“And I’m telling you, Cam’s my boy.”
We glare.
Simmer.
Fester with fists clenched and ready to go.
And then my phone vibrates on the desktop. I see Serena’s name flashing.
He does too.
“I’m gonna fucking answer that,” I tell him, “and you’re gonna fucking leave.”
He kicks my desk chair flying. Stamps on the calculator he’s knocked from the tray. “You’ve got until the end of the fucking month,” he says. “Plenty of time to organise a fucking test.”
“Fuck you,” I sneer. “Close the door on your way out.”
“End of the month,” he repeats, “or I’m fucking coming for you.”
He barges my scarred shoulder with his as he passes. I fight the urge to tear his skull from his neck.
I wait until I hear his truck tyres skidding on the gravel, and then I listen to my sister’s voicemail.
It tells me Jake might be on his way down here. That he might be drunk, too.
Better late than fucking never, I suppose.Twenty-OneResolve to be thyself: and know that he who finds himself, loses his misery.
Matthew ArnoldAbigailTarts and vicars is a whole lotta fun. I open my parcels with glee as Sarah looks on.
I hold the tiny red slip dress up to my chest as she watches from my sofa. It’s ridiculously short, ridiculously split, ridiculously everything.
I’m laughing as I do a twirl. “It looks like a nightdress. I’d feel like a slut even in bed alone in this thing.”
“You’d look like a slut in bed alone in that thing.” She pours another wine for both of us.
I pull out the stockings and suspenders from the parcel.
“Yes!” she says. “Yes, yes, yes!”
I’ve got a black feather boa and black elbow-length velvet gloves, and some actual hooker heels that I’m likely going to break my ankles in. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” I say and take another swig from my glass.
In fairness, Sarah doesn’t look any more demure than I’m going to look. She’s wearing a leopard print boob tube and satin micro-mini. Her heels are red PVC with a heel that could be classified as a lethal weapon.
I wonder where she’s dug all this stuff out from, since she hardly struck me as being some kind of vixen behind closed doors. Still, I guess you never really know someone until you’ve seen their bedroom wear.
I feel like I’m getting to know Sarah. I feel like I’m getting to like her too. A lot.
She digs a bottle of nail varnish from her handbag. “Should match like a dream,” she says, and she’s right.
I’m glad we’re doing this. Really glad.
I’ve been excited for days, giggling over outfit choices with the girls at the office, checking out websites during quiet minutes. Sarah was over last night to help me confirm my orders for real, and was straight back round this evening for the great unboxing.
“Any hot guys I should keep an eye out for?” she asks, and straight up I tell her about pink-shirted Jack and his oh-so-conventionally attractive cheekbones. She tips her head. “So, how come you aren’t out to hook up with Mr Cheekbones?”
I flash her a smile. “Too clean cut for me. I prefer my guys a little more… rugged.”
“Rugged?” She sips her drink. “Rugged like hairy and sweaty and built like a bear?”
I shake my head. Smile to myself. “Partially. Maybe.” The wine has gone to my head, clearly. “I like them wild. Dark. Dangerous.” I glance at my phone, knowing full well he’s out there somewhere, watching me. Maybe.
Maybe tonight. “Unpredictable,” I add.
She nods, waves a finger. “I got it. You like the excitement. The chase.”
She’s more right than she realises. I can’t hold back from expanding. “I like tattoos on the neck, and arms that could crush me to death. I like pierced cocks and sharp teeth and a guy who’s rough enough that I’ll know about it next day.” I laugh. “Or next week.”
“You’re a dark horse,” she tells me. “I had you down for a fey little thing. Fragile and floaty.”
Her observation takes me aback. “You did?”
She nods. A lot. As though it’s stating the obvious. “Yeah. Sure thing. Very floaty. Didn’t think you’d say boo to a goose.”
I ponder her statement. Fragile and floaty. I think of how my old friends back home would collapse in hysterics at that description.
Or they would have… before…
I don’t feel so fragile and floaty right now. I feel sharp and daring. Bold and brave and… tipsy.
“What did you think of me?” she asks. “When you first saw me, I mean?”
I try to think back, but there’s nothing there, just a vague memory of some blonde woman next door. I didn’t even notice, didn’t care.
Didn’t care about anything.
Not even myself.
Especially not myself.
Shit.
I think of all the people I’ve neglected in my own misery. All the obligations I’ve ignored. All the life I’ve missed out on.