by Dawn Burton
Contents
The Lady and Tay
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
The author’s bits and bobs
About you
About me
Also by Dawn Burton
The legal stuff – copyright and disclaimer
The Lady and Tay
By
Dawn Burton
Chapter One
Taylor watched from a distance as the young woman came flying into the bar in the centre of Coventry; hair and coat billowing behind her. His party sat in a ‘U’ shaped booth; her party evidently in the booth next to his, as she headed towards them and flung her coat and bag along the side of her booth nearest to him.
Her cut-glass proper-posh accent sliced through his thoughts, chattering away about something or other. He could see the life shining out of her, the joy tumbling out of her lips as she sat down. She was younger than him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He knew a lot of people in this city, although he’d been away on tour these past 18 months, but he didn’t know her. He’d definitely have remembered if he’d seen her before.
He stared at the back of her head, her dark brown curls dancing in front of him as she engaged her whole body to tell her story. He had a flash…forward? Was that a word? The opposite of a flashback anyway, imagining her curls meshing together with his curls as they woke in the morning sunlight. They’d be velcroed together and he smiled at how they’d be laughing as they carefully disentangled themselves.
His bandmate trashed his daydream by nudging him and asking where they were flying out to next weekend after their week off. He answered on auto-pilot, watching as she finished her story and bounded back out of her booth to the bar. He weighed up what he’d need to do to get out, to get past everyone and get to the bar and to talk to her. But then why would she want to talk to him? He was in his early 40s; she was in her 20s probably. He was a fading rock star, living off his memories and those of his former record buying fans, who now paid for him to churn out the hits that once had them at the tops of the charts, when charts that mattered still existed. She would be on her way up in life, whatever it was that she did, whereas he was sliding into obscurity. Maybe once he’d stood a chance, but his heart was too jaded and the fear of rejection too paralysing. So he just sat. And watched from afar.
She paid for her drink. Looked like coke, probably mixed with something, he guessed. Vodka? Jack Daniels maybe? Interesting. Gin was the drink of the moment, or Prosecco, or fruit ciders, or cocktails, but she clearly forged her own path. He sipped his tonic water; his own battle with the demon drink now fought and won, leaving him as a social drinker of two drinks max a night. But if she drank, she’d probably want someone to go on wild binge-drinking sessions with, another reason why she wouldn’t be interested in him. He slumped further down, picking at a beer mat. He’d spent so long partying hard on drink and drugs, he’d missed his 30s along the way somewhere, and woken up in his 40s, a broken man, left behind by his peers with no idea of how to be ‘normal’, whatever that was.
He’d grown up ‘normal’. A little boy sitting in his bedroom of his 3-bed terrace in Coventry, listening to his Dad’s collection of vinyl singles of 60s pop, had turned into a Nirvana-loving, guitar-playing teenager, and then a Britpop late teen. A brief flirtation with dance at uni had led to him creating Audial, a 3-guitar band with drummer and old-skool dj. Kind of like Muse crossed with Mark Ronson. They’d hit the scene at the right time, playing alongside The Prodigy, The Chemical Brothers and Fatboy Slim, but as their success, their pots of money and their secret substance abuse battles grew, their dj left and it was the more middle-of-the-road guitar-based commercial songs that brought in the money and put the bums on the seats, and in the world of the arena tour, that was all that mattered. Writing their ‘first dance’ wedding song was the clincher that had sealed the deal on the type of music they could sell now, and both he and his music had lost its earlier edge. One avenue after this album and tour was writing for other people, rather than shining brightly in his own spotlight. He didn’t necessarily mind that, but it all just added to the feeling that his time was done – a barely-there whisper of ‘move over old man and pass the crown to the young pretenders’. And it meant he was stuck in limbo; no longer part of the party scene, no longer part of the in-crowd, but too rich and too famous to fade back to ‘normal’. Famous enough to be recognised by fans, but not famous enough to be mobbed. In but not in, out but not out. Whatever the fuck that meant. Sounded good. Could he use it as a lyric? Anyway, it all added up to the fact that he was far from normal now.
He sighed, watching her from underneath the hoodie he had up over his head so he could hide and drink his drink in peace, as she moved back to the booth next to him. One of her friends had grabbed her hand and they sat down for a chat, Taylor shifting slightly so he could eavesdrop on their conversation, pretending to be on his phone so his party would leave him alone. They were more than used to his moods over the past twenty years; the highs and the lows being explained away by the artistic temperament and indulged lifestyle, even though the drink and drugs were no longer a factor.
He caught snippets of her side of the conversation; his brain jumping ahead to fill in the blanks and adding detail to the picture of this woman he was creating in his head. She was asking her friend how she was after splitting from her boyfriend, her soft voice, full of concern and support, floating over the side of the booth to reach his ears. Her friend spoke at length and then finally asked her how she was. He strained to listen, feeling sure she’d feel him breathing down her neck like the obsessed stalker he now was.
“…oh, I’m fine. Everyone around me being safe and happy is what I’m aiming for right now.”
“…no, I’m not sure I’m meant for a relationship! Who else would dance on a table with me one night, wake up and put up with all the drama the kids bring to every morning, and then go for a 10-mile walk, just for fun?”
Me! I would, he thought. Kids? Yeah, why not. He knew a family was what he wanted ultimately, so if she had kids, they’d have to take it slowly, but, yeah, he could work with that. And walking had helped him so much over the past year or two as he got his mental health back on track. Me, pick me!
He heard the friend ask what she was looking for in a man then, and he held his breath as if she was about to impart the secrets of the universe.
“Well, he’d have to be older than me, and hopefully someone who’s screwed up more than a few times, but is sorted now, so that he understands when I screw up and can maybe even help me before I screw up.”
That’s me, that’s fucking me!
He heard her friend ask how old.
“Not 20s. Definitely 30s. 40s yeah, 50s…pushing it. He’d have to love words in songs and books and poems and conversation, and loud, noisy music party times, and quiet, still, restful times. I get seen as the eternal party girl, and, yeah, that’s a part of me, but it doesn’t define me, and he’d have to see all sides of me. He’d have to love his family, unless they are crazies like mine were. Someone with a spark in his belly, a love for something that lights him up from the inside when he talks about it. Someone with his own money so he wouldn’t be threatene
d by mine, and someone who has his own life and will bugger off and leave me in peace so I can miss him! Someone who knows when to push me, when to pull me, and when to just stand by my side.”
She threw her head backwards and sighed dramatically, her unruly curls flying and strands landing mere centimetres from his head, before they were whipped away as she sat back up.
“But I don’t think such a man exists. They either don’t have enough get-up-and-go about them or they can’t do the sitting-down-watching-the-wind-blow-the-grass kind of still. I want someone who can do both, and I just want someone who knows and accepts all of me; a partner, in all senses of the word. Someone who will let me lead sometimes, but who will step in and have my back when I’m being too polite for my own good at other times.”
He felt his body tingle and the excitement grew. That was him. He could do all that. Now he knew she wouldn’t dismiss him as too old, too messed up, his confidence soared, and his hunter instinct kicked in. He glanced around, seeing the number of men standing around the bar watching her. He glared, mentally staking his claim on her. She would be his. She had to be, because he was hers from the moment he’d seen her.
The Ava Max song, ‘Sweet but Psycho’ came on, and one of the men from the other side of her table shouted out, “It’s your song, Annie!”
Annie. Her name was Annie.
She looked up across the table and smiled politely, but Taylor could see the way her shoulders had tensed oh-so-slightly. Three of their group came back from the bar, laughing and calling out, “Oh, Annie, it’s you!”, “You’re the mad psycho girl she’s singing about, aren’t you?!”, singing the lyrics at her. She flinched, slumped back into her seat, twisting slightly so she was now facing the bar, and uttered, "Nope," through gritted teeth.
She grabbed at her drink, keeping her head down and dropping out of the conversation by burying her head in her bag, looking for something. She pulled a book out and his heart leapt. He had this exact same book in his inside coat pocket. It was a sign surely, and he felt even more protective, wanting to stand up for her and tell them to stop, and to just look at her.
Another guy Taylor vaguely recognised came over to Annie’s table and threw his faux-fur lined trapper hat at Annie, “Hey, Psycho Annie. You not dancing on the tables tonight?” The hat landed on the front of her head, covering her eyes, as she spun to rest her chin on the back of the seats between them, punching her fists down in front of her, muttering quietly to herself. This was his chance!
He leant forwards and grabbed her thumbs with his index fingers and thumbs, covering the rest of her fists with his. She went to pull away in surprise, but he seized the moment and spoke in a low, calm voice so she could hear him. “I’m a stranger, but I see you, I hear you. I see you flinching at your friends’ comments, I see you cricking your neck to the left in annoyance at their insistence that you are just a party animal, I hear your whispered replies. I see the book you carry in your bag. Look, it’s the same as the book I’m carrying in my pocket.” He let go of her right hand to dip into his coat and pull his battered paperback out, sliding it under the edge of her hat so she could see; his heart finally starting to beat again at the slight smile hitting her lips. She’d left her wrist where it was, and he placed his hand back on her. He slipped his thumbs down to her wrists, running them over the soft skin. They both tensed as he hit the ridges of a long-healed scar on her wrists, a murmured sign of a troubled past, but he quickly composed himself, stroking her wrists up and down, round and round, accepting the scars as part of her.
“Who are you?” She lifted her head, trying to see out from under the trapper hat, but it just fell further forward so she gave up. “Actually, don’t answer that, just keep seeing me, keep hearing me, and keep touching me. I like the mystery of you!”
“I’ll touch you as long as you want me to.” He cocked his head. “Actually, that sounds really weird. Forget I said that! I just meant, I’m enjoying the feel of you. Oh fuck, that sounds weird too. I’m so shit at all this small talk crap. Can I start again? I can’t promise I’ll sound any better but it’s worth a shot.
“I’ve been watching you since you walked in, not in a stalker-ish-way. Well, maybe in a stalker-ish way. But definitely in a truly mesmerised way. I have to admit, I did lean in to listen to your conversation with your friend. So that probably does count as a bit stalker-ish. But it was only because I was desperate to know if an old man like me could ever stand a chance at speaking to you. I wanted to say hello, but I was scared you’d laugh in my face, so I needed to find out a bit more about you first. But then you talked. And I don’t know how to say this without sounding like the egotistical twat I can be sometimes, but it was like you were describing me.”
He hesitated, not sure if he was freaking her out. But the smile remained playing on her lips and she nudged her wrists at him as if to say, go on. So he drew a breath and plunged in. “I’m in my early 40s. I’m so ready to settle down, but my life hasn’t been…straight-forwards…and I need someone who has walked, is walking, or could walk the dark side to understand why I’ve made the mistakes I have done. I’m sorted now; a social drinker only, clean and living in the light, but drink, drugs, hurting those around me because I didn’t like myself? I’ve been there and done it.
“I’m attracted to you and I’m so ready to be there for you if I can, but it’s more than that. I recognise myself in you, and I’d love to get to know you better. I can rock a party, or I can climb a hill and just sit for two hours. I can get lost in a book or a back-to-back film session, or I can pogo up and down on a dance floor until my knees give way. And if we can do all of that and more together, I’d do everything in my power to make you as safe and happy as you can be.”
She was silent as she took in his words. He grimaced and chewed his lip. Had he been too full on? Said too much? Was she about to give him the ‘thanks but no thanks’ speech? She pursed her lips, clearly thinking about how to say something. Shit, this was it, blow-off time and he’d end up sinking back into that black hole that was never far away. Fuck, he was an idiot.
“I fucking hate films,” she finally said, her upper class accent making her swearing sound even filthier.
That was it? Her only comeback from him laying his soul bare? He laughed a deep belly laugh. A genuine laugh of relief and humour that he wasn’t sure he’d heard for a long time. “Oh well that’s it then. I’m not sure we can ever come back from this. I love films. I absolutely demand that I must be left alone in the dark at least once a week to have my film night, so if that’s not acceptable, let’s just call this whole thing off now.”
“Hmmm,” she mulled it over. “See, I love words, but they come in music and songs first, then in books, then in conversation with interesting people. Film and TV? No, not bothered. But I wanna work this out. We’ve come so far together to just throw it away. How do we get over this hump in our relationship?”
“Well, how about if I promise that on every film night, I bring you chocolate and wine and make sure you have a book to hand? How does that sound?”
“Yeah, that’d probably earn you a blow-job when you return to me.”
Whoa! Ok! “Oh no, I would insist on giving you a full body massage, followed by at least two orgasms, before I would allow you to give any bodily pleasure to me.”
“Deal!” she grinned. “You’re almost on your way to giving me orgasm number one just through the pressure on my wrists, so I’d suggest you keep going if you know what’s good for you.”
“Oh!” he pressed his thumbs down a little harder, dragging his nail gently over the skin. “Tell me, what’s it doing to you?” Shit, this conversation had turned out way better than he’d planned. Granted she hadn’t actually seen him yet, but they were almost fucking across the booths!
“I think you must have found a direct link to my clit,” she grinned lazily; their heads just centimetres apart as they whispered their conversation.
Oh yeah! “Are you wet?” he dared to as
k.
She hesitated, shifted her hips, then replied a barely-audible, “Yes.”
“What else?”
“I can feel heat, coming from your touch, up my arms. I haven’t felt so warmed for…such a long time…maybe ever. Please don’t let go of me.” The urgency in her voice cut into him. Her need matching his. It was sexual, but it was more than that. It was the need to be protected, it was belonging, it was wanting to consume and be consumed by each other.
“I’ve got you, I promise. Do you want to come over to my side for a proper hug?”
“Yes,” she sobbed, pushing herself up and towards him as he grabbed under her arms and pulled her up and over the back of the booth, to his side, and onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her as she straddled him, her pushing into him and him pulling her in. He ignored the calls from his side and the gasps from her side of the booths, and just held her close; the trapper hat consigned to the floor, but her eyes shut tight, still not seeing him.
He inhaled her fresh scent, “I think I’ve been waiting for you.”
She nodded. “I mean it. You can’t let go of me. Ever.”
“Never,” he declared. “But if we can’t let go of each other, we’re gonna have to come to some sort of arrangement over film night. I mean, you’re gonna have to compromise here, sweetheart.”
She laughed. “Maybe I could read my book first while you lie still, and then I could listen to music while you’re watching your film?”
“Or the other way round?”
“No, because then I’m getting my orgasms, remember? This is a vital part of the contract we’re negotiating here, you know.”
“Oh yeah. Ok. Reading first, then film, then orgasms.”
“And then blow-job. I’m all about the equality.”
He nodded, pretending to give it some thought. “Yeah, yeah, I think this deal could work. Showers would be fine, but going to the toilet could be tricky.”