by Jade West
I eyed her suspiciously, waiting for her to speak.
“You do remember, don’t you?”
I took a swig of coffee. “Remember what?”
“The gala for the homeless this evening.”
So much for my pissing rest day. “No, I don’t remember.”
“It’s in your calendar. Everyone’s going, Reece and Kate, Richard Kent, Jacqueline Daly, even Veronica Ashdown.”
I sat up in bed, feigning excitement. “Why didn’t you say so? Shit, if Veronica Ashdown is going we’ll simply have to be there.”
“Don’t take the piss,” she snapped. “We need this.”
“I need this like a hole in the fucking head.”
She grabbed my chin, ran her dainty thumb over my stubble. “You need a shave. I’ve already picked out a tux. Hmm, haircut overdue as well.”
“No shave, and no haircut.”
Her grip tightened. “Why do you think you have the deodorant ads, Jase? It’s because you’re a hot fucking piece of man meat. You want to ruin that as well? Why is everything such a bloody battle with you?”
I swatted her hand away. “I said no more galas, or balls, or televised fucking singalongs. I don’t want VIP tickets to any bloody charity events. I couldn’t give a shit what your stupid fucking limelight-hogging friends think of me.”
“What do you want, then? Chatline girls and pay-per-minute webcam? A tramp beard maybe? Classy.” She raised herself from the bed. “Reece is coming for us at seven. Fabien is over soon to pick my outfit, I’ll let you know which cufflinks you need.”
“Fine.” I submitted to my fate. My calves were tight, my right leg still tense despite the physio the day before. I considered asking for a massage but shelved it, easing it myself instead.
It drew her attention. “Injury?”
“Physio say it’s minor. Felt it yesterday, though.”
“Figures. You played like shit yesterday.”
I kicked my feet out of bed, wide fucking awake. “Thanks, coach.”
“You were sloppy. Left the box wide open for that second goal.”
“Yeah, and caught a couple of really decent passes on the break.”
“It’s the goals that make the papers, Jase. Nobody gives a shit about the rest.” She sighed. “Fifteen games left this season. Fifteen measly games left to prove yourself fit for another contract. We can’t afford slip-ups.”
“Just worry your pretty little head about Veronica Ashdown’s outfit. Priorities, right?”
She gave me the finger. “It’s not my fault you’re off your game.”
“How are perfume sales, April? How’s the new Cherry Electric single coming along?”
I struck gold, her face bloomed like a slapped arse. “You really are a cunt, Jason. Just as well you’ve got a chatline girlfriend, nobody real would put up with half the shit I do.”
“Want a fucking medal?”
“I don’t want a fucking medal, Jase.” She paused in the doorway long enough to work up a really good slam. “I want a fucking divorce!”
That made fucking two of us.
***
Chapter Three
Gemma
Sundays can be quiet on chat, and as Tessa works a double shift at the hospital three out of every four, it seemed the best timeslot to take up a new class. Pole Fitness at Dirty Angels dance studio in Camden seemed a good choice. I found it online with rave reviews. Apparently the instructor was qualified in classical ballet as well as taking classes of the more exotic variety. I love that kind of eclectic mash-up.
I was nervous as I got the tube, leggings and a sports top hidden under a long floaty cardigan. I caught my reflection in the underground windows. Crazy hair, freckled face, lots of eyeliner. Same old bubbly, slutty Gemma Taylor. I allowed myself a little smile, past the brunt of the pain, but despite the rebound of confidence I was still over half an hour early, determined to check out the pole weight restrictions before the crowds arrived.
The studio was open but empty. I made my way along the corridor, peering into vacant rooms until I found my destination. A pretty little brunette was setting up mats around the pole bases. She looked up as I approached, a big warm smile on her face. Her eyes were deep and dark, like chocolate pools.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hi. I’m here for pole fitness...”
Her big smile grew even bigger. “Great! A newbie!” she stood and offered a tiny hand. “I’m Cara, pole instructor.”
“Gemma.”
“Nice to meet you, Gemma.” She flicked her hair back from her eyes and tied it up in a pony. “Have you done pole before?”
I shook my head. “No. I dance, though, general dance, I mean.”
“You’ll be a natural, I’m sure.”
Looking between her tiny little frame and the skinny poles, I wasn’t so sure.
Cara led me to a bench at the side. “You can leave your cardi here, if you like. The other ladies will be here soon. We do classes in cycles, but we’re only a couple in, you’ll pick it up no problem, just go at your own pace.”
I felt the burn of embarrassment across my cheeks. “I, um, I just wanted to check... I’m ok for this? Not too heavy, I mean.”
Her eyes were so friendly. She grabbed the nearest pole, yanking it with all her weight. “No way! These babies could take four of you without breaking a sweat.”
Relief flooded me. I shrugged off my cardigan, checking myself out in the mirrored wall. Leggings weren’t forgiving, highlighting all too well the thick trunks of my thighs and the hefty curve of my rump, but I nipped in sharp at the waist, my saving grace. I caught Cara checking out my reflection.
“You’ll look amazing on the pole,” she said. “You have a really great shape.”
“Thanks.”
“And your hair! It’s like fire.”
“My parents call me firecracker.”
“Suits you. Where are you from?”
“Hatfield, moved to London about six months ago with a couple of friends. Haven’t really met anyone else yet, so I thought this would be a start.”
“You’ll meet some great people here, don’t worry about that. Welcome to Dirty Angels, Firecracker Gemma.”
I just knew I was going to love it.
***
Pole fitness burned like a bitch. It burned my arms, my legs, my stomach. I was a sweaty wreck when the hour was over, but I’d made swift work of the warmups and the first few spins.
Cara had grabbed my arm as the other ladies herded out.
“The way you move to the rhythm is so raw, so real, it can’t be taught. You were stunning up there, truly. I hope we see you next week.”
I was still buzzing. Alive from the music, from the beat, from the dance. My skin was flushed, heart pumping, and it felt good. Really, really good. I’d taken my first real steps towards making friends, people who loved to dance as much as I did, people who didn’t want to tear me down and shoot me evils on the dance floor. I was in my happy place.
I was itching to share, but there was nobody really to share with. Chelsea and I still weren’t on the greatest terms, and Tessa was run ragged with work and study assignments. I called my parents but they were out with my uncles. My mind steered to my only other confidant: the man with the voice.
Jason.
I hadn’t heard anything more from him last night. Not since the shriek on the line. I wondered where he was, what he was doing. I wondered whether I’d even hear from him again after that little kick-off. I hoped so.
It scared me just how much I hoped so.
I guess that’s why I booked in the extra hours and set my alarm for 1:45 a.m., and I also guess that’s how I knew I really wouldn’t need the alarm at all.
***
Jason
Once upon a time having April on my arm made me feel richer than any ridiculous salary Kensington Rangers could have put me on. Now it only made me feel like shit. I watched her watching me, like she’d always done in social situations. Only now I knew
the truth. April wasn’t watching me with doe eyes out of affection, or pride. She was watching me for the sake of the cameras and the gossip, and the stupid fucking sponsorship deals.
I’d believed it all in the beginning, all the smoke and mirrors. I’d believed the adoration in her eyes, the tenderness of her arm through mine, the soft press of her hair against my cheek. I’d believed it right up until our wedding day, when tears of happiness pricked at her eyes and her voice had trembled with just the perfect fucking amount of emotion as she made her vows.
I’d believed all of her manipulative little games, only now I knew the truth.
It had to be a lie, because the bitch was still doing all those things, and doing them well. Playing a fucking part, same way she’d always played.
I sat in silence alongside her at our stupidly over-priced table, smiling when she smiled, meeting her eyes when they flashed in my direction. Ten years we’d been doing this shit, and each year it got so much fucking harder.
I’d have served less time for class-A drugs, and an easier pissing sentence.
Champagne after supper, because nothing says help the homeless better than a seven course meal and vintage bubbly. I’m sick to death at the whole pissing hypocrisy of this cruddy scene we creep around in.
Reece fell into the empty seat beside his weathergirl other half, Kate, already half gone on scotch. Reece was from April’s circle, but he was one of the few good guys. A property expert on one of those shitty daytime TV shows.
He pooh-poohed my mineral water, chugging back another shot of whisky.
“Not even one? You bloody paid enough for it.”
I waved his comment aside. “Training tomorrow, heavy session.”
“Dunno how you do it,” he laughed. “Mr Clean, no vices.”
If only he knew.
“Odds are this is my final season, want to go out on a high.”
“Nah, April says you’ve got at least another year in you.”
“April’s convinced I’ll be signed until I’m on a mobility scooter, just as long as I schmooze the right people and look the part when I get on the pitch.”
“Is it true?”
“No. I’m out. Club’s said as much.”
Reece raised his scotch. “To retirement. Lucky bastard. Wouldn’t mind a life of leisure with that little jewel. You’re a lucky man, Jay.”
I choked down my distaste. “Just call me Mr Lucky.”
Reece’s toast interrupted his wife’s monologue, and both Kate and April’s attention speared in my direction. April raised her perfectly arched eyebrows. “What was that?”
He shot her a smile. “Jay was just gloating, telling me how lucky he is to have you.”
That grin again, the one I’d believed all through our engagement. It punched me in the gut so hard I could’ve retched.
“Oh, baby. I’m lucky to have you too.”
She leaned in close enough to brush her lips against the stubble I’d refused to shave for her, soft fingers twisting in the dark tangle of hair I’d refused to have cut. She lingered too long, even for her, and I groaned inside as I saw the official photographer catch us in his crosshairs. I used the opportunity to whisper in her ear.
“I’ve done about as much of this as I can take.”
“Veronica Ashdown’s still here. We’ll go when she goes.”
“Veronica Ashdown’s a fucking alcoholic; she’ll be here until the bar runs dry.”
“Then so shall we.” She disguised the hiss of her words with another doting stroke of my arm.
“I’ve got training in the morning.”
“Doesn’t seem to bother you any other night,” she breathed. “I checked out your phone bills earlier. You’ve become quite the fucking night owl.”
She pulled me in for a kiss to smokescreen our conversation, and I used the opportunity to jam my tongue in her bitchy little mouth. I felt her stiffen, her nails like claws on my knee under the table. It made me laugh inside.
“I can’t wait to get you home, Mrs Redfern,” I lied, loudly.
Kate leaned over, swatting Reece on the elbow. “Aww, did you hear that, Ree? I dunno how they keep it so alive. Take him home, April, I think the man wants a bit of quality time with his lovely wife.” Her laugh grated like razorblades, it was high-pitched and bouncy. Perfect for the weather channel.
“Lucky bastard, get on home with you!” Reece joined in. “We won’t mind, party’s nearly done, anyway.”
“We don’t need to leave yet...” April began, but I talked over her.
“Yes, sweetpea, let’s go. Now. Home’s calling.”
She was in a predicament, squeezed tight between two social disasters. To stay and try and schmooze with Veronica Ashdown, brushing off the comments about our flourishing sex life, or leaving the party early to cement our perfect illusion.
“I’ll just nip to the ladies, then.”
Win!
I checked my phone. Just gone midnight. Lucy rarely works a Sunday, but I’d be home to try her anyway.
Only, I wasn’t. April reappeared from the bathroom arm in arm with Veronica Ashdown, escape shafted.
Fuck the shitty gala, and the sponsorship deals, and the morning fucking training session. Fuck my worthless fucking marriage and my big fucking house in the Surrey fucking countryside. Fuck the mineral water too. I ordered a scotch, and I made it a fucking double.
***
Lucy was surprised to hear from me. I could feel it in her voice. Veronica Ashdown had been jabbering on at our table until gone 2:30 a.m., stupid drunk socialite bitch, and now, at gone half three, I was tipsy on scotch and fucked for training in the morning. Still I’d dialled Lucy’s number.
“I was about to give up on you,” she rasped. She was in bed, I could tell. Her voice is so much softer when she’s in bed. I often wondered who she shared her place with, who she was considerate of waking up. A boyfriend, maybe? A husband? 2.4 kids in the room next door? The thought of her having someone made me both jealous and horny at the same time. That combination always gets me going.
“I was out. Late getting back.”
“Somewhere nice?”
“Not really, no.” I sighed, laying back on my stack of pillows. There was an ocean of space between my room and April’s, enough that I didn’t need to worry about lowering my voice. Unless she was snooping, but I was past caring. “Tell me about your day, Lucy, make me smile.”
Her voice was so warm, so unrestrained. “I took up a new class today. Pole fitness.”
“Pole dancing?” I slid my hand under the duvet.
“Not exactly, but I think I’ll be able to use the skills...”
“I’d love to see you grinding that sweet little slit against the pole for me.”
“You could make me dance for your friends, too.”
“I’ll make you perform for a whole fucking crowd, offer them your sweet little holes to get gang fucked.” My cock thumped against my palm at the thought. I pictured a cute little redhead, staring up at me with glazed eyes as she’s pounded from behind by two big fucking men. Her lips are parted, breathing ragged, and she wants it, she’s moaning for more, begging for my thick, meaty cock in her asshole.
“There are clubs, you know... for that kind of thing...”
Yes, I did know, and so did the PR company I’d paid a small bloody fortune to head off the scandal. “Have you been?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I’d like to... I’d really like to...”
“What stops a hot little minx like you hitting the sex clubs?”
“Nerves... fear... I want a guy to take control, a guy I trust. I want give myself up, but know I’ll be ok. Does that sound fucked up?”
“Sounds sensible.”
She laughed gently, a lovely sound. “Only you would say that, Jason.”
“That’s why I’m that man.”
“How could I trust you to be the one who kept me safe? I don’t even know you.” There was something in her voice, something tea
sing, coaxing.
“I think you know me.”
“Bold statement considering I’ve only ever heard your voice. I don’t know a thing about you.”
“I’m not a psycho, Lucy.”
“You would say that,” she laughed.
“Tell me I’m just a regular caller. That this doesn’t mean anything. Tell me it isn’t going anywhere.”
There was a pause on the line, I let her take her time. “You know it’s not like the others.” Her breathing was shallow, fast. “I think about you all the time.”
I believed her. “You’re playing with your clit, aren’t you? Dirty girl, Lucy, such a good little dirty girl.”
“Fuck, Jason, I’m not even supposed to be working right now, and I’m here, signed in on a shift that’s not mine...”
“I can give you this...” Her voice blocked out everything, all the frustration, all the rage, all the pain. “Everything you need.”
Another pause. “What happened last night? Who was the voice I heard?”
Shit. I opted to suck it up and see. “My wife. We’re estranged.”
“Is that code for I’m married but don’t want it to sound bad?”
“No,” I said, simply.
“Sorry, it’s none of my business,” she said. “I was just curious.”
So was I. Very fucking curious. “Do you have someone?”
“No. I don’t really do relationships.”
“Why not?”
I listened to her breathe. “It’ll be four in the morning soon, do you really want to do this? You’re paying one-fifty a minute.”
“Why don’t you do relationships, dirty girl?”
“I’ll sound like a freak,” she sighed.
It was my turn to laugh. “You want me to arrange for half a dozen strange men to tag team your pussy, and now you’re worried you’ll sound like a freak?”
She laughed along with me, and I realised how long I’d been without the ease of shared humour. “I dunno, I guess I don’t want to do the weekly shop with the same guy who ties me up and fucks the shit out of me. It doesn’t sit right.”