Just One Night: Part 5 (3 page)

“Sober up so we can talk.”

“Sober up?! How about if I freeze my bollocks off first, would you prefer that?!” I stand in the middle of the shower with my arms wrapped round me, trying to hold onto the last vestiges of warmth left to my body. My clothes have gone sopping wet, clinging to me in all manner of terrible places.

“Not really, but if that’s what it takes to get you to wake the hell up, then oh well.”

“Oh well? Oh
well?
Those are my testicles you’re writing off, young lady. And while I know you’ve never owned a pair yourself, you cannot be that callously oblivious to their value. Trust me when I say I’ll not be disregarding them so easily as that.”

“Good.” She has the gall to smile at me, dimples and everything. “Because I kind of like you with balls.”

I glare at her, but all she does is smile back. Are we really discussing my man parts in such jovial and familiar terms? Good god. I truly have fallen on hard times.

“You know, that’s really irritating when you do that,” I say, my volume more under control now. It could be that the intense shivering has had some effect on my sobriety. My teeth are even clacking together.

“When I do what?” She lifts a brow and folds her arms under her chest, causing her flesh to ooze out the top of her blouse.

If my goolies weren’t so shrunken from the cold, I would probably be imagining my cock buried deep inside that fleshy nest of warmth, but as it is, all I can do is envisage another man doing it. All that succeeds in accomplishing is making me even more upset with myself than I already was. I’ve really bodged things up this time. Might as well change my name to Edward at this point.

But no … wait. I cannot do that. Because
Edward
is the
CEO
of
Stratford Investments!
Of all the buggered, cacked-up … it’s a load of old cobblers is what it is. Chucked out of the family business and replaced by a ne’er do well without a lick of common sense. He’ll have the family out of silver in less than a year. That is my prediction.

I’m once more furious. “It is beyond tiresome to have you smiling at me, when what you really should be feeling is anger instead!” I reach out and pull the shower door closed between us, but I’ll be damned if I’ll change the temperature. So what if my protruding parts are turning blue. What does it matter? It’s not like I’ll be needing them anytime soon.

“Let me know if you need your back washed,” she says, her voice fading in the distance.

Back washed. Back washed? I’ll give her a good back washing. Visions of me doing that exact thing assail my mind.

Hmmm….

Just the idea alone is enough to sober me up a trice. I grab the shampoo and give myself a wash. A twitch of the temperature knob gives me a slightly less shocking experience as I rinse my head clean. Deciding a second dose of the bubbles couldn’t hurt, I lather another handful on my head.

As I massage my scalp, my vision becomes clearer. It could also be the effect of rinsing out my mouth with the tepid water that has me finding clarity. It’s possible my hagfish breath was anesthetizing me with its putridity.

The girl I dreamed of making mine and then ignored for nearly a week has shown up on my doorstep to sober me up, and she doesn’t look nearly as angry as I would be in her position. She came here for me … the jobless dosser destined for the dole. Her dedication, as misdirected as it might be, is positively invigorating.

What have I done to deserve such charity? Nothing that I can think of, save a couple decent rounds of tiddly winks, but she could have gotten that anywhere with no effort on her part. She really is the fittest of any woman I’ve ever known.

I turn the temperature warmer and struggle out of my wet clothing, only slipping once but catching myself before suffering a split skull. Clothing I should probably burn rather than wash is tossed out onto the floor in a heap. I help myself to some liquid shower gel, fearing she’s going to disappear before I’m able to carve the stench away from my body. I need at the very least to thank her for her efforts. She’s the only person who’s bothered to see if I’m still alive since I left Stratford Investments. Not even my dolt of a brother has cared so much. Probably because he’s too busy resting his fat arse in my comfortable Italian leather chair.

“Ready for your back washing?” she asks from behind the partially closed door.

“Nearly so,” I say, now energized beyond reason. I reach out of the shower door to gather my toothbrush and paste, quickly turning my rancid mouth into one of minty freshness. Hagfish be gone!

She’s waiting near the loo when I’m done, not quite smiling but neither is she giving me that look. The one that makes the goolies run for cover.

“Do you feel better?” she asks, folding her arms again.

I battle not to stare at her chest. “Quite. And may I say thank you for coming by to check to see that I still have a pulse.” I bow at the waist.

“Can I wash your back for you?” she asks.

“You were serious about that?” I don’t know what to make of it. Am I that bad off that she’s treating me as a patient in a hospital bed? This is only one notch up from a sponge bath, and while that always seemed a tasty fantasy when I was on top of my game, right now it just seems a tad pitiful.

She pulls a face flannel from the countertop. “Hand me your soap,” says she.

John Thomas takes note not only of her tone, which has gone decidedly warm, but her possible intentions as well. Surely this means she’s ready to have what her friend Mia referred to as make-up sex. Is it possible to have such sex when one hasn’t actually fought?

I hand her the gel and turn so my back is facing the opening to the shower. “Have at it, then. Do your worst.”

She begins her ministrations. Very enthusiastically, in fact.

My eyebrows draw together in a frown. I’m not sure exactly what I expected, but this isn’t it. To call her strokes vigorous would not do them justice.

“Surely my back is not that dirty,” I say, bracing myself against the far wall. She really has taken what I said quite literally. “Do your worst is only an expression, you know.”

“Just trying to get your circulation going so you can sober up faster. We have work to do.”

I try to look over my shoulder, but decide against such further attempts when the flannel flicks soap bubbles up onto my eyeballs. I blink hard and pray for relief that is too long in coming. “Work? I thought you’d heard. I’m currently without employment.” I rub my eyes hard trying to rid them of the stinging.

“Bullshit,” she says.

She actually uses that foul language. I find I quite like its definitiveness, coming from her.

“You have your broker’s license, and I have my realtor’s license. I have clients and you need clients.”

“A fat load of good that does us,” I say, staring at the tiles on the wall. My eyes are watering profusely but at least I can see again. “I’m soon to be homeless. Didn’t your online research tell you that?”

“Don’t you have any savings?” she asks.

I frown. “Yes, but that’s not the point. My father contracted for this flat as part of my position with the firm. He’ll be here any day to remove me from the premises.”

“No, he won’t.”

“He won’t?”

Has she talked to him? Now that would be embarrassing.

“No,” she responds, thank goodness.

“You don’t know my father very well, do you?”

“Doesn’t matter if he comes, because you won’t be here.”

“I won’t?” Now there’s a curious idea. “And where would I be if not here?”

“Not here wallowing in your pity party and bad personal hygiene, you mean?” she asks.

“If you insist.”

She laughs. “You’ll be at my place.”

“Your place? Hmmm … I don’t recall your place being particularly … commodious.”

“It doesn’t need to be. We’re only going to sleep there.”

“Together?”

“Depends,” she says, her tone taking a saucy turn.

“On what, may I ask?” I’m tempted to turn around again, but veto the idea in favor of retaining my vision.

“On whether you can pull yourself out of this very unattractive tail spin you’re in.”

I frown. Florence Nightingale, she is not, but she does cause me to pause and reflect on my circumstances when previous to her arrival I was not considering much of anything beyond my next shot of alcohol.

“What are you thinking right now?” she asks.

“I was thinking that were I physically injured, I might fear having you as a nurse.”

She flicks my arse with the wet flannel, making me jump and screech like a wee girl.

I spin round and point at her, a threat in my eyes. “You’re going to pay for that, bold girl.” I lift a foot and make to exit the shower.

Her eyes go wide and she backs out of the bathroom, pointing at me with a pink-polished fingernail. “Stay away from me! We’re working right now, not playing!”

I leap out of the stall at her and make like a monster, with hands up and a mighty roar to bring it all home. I am well and truly frightening. The only thing missing is my hagfish breath. I regret having brushed my teeth so soon, however it doesn’t matter. My war cry does the trick.

She screams and shuts the door behind her, footsteps fading off in the distance as I collapse in healing laughter. I haven’t been this energized since … the last time I saw this beautiful girl. The realization is sobering enough even without the freezing shower. How have I managed my life without her? I’m not sure of that, but I am quite sure of the fact that I don’t want to know what a future without her in it would be like.

Once I know she’s gone and not returning for more, I comb my hair and then stand ramrod straight, flexing my biceps in the mirror a few times. Yes, sir … Mr. William Stratford is now back on the scene, ladies and gentlemen. And Stratford Investments? You can eat my dust because I will soon be leaving you behind.

CHAPTER THREE

Jennifer

UNLOCKING THE DOOR TO MY apartment, I cringe as the beat from the music in my neighbor’s place pounds through the walls. William is behind me with four suitcases full of his clothing. I’m pretty sure he has more outfits than I do. One bag alone is holding his shoes.

“I must thank you again for hosting me,” he says, pulling two suitcases over the entrance and into the foyer. He says nothing about the music nor does he give any indication that he notices it. “I will do my best not to be a bother.” He takes the second set of bags and pulls them in before shutting the door behind us.

“You could never be a bother, William, don’t be silly.” I’m sweating just a little over the idea of having him living here with me. Twenty-four/seven is an awful lot of time to spend with someone who until recently I didn’t even know existed. I had sworn after Hank that I’d never live with another man until I married him, and here I am just a few months later doing the exact opposite with a practical stranger. So much for keeping promises to myself.

But this is different, or so I keep telling myself. This isn’t happening because we’re in love and wanting to do a marital dry run. This is business. Just business.

“Shall I put these in here?” he asks, aiming his first suitcase towards the living room.

I sigh in defeat. Why pretend we’re not going to mess around? It’s just not realistic, especially since I’ve been thinking about his hands on me since the moment I saw him in the shower, and he hasn’t taken his eyes off my breasts since I walked into his apartment.

“No, put them in the bedroom.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “My footwear sharing closet space with the deformed birds?” He glances down at his luggage. “I’m not sure my shoes will agree to that arrangement.”

I smile. “Tell them to suck it up. It’s only temporary anyway.”

“Right. Exactly. I’ll have a word.” He leaves me there in the foyer with his remaining bags.

I should probably help him settle in, but I have too many other things on my mind that won’t let me rest until they’re done. First thing’s first … get a business license.

I’m finishing up the online registration when William gets back from the bedroom. He starts talking and I listen with half an ear.

“I’ve had what I hope was a very convincing tête-à-tête with my shoes and your twitter bird slippers. I believe they have come to a suitable arrangement.”

“That’s nice,” I say, reading the fine print on the form.

“They have agreed to remain on their respective sides of the closet and have assured me they will keep their opinions to themselves.”

“Good,” I say, although not exactly sure what I’m saying good to. Did he say our shoes were talking to him? That’s a little weird. But I can’t worry about it now because my brain is stuck on this online business license application and the stupid requirements that we need to fulfill before it’s official. “We’re going to use your name and this address for the license since you’re the broker.”

“Excellent,” he says, pulling a chair closer as he sits down at the kitchen table with me. He stares at my computer screen. “And you can do this all on the computer?”

“Yep.” I lean back and gesture at the screen. “All done.”

“You must allow me to reimburse you for the expenses,” he says.

“Oh, I will. Don’t worry about that.” I pull up the spreadsheet that I started and show him. “See? I’m tracking everything.”

He nods. “You and Ms. Meechum have some things in common, I see.”

“Yeah.” I look at him and frown. “Except I’m not your assistant and she was.”

“Of course, of course. I wasn’t suggesting otherwise. We are partners.” He puts his arm around my shoulders and squeezes.

I nod, putting my attention back on the screen. “Partners. Yes. That’s exactly what we are.” Why that makes me a little sad, I have no idea. This was my plan to keep things formal, to focus on getting our business lives back on track. I can’t go back and feel sorry for myself now. Besides, there will be plenty of time for our personal lives later. Hopefully we’ll still want to have personal lives together after we’ve been in business like this. It didn’t work out so well with Hank, but he’s a different guy. That’s what I hope, anyway.

“Shall we visit the properties? Make some introductions?” William asks.