by Carrie Elks
“You too. You Australian?”
“Yeah, I arrived in London last month. I really enjoyed the gig, it was great.” David is doing his best to be friendly, but he looks slightly uncomfortable. It could be that Alex is still hyped from the set, but he’s giving out a dangerous vibe, as if he’s on edge. I’m not sure I like it.
David obviously doesn’t, because the next moment he’s leaving. “Well, I’m gonna head off. Thanks for letting me come and watch. I’ll see you around, Lara.”
“Thanks for coming. We appreciate it.” I put the emphasis on the ‘we’. More for my benefit than Alex’s. I hate appearing rude and it seems as though he’s chased David off. “I’ll see you soon.”
I wave, and David gives me a little wave back, walking out of the door and into the hall. I count to five and turn around, staring at Alex.
“Well, that was rude.”
“What?” Alex shrugs and grabs his beer, swallowing it down.
“The way you treated our neighbour.”
“He wants you. It pissed me off.”
“He doesn't want me.” I eye roll, sighing loudly. “He's a nice, friendly neighbour who now thinks you're a bit of a twat. What's with the jealousy anyway?”
“I'm not jealous.” He drains the last of his beer. “I don't like him.”
“You didn't even give him a chance,” I point out. “You didn’t say two words to him. We've got to live with this guy; why can't you be nice?”
Alex stares at me for a moment. I can vaguely hear the chatter of the departing crowd coming from the club, but in here there's simply silence. I'm guessing the rest of the band are waiting—as I am—to hear his response.
We don't have to wait for long.
He puts his hand on my shoulder, drawing me closer. “I'll go down tomorrow and apologise to him.”
“He's a nice man, give him a chance. He's new in the country and has a daughter he misses like hell. The last thing he needs is a neighbour with a grudge. Anyway, even if he did fancy me, it's not like I'm going to run downstairs for a quick shag while you're doing the washing up.” I may sound flippant, but I'm not feeling that way. “You sound as if you don't trust me.”
He lifts a hand to his forehead, rubbing it with his fingers. “I do trust you, babe. I’m a dick, I'm sorry.”
When I look into his eyes I can see he means it. Stage Alex finally seems to have gone, taking his sharp tongue with him. I want the bad feeling gone, too.
“I happen to like your dick,” I joke, trying to bring some levity back into the situation. I hear Stuart sniggering behind me. Without bothering to turn, I give him the finger.
“My dick happens to like you, too,” Alex murmurs, pulling me against him, kissing the top of my head.
“Get a room, will you? You look like you need a good shagging, Al,” Carl the bassist jeers. This time Alex flips him the bird, but he's laughing into my hair, and I find myself joining in, the atmosphere thankfully lighter.
“Great set, lads. Oh hi, Lara.” The band’s manager walks in, somehow breaking up our row and dismissing me all in the same breath. Alfie Kane has been managing the group for a few months now, and though Alex swears he is amazing, and has lots of connections in the industry, there's something about him that grates on my nerves.
“There were a couple of A&Rs out there tonight. They looked impressed. One of them asked me to give him a call on Monday.” He brandishes a business card as if he's won a golden ticket.
“Which label?” Alex grabs the card and reads it. “Zephyr? Cool.”
Stuart and the others join them, talking in loud voices about the gig, saying which songs went well and what notes were missed. I vaguely hear Alfie talking about some bookings; a couple of festivals and a possible tour, and I tune out their voices, retreating into my head instead. I grab a bottle of water and sit down on the sofa, chugging the liquid down, trying to ignore the fears that nag at me. I've always been a worrier; I can't seem to help it, no matter how hard I try, and since we've had Max, money—or the lack of it—has been my number one anxiety.
Even with my wage and Alex’s casual earnings, we only just get by. If he stops working on sites, things are going to take a tumble pretty fast. The rent is bad enough—anybody who lives in London knows the cost of living is crazy—but it's all the baby things that are tipping us over the edge. Nappies, clothes, nursery, it's like having a second lot of rent to pay. Even though we are just about managing to tiptoe across the tightrope, financial failure looms beneath us; one little stumble and we could all plummet.
“You ready?” I look up to see Alex standing in front of me. His hair is curling at the ends, though dryer than before. “Let's go home, baby.”
I take his hand and smile, swallowing down the unease. “Sounds good to me. Let's go.”
5
I stood alone, waiting for an hour the first night we met. The band finished their set, and the crowd was dispersing, leaving behind an atmosphere soaked with the stench of sweat and beer. For a moment I considered standing in the exact same spot, alone in front of the stage, but even in my boozed-up state I was too self-conscious to stand out like that.
In the end, I went to the bar and ordered a lime and soda, trying to look surreptitious as I sipped carefully at it.
“You coming?” I looked up to see Grant Sharp. A fellow intern, he had the sort of cocky attitude only years of expensive schooling can buy. We’d paired off a few times, though his ability to do much more than kiss and fumble was always compromised by his consumption of whiskey.
“I’m going to stay here for a while.” I glanced over at the stage again. Roadies were unplugging guitars and dissembling the drum kit. No sign of the band. “I’ll catch up with you on Monday.”
“You sure?”
“Yep. I’m all good.”
The band walked over to the bar a few minutes later. I’d finished my drink and was considering leaving, second guessing myself about whether or not the singer had been talking to me. I’d managed to down more than a bottle of champagne that night¸ what if it had been my imagination?
But then I looked up and it was there again. That stare, the connection, the way I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Unlike me, he’d changed into some fresh clothes; his red-and-black checked shirt buttoned up to his neck, revealing only the merest hint of tattoo. His jeans were tight, clinging to his legs as though they were a second skin. But his hair was still wet—damp and slick—brushed back and high.
“Hi.”
I swallowed. The lime and soda had done nothing for the dryness of my mouth. I could still manage to smile, though. “Hi.”
“What’s your name?” He had a thick, cockney accent that his singing voice only hinted at, and a habit of rolling on the heels of his black lace-up boots.
“Lara Stanford. What about you?” He was beautiful, but he didn’t intimidate me. Chalk another one up to the champagne, liquid courage at its finest.
“Alex Cartwright.” He reached out a hand and I took it, failing to stifle my laughter. There was something so formal about the way he introduced himself that was in complete contrast to the way he looked, and the way he’d stalked about on stage. “Pleased to meet you.”
His eyes flickered, his gaze lowering to take in my legs, the way my short dress was almost stuck to my skin with perspiration. I didn’t even want to know how bad my hair looked.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” he said.
“I haven’t been here before. It’s outside of my hunting grounds.”
“You hunt?”
“Only on a Friday night.” I grinned again, and he smiled back. I really liked the way his lips pulled back into his dimples. It lit up his face, made him look cheeky and dirty at the same time.
“What do you do the rest of the week?”
“I’m a good girl. I go to bed early.”
“Alone?”
My heart sped at that question. It was loaded, obviously, but the way he put it out there so soon seemed genu
ine.
“Alone with my thoughts.”
“Alone with your thoughts,” he repeated, slowly nodding his head. “You use your right or your left hand for that?”
I coughed out a laugh. Dirty boy. “You seem very interested in my bedroom habits, Mr Cartwright. There are some things a girl likes to keep secret.”
“I bet you use your left hand,” he carried on, as if I hadn't spoken. His voice lowered, so I had to step forward to hear him.
The next time he spoke I felt his breath tickling at my ear. “I'd pay good money to see you alone with your thoughts.”
There was silence for a moment, then the drummer joined us, giving Alex a high five. I was kind of relieved, because my mind had gone completely blank. I couldn't think of a single snarky reply.
“Who's this?” The drummer looked at me through his sandy fringe. Strands were stuck to his forehead, dark with perspiration.
“Her name's Lara,” Alex said, gesturing the barman over and ordering another beer for his friend. “Can I buy you a drink, sweetheart?”
I nodded and held up my glass. “Vodka and soda please.”
“Lara as in Dr Zhivago?” The drummer asked. “I'm Stuart, by the way.” He reached out and offered me his hand.
“My mum was an Omar Sharif nut,” I explained. “It could have been worse, if I was a boy it would have been Yuri.”
“Like the astronaut? Cool.” Stuart took his beer and leaned on the counter beside him. “I wish I was called Yuri.”
Alex cleared his throat, giving Stuart a pointed look. Realisation slowly dawned on Stuart's face, staining his cheeks pink and turning his voice to a stutter. “Err, anyway, I'd best go and... see how the drum kit is. Nice to meet you, Lara. Beautiful name, by the way.”
I felt strangely gratified at that. As if having a beautiful name was an accomplishment. “Thank you.”
When I turned back to Alex, he was propped against the bar, a beer glass in his hand, head angled to the side. There was a curious expression on his face, as if he couldn't quite work out what I was. His eyes were narrow, dark.
“Where were we?” His tongue peeked out to moisten his lips.
“I think we were talking about masturbation,” I whisper-replied, “and since you wanted to know, I'm left handed. And my thoughts are very, very dirty.”
* * *
We end up paying the babysitter with practically all the cash Alex earned from the gig. I walk into the bedroom and check on Max, who has managed to wriggle out of all his blankets and is curled in a ball right at the bottom of the cot, hands gripping the slats as if he’s a prisoner desperate to escape. His eyelids flutter, and his mouth makes an 'o', moving rhythmically as if he's dreaming of food. Or breasts. Maybe both, if he's a typical male.
“Is he asleep?” I don't hear Alex approach, so when he whispers in my ear it makes me jump. His hands curl around my shoulders, fingers pushing under the straps of my black, cotton tank.
“Yeah,” I reply in a whisper. “He's probably got a couple of hours until his next feed.” Though we’re trying to wean him onto bottles during the day, at night he still feeds from me. It beats mucking about with sterilisers and bottles in the early hours of the morning, and I love the closeness it gives us. Alex always jokes it's good to know I'll get my tits out at least once a night.
At least, I think it's a joke.
“A couple of hours.” Alex presses his lips to the back of my neck. His fingers travel lower, pushing past the neckline, tips dragging along the top of my bra. “Whatever will we do?”
“Sleep?” I'm only half-kidding. These past six months of parenthood have been one long fight to get enough rest, and I've been losing spectacularly.
“I'll let you sleep afterwards, baby.” His lips slide down my neck to my shoulder, teeth gently nipping where the two meet.
“After what?” I shiver as his fingers dip inside my bra.
“After I've fucked you hard like I promised.” He scoops my breasts from my bra, cupping them in his hands. Thumbs graze my nipples, making them tight. “Or was it a threat?”
As I recall, it was both.
“What about the baby?” I've never been the quiet sort. If Max is in the room we’ll have to be silent, like teenagers having a quickie while their parents are doing the washing up. “We'll wake him up.”
Alex doesn't say a word, but I know from the slant of his lips he has something planned. So I'm not surprised when he wraps his hands around my upper arms and steers me out of the bedroom, into the bathroom on the opposite side of the hall. The only sound is the slapping of my bare feet on the floorboards, and our fast breaths.
Our bathroom is big in comparison to the rest of the flat. The Victorian fittings reflect the age of the building, the brass—elegant and delicate; the porcelain—pale and shiny. In the corner of the room is a claw-foot tub—my pride and joy.
I don't get to admire it for long, however. Alex presses into my back, his teeth grazing my earlobe and he spins me around until I'm in front of the sink.
He pushes me forward until I'm leaning on the sink, my fingers clinging to the cool, white rim. When I look up I can see us in the ornate mirror hanging above. Alex stares right back at me, his eyes hooded and dark, teeth biting into his plump bottom lip.
Blinking twice, he encircles me with his arms, and I marvel at the contrast of his vibrant tattoos on the paleness of his chest. The tendons in his forearms tense when he pushes down the straps of my vest, and the fabric bunches around my waist, leaving me only in my bra, until he pushes down the cups. The underwire pushes my breasts up, making my pale, pink-tipped skin look full and swollen. Slowly, tantalisingly, he runs his fingers in circles around my tender flesh, closer to my nipples, which tighten and peak.
“You're so fucking sexy.” His voice is a growl. Thick eyelashes sweep down as he stares at my chest. “I want you so much.”
His fingers pinch hard, sending a shock through my body. I clench as the pain mixes with pleasure. Then he's rubbing gently, his thumb barely grazing the peaks. I push myself to him, desperate for pressure. My back arches and I feel him against my behind, his long, thick length hard as steel. The sensation makes me moan.
I close my eyes, letting my head fall back to his shoulder. He takes the opportunity to kiss my neck, teeth pressuring my throat, lips sucking, tongue flickering, the sensual overload driving me crazy. The feeling is achingly sweet, and I turn my head to find his lips, pressing my mouth to his with a desperate kiss.
“Can you feel how hard my cock is, baby?” he whispers in my mouth. “I want to fuck you until my come drips out of you.”
God, I love my dirty boy. The way he touches me, fingers demanding then soft, scraping and caressing as they move down my stomach. Then he pushes his hand inside my knickers, middle finger gliding, covered in my excitement. It slips easily inside, dragging against me, making all the muscles in my thighs contract.
“Christ, you're wet.” His breath is warm on my neck. He pushes a second finger inside, moving just right until I'm begging him for more. I can never get enough of him, the way he touches me, treats me, as if I'm a cross between a princess and a whore. I hook my arm around his neck, holding on as my legs start to tremble, and he wraps his free arm around my waist to steady me. My sighs increase as the sensations layer and build, my breath shortening with every touch.
His thumb flicks me, once, then twice. It's as if my whole universe has shrunk down to the smallest dot, my only focus his fingers and thumb. When his free hand moves up to cup my breasts, pulling at my nipples, the pressure inside me explodes.
Pink, purple, bright yellow; a spectrum of colours flash across my vision. They blind me as I orgasm, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight, my body shuddering as Alex holds me up. The sensation shoots through my thighs and I hardly notice as he unclasps his belt, pulling down his jeans and his boxers. Vaguely, I register his hot, hard erection, pressing into my lower back, the tip dragging down as he lifts me and lines himself up.
There's that moment of intense anticipation, as he grazes me. I savour it, keeping still, letting him slip and slide. Then a gentle push and he opens me up, my body enveloping him as he slides deeper inside.
It takes my breath away.
“Fuck me,” I breathe, leaning forward until my fingers are grasping the sink, my knuckles bleached and tight. When I look at the mirror he's staring at me, eyes clouded with need, lips set and mean. And I know him, this dirty Alex—the man who fucks strong and deep, with a passion that stings. I know him and I love him, because even at his most violent, he still holds me as if I'm china.
He's an enigma. A mixture of hard and soft, of bitter and sweet. My Dr Jekyll with a dirty Hyde mouth.
He grabs me by the hips, fingers digging into my skin, holding on, steadying me. Then he pounds me hard and fast until I see rainbows exploding behind my eyes once again, the vivid colours forming pictures in the shape of his tattoos. When the mist clears, and we are sweaty and breathless and all but collapsed on the sink, he whispers low in my ear, dirty and sweet. “I fucking love you. And I love fucking you.”
If I had any breath left in my body, I'd say it right back.
6
Since I had Max my sense of self seems distorted, as if I'm looking at my reflection in the hall of mirrors and not recognising what I see. There was a time when I knew myself inside out; years of personality tests and self-analysis meant I was more than aware of my strengths and weaknesses. Confident, strong, occasionally reckless. Sensitive even though I tried to hide it.
But now the softness is leaching out, turning the rest of me to mush, like a cardboard box left out in the rain. I cry at sad stories in the news, at birth tales shared at massage class. At the thought of David never being able to see his daughter.
That makes me cry a lot.
He sits and watches me, at the fat tears rolling down my cheeks. Though he says nothing, his eyes are soft, and I find myself laughing at the fact it's me crying when it should be him.
“I'm so sorry, David, that's horrible, I can't believe she won't let you see her. Isn't there something you can do?” I can't ever imagine stopping a father from seeing his child. Even if I hated Alex, Max would always be his son.