Pretty Things (The Pretty Trilogy #3)

by Donna Alam

  ‘Permission for what?’ My voice is light with anticipation, the atmosphere having changed suddenly.

  ‘For marrying you.’

  ‘You asked me, you don’t need to ask them,’ I say straightening uncomfortably in his arms. ‘This isn’t 1903.’

  ‘You offend my sense of propriety, habibti. ’ He pulls my body back against him, forcing me to relax.

  ‘I wonder if it’s the same sense of propriety that has my boob in your hand.’

  ‘No, that’s a sense of proprietorship.’

  ‘I see. It’s ownership you’re after?’ Even I can hear the dangerous edge to my voice. It’s archaic—I don’t need to be passed from parent to spouse like some fucking chattel.

  ‘Yes,’ he agrees, kissing the place where my neck and shoulder meet, causing me to shiver and stealing the accusation from my next words.

  ‘You’re a Neanderthal.’

  ‘But I’m your Neanderthal,’ he answers, succeeding in rolling us both onto our sides. ‘I’m a stranger to them, Kate. And I’m coming to take you away. Please let me do this properly.’

  I don’t answer. There is no retort. Possibly more to do with his explanation than the way he rolls my nipple into a stiff peak.

  ‘She said to be there around eleven. I suppose we should shower soon.’

  Moments later, his movement slows, his hand opening as his breathing changes, setting into a deep and regular pattern as the arm across my body becomes heavy as he slips into sleep.

  I wished I could say the same. Filled with the thoughts of facing my mother and Geoff, telling them I’m about to get married, makes me wish I could retreat into sleep. In fact, the whole situation has me feeling as prickly as an echidna humping a broom.

  I manage to lie still for a few more moments, ensuring Kai has drifted off into a deep sleep, before lifting his arm and slipping from the bed.

  Chapter Four

  A mercifully long shower clears my mind and expels the devil-odour from my body. I hate being unclean, and unless I shower shortly after crawling out of bed, I know I’ll spend the rest of the day in a total strop. A shower is my grumpy body’s alarm call. So shower, then a caffeine infusion. Failing that, prepare to stay clear of me, or risk losing your head.

  Scrubbed shiny and wrapped in a massive, fluffy towel, another wrapped around my head, I creep back into the bedroom, not that it looks like I need to be quiet. Kai lies on his back, arms held across his chest, apparently sleeping the sleep of the dead. It’s kind of an appropriate description as he looks a little like an effigy on some tomb. Other than, you know, the breathing, and the colour in his skin, but stately and sort of regal, all the same. I stand in the doorway just looking at him, resisting the urge to go to him, to touch, to cover him with my fingerprints. But he so obviously needs this sleep, and it looks like jetlag has finally claimed him.

  He’s so heart-achingly handsome, sleep stealing the tension from his face. I can imagine what a beautiful child he must’ve been; dark wavy hair and large soulful eyes, I’ll bet. My thoughts slip from one to another, and before I know it, I’m imagining what our children would look like. And if that isn’t a mind-fuck, then I don’t know what is. I grasp the back of a chair, set in front of a French-style dresser, sliding my butt into the seat.

  I’m getting married to a man I’ve only known a few weeks, and that doesn’t freak me out one bit. And neither does thinking about kids.

  Ankle biters. Carpet grubs. Rug rats. Don’t I get enough of them at work?

  I’ve never imagined having kids, beyond the way you do in a kind of distant, fleeting way. Like everyone does, I guess. Becoming a parent seems such a grown-up thing to do, and I’m pretty sure I’m not ready to grow up.

  But what if he doesn’t want children? Or what if he wants them, like, immediately? Or a dozen! What was it he said once about families in Dubai being like tribes? I don’t want to breed a dozen—Christ, my body would be shot! Stretch marks as wide as a highway and a vag like a gumboot top!

  My chest tightens under the sudden effort of breathing, my heart banging in my chest like a runaway horse. I lean forward, planting my head against the cool, cool wood.

  Get a grip. You’re overthinking again. None of that is happening. Pull yourself together—maybe you need a distraction, or maybe you’ve got low blood sugar or something?

  My gaze slides back to Kai; my fingers itching to move the hair that’s fallen across his brow. It’s hard not to go to him, knowing he has the ability to make all thoughts fall away, bringing me ecstasy and white noise to fill my head. But it actually might be a good idea to go grab a bite to eat. Build up some stamina, because, you know, sustenance. And sugar.

  Clothes. Of course, I’ve got none here, so I decide to swipe one of his shirts. On one of those hotel suitcase-rack-thingies, Kai’s luggage sits: a folded leather suit carrier and a bag that would probably be more appropriately called a valise. Posh bugger. Heaving the suit carrier off, I open the case and grab the first shirt.

  And out falls a little black box, emblazoned with Damas. The jeweller.

  If my heart was banging before, this time it’s fit to explode. Which is exactly how I treat the box. Like a small, unexploded bomb, as I gently place it back inside the bag.

  I’m getting married, I think. And his asking me wasn’t some off-the-cuff desperation thing . . . he hadn’t known what had driven me away, only that he wanted me, at any cost.

  He planned to ask me, only knowing he wanted me for keeps.

  Relief floods my veins thick and fast. An acknowledgement of a tension I’d not sought to understand. I slip on his shirt, filled with a joy of Disney proportions. Like Niamh said, where are the mice and bloody bluebirds when you want to sing and dance about being in love?

  I’ll go make myself a coffee and leave my darling fiancé to sleep!

  Practically skipping out of the bedroom, I halt at the top of a very grand, glass and steel staircase.

  What if it wasn’t a ring? What if it was more high-end nipple clamps? Jewelled, maybe?

  My heart falls slightly, before jolting quickly.

  I suppose that would be okay, too . . .

  Whoever designed this house was a huge fan of white: various shades of white sofas, white-washed furniture, and walls lead the way to an open plan kitchen which runs across the back of the house. A sparkling rectangular pool is visible from the wall of glass as beyond, the nearby breakfasting area looking onto a sleek timber deck via massive bi-folding doors. Outside, low-slung chairs, loungers and potted palms dot the pool’s periphery and an immaculate lawn leads to a pontoon deck and the ocean. And, of course, there’s a boat. Nothing like Kai’s super yacht, though it’s certainly big enough to get to the Gold Coast, its high-rises and beaches shimmering on the horizon.

  In the kitchen, gleaming white cabinets—the sort that are far too stylish to have handles—sit beneath stainless steel worktops reflecting bright sunshine onto the startlingly white walls. Should’ve brought my sunnies. A row of tiny potted agaves are the only items in the room that lean towards homely, the setting more high-end restaurant than a place of residence.

  I try to open a couple of the drawers and cupboards, or whatever combination of storage is concealed, by pushing at the corners, the middles, all in an effort to get one of the damn things to open up. I even break a nail trying to wedge my fingers between the tiny joints, all in search of a glass. Dry of throat, I give up and open the commercial-sized silver fridge, pulling out a carton of OJ—not my favourite style, this one has bits—and drinking it from the tetra-top instead.

  ‘Nice day for it.’

  Orange juice is propelled from my mouth, hitting the glass shelving of the fridge, a carton of eggs and some cheese. I cough my way through the liquid I’ve inhaled in surprise. What the hell? I thought we were alone!

  ‘It sure is,’ I say wheezing, though what it’s a nice day for, I’m not yet sure. Causing death by choking? I keep the fridge door open, shielding me from the pe
rson behind the voice, wiping the orangey bits from my chin and brushing the droplets from Kai’s shirt.

  ‘Hi,’ I add brightly, although a little hoarsely, closing the fridge door to see a spikey-haired and brightly bleached blonde. A blonde with no dress sense? No, wearing a uniform. Chef whites? She’s a chef! The house chef, maybe? This place is grand enough to have an army of staff.

  ‘G’day.’ She holds out her hand. ‘Jazz.’ It takes me a split-second to realise that was an introduction and not some random demand to pop on the radio. ‘Hey, don’t I know you?’ she asks, staring intently, giving me one of those looks where sheer force of will demands an answer.

  She does look vaguely familiar as I hold out my hand to complete the greeting. Tall-ish, but then again, isn’t everyone compared to me? About my age, but sort of hip looking, or as cool as someone in black and white clown pants can be. Maybe it’s her piercings—the fleshy bit between ear and cheek and one of those tiny above lip piercings. An eyebrow, too.

  ‘I’m not sure—’

  ‘Yeah—didn’t you go to St. Bridget’s? I’m pretty sure we had, was it P.E. together?’

  Her eyes flick over me again, landing on my bare legs, no doubt only confused, recognising them as usually being covered in bruises. You see, I’ve just realised this chick has seen me eat dirt on more than one occasion, probably recalls hearing our sadistic teacher—why do gym teachers have to be shit-heads?—shout that I run like ‘Farmer Giles’. It took me years to work out that, as a rule, farmers don’t actually run funny. She was insinuating I run like someone afflicted by piles.

  I don’t, but this is why I don’t exercise. I’m still traumatised. Fact.

  ‘Yeah, you do look kinda familiar,’ I demure. ‘I’m Kate. Sorry, my memory’s a bit cactus, but I think I remember you now. Weren’t you on the girls AFL team?'

  ‘Yup. And the footy team. Touch footie, swim team. The lot. Think I was trying to burn off a lot of feelings and . . . stuff.’ She runs her hand across the back of her head in an oddly masculine gesture. ‘Remember the principal, old bird Contermann? Remember her nickname, the Cuntsaman?’

  ‘Er, yeah.’ Retired, my old head-teacher plays golf at the same club as Geoff.

  ‘Those were some top times,’ she adds wistfully. ‘But here we are.’ She holds out both hands, indicating the kitchen around her. ‘Me; the queen of this kitchen, and your personal chef. And you? I imagine you’re getting screwed,’ she says, chuckling.

  Screwed? I suppose hiring a house this size and in this location must cost a fortune. Glad it’s not coming out of my pocket.

  Opening one of the drawers at hip level, with ease, I might add, Jazz pulls out a chopping board. ‘Fancy some brekkie?’

  ‘I might in a bit, thanks. Maybe toast. I’ll make it—’

  ‘Dude! You stick to your job, and I’ll stick to mine. I so don’t wanna swap!’ She chuckles, slapping the board down with a bang. ‘Are you done for the day?’ Turning to open a large handle-less walk-in pantry, her words are muffled. ‘Or are you still on the clock?’

  I must have it on the brain, ‘cos I’m sure she said cock. Couldn’t have, surely . . .

  ‘Grabbing a bite to keep up your stamina?’ She sniggers weirdly, appearing with a large loaf of sourdough.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, sounding slightly confused. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘So I’ll make your toast. It’s my job, after all. I come with the house. Sweet gig. Got a little annex flat above the pool house, rent free, too. Get to use the pool and stuff, when it’s not tenanted.’

  ‘Cool,’ I answer a little vaguely, walking around the bench and taking a seat on a stool that clearly wasn’t built for comfort. Chrome and plastic. White, of course, and a bit too cold for an almost bare arse. ‘It’s a beautiful house. Is it rented out very often?’ I tuck the shirt further under my thighs, very aware that I don’t have a bra on underneath and that I’m pulling the damp and slightly orange cotton tight against my nipples. Because, of course, I decided to forgo unlaundered grundies. Wasn’t aware we’d have company.

  ‘Heaps.’ Jazz’s gaze lingers over my general boob-area as I casually—okay, self-consciously—fold my arms, leaning them against the counter.

  ‘What was I saying?’ she asks, her tongue darting out so fast I might’ve imagined it. ‘Yeah, loads. Usually the fly-in, fly-out types. At least one a week. Businessmen and their . . . mates. Mates with rates—I’m sure you’ll be familiar with the form. More money than manners, some of them. But I only see them at breakfast time, prepare a dinner, maybe, if they do have company. Other than that, the place is used for TV—the odd commercial, that sort of thing. Not that I have to cook for anyone then. Once in a while it’s leased for a blow-out celebration. Weddings, milestone birthdays, that sort of stuff. Like I said, cool gig. What about you? Do you work out of one of the . . .’ She makes a wheeling motion, as though searching for the right words, the loaf still in her hand. ‘Err, houses here on the Coast or in Brissy? I heard they’re pretty high-end. You should see some of the gorgeous chicks that pass through here, not that you’re fugly yourself.’

  Her eyes flick over me weirdly again as she murmurs something under her breath. Something about cash and her birthday gift?

  ‘I worked in Brisbane up until lately, and then I moved to Dubai.’

  ‘You work in Dubai? Isn’t that like, dangerous?’

  ‘Nah. Not even. I love it.’

  She eyes me now like I’ve just made a bit of a revelation. ‘You must’ve been in the business a while. Unless . . . sorry. None of my business.’

  ‘No, go on.’ I’m intrigued. Ever feel like you’re talking to someone, when in actual fact there are two conversations going on?

  ‘Well, I was just thinking, maybe you work exclusively for one . . . client? Maybe?’ Her voice rises in question, eyebrows along for the ride.

  ‘God, yeah. I couldn’t do this job for more than one.’ There’s nothing worse than supply teaching. ‘I did it once, but I hated the unpredictability. Not knowing what you’re in for, how many—and for how long! And sometimes there are just too many gigs, haring from one side of the city to the other, arriving feeling worn out before you’ve even begun. No one gets any satisfaction in those circumstances. Honestly, you never know if you’re on your arse or your elbow half the time!’

  ‘You mean, you get . . . satisfaction? From your job, so to speak?’

  ‘Well, yeah. I love what I do. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.’

  At this point, Kai saunters into the kitchen, bare feet padding against the cool tiled floor.

  ‘Morning, kitty-kat,’ he murmurs coming up behind me. Resting his hand against my thigh, he places his lips against the smooth skin behind my ear. ‘Sneak thief,’ he sort of whisper-growls.

  The vibration causes my skin to respond in a pleasurable sort of shiver. ‘Meaning?’ I almost groan. Totally would’ve done the whole whore groan/moan thing, but for the girl in the kitchen, currently doing a fair impression of a blow-up doll. Well, the mouth of one anyway.

  ‘Sneaking out of bed and stealing my shirt.’ The words rumble over his shoulder as he steps out the open doors and onto the deck. ‘A coffee would be wonderful, if you don’t mind.’ Walking into the sunshine, he slides black wayfarers over his eyes.

  ‘Earth to Jazz!’ I wave an attention grabbing hand, because yes, I know. He’s dazzling.

  ‘I can see why your job is satisfying,’ she says eventually, blinking down at the loaf in her hand like she’s not sure what it’s doing there. ‘Dude, I came over all . . . not-queer!’ She shakes her head, laughing as she turns to what I totally thought was a microwave set into the wall.

  ‘How does he like it?’

  ‘He . . . I . . . he . . .’ Christ, she’s forward! I bite my tongue from the torrent of words that appear in my head. Hard. Complex. Dominant. Often?

  ‘His coffee, you drongo,’ she says laughing again. She somehow opens another handle-less drawer, pulling
out a tiny cup. ‘I can imagine, though. Dead-set, I nearly went straight for a minute or two.’ She grasps her chin, another masculine gesture, as her words begin to form into some sort of conclusion in my head.

  ‘Mind you, after this weekend, I’m not surprised,’ she blunders on, oblivious to the cogs in my head whirring into action. ‘Prince might’ve said there are 23 positions in a one night stand, but he never had to look at what I did.’ Her whole body shudders. ‘So, Saturday night, right?’ She pops the cup into the microwave/coffee machine-hybrid-thing, pressing a button as it whirs to life. ‘I’m guessing espresso?’ she asks, lifting a carton of milk from the fridge, placing it back at my head shake. ‘I might’ve been wasted, but I had this one night stand, right? Only, turns out, the chick had a vadge like a badly packed kebab. Man, the only position I was interested in was the one at the bus stop.’ Her face is pensive for a moment, her gaze tracking Kai as she stares out of the window now. ‘Bet you’d do him for free,’ she says quietly. ‘I’d almost consider getting on my knees to give him a blowy myself.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Free? A blowy—a blow job?

  Hear that? That’s the sound of the penny finally dropping. I think I must be a little slow this morning. I’ll blame jetlag.

  ‘Jazz,’ I say slowly, ‘I’m not his prostitute. I’m his fiancé.’

  One awkward conversation later—because, as it turns out, the house is used semi-regularly by big-shot business clients, often with a high-end escort in tow—Jazz is very much at pains to make clear she doesn’t discriminate on issues of race, gender, or employ, and therefore meant no offence. No discrimination from me—prozzies pay their taxes just like everyone else. It’s just a fucking job. Ha-ha, literally!

  I decide not to mention it to Kai; I can’t imagine he’d be too impressed. Following him out into the sunshine, I hum that all time Electric Six classic, Gay Bar, under my breath, with Kai’s coffee in one hand and my balanced breakfast in the other. Well, balanced in as much as my plate of Vegemite on toast is sitting on top of my muesli bowl.