by Amy Daws
I hop out of bed and pop into my attached loo to brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I am in serious need of sleep. Arguing with Tanner is more exhausting than a twelve-hour surgery at the hospital. Thank God I’m not on call tomorrow.
My face heats when I look at myself in the mirror and recall how Tanner looked in those joggers downstairs. Christ, they were riding so low, his V-line was on perfect display for me, pointing to the area I remember with absolute clarity. He probably did that on purpose, the cheeky bastard. But the damage is done. Tanner Harris’ cock is burned into the penis vault of my mind, whether I like it or not. Why couldn’t it have been crooked? Or bald? Or overflowing with so much pubic hair you couldn’t see where his hair ended and his dick started? That seems like the kind of penis he should have been swinging. It enrages me that it had to look better than all the others I’ve had before.
And I’ve had plenty.
I’m not a whore, per se. I’m experienced. I’m twenty-seven years old, I’m unattached, I have a stressful job, and I like to have fun. Indie and I have our tradition called Tequila Sunrise that we started when we both first became doctors. It basically involves us going out and partying our arses off, and that level of commitment usually coincides with a good amount of blokes.
Tequila Sunrise began when we got a harsh dose of reality at the hospital one night. We thought life couldn’t look any grimmer. It essentially became our version of carpe diem, which is survival to get through the bad days of being a doctor. We make it a priority to take advantage of all sorts of experiences life has to offer. As a result, this is the lifestyle I’ve chosen for myself: Single, ready to mingle, and happy to have a dingle on a regular and satisfactory basis.
I don’t date seriously because I don’t have the bloody time. My fellowship with Dr. Miller at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital is gruelling. Dr. Miller is so talented and smart that I’m constantly on my toes, trying to keep my head above water. She’s devoted her life to saving babies before they’re born, and I want to soak up everything I can while I have her. It’s important to me to feel I’ve made an impact on this world and I can’t think of a better way to do so.
As I slip into a pale blue, satin cami with matching shorts, I argue with myself that I’m not wearing these because of the fact that Tanner is here. Rather, I’m wearing them in spite of the fact that Tanner is here. I’m not going to change what I want to wear just because we have an unruly boy in the flat. No indeed.
By the time I snuggle into my bed and allow myself to drift off to sleep, I’ve forgotten all about the obnoxious man downstairs and am very much feeling completely secure with my place in this world.
But I don’t sleep for long because, nearly every single night, I wake up out of nowhere and see three a.m. on my digital clock. My body has developed an annoying internal clock that thinks three a.m. is a great time for a snack. My great Aunt Doris was afflicted with the same syndrome. She used to say, “Oh, honey, I have the same trouble. It’s those biscuits. They call to me in the night! Bloody well scream until I get up and eat them.”
Except my biscuits come in the form of dark chocolate. I’ve been snacking in the middle of the night since I was twelve years old. My mother even had me see a sleep specialist to try to break me of the habit. I used to say I never remembered eating the snacks, so the doctor told her that I was sleep eating and not much could be done for it.
But that was a bald-faced lie. I knew exactly what I was doing when I sunk my teeth into the gorgeously bitter chocolate that exploded in my mouth with a riot of sweet, zingy comfort. My late night indulgence is a large reason why I have trouble with my weight. But my indulgence is louder than my vanity so chocolate always wins.
My nighttime snack is not an accident; it’s a commitment.
“I deserve it.” I say my three little magic words and toss off my duvet. I pad out the door of my bedroom and glance over the railing to see a sleeping Tanner still down on my sofa. The bluish security light from outside illuminates his bare chest enough for me to assess he’s breathing heavily. He’s just coming off of a match and with all his extracurricular activities last night, he has to be out cold.
I tiptoe down the stairs, doing my best to avoid all the creaky spots when I walk by Tanner’s chiselled abs that are mercilessly taunting me. I make it past my dining room table and through the door into the kitchen without a peep. I open the cubby that hides my secret stash of Cadburys and begin nibbling on a dark chocolate bar. It tastes divine. It’s smooth and creamy with fruity notes that makes my inner fat girl purr with satisfaction. I’ve never understood the women who prefer salty snacks like crisps. Get me a lump of chocolate any day and you have me begging like a sex addict in a strip club.
The only thing that could top off this treat is a dash of milk. I open the fridge and am rummaging around for the carton when a voice from behind me says, “Well, hello, hello. Mind if I have a bite?”
I jump straight up and knock my head into something hard and hear a groan of pain. I turn to find Tanner stumbling backwards, holding onto the refrigerator door for balance with one hand and clutching his chin with the other.
“Bollocks, my head,” I moan and rub the spot beneath my topknot that whacked into him. “You scared me half to death, you arse!”
I prop myself against the counter next to the fridge, my hand over my chest as I try to slow my heart rate. It’s racing partly because I didn’t hear him, but mostly because my guilty conscience is waking up more fully and scolding me for sneaking chocolate at three in the morning.
“I just wanted a bit of whatever you’re nibbling on,” he says innocently while draping his forearm on the open door. The light from inside is blasting straight on him, casting extreme shadows over every single ridge of muscle.
I tear my eyes away from his body and reply through clenched teeth, “Did you have to drape yourself over the top of me to ask? God, you were practically mounting me!”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Well, I was enjoying the view for a while, but then I started to feel a bit pervy staring at your arse hanging out of those tiny shorts. I figured I’d better make my presence known before I took a bite of the wrong treat.” He winks.
My jaw drops as my hand moves to my backside. Standing upright, the hem barely reaches the bottom of my arse. Bloody hell, he had quite the view indeed.
Before I have a chance to think about what he’s just said, his deep voice adds, “Though I will say the front view isn’t half bad either.”
I suck in a gasp of air as he closes the fridge and moves into my personal space to rest a hand on either side of the counter behind me. In the sudden darkness, my other senses kick into overdrive. He smells a bit like my car and a bit like the musky scent a man gets after a busy day. It’s a touch of deodorant, faint remnants of soap, and then just…man. I can feel the hardness of my nipples drag along the satiny material of my cami as I take in big gulps of air. The sensation of the fabric makes everything inside of me hum. I’m on Tanner sensory overload, and I feel like a completely different person right now.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice raspier than I anticipated in response to Tanner’s warm breath hitting the top of my head as he looms over me.
He’s tall. I’m five nine and have an undying love for heels, so I’m used to dating men my height. But with both of us barefoot, my gaze barely meets his furry chin. He presses himself flush against me and I nearly moan as I feel the outline of his semi hard cock on my hip. At least I think it’s a little hard. If that’s Tanner Harris soft, I don’t know what to think of how he’d feel if he was completely erect.
I should be pushing him away. I should be disgusted by his body touching mine, especially when Lord only knows what else it’s touched in the last twenty-four hours. But in the night like this, I’m a slave to my hormones. And the truth is, there’s a little dark place in my body that still aches to know what it would be like to fuck Tanner Harris. Just once.
I hate that p
art of me. I loathe and despise it. She’s an adulterous cunt.
Suddenly, his warm breath in my ear sends a shiver down my neck as he fumbles for something behind me. He pulls back with a foiled chocolate in his hand.
“This will be the perfect starter.” His eyebrows tweak lasciviously as he turns to walk away, calling over his shoulder, “You might need to find a new hiding place, Ryan.”
I WAKE THE NEXT MORNING to Indie fervently shaking me.
“Tanner. Tanner, it’s Camden on the phone.”
“What?” I croak, my voice hoarse as I throw the blanket off of me and begin to sit up.
“It’s Cam,” she says, stepping back from me. Her cheeks turn pink and she quickly diverts her gaze to the window.
My brows lift as I look down to see I’m sporting a full stiffy beneath my joggers. “Sorry about that. Guess he’s a morning person.”
Indie shakes her head and blindly reaches back with her mobile in her hand.
“Did my girlfriend just see you pitching a tent?”
“I’m afraid she did, bro. Don’t worry about it, though. She’s seen worse in the changing room. Those ice baths don’t pour themselves.”
“Tanner!” Cam roars.
I wince but, despite my better judgement, don’t relent. “I hope this doesn’t create a complex between you two. You may have been bigger when we were born, but that’s because all my muscle went to my cock.”
I give myself a lazy but proud laugh at his harsh exhale.
“You’re not going to be laughing any longer when you hear what I’m calling about.” My stomach drops and I throw my feet on the floor. “There aren’t just pictures, Tanner. There’s a whole spread in the paper this morning.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “What could they have to say about me other than stupid hashtags?”
“Belle,” he answers.
“What?”
“Belle Ryan. Dr. Ryan. Indie’s flatmate and best fucking friend.”
“I know who she is. What does she have to do with it?” I snap, tension radiating in my temples. This is way too much stress for seven in the morning.
“They ran her plate. They know who she is.”
I’m still not getting the picture.
“Tanner, do you not know who Belle is?”
“What do you mean? I just said I do!” My voice is really high-pitched. Why is my voice so high-pitched?
“I mean, do you not know who her family is?”
“Obviously not. Who the fuck are they? The Royal Family?”
“Bloody close,” Camden answers. “Her dad’s a Lord and a High Court judge, Tan. He’s due to take a seat on the Supreme Court. Her family is a big fucking deal and this isn’t the kind of scandal they’ll be willing to tolerate.”
I stand up and my morning stiffy is practically inverted right now. “Fuck.”
“Fuck is right.”
“So what’s the paper say? Did they see everything?”
“No, it doesn’t look like anybody got a shot of you completely naked. You’re damn lucky Belle got there when she did. It looks like you might just be shirtless in her car. It still looks bad, though. The paper included shots of all the other women you’ve been seen with recently, and they are putting Belle into the mix of being just another one of many casual conquests, I think they called her.”
“Christ,” I groan. This isn’t fair to her, and with who her father is, I don’t know what this will mean. “Does Dad know?”
A long pause.
“Camden, just tell me.”
“Yes. Dad knows.”
The way he says it so flatly, I know there’s something he’s not saying. “I’m suspended, aren’t I?”
“Tan—”
“Fuck!” I shout and turn to kick the sofa as hard as I can, jamming my big toe in the process. “This is all fucked.”
“Tanner, I know, but just calm down. We’ll figure this out. You’re not the only one to worry about right now. Belle’s family is going to go mental. We have to figure out a way to make this better. To make this right. We’ll just…”
He continues talking, but I don’t hear a word from him anymore when I catch sight of Belle sitting at the bottom of the stairs, mobile clutched firmly in her hand. She’s staring out the windows like a mannequin, completely immobile. Suddenly, everything I was worried about for myself has evaporated.
“Cam, I’ll call you back,” I state and hang up without another word.
I walk over to her. “Ryan, look, I’m so sorr—”
“No, no. Don’t speak,” she says quickly, her speech on some sort of weird hyper speed as she shakes her head back and forth like she has Tourette’s.
I crouch down in front of her. Her dark eyes are glossy with unshed tears. Her hair is sleep tousled and in a messy bun on the side of her head. She’s still in her silky pyjamas. The ones that I was thinking about when Indie woke me up this morning. I don’t know what that was in her kitchen last night, flirting or something more, but I know it felt fucking fantastic to be pressed up against her. I liked her like that. She was quiet and soft, completely disarmed in the dark. She didn’t have the hard shell of contempt that she usually does for me.
I try again. “No really, Ryan, I’ll make this right. I have to—”
“Not another word,” she snaps and stands up so we’re eye-to-eye. “It’s not bad enough you have to fuck up your own life, but now you’re fucking up mine, too.”
“Look, I can fix this. We’ll find a way.”
“You can’t fix anything!” she shrieks. “This is out there already. I’m a ‘Tanner Harris Casual Conquest.’ It’s unfixable. Unless you have a time machine, there’s nothing you can do.”
“Let me talk to my dad,” I say. “We will figure something out.”
“I don’t need your help,” she bites. “You said it yourself last night, Tanner. I did this to myself. I could have sent Indie. I could have called you a cab. I drove over there to get you and now I’ve exposed myself to the city of London. This is my mess and I’ll figure out what to do from here.”
“Exposed yourself?” I ask, thinking that’s a strange choice of words considering I was the naked one. But I’m silenced again as she turns her mobile screen toward me.
It’s a shot of us in her car. She’s in a thin tank top, one strap slipped off her shoulder. My hand is on the back of her seat, and the way we’re leaning into each other looks like we’re about ready to fuck like animals.
She turns and makes her way back up the stairs.
“Belle, please,” I beg.
She stops at the top and laughs. “Now you call me Belle. That’s so ironic.”
I jump as she slams the door to her bedroom, effectively punching me right in the nuts.
SIX MISSED CALLS. SIX MISSED calls from my father that I’m terrified to answer. My father and I never talk on the phone. Ever. My mother always calls to relay whatever family information I need to be aware of and that’s that. I haven’t even told them about my new job yet. They wouldn’t care. They never care.
The Ryan family comes from a long line of barristers. My grandfather was on the Supreme Court for years, earning the Ryans a courtesy title of Lord Ryan. My father is positioning to take the next open seat, so everything our family does has been calculated and orchestrated my entire life. Everything I do is judged, right down to the way I wear my hair to the colour of my shoes at a party.
Then, I had the audacity to become a doctor instead of a barrister like my older brother, and that basically secured my label as the permanent black sheep of the family. It’s ridiculous to think a child who chooses to practice medicine instead of law is a lesser person, but my family sees medicine as a service job and beneath our station.
My older brother, Ronald, always did exactly as he was told. He went to the right schools, got the perfect grades, dated girls from appropriate families. He would never admit this but his marriage was practically arranged. I overheard my father talking to his fianc
é’s father at their engagement party and the whole conversation made me sick.
Growing up, we lived in Kensington in a huge mansion with staff as if we were one position away from The Royal Family. It was ridiculous and I never knew what it was like to be comfortable in my own home. I was also constantly getting picked at by my mother. I was too transparent. I had too many feelings, too many expressions. I did too much sharing. I wasn’t to speak until I was spoken to and I never could get the hang of that.
I’ve always had a voice. I lead my life by my emotions and my opinions. It’s served me well in the field of medicine, helping me empathise with my patients and pour my passion into doing good work. I don’t know how I could live any other way. That is why I went to med school instead of law school. If there was anything I could do to pull myself away from the cold lifestyle they thrust at me, I was in.
So I received my degree and accepted a job that kept me so busy I couldn’t see straight most days. My work schedule was erratic and I was always on call or in the middle of surgery. It was exhausting, but it helped me escape that life because I wasn’t able to attend society parties and functions.
Eventually my parents stopped forcing me to attend. They even quit requesting my presence at smaller family functions. They knew I hated it all. And I think part of them was relieved when they realised life could go on without me.
The circle my family runs in is full of political, narcissistic, holier-than-thou, rich arseholes. And up until now, I was all but forgotten. But, to my family, me being photographed semi-naked with a footballer who has a publicly loose reputation will be as devastating as the divorce of Prince Charles and Princess Diana.