by J. S. Badham
Claire didn’t say anything as she sat up. The expression on her face was guilt, or it could have been anger, but he wasn’t to know until she spoke. “I want to slap you…but,” she muttered, looking down to her lap, “but I’m just as much to blame.”
“I don’t know why, but something is telling me no. And it’s not my dick,” he said.
She smiled a little at that before her face was replaced with an expression of sudden remorse. “Shit, this wasn’t supposed to happen. What the fuck is wrong with me? I could have slept with you. Fucking hell.”
“Hey, hey, less of the offence. Sex with me wouldn’t equate guilt. Trust me,” he defensively said, watching as she pushed her dress down. He placed a hand across her back, something he supposed would console her.
“Oh, man, what have I done?” she grumbled, dropping her head onto her knees.
“Well, unlucky, we haven’t done anything. Like you said last time. Just forget about it. It never happened,” he suggested. How could he? He sat in his trousers, the buckle undone and her body just seconds ago beneath his weight.
Claire sighed. “That sure sounds easy. Fuck…it would have been easier if it were Jason.”
“Look.” He swallowed his own pride. “Let’s just, for this night only, just sit here. We’ll allow this night to take its course, and by tomorrow morning, we forget this instance ever happened. I won’t mention it again.” He rubbed his jaw, feeling its stubbly surface brushing against his fingertips.
She looked hesitant at first. “Okay,” she agreed as she slid back and rested her head comfortably onto his chest.
Something had made him stop. But what? Zack had never refused to sleep with a woman unless she didn’t want it, but this time, something different had barred him from taking things further. What if they had slept together? What would have the consequences been? It’s not like he could draw up a table with pros and cons, it was in the heat of the moment, and it had suddenly died as soon as he felt her melt beneath him. Nothing was making sense. She was willing, as was he. He liked to think she wasn’t interested in Jason, but that suddenly changed. Would she rather it be him? Was he just the distraction? What was wrong with him? Now, with her resting against his chest, it felt like a responsibility to keep himself from her. What was this? Sorcery?
***
CLAIRE
What happened? First, she was mad, then she was climbing into his lap. She could have slept with him. She knew she had wanted it. But he stopped. She felt partly relief. As much as she liked to resist him, she knew that wasn’t possible if she was encouraging the tension. And now Jason? She was fucking him over. For her own selfish, stubborn self, she’d perfectly encouraged someone, who Darren was convinced liked her from top to bottom, that she’s madly into him too. There was no doubt about that. She had so many questions: why kiss him? Why? Why? And now lying next to him, she undoubtedly felt safe. But why? Why was the question, but never an answer.
Chapter Ten
CLAIRE
When daylight hit her face, her nose wrinkled as she squinted in discomfort, trying to escape its intensity, but it was no use. She was up. Turns out, they hadn’t moved from the sofa, but now Zack was missing. It felt bare as she stretched her hands out onto the pillows. She flopped her arm across her forehead, sighing as she reflected over yesterday’s mishap. She wanted to promise herself that she could start all over again today, because as much as she would love to erase yesterday, it was always gonna imprint her memories. There was no magical potion or device, or even vampires for that matter, to glamour her to forget. Nothing. So she knew she needed a fresh start.
Claire heard the front door go. She sat up, observing how Zack walked in, sweat cascading down his forehead, one earplug hanging down on his shoulder, and bare except for the blue basketball shorts hanging below his knees. She was a little alarmed by the sight. He seemed to force a smile.
“You’re awake. Did you sleep okay?” he asked, pulling out the earplug as he placed his phone connected to the pair onto the kitchen counter. He went straight for the fridge, pulling out the orange juice and jugging down the carton.
“Yeah, er, where have you been? And what time is it?” she replied, awkwardly standing up as she brushed her hair from out of her face.
“Running. And it’s eleven.”
Claire nodded. He seemed a little absent-minded as he paced the kitchen a little, in and out of her sight from the doorway. “I thought you might have been a—”
“I thought it was probably best.” He put the orange juice back, exited the kitchen, and paused. “I’m gonna go shower.” Then he went.
Something didn’t seem right. He seemed not as responsive as usual. Was he mad? But why? He’d stopped things. Or was he just annoyed he couldn’t have a quick bang? Whatever was up his arse irritated Claire, more than it should have. She couldn’t exactly barge into the bathroom unless she wanted another encounter, so she decided instead to make herself a coffee, knowing it could at least cheer her up a little.
***
ZACK
Zack got out of the shower, wiping the soap suds away from his ears as he sat on the edge of his bed. He reflected as he looked at the deep blue duvet quilt, somebody else used to have these sheets. At least that’s what she said when he’d borrowed them from the last occupant who owned this room. Was it a man? Did they question their actions when encountering her? It suffocated him. There was no fun masturbating in the shower when he knew he could have had the real thing yesterday.
He had brought his phone in, so he was thankful that when he collected it off the side table, Claire wouldn’t have politely answered a call from his mother. “Hello, Mom,” he greeted, balancing his phone on his right shoulder as he sprayed some deodorant under his armpit.
“You haven’t forgotten about today, have you? I expected you half an hour ago,” she replied, that patronizing tone running through his bones. He sighed. Zack had forgotten. His initial pause only made him imagine his mother with a scolding look.
“No, I haven’t,” he lied. “I just decided, as I usually do on a Sunday morning, to get up later. There’s no harm in that, is there, Mother?”
“Tone, Zack. I’ll see you in about half an hour or so. Traffic shouldn’t be bad on the motorway.” Then she ended the call.
Zack got dressed, opting for a white shirt and jeans combo, casual but formal. He would have to call Wickes, even if that bent the rules of the bet. His mother would question him if she witnessed him arriving in some unknown car. He opened his door, surprised to see Claire there, startled as she brought her hand down; it appeared she was just about to knock.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping, I swear,” she insisted. “I was just wanted to see if you were okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m going out, so I’ll research that project we’ve got to do later,” he said, a little abrupt he thought as he slid past her.
“Oh, will you be back later? I thought that we could cook roast dinner or something?” she suggested. “And don’t worry, I’ll teach you.” She tried a smile.
He wet his bottom lip. “No, I’m out.”
***
CLAIRE
It was rather strange. Not being alone on a Sunday, she’d been used to that since Abbey left. No, Zack’s behaviour again. She tried to push the thought aside as she typed up the company’s mission statement into PowerPoint. It was at least one step to polishing up their scribbled notes. As much as she hated the added work, she wanted to be passionate towards Project 42; at least it was an attempt to become more renewable in this polluted world. What changed the CEO’s mind? Or what made him try again? The other project didn’t work out, so why again? She could only guess; money wasn’t a problem.
Shortly after, she decided to ditch the work; she had become suddenly attentive to dust showing on the TV stand. For most of the afternoon, she obsessively cleaned the apartment from top to bottom. She hoovered, washed up, polished, and took the trash out, even though the garbage bin wasn’t full an
d the binmen weren’t to show up till Wednesday. Maybe it was the bug of the “Sunday housework” that encouraged her to clean about.
Her mobile rang as she was just about to collapse onto the sofa. She grabbed it off the coffee table, falling back and answering. “Hello,” she exhaled, kicking her feet onto the arm of the chair.
“Hey, it’s me.”
Jason.
“Oh, hi,” she responded, reluctantly trying to sound enthusiastic. She must have forgotten she had misled him last night. What else did she expect? For him to miraculously forget that she’d flirted with him at the final point of the night? No.
She should just come clean, tell him she’s not interested, but how could she describe that without justifying that she did what she did to spite Zack, whom she was trying desperately not to fall for? Fuck.
“I had such a great night. I was just wondering if you’re sure you want to do this again sometime. I like you, Claire. I really do. For quite some while now,” he confessed, a long sigh of relief following after down the line.
Shit.
“Erm.” She paused. Okay, now or never. Confess or don’t. “Of course, wow, erm. I’m not—”
“Great, well, I’ll plan for something else or whatever, but in the meantime, we can definitely take things slow. Oh, shit—I mean, sugar! I left the gas on. I should go. I’ll see you at work tomorrow, bye!” Then he ended the call, leaving Claire in a desperate state of anxiety, shit-crazy, and wishing she had just been straight in the car. Why had she lied? Of course, she knew why. It was her stubborn reaction towards Zack, someone she didn’t want to end up falling with, so it only made sense that her mouth, not her brain, defensively tackled the question. Great job!
***
ZACK
Zack’s parents lived out in the countryside. Technically, they weren’t exactly in isolation, they were pretty much living near the county town of Warwick, yet they still had rich access to sites of green, fresh air, and cow manure. It was his old home just as much as it was theirs. A country mansion with acres of land, it had been his home since his early adult years until he’d flown off to University.
He entered through the front door after passing their butler, Wilbur. The place lingered with memories: the red draping curtains made him reminisce of that time he’d snuck out a girl he’d slept with, and the large family portrait on the wall reminded him of the hassle they had to endure, standing there for hours as his father wanted a painted portrait placed above the fireplace wall.
Zack passed around the corner, heading towards the second large central room. His mother was dressed in a long, green, modest dress. She stood at the piano, something that barely got used, only on occasions. She was drinking from a glass of what he knew would be gin and tonic, a classic favourite of hers. She only liked to drink on Sundays.
“Finally! We’ve been waiting ages. What took you so long? Our kitchen staff had to halt, not knowing when you might show up.” She frowned, placing her glass on a side table. “Has that shirt even been ironed? Look at you. Have a little pride, Zack,” she lectured, pinching his sleeve as she studied his wrinkled shirt.
“Can we not, Mother?” he sighed.
“We will. You have a reputation to hold, one that appears non-existent at this point,” she scolded. “You better get yourself in the dining room immediately. Your father needs to have another discussion with you, which you can only blame yourself for,” she added, calling out then for a maid to attend to her.
Zack held his hands up in surrender before shoving them in his pockets as he headed into the dining room next door, a large space holding residence to a large oak table plastered with wine glasses, cutlery, and attended to by two nearby staff. There, as usual, at the head of the table, his father, Elijah Benson, wasted not a single glance at his son, who sat a couple chairs down from him. His father was too busy with the evening newspaper.
“Stop slouching. Sit up,” he ordered, still not communicating with his eyes.
Zack couldn’t really argue. His father could be an intimidating man, one he knew was a risky man to cross paths with. He sat up a little, resting his elbows on the table as he adjusted his watch strap. Nothing was said. There wasn’t even the chance before Jared showed up, trailing after their mother, holding a bouquet of flowers. He received affectionate kisses, a stern nod from their father, and then was invited to confer in some small talk. Between Zack and his father, however, you could hear a pin drop. Even the clatter and serving of food didn’t seem to disperse the deadly silence. But then, his father was a man who didn’t like to speak during most meals. He preferred to hold that business-like manner, contributing only when matters involved himself. It was their mother who took centre stage.
It was towards the end of the late evening when Zack was called into his father’s parlour. Zack had always found the place quite intimidating from its oak surfaces, insufficient lighting, and the old grandfather clock in the corner of the room. It radiated power and wealth. His father poured himself a glass of liquor, something Zack’s mother discouraged him to drink at the dining table. This was the time when the devil truly showed its colours. He’d witnessed, heard men cowardly falling to their knees in fear of Elijah Benson. But this was his father, a man he liked to think he wasn’t afraid of. Heck, his father didn’t know about Project 42. There was no reason to until plans were confirmed. Zack didn’t want it to fail like last time and hear the constant nagging and lecturing of I told you so. This time it would be different; his father would be impressed.
His father’s back was turned, but Zack could feel the deadly tension as he swirled the dark liquid around the glass. “You know,” he began, slowly turning as he sat in the dark red chair. “I used to be proud of my decision when I saw my son carrying on the business. One generation to another generation. But,” he paused, the bitter sound of his teeth kissing together after swallowing a mouthful of liquor, “I never would have thought I’d be disappointed. I surely thought you might have learned from your last lesson, and yet you tarnished your own, but more importantly, my reputation at that gala. For your sake, Zack, you better be hoping you’re not reconsidering those ideas of yours.” His greyish brows launched up, the prevalent frown that appeared glued to his face 24/7 exerting only a little change as he held amusement within the depths of his eyes.
“Even if I was, hypothetically, I know what I’m doing,” Zack said.
“But do you?”
“Yes.”
A bitter laugh left his father’s lips. “Hysterical. Really, Zack, you should have been a comedian.”
Zack sighed. “Are we done here?”
“Just do what you’re told, Zack. I don’t want to be hearing, seeing, or even smelling a little investment going into one of those silly ideas of yours. We’re a family-owned business, always have been, and the top of our league for private housing. Don’t mess it up,” he warned. “You’re welcome to leave.” He thrust his glass gently towards the door as he sat there triumphantly.
Chapter Eleven
CLAIRE
Once again, that bugger of an alarm clock was ringing incessantly. She tossed and turned, enraged that she could no longer sleep. It was a struggle and a half to kick the quilt off the end of the bed, and another great effort was needed to force herself to sit up and turn her phone’s alarm off. Claire sat up, wiping away the coat of dribble before snagging a hair band off the side as she scrunched her hair into a messy bun.
Monday morning. Who doesn’t love the first day of the week? The inconvenience of it being the day after the weekend. She was hoping Monday would at least mean some sort of a fresh start. Yet she knew that was far from the case.
Swinging her legs from her bed, she gradually stretched her arms, trying to ease the relentless ache pounding her all over. It eased as she stood up. She could barely keep her eyes open as she shuffled towards her door, then headed out into the open hallway. There was not a sound inside the apartment except the birds chirping in the conifer tree next to the
kitchen window.
She hadn’t seen much of Zack yesterday; she wasn’t even sure if he came back. It did bring some relief. At least, she didn’t have to see him face to face. It was hard not to remember Saturday’s chaos. As much as she would have loved to shift the blame to Zack, she knew that she was to blame this time around. She kissed him; she invited the trouble. But why? She had asked that several times yesterday.
Her feet sluggishly trudged against the pale beige carpet, heading for the bathroom door. Zack’s door was still shut. Thank God! That sense of relief didn’t last long when she heard noise emitting from the other side of the bathroom door. The toilet flushing! Oh, dear. So it appeared he was up. There was no time to retreat. The door opened inwards, Claire bit her tongue, and she could have screamed as some other person, not Zack, stood there.
“You’re not Zack,” she mumbled, indecisive in whether she needed to phone the police or run for her life. But she concluded she needed not to, considering the woman was wearing Zack’s shirt, only Zack’s shirt. She was putting Claire’s pajamas to shame.
“Hi, I’m Casey,” she said, her tone bubbly and friendly.
Am I getting stabbed in the stomach? Because it sure feels like it.
“You’re not…Zack,” she repeated, her tone evidently defeated.
The stranger giggled, her blonde tendrils of hair bouncing off her shoulders. “No, not Zack. It’s Casey. Zack’s still asleep.” She paused for a second or two, pushing her hair behind her shoulders before she asked, “Mind if I go make myself a coffee? I’m gasping.”
“Erm, sure. Third cupboard on your left. Milk…is in the fridge and—”
“Great! I need to head off to work, so I’ll be out of your hair in no time. Nice meeting you,” she interjected, her smile appearing sinister towards Claire only as she headed towards the kitchen.