Page 41 of Hard
‘But Robin did make dog food out of my heart, and then had the audacity to tell me I didn’t know how to conductmyself.’
‘And then tried to dish out a different kind of hurting,’ Chas replies with a dark look.
‘Exactly. Pretty ironic, right?’
‘Moronic, more like. But tell me more about this Keir.’
‘I think he’ll be a good rebound,’ I say, nodding. ‘He’s a little older than I am, is divorced, has a daughter, and doesn’t want anything serious.’
‘What about you? Do you think you’ll be able to stick to those terms?’
‘Absolutely,’ I reply, standing. ‘I’ve known I’ve always been a relationship kind of girl, but so much has changed in my life recently. I think Keir will be a good distraction for me. A good reminder. Good for my ego.’ Good for now, at least.
‘So long as you don’t get too attached.’
‘I’m a big girl,’ I respond, grabbing my bag. ‘I know the score. And on that note, don’t wait up!’
As Keir had suggested I choose a place to meet tonight, I stick to the Chelsea area, just in case things don’t go so well. I’ve come to love London in the years I’ve lived here. I no longer look like a tourist and have a pretty good understanding of my surrounds, and I can navigate the underground like a native! But that’s not to say I’m familiar with everywhere. London is a big place. So when I’d asked Chastity in a roundabout way where would be a good place to eat—somewhere not too over the top and with a chill vibe—I didn’t expect my Uber to pull up toPerro Morrado.A Mexican joint? One complete with aDay of the Deadtheme.
So un-Chastity like, I decide, as a girl dressed for Halloween opens the door. Her dark hair is pulled from her face and pinned in a retro style victory roll, adorned with red flowers, and her face painted in a white skull effect. Complete with cobwebs dotted with tiny jewels.This place is very, very un-Chastity like.
I’m led through the bar adorned with South American mosaic tiles and rough-hewn wood, passing a row of brightly coloured woven hammocks to a table at the back. Purple lights hang above, casting my jeans in an eerie glow. I’m early, but that’s me. And I am nervous despite the line I’d sold Chas earlier. Of course, I like Keir, and I want him to like me. But I’m under no illusions. We’re not looking at long term or to a future that doesn’t include clothes discarded to the floor. And that’s fine. I’m all about the now, and truthfully? I’ve never had sex as I’d had with him.The bone melting, ovary exploding kind. But I still feel like I need confirmation that the sex was as good as I remember.I sure hope so.
And if it does turn out to be as awesome as I recall, I’m might be at risk of developing a little obsession. Except, unlike coke or booze, this kind of addiction takes two for full effect. And there lies the end of that potential problem. It takes two to tango, as my grandma used to say, and something tells me Keir won’t be interested in filling up my dance card for too long.
I take my seat on the dark velvet bench, which gives me a view of at least part of the space. I order a drink as the waiter arrives—it seems rude not to—but decide I shouldn’t listen to that little voice that suggests something potent to soothe my rattled nerves.
‘I’d like a frozen margarita, please,’ I tell the waiter as he appears. Much like the female host, his face is also painted a ghostly white, though only above his strongman mustache and a pointed beard. Matching skull motif suspenders and bow tie accompany his white shirt. Even his order pad has a smiling skull motif.
I expect a touch of barely concealed disdain at my choice of beverage—this place is in the heart of Chelsea, and I’ve just ordered the alcoholic equivalent of a blue raspberry Slurpee. May as well ask them to stick it in a big old thirty-two-ounce plastic cup. It’s not like I don’t feel “other” enough, sitting alone in a bar the affluent usually frequent.The high-born and high-cheekboned, by the looks of things.
My gigantic cocktail arrives on a silver tray as the girls at the table next to me receive glasses of something much more grown-up. I should’ve ordered a champagne cocktail or something equally as fancy.Nevertheless, I take the plastic straw between my lips for a quick sip to find the drink packs a decent punch. Not that this stops me from lowering my head to the straw again.
‘You look like you’re enjoying that.’ I look up to Keir standing on the other side of the table, his mouth tilted in a half smile. Dark jeans and a white button-down that clings to his muscled chest, a sports jacket, and black boots. Unlike the times before, a sandy rasp of stubble covers his cheeks. He looks good enough to eat.
‘Hey.’ The word comes out all soft around the edges as I return his smile, partly because he’s here—in front of me—so real and so virile. But also because of that accent. The aural he gives.
You’re so shiny and wet.
I’m gonna make you scream.
I resist a full-body shudder at the echo of his words, his voice as deep and as cool as the ocean. The rasp around the edge of his need.
He steps closer, navigating the table. One hand on my shoulder, he leans in, placing his lips against my cheek. I restrain the urge to wrap my arms around him, burying my nose into his neck for a comic-sized inhale. He smells so good—spice and cedar—the warmth of his stubbled chin against my cheek doing strange things to my insides.
‘Well, are you?’ he asks, pulling the wooden chair opposite me out from under the table.Am I what?Nerves make me a little ridiculous. Surely, I can come up with more than a gooeyhey.Oh, ha-ay...
‘Was I what? Oh, enjoying my drink?’ I look down at the oversized glass, more like a fishbowl really, and when I look back up, he’s staring at me from under his thick sandy lashes, his hazel eyes darkened by the purple light. I think I like him in jeans almost as much as I do a kilt. Though I think—no, I know—I prefer him dressed in nothing but a sheet. That lean frame and those muscles. The sandy fuzz just under his navel leading to the dick that rocked my world.
‘Hey, polka dot?’
When I look up, he’s sort of crouching as though to catch my gaze. He also looks on the verge of laughter.
‘Paisley,’ I correct automatically.
‘I know what your name is,’ he says, definitely chuckling now. ‘Polka dot is probably your sister’s name, though, right?’
‘Yeah, along with my big brothers Argyle and Plaid.’
