LIAR LIAR

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Oh, God. Don’t stop—don’t stop talking,’ I whisper, giving over to the acute surge of my desire. No doubt I’ll regret my filthy stream of consciousness later, but for now, I can’t stop the words spilling from my mouth as he watches me with an intensity that makes my vision more than a little hazy. ‘Yes, don’t stop watching me. Don’t you dare stop touching yourself. You’re so damn delicious, and I’ll be so, so sorry if I fuck you to death.’

  ‘Je . . . I’d die happy,’ he growls, his hand beginning to slide faster now.

  ‘Oh, God. Yes! Keep talking.’

  ‘Ce n’est-ce pas . . . that is not what I want to use my tongue for.’

  I have no more words as I ride out this ecstasy, bucking up into my own hand.

  ‘Chéri . . . Sweetheart, you are worth losing brain cells for.’

  His words are breathless and sort of raspy as he drops forward, catching himself on his palms as he puts his mouth and tongue to such wicked use along my neck. The bed creaks as his body lifts from mine, stretched out above me as he reaches for his wallet before returning to me with a sinful smile. He pushes up onto his knees, and with a flash of white teeth, the foil packet is ripped. He sheathes himself with such expertise that my hips begin to twitch.

  He takes one deep breath as he secures the latex at the root of his cock, before settling himself between my open thighs. The room is so still and so quiet, an electric-like anticipation binding us together as we watch the channel between our bodies. He glides his crown against me, the breathy sound of my whimper an invitation. He breaches my wetness, my limbs clinging to him like he’s my new religion, my head pressed to the pillow as though it could stifle my cry. He groans as he presses deeper, my back bowing in a silent plea. A plea he rewards with one solid thrust as he fills me to his hilt.

  ‘Mon Dieu . . .’

  He undulates above me, slow and easy, allowing me to adjust to the size of him as his eyes trace my face. Then with a jab of his hips, he drives into me. My whimpers turn to cries of ecstasy as his thrusts become deeper. He fills me, fucking me so solidly.

  ‘Tu te sens si bien . . . You feel so good.’

  His eyes are almost black, his gaze hooded as he ducks his head, sucking the pebble of my nipple into his mouth once again. I cry out at the tug of his teeth, sliding my hands above my head. I want this. I’ll take whatever he can give and leave all thought of consequence to another day. His mouth meets mine once more, our palms pressed together, fingers entwined. Anchored together like this, he changes both depth and pace, surging above me. Hands and hearts pressed together, it’s all too much. The ends of this climax are tied so tightly to the previous, making me almost delirious with pleasure.

  ‘Je ressens,’ he rasps. ‘I feel you coming so hard, and it is beautiful.’

  I implode. Explode. Come harder than I ever have. His guttural words turn to breathless grunts as he buries his face in the soft skin of my neck and follows me over the edge.

  7

  Remy

  A dark car idles on the road outside. But it can wait. Wait at my leisure.

  My shoulder pressed to the doorframe of her bedroom door, my gut aches with the desire to go to her. To pull back the covers and slip in next to her, to press my nose to her silken neck and inhale her delicate scent.

  I’d wrap her in my arms and show her what my words can’t convey.

  Make her understand how precious these hours have been to me.

  Her dark hair is splayed across the pillow, wild and tangled from the attentions of my fingers. I push my hands deep into my pockets because it takes every grain of my restraint not to give in as she nestles deeper into her pillow, pulling the covers up under her chin, bringing my attention to her soft, pouting mouth.

  A mouth that is a temptation like nothing else.

  When I left my hotel in the early hours of the morning, I could not have imagined an outcome such as this. I told myself that a bike ride was an expedition to clear my head. An appeal for clarity. Yet how I came to be on this street can hardly be called an accident.

  Because I went looking for a girl and found trouble in her place.

  I went looking for one girl and found another in her place.

  One girl who could take from me. Ruin everything.

  Another who did nothing but give.

  When was the last time someone took care of me? Gave freely without expectation of something in return? The sad reality is I really can’t recall. Yet the woman in the bed just a few feet away took me into her home. She gave me her time and her care. She let me take comfort in her body. And she held me there. She gave, and she gave, and she asked for nothing in return.

  And that’s why I have to leave.

  A woman like her can only be hurt by my world.

  8

  Rose

  MAY

  ‘That baby is the cutest.’

  ‘That baby has a name,’ calls a manly voice from somewhere out of range of the camera.

  ‘Yeah, and it’s Beryl,’ says Amber, kissing her newborn baby’s fluffy blonde head.

  ‘We’re not calling her Beryl,’ growls Australian baby daddy as he appears briefly on the screen of our weekly catch-up call, taking the pink swaddled bundle from Amber’s arms.

  ‘We’re not calling her Coral or Pearl, either,’ she retorts.

  ‘Eish. You guys, those names are bad.’

  ‘Byron thinks we should give her a themed name,’ she gripes. ‘You know; Amber, Pearl, Coral, Amethyst.’

  ‘Where the hell did Beryl come from?’

  ‘It’s a kind of emerald,’ she says with a dismissive wave.

  ‘It’s kind of ugly. A cutie like the peanut deserves better than an old lady’s name.’

  ‘I tell you, it’s a good thing she is cute because this waking at the crack of dawn part of parenting is already getting old.’ Amber’s answer is accompanied by a deep yawn. ‘Keep me awake. Tell me what’s new with you.’

  ‘Well, Sarah finally moved out.’

  ‘Great!’

  ‘And now I can’t afford the rent.’

  ‘Oh. Not so great.’

  ‘It’ll be fine.’ I shrug off her concern even as the familiar roll of anxiety washes through the pit of my stomach. ‘Remember Shaun, the shitty shift manager?’

  ‘I thought his name was Ted?’

  ‘Do you remember all the tiny details?’

  ‘Just the interesting ones, like how you got sacked after you spent the night with the mysterious Monsieur Baguette.’ On screen, my friend’s brows wiggle suggestively, though whether over the terrible way she purposely mispronounces monsieur—mon-sew-er—or her taunt, I’m not sure.

  ‘Girl talk secrets!’ I protest.

  ‘Relax. Byron has taken Baby Beryl downstairs.’ She waves away my concern. ‘But the manager?’

  ‘It looks like I’ll be dusting off my Heidi hair because he called and offered me my job back.’ It seems I’m not the worst waitress in the world, especially when the flu comes to town.

  ‘For a minute there, I had the most awful thought. I thought you were going to say you’d bumped into him at the coffee shop, and he’s a whole other person out of work.’

  ‘Urgh, no! Credit me with a little taste,’ I complain. ‘The man’s mother probably still sews tags into his clothes, tags that read asshole. In fact, if he was the last man on earth—’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to nibble on his baguette. Speaking of baguettes, have you gotten any more gifts from the sexy Frenchman lately?’

  ‘We don’t know the gifts were from him,’ I demur.

  ‘Mm-hmm.’ Amber’s tone and expression are both thoroughly unconvinced. ‘I say again, my translation skills aren’t as good as you thought they’d be, but I do wish I’d gotten a good look at Monsieur Baguette.’ This time, her pronunciation is flawless.

  ‘At Monsieur Baguette, or at monsieur’s baguette?’ The brow move belongs to me now.

  ‘Seen one big baguette, you’ve seem ’em all. Wh
at a girl needs in her life is someone who owns a mighty bread stick and the knowledge to wield it.’

  ‘You’ve just had a baby. You’re supposed to be baguette opposed.’

  ‘I’m more baguette adjacent. At least until the doctor says so. I mean, it’s not like I have a secret admirer or anything.’

  ‘No, you’ve got a fuckin’ overt one,’ comes her husband’s deep voice again.

  ‘Don’t curse in front of the baby!’ she calls back, turning away from the camera for a beat.

  ‘I thought he’d left?’

  ‘Relax, he was just passing by the bedroom door. So, has anything more landed on your doorstep lately?’

  ‘Look, we really don’t know where the gifts came from.’

  ‘Do you make a regular habit of rescuing men from the streets? Could there be more men in the San Fran area who’ve recovered from a concussion by way of the restorative powers of your vagina?’

  ‘You make it sound like I sat on his head.’

  ‘Head. Face. Whatever you did, he obviously liked it. More to the point, he liked you. Come on, Rose. Who else could’ve been sending you things?’

  It’s been two months since I found Remy on my doorstep. Two months since I experienced the best orgasms of my entire existence. Yes, orgasms with an extra s. As in, orgasms of the multiple kind. The morning after the night before—the night before being when I found him battered and bruised on my doorstep, took him to the hospital, brought him home, and tucked him up in bed . . . then got in after him—I woke to him gone. Gone were his wet jeans from the washing machine, his boots from under the chair, and his body from my bed. Every trace of him had vanished, discounting the faint scent of him on my pillow and the delicious aches he left my body with.

  ‘Sticking around to deliver a personal thank you in the morning would’ve been enough.’ Though my words sound pretty convincing, the fact that he left before I woke did us both a favour. The morning after the night before can only ever be awkward, I think. Especially when you don’t speak the language. An erotic encounter turned to lost in translation.

  ‘After the five very personal thank yous he gave you before he left? You’re lucky you didn’t wake to a corpse! But it’s clear, whoever he was, he likes you. What’s more, he’s been thinking of you.’

  What’s clear to me is the fact that Amber would like nothing more than for me to declare the series of anonymous gifts I’ve received over the last couple of months were from Remy. At first, I’ll admit I was inclined to agree with her hypothesis, especially as the first gift to arrive was a basket of gourmet French coffee. I’d smiled as I opened it, remembering how awful the coffee was I served that night. It felt like he was teasing me a little, and that the gift was a cute sort of thank you.

  I’ll admit it made me feel good. Great sex, the decency to be gone before I woke, and the gift of coffee!

  But then a fancy-assed European coffee machine was delivered the next day. A three-thousand-dollar coffee machine. I could hardly believe it and left it boxed in case it had been delivered by mistake, especially as it was addressed only to Rose. Plus, there was not a card with either of these gifts.

  Then the following week, a beautiful bouquet turned up on my doorstep. Dozens of delicate tea roses all balanced on slender green stems. And no card again. I mean, how difficult could it be to pen a quick thanks with the help of Google Translate? Hell, I’d have even liked it in French!

  But even without a card, I could believe the bouquet was from Remy. The coffee basket was cute and appropriate. Also, flowers are a perfect way to say thank you—thank you for looking after him, I mean. Not thank you for the sex. Plus, one bunch of flowers isn’t going to bankrupt anyone, even a bouquet from a fancy downtown florist.

  But then another bouquet arrived the following week.

  Then another.

  Then another, and they were still arriving weekly right up until yesterday, making my apartment smell like a church.

  A week after the first bouquet, another gift arrived at my door, and I’ll admit I was set to pitch a fit. But then I opened the box to a silk kimono robe from a New York boutique. Blue and green, it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and it makes me feel as regal as a peacock wearing it. Not that I’ve worn it more than once because it’s as ridiculously impractical as it is gorgeous, but also, I checked online, and the thing cost over eight hundred dollars! Eight hundred dollars for a robe!

  It’s now hanging on my closet door, more artwork than apparel.

  But I digress. While the coffee and the roses sort of made sense, an expensive robe didn’t. What significance could that have had? None, I told Amber, though I failed to mention that my ratty old cotton robe had gone missing the same night. Coincidence, I’d thought. Until a few days after the kimono arrived, and I’d found it stuffed down in the back of the hamper. No way it could have fallen there. I’d blamed Sarah for dumping it there, and we’d had a fight. And then she moved out. Which was a complication I didn’t need.

  I resolved to think no more about it, about the gifts or about him, until a membership in my name arrived to a high-end spa in a hotel downtown. A spa with a beautiful hammam, which is sort of a bathing pool. I didn’t even know what it was until I asked! And didn’t I tell him I missed having a bath in the apartment?

  I love all of my gifts and appreciate every one of them, no matter where they’ve come from, but this gift is the gift to beat all others. This gift is absolute heaven. Life is pretty tough at the moment, but my visits to the spa keep me going. I schlep on down there with my Gucci knock-off slung over my arm, which probably looks more Forever Twenty-One than designer. Because that’s where I bought it from. I enjoy a glorious treatment—a massage or facial—then I go soak in the hammam, which is just pure bliss, unlike the bus ride home.

  There’s no Porsche or Maserati waiting in the parking lot for me. And this is just one more reason I can’t see how these gifts could have come from Remy. He was a tourist, maybe even a backpacker. And after spending a year travelling around the world, I know these demographics aren’t exactly known for being plump in the pocket or even very considerate. And if Remy was wealthy, how come he came back to my place that night? Yeah, okay, other than the obvious, but that wasn’t on the cards when we left the hospital. Or even when I tucked him into bed.

  Not that I’m saying the gifts aren’t considerate. And he was a considerate bedmate. Orgasms a-plenty were delivered that night. Also, he was considerate enough not to die in my bed. But then he left, leaving behind a lot of unanswered questions. I mean, how did he come to be on my street in the first place? And what about the tale of his bike? I did find a road bike helmet behind the house the following week, but if he’d had an accident, where’d the bike go? And why didn’t he have credit cards or even a phone?

  ‘You look like you’re deep in thought.’ Amber’s words pull me from my thoughts, propelling me out of my chair.

  ‘I’m thinking about snacks,’ I lie, grabbing my iPad from the kitchen table and holding it instead as I pull a bag of chips from the cupboard.

  ‘But seriously, if you name that baby Beryl, I’ll turn up like Maleficent and put a curse on y’all’s asses.’ I stuff a couple of chips into my mouth to prevent me from spilling the thoughts that seem to continually rotate through my brain.

  Remy. Remy. Remy.

  Who is he really? What was he doing in my neighbourhood? Why me?

  ‘That was hardly a seamless segue. And y’all’s? Aren’t we a spitfire tonight?’

  ‘When I’m under pressure, the Kentucky in me always busts out.’

  ‘And you’re under pressure because I’m busting your lady balls?’

  ‘My lady balls are safe in your gentle hands. It’s just . . .’ I should’ve shoved another handful of chips down. I should’ve choked on them rather than speak. ‘I keep thinking about the gifts.’ Why do they keep coming? Why is he making me think? He bailed. Fine. I get it. He had reasons not to stay. But he’s now sup
posed to let me forget how much I enjoyed having him around.

  ‘Are you thinking about selling the coffee machine?’

  ‘No, I already did that.’ Desperate times calls for desperate measures and poor girls don’t need expensive kitchen gadgets. Besides, I’ve sort of gotten used to drinking bad coffee.

  ‘So . . . you keep thinking about him?’

  The fact that she hasn’t referred to him as Monsieur Baguette catches me off guard a little.

  ‘I just don’t see how the gifts can be from him. The man had calloused fingers!’

  ‘I’m sure there’s logic in there somewhere, honey, but I’m damned if I can see it.’

  ‘Rich men don’t look like him.’ Can’t feel like him. ‘Hell, working men don’t look like him, either.’

  ‘You’re going to have to explain this to me. Words of one syllable, maybe add in a little detail.’ She adds a roll of her hand to hurry me along, but I don’t exactly know where to start.

  ‘The man was ripped.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘And though he was very sweet, there was something a little uncivilised about him.’ Especially in the bedroom. ‘Like he’d be at home wearing a bearskin and bludgeoning his dinner to death.’

  ‘I’m going to refrain from asking if you swung from vines and got up to monkey business and instead ask you to explain exactly what you mean.’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it.’ He was almost a perfect contradiction. ‘Anyway, I’m not sure he sent those gifts. He just didn’t seem the type.’

  ‘You’re saying he didn’t seem like the appreciative type? Or do you mean the thoughtful type?’

  ‘What’s with the tone?’ I ask, frowning down at the screen of my iPad screen.

  ‘I’m just confused. It sounds like you’re saying he was really hot for you but that you want him not to be grateful, or thoughtful, or just decent, maybe.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ I protest. ‘And that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying we don’t know who or what he is.’