by LP Lovell
I’m woken up the next morning by Milly jumping on my bed.
“Morning, sunshine.” She says, her voice sounding shrill and downright offensive at this time in the morning. She bounces the mattress again.
“Fuck off.” I grumble, cracking one eye open. She’s propped up against the headboard with a plate of toast resting on her lap.
“Such a delight.”
“I fucking hate mornings.” I yank the duvet up over my head and try to block her out.
“Well, this must be the first time in a long time that you’re not hung over in the morning, so really, you should be feeling great. Also, your dad’s driver is in the front room.”
“What?” I throw the duvet back and frown at her. “Why?”
“Apparently your father has requested your presence. Probably has something to do with this.” She throws her iPad on the bed between us. “And don’t think that I won’t want all the inside information.”
Picking up the tablet, I roll my eyes before glancing at it. There’s a series of pictures plastered all across Google images. There’s one of me following Rhett out of the bathroom, and one of those pictures where they’ve zoomed in on the open doorway with the camera focused on the pair of discarded knickers I apparently forgot to pick up.
I sigh. “We fucked in a bathroom. It was dirty and hot and I can officially say that Rhett Torres is a lot more than pretty packaging. Happy?”
“For now.” She smirks.
I shrug. “At least it’s not my vagina on show this time.”
“True.” She snorts. “That bitch could have her own Facebook page. Like, fan appreciation for Blake McQueen’s pussy. That shit would have more page likes than Jaimie Dornan.” She puts her plate down and picks her coffee up from the bedside table. “However, I don’t think it’s what is in the picture so much as who.”
“It’s before midday! Stop speaking in riddles.” I whine.
She rolls her eyes. “Rhett. It would appear he has some unsavoury contacts.”
She swipes at something on the screen and hands the tablet back to me. I skim over the article quickly. It’s just a gossip site. I guess the big papers would get fucked in the arse for slander if they printed this, but it makes for interesting reading.
“He’s dirty?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No, I made some calls this morning. His businesses are legit, but his family had some dodgy shit going with the Cartel’s donkeys years ago, and it’s said that his first couple of properties were bought with dirty money—all speculation of course. His brother is in prison for drug trafficking though, so I guess that gives it some weight.”
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“This inexplicable need to hump him like a stray dog.” She cocks an eyebrow. “He’s a bad boy,” I say. “A real, down and dirty bad boy. My ovaries can’t help but insist he get in my vagina.”
“Blake, the same could be said for half the male population of London.”
“True, but they’re extra demanding over this one.”
She holds her hands up. “Trust me, no explanation needed with that one.” She stands, swiping the crumbs from her lap. “Anyway, I’m guessing that’s why Daddy dearest suddenly wants to spend some quality time with you.”
“Oh, fucking joy.” I climb out of bed and go out into the living room, wearing only a thin white tank top and a pair of lace knickers.
My father’s driver, Charles is standing in the middle of the room looking uncomfortable and very out of place in his uniform. He turns when he hears me and immediately, his face turns crimson. I smile as I watch him try to look anywhere but at me.
“Hey, Charlie.”
“Um…Miss McQueen.” He stammers.
“Tell my father I won’t be attending his…well, whatever this is. I’m too busy. He can email me if he wants to talk, or heaven forbid, pick up a phone.” My father almost never calls. I get the occasional email explaining his extreme discontent with one antic or another, sometimes a messenger. Yes, an actual person to relay a message. Hell, I’m surprised I haven’t received a carrier pigeon before now.
“He was very insistent.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor and his hands clasped awkwardly behind his back.
I grab an apple from the fruit bowl on the coffee table and take a bite. “I’m sure he was.” I smirk around my mouthful, turning away. “Tell him to call me.” I throw over my shoulder as I walk back to my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me.
I take one step, and my foot almost lands on something small and furry. Screaming involuntarily, I drop my apple as the little brown and white rodent runs underneath the bed.
“Jesus, fuck, Blake!” Milly chokes, clutching her chest.
“Sorry. Sorry! I knew I saw a bloody hamster!”
She lifts her eyebrows. “A hamster?” She says slowly.
“Uh, did you miss the screaming? I knew I wasn’t that high. Little fucker’s been living here for weeks!”
“Again. A. Hamster. I think you’ve lost it. The cocaine has fucked your head.”
“I promise you.” I get on my knees and press my cheek to the carpet, searching under the bed, but I can’t see shit for all the crap stashed under there. “Motherfucker.”
Milly clears her throat. “I’m not sure I should give you this, seeing as you’re exhibiting signs of psychosis, but…”
I pop my head up and she’s holding a joint, with a grin I know well plastered across her face.
“Oh, my god, where did you get that?” It sounds ridiculous, seeing as I consume more illegal substances than a Mexican village, but I just don’t buy weed. Felix isn’t exactly selling pot to teenagers.
“Well, we ran out of coffee, so I went to The Coffee Bean this morning, and as I was coming back in, I caught the night doorman making out with one of the maids.”
“Okay, firstly, what the hell were you doing up before the night guy leaves? Secondly, which maid? Was it the pudgy middle-aged one? Because she scares me and between you and me, I really think she could do with some dick.”
“I was awake because I’m still six hours behind, and no, it was that hot Latino one. Anyway, he bribed me not to drop him in it.” She holds up the joint, a small smile pulling at her lips.
“With weed? He bribed you with weed?” I laugh. “Amazing.”
She pulls a lighter from her pocket and lights the joint, taking a long drag. She holds it out to me, coughing slightly as she laughs.
I inhale the smoke, letting it fill my lungs and then holding it. The smell reminds me of sitting on my windowsill in my bedroom and blowing smoke out the window, trying not to set the fire alarms in my parents’ house off. In hindsight, maybe not the best move from my third story window, but I haven’t died yet.
Milly turns my TV on and puts on the kid’s channel because obviously you have to watch cartoons when you’re stoned. There is no other way. So we sit and watch SpongeBob while we smoke. In case you’re wondering, no, we don’t have anything better to do. We have rich parents. Milly does actually write a weekly article for a magazine, which is something. I occasionally do a photo shoot for the odd magazine, but that’s it. I’m—figuring it out. People say that they have to discover themselves, well, yeah…that.
Believe it or not, I did actually want to do something with my life at one time, but that’s gone to shit. Long story short, I used to be the good little politician’s daughter until I woke the fuck up. What started as a rebellious way to stick it to my parents has become a way of life now. It’s just who I am.
So I sit with my bestie, watch cartoons and smoke a joint, because why not? That is until my phone rings. I glance at the screen and see my father’s name flashing in bold letters. I laugh, because of all the times he calls, it’s when I’m stoned, well, more of a mild buzz…consistent drug use will fuck you in the arse like that. “I guess it must be bad if he’s actually worked out how to call me.”
Milly mutes the TV and I answer it
. “Daddy, so nice of you to call and say hello. You know, since you haven’t spoken to me in over a year.”
“Five minutes, Blake. You’ve been back in London five minutes and my PR team has issued more gag orders and paid off more press than we have for months.” He snaps. My father has this ability to sound ridiculously polite even when he’s fuming angry. I can totally see why my mother wipes her fucking feet on him on a daily basis.
“I can’t help that they follow me around. Stop issuing gag orders. They have nothing to print anyway.”
“They have Rhett Torres to print!” He shouts, an edge of hysteria in his voice, and I can picture his face turning red as a vein in his temple throbs.
I try not to laugh. “Sorry, who?”
“Have you become so cheap that you don’t even know the names of the men you drag into bathrooms now?” Uh, yeah.
“Yeah, I’m actually thinking I should just charge for it. I don’t see what hookers are complaining about to be honest.”
He sighs. “You will not see him again, Blake.” He demands.
“I’m sorry, I’m wondering whether you’re just trying on principle, or if you actually think I’ll listen, because if it’s the latter, then that’s cute.”
“I over look your wild antics, Blake, but I’m not saying this as a politician. I say this as your father. He’s not a good man.” And then he hangs up, and I’m left staring at the phone, completely lost for words because for a split second there it actually sounded like he cared.
“Well fancy seeing you here, hot stuff.”
The chair across from me screeches over the wooden floor, and I glance over the top of my laptop just as Blake drops into the chair. She’s wearing massive sunglasses, a fur coat, pink and white spotted pajama bottoms and high heels.
“Wow, that is…that is a look, right there.” Her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail and when she takes her sunglasses off, she looks like she’s still wearing last night’s makeup—half way down her face. It makes me smile. Her absolute inability to give a shit is a strange kind of turn on, even if she does look like a mad cat woman.
She picks up my cup and takes a sip of coffee. “Shit, I think I might need to be hooked up to a drip.”
“You know you could order your own coffee.”
She glances at the line and smiles. “Yes, or I could steal yours.”
I nod at one of the waitresses moving around the room and she hurries over, an eager smile on her face. “Could you get my friend a coffee, please?” I ask.
“Irish.” Blake adds.
“Uh, and something to eat.” I add. The waitress disappears and Blake scowls. “You smell like a brewery and you want more alcohol?” I ask.
She looks at me like I’m stupid. “If you had a category five fucking hang over, you’d want hair of the dog too.” She says. “I find the best way to avoid hangovers is to permanently keep a little bit of alcohol in your bloodstream. But I woke up late and now…category five.” She shrugs, and I’d like to think she’s joking, but I don’t think she is.
“You have a hangover on a Wednesday?” Jesus.
She raises her eyebrows like I’m an idiot for asking. “Anyway, why are you in my coffee shop?”
I close my laptop and push it to the side. “You own the place?” I ask, lifting my coffee cup to my lips and taking a sip.
“Sure, I own Starbucks. Why not?”
“Good investment.”
She shrugs, a small smile on those perfect fucking lips of hers. “I thought so.”
“I actually have a meeting across the street in half an hour. Which is why I’m in your coffee shop.”
She holds a finger up, halting me as she takes her phone out of her pocket to type something out. “Okay, continue.” The waitress brings Blake’s coffee and a muffin over. As soon as the cup is set in front of her, she grabs it and takes a heavy gulp.
“Did you just silently shush me?” I ask.
She cocks an eyebrow and smirks. Honestly, it makes me want to fuck the attitude out of her. “What business are you in?” She asks.
“Property, mainly.” Mainly. I watch her pinch a piece of the muffin off. She slides her thumb and index finger into her mouth, licking the chocolate from her finger tip.
“Okay, I’m bored already.” She huffs.
“And what about you, Duchess.” I smile. “What kind of business are you in?”
She tosses her head back and laughs before dropping her eyes to the table. “I have no business, I’m merely a scorned trust fund baby. Don’t you read the papers?”
I can hear the disdain dripping from her voice and it confuses me. From what I have seen, read, and heard about Blake McQueen she lives and breathes rebellion and certainly has no shame about her very public lifestyle. “The newspapers are not what I would consider accurate text.”
She laughs. “True, but a picture says a thousand words.” She takes another piece of muffin. “Particularly when it’s of your vag.”
I brace my elbows on the table, leaning closer to her. Her eyes lock with mine as I reach across the table to slowly swipe a tiny crumb from her bottom lip, letting my thumb linger on her mouth longer than necessary.
“It’s a very nice vag.” I say, lifting a brow.
She tilts her head, a small smile playing over her lips. “You would know.” She whispers.
Yes, I fucking would. Three days. It’s been three days since I had my dick inside her and well, let’s just say she’s memorable. Women come and go like the wind, and believe me, I’ve fucked my way through most of them. Blake McQueen is different though. Of course, she’s hot, but it’s more than that, there’s something about her. She makes me forget anything that isn’t this, right here, right this second, because that’s her. I know very little about her, but she lives as if the world might end tomorrow. It’s infectious, it’s brilliant, it’s …Blake McQueen.
We talk until I have to go to my meeting. She stands up and I laugh again at how ridiculous she looks. I’m so focused on her that I’m completely caught off guard by a photographer waiting just outside the door. I glare and make a move towards him, but Blake entwines her hand with mine, pulling me away.
“Come now, hot stuff. No starting fights in the middle of the street.” She walks with me a little way down the road.
“Says the girl who wanted to kill a photographer.”
She drops her sunglasses down over her eyes and shrugs. “Plausible deniability. One photographer in a party of a hundred people who will back me. Out here, there are too many witnesses for pap bashing.”
I stop outside the building I’m meeting my buyer in.
“Nice seeing you again, Rhett.” She steps close to me, and grips the front of my jacket, brushing her lips across my cheek, but she doesn’t pull away. Her lips linger, grazing the corner of my mouth.
Before she can move, I shove my hand in her hair and slam my lips over hers. She moans into my mouth and thrusts her tongue against mine. She tastes of Bailey’s and coffee with the faintest trace of smoke. She nips at my bottom lip before pulling away with a smug smile, and then, she turns and walks away without a backward glance, leaving me alone with a boner.
Trust me, it’s been a long time since that happened.
“Have you seen this shit?” Milly drops a copy of This Magazine on the table and slides into the booth next to me, yanking the hair tie out of her hair. I watch her hair spill around her shoulders like something out of a bloody shampoo advert. If I do that, I look like a fucking mental patient on the escape. Fucking Milly.
“Babe, if I read all that shit I’d have no life.”
“You have no life anyway.”
“Correction, my entire life is having a life.”
She frowns and shakes her head. “What?”
I ignore her. “Okay, what is it this week. Am I banging a gay guy again?”
She opens the magazine and shoves it in front of me, stabbing her finger on the page. “Apparently, Rhett is your new man.”
There’s a picture of Rhett and I lip-locked outside the coffee shop yesterday morning, with the caption: ‘Blake McQueen and Rhett Torres, perfect match?’
“What I want to know is how, at no point in that article, they mention your attire.”
I pick up my Mojito and take a sip. “I’m a trend setter. Which makes whatever I wear okay.”
“Trend setter.” She snorts. “ You’re fucking lazy is what you are.”
“Meh, tomato-tomatoe. You need to start drinking bitch, I’m on my third already.” I shoo her out of the booth. “Order me another while you’re there.”
We come here every Thursday for the lunchtime happy hour. It’s our traditional kick start to the weekend. From here until Monday morning, I will be drunk, high, and generally fucked up.
She sighs, digging in her handbag for her purse. “I am not carrying your drunk arse home.”
I wave her off. “It’s okay, I’ll flash a nip at someone and get them to give me a piggyback.” Works every time.
“Uh-huh. I think you should note that happy hour is not a challenge.”
“You know the only thing I like better than daytime drinking is cheap daytime drinking.” I explain.
“You have money to burn.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s the principle.”
She sighs and heads for the bar. “I give up.” I don’t know why she ever tries in the first place.
I look over the magazine article again, focusing on the picture of Rhett and I. Damn, that man is fine. And I am totally working the pyjamas and heels.
“Ah, fuck.” I say, flopping back on the sofa. I’m too drunk for this shit.
I read over the message which is inviting me to the annual Primrose Charity Gala, which raises money for orphans. Touching isn’t it? These functions are just business shit. Though, with the amount of unnecessary money that gets thrown around, they might as well all just come armed with a ruler so they can start the dick measuring from the off.
“What?” Milly’s lying on the rug next to the sofa.