Authors: Shelly Pratt
I’m almost finished my latte, but take my time nibbling on my food. Suddenly, I’m in no hurry to go anywhere. While other patrons come and go, I while away the morning in the deli, thoroughly enjoying the escapism of my life.
I glance at my watch, startled to realise that more time has passed than I intended. Panic fills me as I quickly make a mental note of how much time I have to prepare Alex’s birthday meal before he’s due home. If I hurry, I might just make it. Actually, there is no alternative. I
have
to have dinner ready on time or… else.
Jean notices I’m getting up to leave and meets me at the cash register to ring up my purchases. She notices I’m suddenly flustered.
‘You okay, honey?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine, but would you mind to call me a taxi? I think I left my phone at home and I’m running a bit late.’
‘Of course I can,’ says Jean, reaching for the phone.
‘I can give her a lift.’ It’s
him
, and he’s offering to give
me
a ride?
‘Um, no thanks.
I mean, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t even know your name,’ I say, looking to make sure Jean is still calling the taxi. She waves the phone at me, checking I want her to make the call. I nod, yes.
‘Grayson.
My name’s Grayson Glines.’
‘Sorry Grayson, but I’m married.’
‘What does being married have to do with accepting a lift?’ He looks confused, as though there couldn’t be any correlation between the two. Truth be told, in normal peoples’ lives, it would be perfectly acceptable to accept such an offer. But in my world, things like this are forbidden. Things like this could get a person like Grayson killed.
‘Everything; it has everything to do with it.’ I grab my box of goodies and head out of the store to wait for my taxi, leaving behind me the first person in years who has given me hope that there might, just might, be a better life for me out there somewhere.
GRAYSON
Evie, Evie, Evie.
Her name makes me think of green grass fields full of wildflowers with white petals, and making love while listening to a Jack Johnson song. She’s got long blonde hair and brilliant green eyes, kind of like moss but slightly lighter in colour. That woman is every bit of F-I-N-E, and I wouldn’t be embarrassed to tell her so.
But despite my obvious gaga reaction to her, she’s not like other women. I’m not saying the ladies fall at my feet, but I’m not hard on the eye
, either. Most women I’ve flirted with would at least have given me a little bit back. Not her, though. She’s different. Complex for sure, but… hesitant, guarded and seemingly conscious of everything she says or does.
When she left the shop with her parting words, she seemed so vulnerable and damaged. Not weak, though, please don’t mistake the two. There’s fight in her eyes, but do you know what they said more than anything else? Set me free. I wonder just what she needs saving from. From the look of desperation in her eyes, I’d say it’s something serious.
It’s funny that her words can push you away, yet her eyes suck you straight back in. I’m already lost in them. While she sat, carefully sipping coffee and eating delicate bites of pastry, all I wanted to do was hold her face and gaze into her eyes a little longer. Too stalkerish, you reckon? I don’t fucking care—about how much I instantly like this woman, or the fact that she’s married. No, I’m not a home wrecker. But I honestly believe there is just one person who we fall in love with in this world. Right now I think she may just be the one for me. Why else would I have such a strong pull to her if she’s just a passing face in a sea of many?
After an early shift, I’m ready to just grab a beer and soak in the spa on the back deck, but by the looks of things, that’s not about to happen. Pulling into the driveway of where I live, it’s clear that I have company, and it’s neither of my flatmates that I rent with. Instead, I’m confronted by Chantelle
—a long-standing fuck-buddy who doesn’t know the meaning of the word no, and is slightly neurotic to boot. In the loosest sense of the word, we’ve been seeing each other for the last year. Even I’m amazed that it has lasted this long. I think it comes down to the fact that I haven’t had any other options, and she’s happy with me treating her like dirt. It’s not that I intend to be intentionally cruel; in fact, I have been completely up-front with my lack of interest in her. I just refuse to open up my heart and get it broken again.
Chantelle is the kind of person whose perception on things differs greatly from that of reality. This is why she goes around telling everybody I’m about to propose to her, when in fact things couldn’t be further from the truth.
For a second I contemplate just backing out of the driveway and coming back later when she’s taken the hint or gone home. Knowing Chantelle the way I do, I know she doesn’t give up that easily. She’d either just wait around or come back later—probably when I’m fast asleep and unable to send her away because of my sleep-induced haze. Usually that is where she catches me unawares. She knows I have zero willpower when it comes to refusing a hot, naked body suddenly rubbing up against me while I’m half asleep. Hey, find me a man who would!
It’s not that Chantelle isn’t good looking, because she is. There’s just something missing. Something on a deeper level that I need from another individual that would make me
want to keep them around for a long time. Deciding I’d best get this over with, I turn off the engine and step out of the car.
‘Hey there, Grayson.
I’ve been waiting a while. Did you just get off your shift?’
‘Yeah.
What can I do for you, Chantelle?’ She smiles wickedly at me, stuffing her hands in her denim shorts so that they ride a little lower and reveal a little more of her tanned stomach.
‘More like
what I can do for you.’
‘Sorry, it’s been a long day. I’m just gonna have a shower and then catch some shut-eye before the guys get home for dinner.’ Without waiting for her reply, I head to the front door with my keys ready. She’s hot on my heels. Remember? She doesn’t understand the word no.
‘Well, you just go right ahead; I’ll give you a hand washing that back of yours.’
‘That’s really not necessary.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport. You used to be fun.’
‘That was before I was working two jobs,’ I say, shutting the door behind her.
‘Why don’t you quit the coffee gig and just do your artwork full time?’
‘Because the art doesn’t make enough to live off, is why.’
She doesn’t say any more, because my tone is clearly fed up with the conversation. Instead, she flicks her shoulder-length chestnut hair off her face and secures it with a hair tie. Chantelle has very tanned skin, but it suits her. If Scarlett Johansson had a fake tan, she would remind me a little of her, although not as curvaceous.
She follows me into the bathroom and watches as I strip off my jeans and tee. I’ve never been embarrassed about being naked, and since she’s seen it more than once, there is nothing left to be modest about.
I climb into the shower stall and start to shampoo my hair. She gazes at me seductively while she strips off her own clothes. Surprisingly, her nakedness doesn’t have much effect on me. She’s going to have to do a little more than get naked if she wants to spark my interest.
My dick is hanging at half-mast when she grabs it with soapy hands. It lifts a little, interested in the attention that it is suddenly being given. The strangest thing in being with
Chantelle, is that there is no other connection with her. My heart and soul remain isolated, withdrawn from her attempts to fracture my armour.
Water droplets cover her naked flesh, heading south so it flattens the hair between her legs. Despite my lack of affection for the woman, my appendage always remembers what it has been like to be inside of someone.
All thoughts of washing my hair have gone out the window. Despite my earlier protests to her company, my dick now says otherwise. I’m horny, and I’m not particularly fussy as to whether my hand or Chantelle does the job. Since she’s eager, I let her at it.
Using her hands, she massages the shaft of my cock until it is rock-hard and ready to take her in one swift movement. There is no protest as I lift her off the tiles and press her backside against the shower stall. She wraps her arms around my neck, grappling for purchase while I hold her steady, arse cupped in the palm of my hands. Her lips seek out mine, right before I plunge deep inside of her. She moans softly, desperate for any kind of approval from me. I ignore the kiss she’s trying to deepen as I start to rock back and forth.
Her pussy is so warm and wet, engulfing my shaft completely. All the sensation in the tip of my cock radiates down the shaft as I fuck her like a teenager—quick and hard.
It’s not romantic, it’s not love. All it
is, is two people getting their rocks off and blowing off a bit of steam. When I come, she stills as I hold her in place.
‘That was amazing, Grayson,’ she gasps, gently sliding off me so she’s back on solid ground. I know my performance was anything but
, however my male ego still likes to hear it. I’m panting hard, water spraying my back while I catch my breath. I start to soap myself down, passing the bar of soap to Chantelle when I’ve finished so she can wash away the mess I’ve left behind. The benefit of being with someone familiar is you know their sexual history. As far as I know, she isn’t banging anyone else and she’s on the pill—a double tick in my book.
When we finally emerge into the living room, Lucas and Rob are sitting on the sofa, sculling beer and watching sport. They both eye us suspiciously, but say nothing embarrassing
—yet. I know I will cop an ear-full when Chantelle eventually leaves. Right now, I’m not in the mood for a ribbing from my mates, so I do the only thing to prevent that. I invite her to stay for dinner. She’s pleased to say the least.
We leave my flatmates watching television while we head out the back to grill steaks. Chantelle fills the void by chatting about every single thing that comes to her mind. That woman does not have a filter. For once, I don’t mind. It kind of distracts me from a pang of guilt I have creeping into my gut.
For one, I hate that things between us are still in play. I need to end it nicely, and for good, when things aren’t all hot and steamy. Chantelle certainly has a knack for keeping the ball rolling and it’s got to stop.
Besides, I’m shocked to realise I’m feeling a tad guilty over someone else. The slender face of Evie fills my mind. She’s cute
and
sexy, the slight smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose making me believe she’d enjoy an endless summer with me given the chance. That’s just the problem, though. Evie is very much attached, so why should I feel guilty over screwing someone else?
Because you
like
her, you idiot!
The most disheartening aspect of that thought is that there isn’t a single thing I can do about it. She’s probably gone home to her husband and hasn’t even given me a second thought. I look at Chantelle as she dishes up salad on everyone’s plates. For the first time, I kind of get what unrequited love is like.
EVIE
To say I’m panicked beyond belief is an understatement. My attempts at indulging in a carefree life this morning has impacted on the time I have left to prepare for Alex’s arrival. That little fact has hit home the minute I arrive at our apartment to find Lurch guarding the front door and making furtive glances at his watch. When he notices my approach, he taps the watch face, a subtle reminder I’m running late.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’ I know I sound petulant. Perhaps a little bitchy, but when you can never snap back at the person you really want to, you tend to take your moods out on other people. Sometimes, I don’t even know who I am anymore.
‘Mr Stratford is concerned about your absence,’ he informs me as I slide the key into the apartment door.
‘Traffic was busy.’ It’s a weak excuse, but he’s not the one I have to convince.
‘He’s requested I contact him the minute you return. He’s waiting for your phone call.’
‘Well, he’ll just have to wait a minute more,’ I snap, overly confident in Alex’s absence. Slamming the door shut on Harry’s face (no, he’s not really called Lurch), I hurry to relieve myself of the parcels I’m carrying so I can call Alex before he has a stroke.
I settle down on the sofa that overlooks the river and unconsciously start to nibble at my manicured nails. Dialling Alex’s office number from memory, I wait for his secretary to answer. She’s not the kind of woman to give anything away. ‘Stone wall’ would be a very accurate description for the woman who plays sentinel to Alex’s inner sanctum. Larissa is from a family who has spent generations in the corporate world
, and she knows all the inside rumours that accompany the financial stock they’re heavily invested in.
Now as the phone rings, sweat starts to make my palms slippery. I almost drop it just as Larissa answers. When she realises it’s me, she dismisses me with her bored tone, connecting me with Alex. There are no kind words from him, no concerns for my safety
—just suspicion and doubt.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying to contact you for the las
t two hours!’ His tone is harsh; it demands immediate answers.
‘I’m sorry, Alex. I’ve been out shopping for your birthday dinner
, and the time just got away from me.’
‘Well perhaps next time I should send Harry along with you since you seem to be suffering from poor time management.’ Inwardly I groan. That is the last thing I would want. Then my freedom really would be non-existent.
‘No, darling, that really won’t be necessary, and it won’t happen again. Just enjoy the rest of your day, and I’ll have everything ready by the time you get home.’ I’m almost pleading with him to let this drop. There is a smile in my voice to placate him, although it doesn’t reach my face. I’m close to tears, upset that my stupidity in delaying my return has ruined such a nice morning.
‘Fine, just see that it doesn’t.’
‘Thank you, Alex! I promise we’ll have a wonderful evening.’ I’m just about to hang up, when his chilling tone creeps back through the telephone receiver, making my shiver involuntarily.
‘And
, Evie?’
‘Yes?’ I gulp.
‘Next time take your mobile phone with you. I’ve stressed this to you before. You are to be contactable at all times, do you hear me?’
‘Yes,’ I whisper. He says nothing more. There is no sweet goodbye or ‘I love you’. There is only me, crushed and upset, listening to the dial tone of the telephone.
There is no point in my wallowing. It will only cause disruption to my tasks ahead and cause further upset with Alex this evening. I remind myself that this won’t be forever; that there will be a way to leave him—eventually.
The rest of the afternoon is spent creating the kind of feast that will put Alex in a good mood. I make a platter of cured meats and cheeses, with olives and rum-soaked fruit. The main meal is nothing to be scoffed at
, either—roasted goose with foie gras. Dessert, I cheated. I do know he likes and demands that everything is homemade, but to be honest, why bother when a delicatessen can produce something better than I can. I’m hoping Alex won’t notice the difference when I serve him the assorted miniature French pastries and tartlets I bought this morning.
Our apartment smells amazing, but suddenly I’m h
yper aware of three things at once. First, the afternoon sky outside has faded away to dusk, which means that Alex will be on his way home very soon. This thought is enough to panic me anyway, especially since he works only a short distance away in town. The other two things that I notice and which are problematic to the first, is the time on the clock and my reflection in the microwave door. The heat from cooking in the kitchen has made a frizzy mess of my hair, eyeliner has started to smudge, and my clothes are definitely in need of the dry-cleaner.
I’m guessing I have about all of half an hour before my husband comes walking through our front door. I rush about the kitchen, throwing everything in the dishwasher that doesn’t have food in it. Thankfully, I’ve already set the table on the terrace with our finest silver. It’s not enough that he eats f
ive-star food, but he wants it served in such a manner, too.
As I glance around, I’m sure I have everything set to perfection, so I hurry to the shower to scrub the day’s filth off me. A quick shampoo and soap is all I have time for. For once in my life I’m grateful that I have thin hair. It means it dries a lot easier. Alex likes my blonde locks blow-dried straight, so this is how I style it. I apply the
make-up he likes and the bright, red lipstick. In my wardrobe is an evening dress, hung up in plastic to protect the fabric. There is no doubt that Madeline, the stylist, has been in our apartment today to deliver the garment.
I strip off the plastic to see what she’d have me wear for Alex tonight. It’s a little black dress, strapless
, with a strip of emerald material around the bottom hem. It matches my eyes, and I know this is why she chose it. She’s also left me a strapless black bra and see-through panties to match. I hate that she chooses everything down to my undergarments. It makes me feel vulnerable and naked—which I’m sure is entirely Alex’s intention.
Just as I’m slipping into my heels, the intercom sounds, a warning someone has just stepped off the lift. In some way, I’m glad at that moment for the early warning that Alex has arrived. I check my reflection in the mirror, plaster a smile on my face, hide the anguish in my eyes
, and go to meet the devil.
Alex steps into the foyer, handsome as ever, but it does nothing to disguise his arrogance. He’s not exceptionally tall, although his width more than makes up for his height. It’s all muscle
—hours spent on his elliptical machine while brokering deals in his office. His hair is still dark, only the slightest of grey smattering the sides near his temples. I wonder if, in years to come, he will be vain enough to dye it.
His chiselled jaw tightens as he takes in my appearance.
‘Evie, you look… like you haven’t finished getting ready.’ His tone, while relatively quiet and without emotion, is like a slap. He may as well have said I look like shit.
‘I’m sorry, is this not what you wanted me to wear tonight?’
‘It’s not the clothes, it’s your hair. Didn’t Madeline tell you to wear it up tonight? I like the chignon you do.’
‘I wasn’t here when she stopped by,’ I explain humbly, dropping my head to avoid his disappointment.
‘Well you’d best rectify that immediately, and before I have to pour my own champagne.’
‘Yes, Alex.’
Like a well-trained puppy, I dart off to fix my hair in the up-style he wants. My fingers deftly move through my hair, precise and well-practised. When I come back out to the living room, I receive his nod of approval while he holds out his champagne glass to be filled. I oblige, pouring the Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin like it’s tap water. He takes a healthy swig before motioning me to join him.
In Alex’s presence, everything is
monitored, everything must be perfect before the next act can begin. I pour myself a glass, sitting next to him on the sofa.
‘Happy birthday, darling,’ I offer, holding my glass out towards his. He clinks his against mine, smug self-satisfaction written all over his face.
‘So, did you get me a present?’
‘Of course, let me get it.’ I scramble to retrieve the gift-wrapped box from the bookshelf. I offer it to him, allowing him to kiss my cheek in exchange. His lips are warm and soft, his aftershave ever present on his clothing.
‘What is it?’ A childish spark lights his eyes as he shakes the box. It gets harder and harder to buy gifts for a man who has a bottomless bank account and everything in the world he could wish for.
‘Open it.
’ I smile, certain for once that I have found something he doesn’t already have. Carefully he opens the wrapping, almost as if he doesn’t want to spoil it. When he sees the black box he looks a little confused. No, confused isn’t the word. He looks… surprised—but in a disappointed, bad, kind of way.
‘It’s a pen,’ he states flatly before tossing the box to the coffee table without even opening it. I pick it up, opening it for him so he can see.
‘Not just any pen, darling. This is a Mont Blanc! And look, I even had them engrave your name on it,’ I say cheerfully, trying to infect him with my enthusiasm. He takes one look at the 1,500-dollar pen I purchased for him before reaching for his pocket inside his suit jacket.
I recoil out of instinct, unable to squash the little stab of fear that has suddenly gripped me. He pulls something out of his pocket, thrusting it towards my face so I can get a better look. It’s also a Mont Blanc pen. Not the fountain one I got him, but a less expensive ball-point one.
‘I already have a pen, Evie. The board gave this to me last month when the company closed the Dallas deal early.’ He flings it next to me, landing against the glass coffee table with a clatter.
‘I’m s
orry, darling. I had no idea, I…’ He silences me with just a look.
‘Forget it. Let’s see if we can salvage what’s left of the evening with dinner, shall we?’
He takes his champagne with him to the al fresco area, padding across the tiles with socks on his feet and dumping his suit jacket across the back of one of the dining chairs. He ignores me as he drinks, enjoying the view his wealth has afforded. There is nothing left for me to do but start serving our meal. At least that might distract me from the hurt and rejection.
Thankfully, after a few glasses of champagne, he starts to relax. I’m still sipping the same glass I poured for myself at the beginning of the night. I learnt my lesson once; now I never let my guard down. It wasn’t pretty
, and I certainly don’t want to go through it again. So I sip, while he talks, the alcohol loosening his tongue.
Dinner seems to be well
received, at least he cleared his plate. When it’s time for dessert, I brew his favourite coffee to serve with it. I don’t indulge in dessert, knowing I will receive criticism if my body even displays the smallest sign of weight gain. Cellulite and rolls of excess flesh are a complete no-no in his book. Best to be good most of the time, and then I don’t have to exercise as ridiculously to keep it off.
While I sip a black espresso, I watch carefully out of my peripheral vision to see Alex delve his way through the assortment of petite fours I have put out for him. He takes a small bite out of each before moving on to the next one. After sampling them all he swills his coffee around his mouth as if to clear the sugary goodness from his teeth.
‘The petite fours are nice,’ he says. I smile—not proudly for making them, but ecstatic for a compliment for something I have managed to deceive him in.
‘Thank you.’
‘Did you make them?’ His steel-grey eyes rove over me, seemingly searching for a crack in the façade, a lie, a cheat. It’s like he can sniff it out. The muscles in his jaw clench tightly, a clear sign a storm is brewing.
‘Why do you ask?’ I swallow deeply, not at all wanting his reply or this conversation. I may have just made a very big mistake.
‘Because you’re either becoming a much better cook overnight, or you bought these.’ He’s still watching me like a hawk.
‘Perhaps your cooking lessons are finally paying off,’ I offer, careful not to take my eyes off him as I sip my coffee.
‘Perhaps. But I think you mistake my generosity as an excuse for you to be lazy.’
‘No, Alex… I didn’t
—’
‘Don’t you fucking lie to
me!’ With one fluid motion he scrapes the remnants of our dinner off the table, crockery and crystal shattering on the tiles around us. On any other floor perhaps somebody, anybody, would hear. Up on the top floor the noise is drowned out and taken away on the wind. It’s as if it never happened. Except I have Alex’s murderous face in mine.