by Donna Alam
‘Only one thing for it,’ Mac says with a sniff. ‘Go find the fella. Fuck him up.’
‘What he means to say,’ Keir adds with his hand on my shoulder, ‘is that you need to find out exactly what this is about. Men can be very territorial about the women they love. And that includes sisters.’
‘And wives,’ Mac growls. ‘After you meet with him, you might need to be prepared to take your lumps.’
‘That’s not gonna happen,’ I reply darkly. ‘I’ll need more than a lump of sugar to help that kind of medicine go down.’
‘It’s a spoonful of sugar, you uncultured fuckwit,’ Mac replies.
Yes, because the Sound of Music is the height of sophistication.
‘He’ll keep on sniffin’ around your girl,’ Keir in turn says. ‘And who knows, she might even fall for his bullshit. Where will you be then?’
‘Up shit creek and fuckin’ paddling,’ replies Mac. ‘And we’ve all been there.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
WILL
It’s late when I leave the pub, Keir and Mac having long since left for home. My car is still at the hospital, so I flag down a cab to take me to The Den.
It’s probably not the best idea, but that’s me when I have a plan—I just go for it. And look where it’s gotten me now, I think darkly, as the cab pulls up to the front of the club. And look where it’s gotten Sadie, more to the point.
When I’d accused Mac of being to blame for my joining the Den, I wasn’t being completely honest. I’d expressed an interest in joining the club before he and Ella became an item. That I’m still a member is probably more to do with my appetites than not having him around quite as much. That said, I’m here less often now that the novelty has worn off. But there was a time when I first joined that I attended every function and every show. If there was a party? A demonstration? A flogging? A casual fuck? Hell, an orgy? I was there. I did it all. Well, almost all.
But the Den suited my needs. And the way I looked at it, I need a community that accepted me. A place that wouldn’t try and fix my life by matching me up with a woman. A place I could fuck in peace, without the bullshit of having to maintain the façade of a relationship.
That sounds more brutal than I’d like. And more honest than I usually manage, but I’m feeling a little raw today. So I blame Sadie for getting under my skin. And Julian for being able to give her what I can’t. Though whether his intentions to do so or not remain to be seen, but I still envy the fuck out of him for his freedom. The image of her holding our baby is fucking haunting me, and the phantom scent of her on my fingers is a torture like nothing else.
My cab pulls up at the black door flanked by topiary bay trees. Tall sash windows sit on either side of the door, heavy drapes at the windows. I hand over my fare to the driver who slides me a knowing look. The building might look like a high-end home, and the clientele might be discreet, but the place isn’t a complete secret. For starters, the Den has a website, though at a casual glance a reader may not be able to tell what the site is immediately advertising. Second, it was only a couple of years ago that the tabloids got wind of the place. There was some kind of scandal, as I recall. A politician caught playing away from home with a female colleague. He was photographed leaving the club, the fool. Politicians are generally an untrustworthy lot I’ve found. This one also happened to be a little stupid. You can’t expect to win a place in Parliament on the strength of your supposed family values, and not anticipate someone to dig a little more than surface deep to expose you for a fake.
Not if you’re kinky, at any rate.
So while the Den is a secret, it’s not a terribly well kept one.
I sign in, hand over my phone—a requirement to maintain privacy—then walk across the vast black and white tiled foyer, and into the main salon. I order a drink, then I see him sitting near the fireplace alone.
Seated in one of a pair of wing back chairs, a glass of something clear sits on the table in front of him. Somehow I know it’s not water. I feel like I’ve barely blinked and yet I’m already there, standing in front of him.
‘Mind telling me what the fuck you’re playing at?’ I keep my tone cool as I slide into the chair opposite his.
‘Will, my old friend! How are you?’ Thankfully, his pupils look normal. Maybe he’s not completely off his face tonight. ‘Have you brought the lovely Sadie with you,’ he asks, making a show of looking toward the door. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he is off his face.
‘What do you think,’ I ask, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. ‘Can you see her here?’ Because I can’t. Not in a million years.
‘Oh, if I close my eyes and imagine,’ he begins with a sigh and a smile—the kind that I know women eat up. He fools so many of them. ‘I think she’d look rather pretty sat just here on her knees.’ His hand falls open on the arm of the chair, indicating a space on the floor.
If Sadie was going to be on her knees it wouldn’t be for him.
‘Cut the crap, Julian. She wouldn’t come here. She’s a complete novice.’ One long term boyfriend, she’d said. Followed by a three-year dry spell. She’s not the kind of girl who goes looking for kink or casual in a place like this.
‘Oh, I’m aware. Though she seems to be enamoured with you.’
‘Then why the hell are you sniffing around?’ I manage not to growl, keeping my tone and temper in check in an effort to get what I want.
‘Maybe I want to date the girl. Make an honest woman out of her.’
I don’t like the insinuation in this; take a girl and make her a woman? He’s more likely to make her a whore. If what I’ve seen in here is indicative of anything, it’s that he likes to share the women he fucks.
His expression clouds, fingers scratching his chin in a show of consideration.
‘You forget, I know the real you.’ And I’m starting to think he belongs in some kind of hospital or mental facility. Or rehab unit. He’s got some nerve. ‘So don’t bother trying to pull that crap with me.’
‘Seems like she’s not the only one enamoured. Tell me, how did that lovely piece of arse end up at my birthday party on your arm? Especially given she was there for me.’ His words harden, his gaze suddenly like flint. ‘What did you do with my delicious American birthday gift, William? Did you fuck her?’
‘You couldn’t even remember her. Or maybe it was more that you couldn’t see her for all that silicone.’
‘I was off my face,’ he says with a defensive shrug. ‘And Candy’s in porn.’ He says this with such relish, I think I’m supposed to be impressed. ‘And since when do you care who I fuck, unless you’re on the other end.’
‘I don’t.’ My assertion comes out more growl this time. ‘And that’s not going to happen because Sadie’s a friend.’
He picks up his glass from the low table, his fingers grasped around the rim like an arcade claw game. ‘A friend you’ve fucked?’ He asks evenly, sliding the glass into the palm of his hand, his gaze rising slowly to meet mine.
‘Keep on asking,’ I grate out.
‘Man,’ he says with a smile that would make Goebbels look like Mary fucking Poppins. ‘So you have. Looks like Sadie just got all the sweeter for plucking.’ He knocks the rest of his drink back, placing the empty glass down. ‘It’s not the first time we’ve gone Eskimo. Hell, we were inside the same girl at the same time a couple of months ago. What’s she like?’ He smiles spitefully, because that’s what this is. Spite and maliciousness, but why I’ve no fucking idea. ‘Do tell. I hope she’s worth the legwork I’m putting in.’
At my none answer, Julian looks like a shark scenting blood in the water. So I stand, ready to issue my last statement, because this is fast becoming a pissing match I can’t afford to have.
‘It’s not going to happen with Sadie.’ My words carry an assurance I don’t feel. Fake it until you make it. Fake it until I can get him to fuck right off. But the fact of the matter is, I just don’t know if my warnings to her will be enough. She came to London for
a reason, and I think I’m looking at it.
Adjusting my cufflinks, I make a point of letting Julian feel the weight of my gaze.
‘It’s not going to happen because you’re going to leave Sadie alone. Stop whatever game you’re playing and walk away.’
‘Aw, William.’ Like a cartoon cupid, he clasps his joined hands under one cheek. ‘I didn’t know you cared.’ His expression turns dark. ‘About anyone. Other than yourself, obviously.’
‘I care for my friends. And my friends don’t mess with scum.’
‘Here’s the thing,’ he replies, rising himself. We’re matched even in height, though I’m fitter. Bigger in build and in nature. In length and girth where it counts. ‘I think you’re wrong. See, she was a heartbeat away from inviting me upstairs.’
‘For a junky fuck up, you’re a pretty accomplished liar. And that wasn’t a compliment,’ I add, holding up a forestalling hand. ‘But liar’s always make mistakes. And it’s going to happen. You’ll fuck up and she’ll find out what you really are.’
‘You’re right. It’s bound to happen sometime.’ He makes a show of his shrug—a self-conscious gesture. ‘Tell you what; seeing as you’re an old mate, and one who doesn’t seem to have made any headway with the lovely Sadie, you have my blessing to console her after the fact. You know—after she’s had my head down her throat,’ he says, grabbing his crotch. ‘You can pick up the pieces after my fuck and dump.’
‘That’s not gonna happen.’ The thoughts of him being inside Sadie is enough to make me want to snap him in two. But not here. Not now. I have to work smarter than that.
Sure, I could take him outside, fuck him up. Make him look like the scum he is, rather than some fucking investment banker enjoying a quiet evening. But it wouldn’t stop him. It might even have the opposite effect. But what I don’t understand is why.
‘Come on, man.’ My Scot’s accent thickens. ‘She’s a nice girl,’ I say changing tack. ‘Leave her alone.’
‘Why? Are my sloppy seconds not good enough.’
‘Listen, you fucker,’ I growl, my temper rising as the words escape from my mouth.
‘Did she tell you how we met?’
I shrug, because I don’t trust myself with words right now.
‘I met her in an airport on my way back from rehab in the states. Only, the minute I got out of the place, I was looking for somewhere to score. She didn’t even realise how fucked up I was—how high I was. Who can talk to a woman for that long!’ He laughs, and my heart hardens on Sadies behalf. ‘I can’t remember what the fuck she said—what I even said. I didn’t even recognise her at my own fucking party. At least, not until the next day when I woke up with Candy’s tits in my face.
‘But then I remembered you. You were there,’ he says, his face suddenly contorted by anger, his index finger prodding the air between us. ‘You . . . ’
‘Me what?’ What the hell have I got to do with this?
‘You know that saying—love is blind? Well, let me tell you friend, there’s nothing like marriage to sort out a man’s eye sight.’
‘Say what the fuck you mean.’ My words are expelled through gritted teeth.
‘It’s like serendipity.’ As angry as my words are, his weigh equal in satisfaction, his hand painting an invisible rainbow in the air. Still coming down? ‘Like the universe is readdressing the fucked up balance of my life. See, I fuck up in rehab and come back to London early, to find you’ve been fucking my wife.’
‘Hang on a minute—’
‘But wait; there’s more,’ he says happily. ‘Then I find out you shagged my sister last year.’
‘Well, yeah. That one’s true,’ I respond, because there’s no point lying. ‘You were at the same wedding when it happened. I didn’t realise Emma reported into you.’
‘You fucker—’
‘And as for your wife, I didn’t even know you were married, so if I’ve fucked her you can bet your arse it wasn’t out of spite. And more to the fact,’ I add, ‘I don’t do married women.’
‘You did this one,’ he replies evenly, scooping his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘And it looks like I’ve just found the perfect payback.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
SADIE
Sadie, are you there?
I stare down at the text; Will’s first contact since he’d left me in the kitchen, half undressed and falling apart. It’s been days. And with each day that has passed, my resolve has been strengthened.
He doesn’t want you, my mind intones. He just doesn’t want anyone else to have you, specifically Julian. You’re the toy he played with and cast aside. Kicked under the bed, soon to be forgotten about.
The irony is, Julian is of no interest to me at all. Seeing him again was a mixture of curiosity and fear. I wanted to make sure it actually was him. You know, and not me.
Turns out I was correct. His excuses were hollow and our chemistry kaput. So I’m currently screening his calls, too. I’ve also asked George, the porter, to tell him if he calls that I’m no longer in the building. I’d even promised I’d go and sit on the terrace so George doesn’t feel he has to lie.
The same text bings again. And I still ignore it. Just like I promised myself I would. Because no good can come of it.
And like Will said, neither he nor Julian are any good.
I take a bite of my croissant and wipe the crumbs from my fingers. Vacation calories don’t count. And neither do those incurred from eating your feelings.
I’m sorry I’d gone AWOL, comes his next attempt.
‘The term is ghosted,’ Will, I mutter, dropping my phone on the wooden table and making it clank. The old dear on the table next to mine physically jumps.
‘Sorry,’ I murmur.
‘You gave me a fright, hen,’ she says, though not unkindly, her Scottish accent giving her words a mild sing-song tone. ‘But I’ve seen that expression before,’ she says, pulling her mint coloured cardigan over her thin chest. ‘If you want my opinion—the voice of experience, mind—you need to speak to him. Ignoring your phone won’t help at all.’
‘Oh, no. It’s not like that,’ I say, waving my hand. But then I stop because, fuck it. I’m sick of keeping this all to myself. I have no one in my corner currently. I can’t tell my mum because we don’t have that kind of relationship, and I can’t tell Kallie as she’s currently being driven crazy by her own mother’s visit. Which leaves Sir Lancelot, who isn’t a great deal of help.
‘Actually, it’s exactly like that,’ I say in a rush. ‘I probably should speak to him, but instead I’m hanging out in a café because when I went home a while ago, his car was outside. He lives in the apartment above me. And when I see his car in the parking bay, I worry he’ll knock on my door.’ As I speak, the old dear’s white head bounces as she tries to keep up with my information dump. ‘And I worry I’ll open it, and he’ll kiss me, and we’ll start all over again.’
‘Kissing is good!’ she says with relish. ‘Why don’t you want to see him?’ She places her dainty cup back on the saucer, reaching for her tea pot top up her cup. ‘Sounds like a bit of all right to me. I used to love a bit of how’s your father when I was married.’
‘How’s your what?’
‘How’s your father! You know—a bit of rumpy-pumpy!’ She adds a little hip action from her chair for the sake of translation. ‘It’s what makes the world go ’round.’
I thought that was love, but whatever.
‘Because, when he’s in front of me, I don’t know whether I want to kick or kiss him.’
‘Passion,’ she says, nodding knowingly. ‘That counts for a lot. Take my advice; cram as much excitement as you can into your young life.’
Chance would be a fine thing. ‘But he’s been sort of ghosting me,’ I say with a sigh.
‘He’s a ghost?’ she asks a little too excitedly. Her cup clatters as she drops it to the saucer. ‘I saw a woman on morning telly last week who said the exact same thing.’
�
�No, he’s not a ghost,’ I say frowning slightly. One of us definitely misheard the other, and I don’t think it was me. ‘Ghosted. Like, he’s sort of pretending I don’t exist.’
‘Oh.’ She picks up her cup by the dainty handle again. ‘That’s a bit disappointing.’
‘But you said—you saw a woman on TV say what?’ Because, how can I not pull that thread?
‘Oh!’ Her expression lightens instantly. And though the café has been empty but for us the last hour, she looks furtively over both shoulders before beginning. ‘She said she’d had . . . intimate relations with ghosts.’ Her watery blue eyes shine with the scandal of it all, her tone betraying her excitement. ‘She said her fella caught her cavorting with one of them in bed. Can you imagine!’
I’d rather not.
‘Oh. That’s a little indelicate.’
‘That’s not what she said,’ she replies seriously. ‘Yon woman said ghosts have cold penises that work just like the real thing. Not delicate at all. Unless you’re thinking of lopping the thing off with a pair of scissors I suppose.’
By this point I’m struggling not to laugh and not at all tempted to pick up my phone as it bings with a text again.
‘Such an odd duck, she was.’ She clucks her tongue. ‘But I suppose you’d have to be to let a ghost in your bed. I mean, you can’t even see them. What if you get an ugly ghost or one who’s into dirty stuff? You might roll over during the night and feel a cold finger up your bum. No thank you,’ she says, swallowing a final mouthful of tea before beginning to gather her things.
‘I have to get on, but just you think on this. Men need keeping in line. Keeping in check. Their heads are up their backsides half of the time, and the other half of the time they’re thinking about your backside. If you want something to happen, or you don’t want something to happen, it’s up to you. Not them.
‘Ignoring him and avoiding home isn’t going to do you one bit of good. You get yourself home. You tell him what you want, even if that’s never to set eyes on him again. You do this before you find yourself on national TV telling the country the only man you can get to stick his boaby in you is dead!’