The Gentleman Has Left the Building

by Lucy V. Morgan

  www.lucyvmorgan.com

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © Lucy V. Morgan 2014

  All rights reserved.

  Originally published under the same title at www.lucyvmorgan.com

  Cover Art using Bigstockphoto.com licensed images.

  Publisher’s Note

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to places, persons or events is entirely coincidental and a product of the writer’s imagination.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Please do not re-sell or distribute it. (Every time you steal an ebook, a puppy dies. Horribly. It's like something from SAW).

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Part Two

  Author's Note

  TAINTED TOUCH

  Teaser

  Books by Lucy V. Morgan

  About the Author

  Part One

  Cooking spagheeeeetti. Singing like a diiiiiick. It’s the weekend-y…I can’t rhyme for shiiiiit…

  I am the master of the kitchen. Captain cheese grater. I told Harper when we first got our apartment that my only goal for the next six months was to make her horrendously fat (just ‘cause it‘d be funny); so far she hasn’t succumbed, but there’s a whole pound of bacon in this carbonara and a litre of ice cream in the deep freeze, so maybe she’ll magically inflate in twelve hours?

  My mum taught me to cook. She said it was a good way to impress a woman; I think she was secretly terrified that I’d be single for the rest of my life and would survive on Doritos dipped in boiled eggs (which is the food of Gods, by the way). She’s still confused because Harper and I aren’t a couple--“but you live together all on your own!” she says--and she doesn’t understand why we don’t just confess our secret affair and run off into the sunset. The idea of Harper running anywhere amuses me...but still.

  It’d be like marrying my sister. Well. Harper and I did kiss one rainy, grim Sunday evening. We were hung-over and dejected from our respective break-ups--her ex was conveniently having an affair with mine--so it seemed like it was worth a try. Half way through, I opened my eyes to find that she was watching Supernatural over my shoulder; her tongue went limp in my mouth and then we were laughing, the kind that gives you belly cramp and makes your face crease and ache. When all that subsided, we swore never to speak of it again. I’ve had more fun being single with Harper than I did in my entire last relationship, and that’s really not worth trading in. We're cool advertising execs together, we have our modern, minimalist little bachelor(ette) pad...it's a good arrangement.

  “Rhys?” Harper called from the hall in that throaty, Alanis Morissette voice of hers.

  The front door groaned on its hinges and I heard Harper curse as she bent to take her heels off. Normally, I’d have hopped through and grabbed her ankles so she fell backwards, but my softly bubbling white sauce was more important. (That‘s less pathetic than it sounds).

  “I’m in the kitchen!”

  She padded through and folded her arms. “I forgot the wine.”

  “Well, now you’ve done it. We’ll have to crack open the tequila instead.” I sighed. “Let me guess-- Nathan blinked three times in four seconds and you were too busy orgasming to remember?”

  “That sounds a bit painful. But no.” She pulled her long blond hair from her face and went to stir the carbonara.

  I smacked her hand out of the way. “Bad Harper! Do you know what happens if a woman touches this pan?”

  Her tongue clicked against her teeth. “It’ll taste good for once?”

  “Screw you then. You’re not having any of it!” Sticky spoon aloft, I chased her through to the bathroom, where she hid behind the door and shrieked with laughter.

  Twenty minutes later, we were slobbing out in the lounge with bowls of pasta; me in my sauce-flecked work shirt and Harper in her fuzzy pyjamas (this is how I’m certain the girl doesn’t fancy me: nightwear in hedgehog print).

  “Tequila does not go with smoky bacon and cheese.” She winced.

  “We can’t do soft drinks on a Friday night, Harpcore. We’re already staying in--that’s bad enough.”

  “But it’s our mantra, remember?” She leaned over to prod me with her fork. “We don’t feel sad for not going out on the prowl. We’re secure in our…”

  “…Patheticness?” I said.

  “That’s not even a word!”

  “Yeah, well. You’ve been on the prowl all day anyway, you whore. I’ve seen you.”

  Harper swallowed without chewing properly; she was too busy blushing like a fourteen-year-old in a sex ed class. We worked together at Knoll & co, an advertising agency in London, and Harper had been flirting with Nathan, the new guy, with an embarrassing lack of subtlety. Which amused me no end.

  “Don’t feign ignorance. It won’t wash with me, missy. I saw you.” My turn to prod her. “How long have you been flirting with Sir Cockhead of Brooding?”

  “It’s not flirting.” She shrugged.

  “Oh? Is there a different word for it in Brooding? Is it being a pair of sickening asshats?”

  She grinned at me over her bowl. “Seriously, it's not flirting. It’s…a game.”

  “Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred spanks?” I teased.

  The colour drained from her face. “Oh God. Did you actually see him spank me?”

  “No.” I laughed. “But he really did that in the office? Fucking hell, I’ve got to shake his hand.” Pasta coiled on my fork. “After he’s washed it, anyway.”

  “It’s all part of it though, Rhys. Like unwritten rules. He chases me like that and I keep saying no, but we both know that I like it.”

  I tapped my plate. “Let me get this straight. He’s sexually harassing you, and you like it?”

  “When you put it like that, it sounds kind of creepy.” She pouted at me. “Trust you to suck all the fun out of everything.”

  “But what’s in it for him?”

  She sat back on our brown leather sofa and gazed up at me, twirling blond hair around her finger. “I don’t know, actually. I guess…he likes pretending to coerce me. Likes the thrill of it.”

  “He thinks you’re going to crack. That’s why he’s pursuing you. In the meantime, he’s just getting off on harassing you, which is…” I cleared my throat. “Admirably honest.”

  “I want to crack. Of course I do. But this is nice, Rhys. You know the little thrills you get from having a crush on somebody? I get them all the time, and they’re kind of half consummated with the way he plays with me.” She smiled, bit her lip; tempted, wistful. “It’s a perfect balance.”

  “Only a woman would refer to a sexless relationship as perfect,” I mumbled.

  “You don’t get it. It’s not sexless. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever done.” Another smile, triumphant now in that way only women are capable of. “And maybe I will crack, eventually. When the time’s right. I mean…otherwise one of us will get bored and it’ll all just go to waste, huh? But until then, while it’s still…swelling…I’m holding on.”

  “Until he gets blue balls.” I grinned. “Evil Harpie.”

  “Anyway, enough about me. Who have you been lusting over this week?”

  “Caroline’s tits were exceptionally perky today,” I said slowly.

  “They’re always perky.” She rolled her eyes. “Stop avoiding my question.”

  “Okay, okay. Well. There is one girl.”

  Actually, there had been “a girl” for several weeks, but you can’t mention these things until you’ve put the feelers out. My feelers went out last Thursday and they hadn’t come back yet…I'm guessing they found an abandoned KFC bucket and were probab
ly lying face down in their own vomit.

  “Who?” Harper squeaked, suddenly alight with intrigue. “Does she work with us?”

  “Nope.”

  “Does she go to our gym?”

  “Still no.” I smiled. “In truth…there’s not a lot to tell yet, okay? Give me a few days and I’ll talk.”

  “You’ll get blue balls,” she grumbled.

  “Will you suck them, if I do?”

  Harper launched a cushion at me. “Bleugh. No!”

  ****

  There’s only one reason why I know what seven AM on a Saturday looks like, and that’s this one girl. Well. That and Aidan, my mate from kickboxing; if I don’t join him for a run in the local park three times a week then he threatens to turn up at my office and do one of his Broadway dance routines. I wouldn’t put it past the sly ginger bastard.

  “You’re late.” He snorted at me in disgust.

  "You're wearing a hairband," I shot back.

  He pushed the thick blue bland back into his curly red hair, and wiggled his eyebrows. "Have to protect the 'fro. Also, you're late."

  “I’m not late. I’m…arriving later than normal.” I bent to tighten my laces and the whole world whooshed forwards. Ugh. “I’m on hangover time.”

  “Oh, I see. A few vodkas and you’re Doctor fucking Who.” He flexed his hands at me. “I can see it now: gracefully bounding towards your foxeh laydeh with your stripy scarf billowing behind you in the breeze--”

  “Sod off, will you? It’s half seven! What are we doing here?” I glanced around at the deserted park. Hills rolled away from us in fading shades of green, and tall old trees swelled against the skyline.

  “I like it,” he huffed. “It’s all dewy and scenic.”

  “Are you sure you’re not gay?”

  “Whether I like cock or not is none of your business. Now run ahead of me so I can--” He gave my arse a sharp once over, “--make sure you keep up.”

  I shook a feeble fist in the air. “If I wasn’t so afraid of you, I’d still be in bed,” I said weakly.

  “We both know you’re not here for me, you perv. Quick! On your left, near the willow tree.”

  And there she was. There she was.

  We’d named her Nicole. I don’t know whether you remember those sad nineties Renault adverts-- Nicole? Papa!--but like her, she was youthful and groomed and shiny, with her hair all streaked with honey and slender little shoulders that lead down to…nnnghh. I could see the sun refracting off her lip gloss from ten feet away. I bet she was French, like in the advert. I thought about her saying my name in that accent all the time…Rhys…

  “Legs like a school girl.” Aidan sighed. “The slutty schoolgirl. The one who hikes her skirt right up to flash her history teacher, and gives blow jobs in the alley behind the corner shop.”

  I elbowed him. “What, like your mother?”

  “Technically, we don’t know that she’s not a schoolgirl,” he said dryly.

  “Well…I’ll find out.”

  I wished he’d shut up and just let me gawp at her. We’d got a nice spot under some trees where she probably couldn’t see us and her tits were doing that lovely judder with every skippy step. Bounce and quiver. Bounce and quiver. Are her nipples were chafing against that tight vest? Wonder what shape they are…

  “Nicole!" Aidan barked in a comically low voice. "Why you dress like a whore for running? Why you not go ze gym like respectable femme?” His dirty old Frenchman accent wobbled into the squeak of a young girl. “But Papa, ze boys, they stare at me in ze gym! Ze park, it is full of the beauty of nature, and I exercise in peace. One time, Rosemary say a weird advertising exec, he stalk me. But she had mouthful of brie, so maybe I mishear her.”

  “Dude. Shut up.”

  “I’ve had enough. Come on.”

  Aidan tugged me by the arm and I couldn’t not run with him--if I didn’t, I’d fall flat on my face.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed.

  “Exercising…in the beauty of nature…”

  He dragged me towards Nicole. We were gaining on her. Fucking hell!

  “No, no, no!” I twisted my elbow but he wouldn’t loosen his grip. “You are not going to make her associate me with you --”

  That was when she stopped. She must’ve got cramp in one of her quadriceps because she cocked one ankle a few paces forward and then slowly bent at the knee. Two firm, peachy globes spread before us as she sank to touch her foot. Every fantasy I’d entertained about lapping at her there flashed through my head, and blood licked the base of my cock with a sticky tongue. Please don’t let her--

  “Sorry.” Aidan smiled.

  --turn around. Fuck.

  “I didn’t mean to get in your way,” she said shyly.

  She wasn’t French. She was disgustingly posh, actually…still. It suited her. Suited that mouth.

  “Of course you weren’t.” He nodded towards the woods in front. “Are you running the Chestnut Trail?”

  “I was going to.” She panted lightly and a little sheen of sweat dusted her temples. “Are you?”

  “Yep.” The word lunged from my mouth before I even knew it was there and just like that, I’d spoken to her. Made my first impression. With Aidan…ugh.

  “Would you mind if we joined you?” Aidan held a bold hand out to her. “I’m Aid, by the way. This is my good friend, Rhys.”

  Nicole studied the hand for a second before she took it. “I think I’ve seen you before.”

  “Yeah. We come here…often.” You moron. Moron! Just shut your mouth.

  “We’re pretty serious about training,” Aidan added, pumping her hand lightly. “And you are…?”

  “Nicole.”

  Before we could help it, we exchanged joyous glances, and it was too late--Nicole eyed us with awkward suspicion. She stood fully now, her hands splayed either side of the waistband on those short, short shorts.

  “Actually,” she started, “I think I might try the Foxglove Trail.”

  Aidan wasn’t fazed. “It was nice to meet you, Nicole. You’ll have to tell us whether that one’s any good.”

  “Maybe.” She rubbed dust from her shorts with three short strokes, turned on her heel, and jogged off. “Bye…”

  I wanted to watch her arse again but I was too mortified. She gained speed deliberately, making short work of the path to the lake as her ponytail swung behind her.

  “You fucktard,” I hissed. “You…fucking fucktard!”

  Aidan folded his arms.

  “What?”

  “She’s a young girl on her own and we’re two big guys, and you ask if we can run with her into an isolated wood? You might as well have just said, oh, hi! Did you dial 0800-Pleasant-Morning-Rapes? We‘re your helpful consultants, Chester and Hannibal. Where would you like to be violently restrained?”

  He was trying not to laugh, but it wouldn’t stick in his throat and he spluttered, turning almost as red as his hair. “You might have a point there, actually.” He sighed as he regained composure. “Oops.”

  “And she’s called Nicole, for crying out loud.” Here it comes…the slow jut…ahh. My spoiled boy-pout. “Think of the sex I just missed out on because of you. Fucktard.”

  “We still don’t know if she’s legal. You might not have been having any sex at all. Or at least…not any you should admit to in public.” He paused, his eyes darting about. “If you do want a young-looker, I could hook you up. I, er…know people.”

  “I’ve blown it. You’ve blown it. You work in theatre, for fuck’s sake--you’re supposed to be charming, not a shameless twat!

  His brows dipped in a nonchalant little frown, as if he knew something that I didn’t. This is what I got for making friends at kick-boxing club: twisted characters. Chuck Palahniuk did try to warn me, but did I listen? Noooo. Aidan was known to be tough-but-fun to train with and I just wanted to be buff for Nicole.

  Now I was never going to hear her whimper my name while she staggered forward on all fours, and i
t wasn’t because she was English.

  ****

  The phone rang—no, screamed--in my ear. I’m not sure why it was next to my head, but at noon on a Sunday, I generally wasn't sure of much. Not recently.

  “What?” I mumbled into the receiver. Half of Man United had evidently been Russian dancing on my forehead before lining up to shit in my mouth. “Mpppfh.”

  “Tell me you’re not still in bed,” groaned Bailey. “It’s lunchtime, Rhys.”

  “It’s the day of rest. Why are you disturbing my sacred slumber?”

  “I’m reminding you about Dad’s birthday on Wednesday.”

  There was an awkward beat of silence before Bailey cleared her throat; we didn’t actually share a dad. Mine was dead, and hers had been an awesome stand-in, but his birthday was always a dull reminder that my Dad didn’t have one anymore.

  “I remember,” I lied.

  “Nope, you don’t. I bet you don’t remember about his party on Sunday, either.” She sighed. “Can you Paypal me the money for the cake?”

  “Will do.”

  “Awesome. So…” There was that cloying tone again, the one that meant she was about to pry. My sister is about as subtle as Gangnam Style. “Bringing anyone special to the party?”

  I rolled over and rubbed my cheek against the pillow, the way cats nuzzle random people’s legs. “Not really.”

  “You could bring Harper,” she chirped. “I want to introduce you to someone, anyway.”

  Oh shit. Oh no. My little sister could not have escaped the purgatory of rejection before I had. I was way more suave than her (which wasn’t hard, actually. But don’t tell her I said that).

  “Have you become a lesbian?” I said, hopefully.

  “I won’t lie. It was appealing for a while. But…no. Erm. D’you remember my friend Linc?”

  “Gay vampires Linc?”

  She giggled. “Yep.”

  Nearly a year ago now, Bailey’s YouTube star friends did some storyboards for the advertising agency. In the end, we didn’t pick the pitch up, but they’d come in to present them: a stocky, obnoxious beast called Olly and his evidently embarrassed mate. I was relieved that Bailey had picked the quieter half of the duo, but…she’d barely been single a few weeks and frankly, this was not fair.