ‘We don’t have to go outside. We can sit at the bar and turn our back to the view.’ I take both her hands in mine, trying not to focus on the plum colour of her lips, the slick sliding of them as she rubs them together. I wonder what she’ll taste like. ‘And I’ll be here the whole time.’

  The way she looks at me—I can’t quite explain. Trust and a mixture of something obedient. Whatever it is, fuck, it makes me feel good.

  ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ she murmurs, her gaze faraway.

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ I feed her hand into the crook of my arm and head for the bar.

  Air Bar. I’ve been here before. It strikes me as the kind of place only a total knob would book for his own birthday party. Who plans a birthday party for themselves, for Christ’s sake? I’d read the invitation that had fallen from her purse and know instinctively that he has. Whoever he is to her. And that’s not clear yet. Unfortunately, the invitation didn’t say. It was just headed by a line from a 50 Cent song.

  The unoriginal fuck.

  He could be an ex that she’s still hung up on, but I doubt it. She seems too nervous, even taking account of the view beyond the terrace. It’s has to be someone she’s interested in romantically. Sexually. A woman doesn’t wear a dress like that and expect to be ignored. Because, as we walk through the bar, weaving through tables heavy with linens and glassware, heads turn, and eyes follow us. More specifically, men’s eyes follow her, tracking the natural sway of her hips while mentally undressing her. Men. What can I say? We’re largely bastards.

  And I would know. We’re all competitors in this game, and as she’s on my arm, I feel a certain level of triumph. Even if the notion is misguided. Even if she’s here because she’s interested in some other fuck. It’s my arm she’s on, and if I have anything to do with it, it’ll be my arm she leaves on tonight.

  Hopefully with her knickers in my pocket.

  What I’m trying to say is, given the opportunity, I’d ba
ng her senseless to disabuse her of the notion she needs someone other than me tonight.

  ‘Is that Saint Paul’s Cathedral?’ she asks, her feet coming to a halt, her expression a little awestruck.

  ‘One and the same. If you feel brave enough to go out onto the terrace, you’ll get a better look.’ Only the tip of the dome can be seen from inside. ‘There’s a great view out there of the city skyline.’ She answers with grimly gripped lips and a quick shake of her head. If it’s possible, she moves even closer to me. ‘The bar it is.’ I take the opportunity to place my palm low on her back, unprepared for the warmth and charge of the contact.

  If Sadie feels it, too, she doesn’t say.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ I ask, once we’re at the bar. Thankfully, we’re not fighting to be served, but maybe it’s still early. Or maybe I’m being generous, and the fucker, whoever he is, isn’t as popular as he thinks he is.

  ‘I’ll get them,’ she says, opening her clutch.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She looks up at my dark tone, her lashes fluttering rapidly.

  ‘But . . .’

  But get fucked. ‘Do I look like a man who’d allow you to go Dutch?’

  ‘I’m not asking for permission,’ she says, her spine straightening.

  An expression I can’t quite read slips across her face, then I’m taken aback as she places her hand on my chest, tips up onto her toes, and brings her mouth to my ear.

  To anyone looking on, the moment would seem sublimely intimate. Even my body seems to be having a hard time separating the action from the intention—and I do mean hard. Everything tightens; my muscles under her fingertips and my dick beneath my belt. I inhale a deep lungful of her perfume, a subtle floral scent, as she brings her lips to my ear.

  ‘I’m not sure if my friend is paying your services by the hour or if there’s a flat fee, but I do know she’s not going to pay for our drinks.’

  As she lowers once again, I cover her hand with my own, preventing her from moving away.

  ‘Congratulations. No one’s ever made me feel like an actual prostitute before.’ Sadly.

  Never let the truth get in the way of a good story, I say.