Apparently, just his name.
She drifted back to reality to find her sisters arguing about Lady Gaga, because of course they were.
“It was a stepping stone. Everyone stumbles during a period of growth.”
“It was ruinous, Evie. I mean!” Dani threw up her hands. “After the majesty of Born This Way—”
“You only like Born This Way because it’s all dark and evil and rah-rah-rah.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I like it because it’s unapologetically sexual and ironically German.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Says the woman who prefers ‘Paper Gangsta’ to ‘Judas.’”
“Oh, please,” Eve scoffed, clearly disgusted. “That track is the biggest waste of vocal talent ever created.”
Dani arched an eyebrow. “Darling. You act as though you’ve never heard a Miley Cyrus song.”
Eve’s scowl wavered, then disappeared. She giggled. Dani laughed.
Chloe rolled her eyes. “If you two are quite finished . . .”
Truthfully, they shouldn’t be here at all. Dani had a never-ending list of Ph.D. things to accomplish, and Eve was always embroiled in some favor or other for one of her many friends. But they’d come anyway, because they were her parents’ agents in the secret war to Monitor Poor Chloe’s Health—and because they wanted to make sure that she didn’t pass out in the shower and crack her head open. Chloe wanted to make sure of that, too, so their presence was always appreciated on days like these. But they had other places to be, lives to live, et cetera.
And Chloe had an item to check off her Get a Life list. All she had to do was get the ball rolling.
So she shooed her sisters out of the flat, kissing cheeks and arranging a film night, vowing to visit Gigi soon—Eve would pass on the message—and showering them in sarcastic remarks because she’d rather die than actually say Thank you. She hadn’t always been like this, a tongue with the tip bitten off, her feelings squashed into a box. But help and concern, even from the people she loved—even when she needed it—had a way of grating. Of building up, or rather, grinding down. Truthfully, guiltily, sometimes simple gratitude tasted like barely sweetened resentment in her mouth. So she didn’t express it at all.
When they were gone, she felt deflated and unusually alone, even though Smudge had reappeared from his hiding place. She stood in her empty living room, which was now tidier, thanks to Dani, and stared at the window across the courtyard.
She’d googled Redford, of course. She’d even used her proper computer, the dual-monitor desktop in her bedroom, despite the fact that her touchscreen laptop and a small mountain of pillows were far more comfortable. She’d simply needed as much visual detail as possible. It had been a purely professional exercise: she’d wanted to find out if he already had an online presence, and if she was right in assuming that the website he needed had something to do with his art. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, exactly—but what she’d found were images of his work, images beautiful enough to take her breath away, shared on multiple sites and social media accounts by fans who asked each other where Redford Morgan had gone.
He’s busy charming tenants in a block of flats in South Nottinghamshire. And yes, to answer your countless questions, he is indeed still creating.
She’d also found tabloid photographs, ones that surprised her far more than his talent and popularity. They’d shown big, rough Redford Morgan exiting glittering events on the arm of some society blonde with huge teeth. The woman was pretty and well-dressed, with glossy hair and designer shoes. She looked at Red the way a wolf eyed a sheep.
That was when Chloe had stopped googling. Something about that look sent a shiver creeping down her spine. Something about witnessing that look felt like . . . snooping. Which she had vowed to stop doing. For that very reason, she’d decided to forget all about her research, to act as though she knew nothing of Red’s life. She would be the picture of ignorance, and therefore innocence, at their website consultation.
She hoped.
Chapter Six
When Red was six or seven, he’d had a babysitter named Mandy. Mandy was only about thirteen herself, but she’d watched him in the evenings for a tenner a week, which in those days was enough money to keep her rolling in snacks and the occasional sneaky cigarette. She was a proper bookworm, but she’d wanted to do a good job watching him and all. She’d compromised by shoving him into bed early and reading aloud from her book of the moment for an hour or two. He blamed Mandy, to this day, for the strange quality of his dreams.
Thanks to her copies of Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan, Red’s nights were always a bit too vivid. He had Technicolor dreams, through-the-looking-glass dreams, down-the-rabbit-hole dreams. Dreams where shooting stars streaked fuchsia across bruised, sunset skies, and people didn’t move so much as swirl into existence toward him, and music lived under his skin. It wasn’t exactly normal, but it was what he’d grown used to. Which was why last night’s dream had disturbed him so much.
Last night’s dream had been different.
Dark, for one thing, pitch black, as if the lights were off inside his mind. Hot, hot like a midsummer evening, the air sultry and rich. And he’d been with a woman. Touched her, kissed her, woken up with his own come painting his belly and her name on his lips.
Chloe.
Suffice it to say, he wasn’t too happy about the implications. His wet dreams were few and far between because he was a grown man, and when they did happen, they involved cheerful, faceless women who didn’t mind getting come on their tits. Maybe Chloe wouldn’t mind getting come on her tits, either—Dream Chloe certainly hadn’t—but she definitely wasn’t cheerful or faceless. She also wasn’t orgasm safe.
He couldn’t stop reliving that dream, though. That fantastic fucking dream.
After a morning of mucking up basic maintenance, and an afternoon of struggling to bleed 3B’s radiator—which was impressive, since it should be categorically impossible to fail at bleeding a radiator—he’d given up and gone home. He was now sitting in his bedroom like a lemon, as if returning to the scene of the crime would render him able to focus again. Un-bloody-likely, but Christ, something had to give.
Red fell back against the pillows and sighed. He was beginning to think he had some kind of fetish for unsuitable women. First there’d been Pippa, and now this disturbing interest in Chloe. It wasn’t attraction, exactly, couldn’t be, because Red had only ever been attracted to women he actually liked. No, this was something else. Something that whispered to him even now, heating his skin with memories of last night, swallowing up his good intentions and making his cock swell against his thigh. He took a breath, then another. He closed his eyes and drummed his fingers against the sheets. He resisted sudden, twisted temptation for as long as he could.
Which turned out to be about five seconds. Then he cracked like a perverted egg.
He was still wearing his uniform overalls, so it took one hand to pop open the buttons, reach past the waistband of his shorts, and palm his cock. When his mind helpfully produced the three-day-old memory of Chloe’s bare calves and gleaming collarbone, he was caught between self-disgust and relief. On the one hand, it was incredibly weird that those glimpses were enough to get him going. On the other, it was also pretty convenient, since he would never actually see her naked body.
He could imagine it, though. And he did. Inside his mind, Chloe Brown was in his bed because she belonged there. He had no idea why she belonged, and Dream Chloe was in no state to explain it to him, but she definitely did. He could feel her soft skin against his, her breath in his ear, her nails digging into his biceps. A phantom scent haunted him, salty like the ocean air on a seaside holiday—or like the sweat between the bodies of two people chasing sensation.
He squeezed the base of his shaft and felt an electric pulse of pleasure. His other hand moved to cup his heavy sac, full and firm and tight against his palm. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or worr
ied by the realization that this wouldn’t take long. A minute, at most. He stroked himself hard, twisting his fist as he reached the swollen head, smoothing slick pre-come over sensitive skin with his thumb.
Sinking into her was tempting, but he moved down her naked body instead. Eyes shut against the truth of his own weakness, he breathed her in, bathed in her heat. Lowered his head. Swept his tongue over her, parting plump labia to tease her clit and taste the wet, scorching center of her cunt. In the real world, he shuddered, as if his body was overwhelmed. His next breath sounded more like a gasp. He stroked himself faster and thought about how she’d react, how her thighs would tighten around him and her hips would arch up toward him and that dangerous voice of hers would crack on his name—
Someone knocked at his front door.
Red shot out of bed and stared down at himself. His overalls gaped open in a helpful little window of perversion, displaying his jutting cock—also known as the undeniable evidence of what he’d almost done. But, he told himself feverishly, last night didn’t count since it had been a dream, and this didn’t count because he hadn’t actually come. It didn’t count. Everything was fine. He cleared his throat, shoved his traitorous dick out of sight, and headed for the bathroom. On his way, he called in the direction of the door, “Just a sec.”
The last voice he’d wanted to hear replied, “Please, don’t hurry on my account.” A crisp, deadpan tone that he now knew signified a joke.
Red froze, asked God what he’d ever done to deserve this, then remembered his activities of approximately sixty seconds ago and realized the answer. Hoping he was wrong, knowing he wasn’t, he choked out, “Chloe?”
“Very astute, Mr. Morgan.”
Shit.
“Just . . . hold on,” he ordered, jerking back to life. He rushed to the bathroom, his heart pounding. Hands were washed, uncomfortably warm cheeks were cooled with tap water and his overalls were buttoned up. Completely. To the very top. He had the strangest idea that his virtue wasn’t safe around her, which was the single weirdest thought he’d ever had. He pulled himself together—eventually—and went back to answer the door. And when he saw her, he understood why he hadn’t been able to get her off his mind.
His dreams couldn’t truly re-create her. Something about her was too striking to remember accurately, as if his brain didn’t have the right tools. She watched him with those endless eyes, folding her arms under her breasts—but he wouldn’t look at those—and arching her eyebrows. One, as always, winged higher than the other. Just like one corner of her lush mouth tilted a little higher, making her look as if she was smirking.
Actually, she was smirking. She cocked her head and asked, “What on earth has happened to you?”
Red looked down sharply, searching for whatever had given him away. The baggy cut of his clothes hid the fact that his cock was, for some reason, still hard. He stared at his own hands and found them unusually paint-free and, more important, come-free. Because he hadn’t actually come. Which was key information. He met her gaze and said, as calmly as he could manage, “What do you mean?”
She studied him suspiciously. “You’re all flushed. Your hair is a mess. And . . .” She leaned forward, squinting at his chest. “I think you’ve done your buttons incorrectly.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. She knew. Somehow—perhaps because she was a witch who haunted his dreams—she knew. And now she’d hold it over his head, use it as a weapon, because that’s what people like her did. He knew it. He’d learned it well. He—
“Redford Morgan,” she said severely, “have you been sleeping on the job?”
He was so relieved, he almost passed the fuck out. He clutched the door frame and released a heavy breath, his hair hanging around his face as his head fell forward. Then he remembered that he was trying to seem normal, unsuspicious, and not at all like a man who wanked over women—tenants—he barely knew. He straightened and cleared his throat in what could only be described as the guiltiest move of all time. Chloe was eyeing him with obvious confusion.
“I was,” he lied. “I was taking a nap.”
“Hmm. I expect you’re one of those people who doesn’t respect the power of ten hours a night.”
“I thought it was eight?”
“Rubbish. It’s definitely ten.”
The glint in her eye said she was prepared to argue. He decided not to push it and searched for another subject. His gaze landed on the sturdy black case hanging from her shoulder. “Got something for me?”
“In a way. It’s my laptop. I thought I’d call round and see if you were free for the consultation.” She stepped forward. There was so much authority in that single step that he automatically stepped back. All of a sudden, she was in his flat. How the fuck had that happened? And how the hell was he going to get her out again?
He opened his mouth to say, Please go away, then remembered that he wasn’t a rude prick and closed it. Fact was, he couldn’t stand men who treated women differently because they were desirable. And really, the dream wasn’t that big a deal. He just needed a good shag, and she was undeniably gorgeous, and his subconscious had slammed both facts together. That was all.
Red shut the door and said, “Yeah. Now’s good.”
“Wonderful.” Her smile was small and impossibly sunny. Her skirt swirled around her legs as she turned to face him. It was a floofy sort of vintage skirt, white with bright red poppies creeping up from the bottom. He liked it. But then, he liked all the prissy shit she wore. Despite himself, he let his gaze drift to her legs. He could see her calves again today, and her ankles, circled by the leather straps of her shiny shoes. He drank in every detail like some sexually deprived Victorian bloke.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Fine.”
From behind the turquoise frames of her glasses, her gaze narrowed. “You really don’t seem like yourself.”
“You don’t know me.”
There was a pause before she admitted, “True.” Her shoulders were still thrown back and her nose was still firmly in the air, but for a moment she seemed . . . vulnerable. Like he’d upset her.
His first instinct was to apologize. Then he remembered that he’d told the truth, that he didn’t like her, and that she’d definitely spied on him. He shouldn’t care about her feelings. He was determined not to care about her feelings.
She followed him to the living room until, halfway down the hall, he remembered that he didn’t actually have a living room, since he’d turned it into a studio. He recalled the little chair in her kitchen, and how plush and cushioned it had been, with a proper back to it. He stopped. Scowled at nothing in particular, or maybe at himself, and said, “I don’t suppose you’d be too comfortable on a shitty wooden stool, would you?”
She gave the fastest, tiniest wince, but he saw it, somehow. Note to self: stop looking at Chloe so hard.
“Not comfortable, no,” she said awkwardly. Judging by the way she avoided his gaze, she didn’t quite know how to say, I absolutely cannot sit on a shitty wooden stool. He’d chalk that up to shyness, but he knew she wasn’t shy. So why wasn’t she making unselfconscious demands, like she had three days ago?
Maybe she’s uncomfortable because you’re being a broody twat.
Oh, yeah. Maybe. A slight glower had sneaked onto his face while he wasn’t looking. The air in the hall vibrated with tension that was all his. Guilt dragged at him. He, in turn, dragged a hand through his hair. “Listen . . . Sorry if I’m being a bit of a prick. I’m, er . . . still tired.”
She gave a tight smile and a shrug. “It’s all right if you’ve changed your mind, you know.”
He said, very intelligently, “What?”
“About our deal. A consultation for a ride?”
Not that kind of ride, he told his cock firmly.
“I’m aware that I browbeat you into it,” she went on. “I have a tendency to do that.”
He’d never have guessed.
“But if you’re having se
cond thoughts, please feel free to say so. Don’t worry about my feelings. I have very few.”
He could tell by the tone of her voice that she was taking the piss with that last part. When Chloe joked, she sounded slightly more serious than when she was actually serious. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from protesting. “I’m sure you have more than a few.”
She shrugged again.
“I haven’t changed my mind,” he told her.
She smiled a little bit, and his heart stammered. She looked so quietly, secretly pleased, so impossibly sweet, and he just—he couldn’t—oh, for fuck’s sake.
“All right then,” she said, tentative warmth in her voice.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Even if she was rude and she made him feel like a monster of a man, he could not be a dick to Chloe Brown, not anymore. He accepted that fact and reassured himself that this wouldn’t be like the last time. He wouldn’t trip and stumble into the life-ruining black hole of making excuses for a seemingly perfect woman. He couldn’t. For one thing, he didn’t think Chloe was perfect at all. For another, they weren’t in a relationship and never would be. So there. He was safe.
They stood for a moment, staring at each other like a pair of tits. He cleared his throat and said, “Change of plans. Do you mind sitting in my room?”
Her lips didn’t smile but her eyes sparkled like diamonds. “I don’t know. You’re not going to ravish me, are you?”
He almost choked on his own tongue.
“Good Lord,” she laughed, while he caught his breath and his wits. “Don’t look so horrified!”
“I’m not—I mean—horrified is a strong word.”
She shook her head. “Really. I was only joking, Redford.”
“Red,” he corrected, because he had nothing else to say.
“I was only joking, Red.”
He cleared his throat. “Just to, ah, just to be clear, you’re not . . . horrifying.”
“Of course I’m not,” she said. “I’m extremely attractive. Now, shall we go and sit down?”
Get a Life, Chloe Brown Page 7