Cory wasted no time when Victoria invariably appeared in the shower, her dress pulled down around her waist and her tanned breasts ready for him. The tennis court changing rooms were always sparse as only the players used them, and the courts were unbooked after them. Victoria’s perfect legs stretched down into white ankle socks. For some reason, those little socks turned him on to no end, the slim ankle and the almost girlish socks. But there was nothing girlish about Victoria. Her breasts were lush and tanned, tipped with pink rosebuds.
Grabbing her by the backside, he pulled her into the water, under the hot stream. She mewled her content, running her hands down his chest and abs. “Just delicious,” she said breathily, offering her neck to him. She liked her neck being kissed, her earlobe bitten, just a tiny bit of rough.
“Hands on the wall,” he said and turned her around. She complied eagerly, her pert arse waiting for him, her legs apart. This was all too easy. Lining himself up, he pushed in, her moans of appreciation echoing off the tiled room. Soft warmth enveloped him, taking over every thought. Was there anything better than this? Their bodies smacked as he started pounding into her. Her thighs shook and her moans turned more eager and helpless. “Cory,” she pleaded. He could feel her clenching around him, building up. His own release shook through him as she finally ached into her orgasm. He liked it when they came at the same time. He was getting good at that.
“You’re the best, baby,” she said as she sank down to the floor onto her hands and knees. Water pelted her back and she turned over, sitting against the wall. He didn’t quite know what to say. Saying thanks sounded a bit corny, so he didn’t say anything, just smiled as he soaped himself up.
Chapter 5
Pacing up and down, Shania Tyler waited outside Shine, watching for her boyfriend coming around the corner. She’d only met Tierry a week back, but he was incredibly hot. French, from Marseilles, dirty blond hair and youthfully slim. She hadn’t been to France yet, but Tierry had promised to take her. He worked as a DJ at another club, one a little more downmarket from Shine. Tierry had taken her there. It was filled with Russian girls, dressed a little more provocatively. Who was she kidding, they were in lingerie. She knew the kind of club; she’d stumbled across one not unlike it back home, dancing there before she got wise to what was actually happening. The girls all moonlighted, something Shania drew the line at. She didn’t mind using her body to get by in this world; she just didn’t let anyone else use it.
She smiled as she saw Tierry’s motorcycle come around the corner. He wore a thin t-shirt that clung to his body and Shania felt an urge to run her hands all over him. He had the most beautiful skin, an even mocha colour that tasted better than anything she could think of.
Swinging her leg, she slid into place behind him. They hadn’t been running together that long, but it was nice to have someone to call her own, plus he knew the place. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she held him close as he pulled away. She had no idea where he was taking her and she didn’t care. It ended up being this little club down in a basement. There was nothing to it, just a concrete room with spray-painted walls and a DJ playing harder beats than the bigger clubs did. He wore a headband, keeping his hair off his face in a way only European guys could get away with. A white jacket and shorts. It really was the coolest outfit she had ever seen.
This was where the DJs hung out, she suspected. There was a bar, and there were some people dancing, but mostly people were here to listen to the music. Low benches and tables ran along the edge and Tierry spotted a group he obviously knew. He spoke rapidly in French to someone, pulling her down next to him. His arm was around her neck, so she wasn’t exactly excluded, and didn’t mind showing she was there with him, but they all spoke in French.
“You’re the American?” one of them asked, and Shania felt a buzz knowing Tierry had told his friends about her.
“I am,” she confirmed.
“You are beautiful, yes?” he said, green eyes playful. That was something to get used to with the French; they were easy with the compliments.
“Thank you,” she said and nuzzled into Tierry’s chest. She didn’t mind being here, but she really wanted to go back to his apartment and hang in his room, which had nothing but a mattress on the floor, a TV and his music collection. Still, it was perfect. They had all they needed. Tierry lived for fun and for music, his art. Shania respected that. She prided herself on the fact that despite coming from nothing—and she really did—she didn’t care about money. She’d known plenty of girls who were obsessed with bank and she refused to be one of them. Funny she ended up in money’s playground—but there were also people like Tierry, young and beautiful and happy to be so. That’s what she wanted to be. There was plenty of time to worry about money later. Opportunities for getting ahead were hard to come by in her world, no matter what you did. At least she was going to invest in good memories.
She was pretty drunk when they left the club. Tierry wrapped her in his arms and kissed her. She loved how free the French were and no one cared what you did, who you did or any of the other crap that didn’t matter. They just wanted to be happy. Loving the French, she decided.
“Tomorrow we go for a ride,” he said. “I’ll take you to the Alhambra. We’ll walk around and imagine it’s our castle.”
“Okay,” she said. She had work, but she would find someone to cover for her. When a guy put a proposition like that to her, how could she refuse? She’d heard people talking about Alhambra at the hostel when she’d first arrived. It’s what a lot of people came here to see, so it must be worth seeing.
“But let’s go to this other place,” he said, swinging his leg over the bike.
Shania hesitated. “You okay to drive?”
“I’m okay,” he said, patting the seat behind him.
He seemed okay and she just wanted to go home, so she hopped on, putting the helmet on her head. The bike was fast and he zipped in and out of traffic. Shania closed her eyes and just relaxed behind him. How had she been so lucky to meet him? It had happened by accident in a kebab shop. He’d spotted her and hit on her, and she’d been a little too stunned with his directness to do anything other than go with it. And it had paid off. She had a hot boyfriend, part of the coolest scene in town and tomorrow he was taking her on a trip somewhere. Shit like this just didn’t happen at home. Although she knew Tierry was messing around. This wasn’t boyfriend forever, but she wasn’t looking for someone to marry. Memories were what mattered.
Again she had no idea where he was taking her; she just followed. After travelling down the coast, he pulled into a carpark. There was some large club behind the white walls. She could hear the music pumping.
“Blanca Beach,” he said. “Friends work here.”
Tierry wrapped his arm around her shoulders and they walked in through a large medieval looking gate, a garden path beyond, fashionably lit. There was a woman on the desk who completely ignored them. They just breezed past. “I work here sometimes,” Tierry said.
They stepped into a large space lit with neon, interspersed with several pools. There were cabanas and large sun loungers, and bars studded around the place. People milled everywhere, girls dressed in tight party dresses and guys looking laid back. This really was something else. She’d never seen anything like it and it was all open air.
She saw the DJ stand on the other end and tried to imagine Tierry up there. She was impressed.
Tierry clenched fists with a guy behind the bar who handed them two beers. “This way,” Tierry said and they walked over to a set of tables by one of the pools. Again he spoke in French, kissing both guys and girls on the cheek. “This is Shania,” he said to the assembled group.
“Hi,” she said, putting her hand up, feeling slightly awkward. Tierry seemed to know everyone. She also saw him discreetly pass a little bag into the hands of another guy. Obviously Tierry had a little side business, but she knew well enough that was part of a scene like this. Drug culture was just plain culture
these days. A personal choice as far as she was concerned.
She sat down and took a swig. This club was definitely more upmarket than anything she’d seen here, or anywhere else. Shine was pretty good, but these people were just a bit more polished.
“You’re American,” one of the girls said, a crisp British accent. She had long, light brown hair and a pretty face, and actually seemed curious.
“I am. From Nevada.”
“Las Vegas.”
“Reno, so no, not really.” It was what everyone assumed, but there was more to Nevada than Las Vegas.
“What brings you here?” the girl asked. “You’re with Tierry, I see,” she said, continuing on without giving Shania a chance to answer the question. Shania wondered if Tierry was really what the girl was curious about. “You’re his girlfriend, I take it.”
“Kind of.”
“He’s a cool guy,” she said. Shania couldn’t really get a grip on this girl. “I’m Esme,” she said, holding her hand out.
“Shania,” she repeated, suddenly feeling unsure of herself. These girls were so different and Shania didn’t know what was going on. Esme turned her attention elsewhere, talking to a tall guy with darker hair.
Chapter 6
“Sis,” Felix Dunbury said, sitting down on one of the cushions. He didn’t quite like his sister hanging here. She was only nineteen, but she and her friends had started showing up here. In his mind’s eye, she was still twelve and it was always a shock seeing her in a place like this.
He scanned the group, checking out who was there. These were the younger siblings to his own friends, the same crowd, just the next generation. Then there was a dark-haired girl. Who’s the odd one out? he said to himself. What the hell was she?
Tight dark jeans and a cheap t-shirt. Her eyes were smokey and she looked a bit uncomfortable.
“American,” his sister said, following his gaze. “Tierry brought her.”
Felix snorted. Tierry tended to bring in all sorts of street life with him. He was a pusher and they needed him, otherwise Felix couldn’t tolerate him. So this was what Tierry liked, Felix thought, leaning back and studying the girl who sat with her knees tightly together, holding a bottle of Pere Jacques in her hand. She looked around the place, observing while Tierry got on with his business.
“When did you get back?” Esme asked, drawing his attention back.
“Today.” He’d been in London, attending an exhibition one of his friends had raved about. Felix didn’t care about art, but everyone was going, so he’d thought he’d check it out, but it had been frustratingly boring. London was either all out, or boring as hell, and he didn’t quite know what he was going to get until he got there.
In truth, he’d been a bit lost since Quentin had decided to take off. Quentin had been rearing to get into the family business, now loved up with that dancer he’d plucked out of Shine. It was all an early midlife crisis as far as Felix was concerned. Felix missed him though. The tediousness of Marbella was that much more tedious without Quentin. Felix was surprisingly angry about it.
“What do you do?” he asked the girl, who hadn’t been paying attention to him. Her eyes focused on him, large and unblinking, confused. Yes, you, you dimwit, he wanted to say.
“I’m a dancer at Shine.”
His mouth fell open. “Another one? How many fucking dancers do they have at Shine?”
“About nine,” she said, looking at him suspiciously.
Everywhere he fucking went were dancers from Shine. “I hate dancers from Shine.”
“Good for you,” she said, her mouth drawing tight.
“How long have you been there?”
“None of your business.”
“Tetchy.”
She looked away dismissively, taking a sip of her beer. He bet she’d never had a Pere Jacques before, just here floating along behind Tierry, oblivious to everything.
“My brother’s an arsehole,” Esme said to the girl.
Felix couldn’t rightly argue.
“You must know Jesus,” Esme said.
“He’s my boss.”
“He’s a bit of a legend around here. He’s been here forever. Used to be an Olympic athlete or something. Shooting or whatever it was.”
“I didn’t know that,” the girl said. “I don’t really know him well. I haven’t been there long. Got recommended into this job by this guy named Quentin.”
Felix growled and stood up. What the fuck was wrong with the world? He’d had enough of this shit. Instead, he walked over to a group on the other side of the club, sons of bankers. They were all wankers, but they were better than Quentin and his whores.
Felix woke with a pounding headache the next day. He was still dressed and had slept sideways on his bed. At least he was in his own bed—it wasn’t always guaranteed. Stumbling outside, he rescued a cigarette out of the flattened packet in his back pocket. It was ludicrously bright outside and the birds were fucking chirping.
He sat down in a chair and let the nicotine do its work. Since when had he always been in a bad mood? he wondered. It just never seemed to stop these days.
The sea was glittering in the distance. It was too calm to go kite boarding. It mostly was around here. He couldn’t tolerate golf, the game of dull men, talking about their boring lives, wearing ridiculous clothes, puffing up over their achievements. Like it means something. They were old and trite, and a fab swing wasn’t going to change that. He did play occasionally, out of sheer boredom.
All he wanted to do these days was get shit faced and not give a fuck. The pounding hangovers were the price to pay, but he was still happy to pay them. They would pass soon enough.
In truth, he was still angry with Quentin for leaving. Quentin had decided to join the family business and toe the line. It had been the same expectations placed on him, to take over the business—resources; they bought stuff people grew, or dug up, or otherwise made, and sold it to people who wanted it. It wasn’t complicated, and boring enough to make you want to kill yourself.
Technically, he was studying, but he hadn’t been to classes in he didn’t know how long. They’d probably unenrolled him by now for sheer absenteeism. He just couldn’t bring himself to care about that crap.
Instead, he would go to some restaurant for lunch, hang out with people who were pretty much in the same boat as him, who alleviated their boredom by gossiping, fighting with their girlfriend/boyfriend, sleeping around and buying better stuff than the next person. It wasn’t complicated, but it had been more fun when Quentin had been here.
Chapter 7
Rosalie travelled in Paul’s red monstrosity along to some fundraising event he’d been invited to, to which he’d wanted her to come along. Apparently many of the people he knew would be there. She still had no sense of orientation, so just followed along, surprised when they actually arrived somewhere.
“What are they raising funds for?” she asked after a while.
“Uhm, the Iberian Lynx, I believe. Endangered.”
“Oh, of course. Do you like it here?” she asked. It had been something that cropped into her mind every now and then. Paul looked pensive. “I mean, are you staying?”
“I don’t have any other plans. This is paradise in some sense. Who could complain? The students are a bit of a handful. Not abound by academic stars, obviously, but the staff at the school are kind. In terms of staying, then for now, yes. You’ll meet some of them tonight,” he said with a smile.
Rosalie wondered if that bitch of an ex-wife had chased him away from England; if he felt uncomfortable going back. It would be sad if that were true.
Marbella was just so different from what they knew. It was filled to the brim with Brits, just not their kind of Brit. It wasn’t a bad thing, as long as he was happy here. She didn’t dare ask why he hadn’t got himself a girlfriend. Or maybe there was one and he’d just kept quiet about it. She wouldn’t put it past him.
They pulled into a carpark surrounded by palm trees. Th
e sun was going down and it looked spectacular, pink and mauves, and glowing golds. A building was lit up on the other side of the carpark, a bit of a Moroccan motif to the façade.
“This was built in the nineteen fifties, when Franco was still in power.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said as she got out and smoothed her red dress. She wasn’t normally a dress person, but she could dress up for an event. Actually, she was quite excited to meet some of Paul’s friends and colleagues.
The entrance was brightly tiled, opening to an inner courtyard, sophisticatedly lit and full of people. This wasn’t some muted tweed-filled fundraiser in Oxford, these people were dressed in silks and satins, and more sparkling jewellery than she had even seen before. She was underdressed and she had nothing in her wardrobe to suit this evening.
“Do you go to these things often?” she asked her brother, who was also underdressed in his linen suit. As per usual, Paul was oblivious.
“Only when I have to. There’s Margo,” he said and urged her through the crowd scattered around round tables.
“Margo, may I introduce my sister, Rosalie.”
“The Oxford scholar?” said the tall woman Paul had referred to as Margo. She had to wonder if Paul had more than professional interest in this woman considering he’d talked about his family. But with her grey hair and slim features, she didn’t seem his type. Type was fluid though and interest sometimes overrode it. Margo could be the most interesting person in the world for all Rosalie knew; she just didn’t look it on first sight. The woman held out her hand and Rosalie shook it, noting the wedding ring. Maybe not.
“Yes, I am,” Rosalie said. “Currently on sabbatical, well, finishing off my thesis technically.”
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