Page 54 of Hard
‘Of course, he did. He’s Pippa to your Tony Stark.’
‘Except we’re not fucking.’ In his typically crude and laconic way, Flynn slides himself into the spare seat around our small table.
‘The pair of you do act like you’re married,’ Will mocks. Reaching for his coffee cup, he gestures to the waitress for another round.
‘Aye, especially when you’re buying yourself things on my credit card,’ I grumble.
‘The company credit card,’ Flynn corrects. ‘And one of us needs to treat me nice. You know, especially when you’re dragging me out of the warm arms of a woman,’ he says, making a gesture that speaks of large breasts, not warm arms. ‘And just to come hold your... notebook.’
In answer, I just laugh as I turn to Will. ‘That’s his way of telling us he scored last night. He’s still thinks he’s Jack the Lad.’ In a mock whisper, I add, ‘We’re supposed to pretend to be impressed.’
‘Ignore him,’ Will says, slapping the arm of Flynn’s chair. ‘Keir’s just jealous on account of his life being one long dry spell.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, mate,’ begins Flynn. ‘He’s getting plenty of action with his girl Friday.’
Friday evening are almost sacred these days, myme timenowour time—a time I don’t want to share or discuss with anyone else.
‘Isn’t there a nondisclosure clause in your contract?’ Despite the mildness of my tone, my whole body is suddenly taut, my gaze seeking to convey the things I don’t want to voice aloud. Not that it matters. Flynn is too fucking busy eyeing up the waitress filling our coffee cups.
‘Girl Friday?’ Will’s head turns to me and I just know he’s about to fire shit my way. ‘You’re a dark horse.’
‘And you’re a nosy arsehole, but sadly, there’s fuck all I can do about that.’
‘So who is she?’ His attentions turn to Flynn, who holds up his hands.
‘Don’t ask me, mate. I just book the hotels.’
‘Ah, hotel sex,’ Will says on a reminiscent sigh. ‘Do you know what the fastest car in the world is, Flynn?’
‘Nah. I’m not much of a rev-head myself,’ he says, pushing the thick black frame of his glasses farther up his nose. I think he wears them for effect, not sight issues. Nothing would surprise me. He probably read in some men’s magazine thatchicks dig specs.
‘Guess,’ Will encourages.
‘Bugatti?’ he offers with a careless shrug.
‘Nope, a rental.’ I keep my mouth shut because I’ve an idea where this is going.
‘A rental?’ Flynn repeats with more than a note of disbelief. ‘Even a compact?’
Will nods. ‘Because it’s not yours, so it doesn’t matter how careless you are—how hard you ride the arse off it on the highway. Same as hotel sex. That arse doesn’t belong to you for long, so you can ride it any way you like without fear of consequences.’
‘You’re a nasty, nasty man, Lord Travers.’
‘Says the man having sordid rendezvous. In hotels, no less. Without confiding in his friends. Besides,’ he adds, folding his arms, ‘I’m a reformed man these days.’
‘I’m sure Sadie will be overjoyed to hear.’
‘My love knows me as a paragon of virtue. And she knows every saint has a past. And lucky for you, every sinner has a future.’
‘Why d’you have to be such a bawheid?’
‘Me?’ Will asks, pointing his index finger at his own chest. ‘I’m the bawheid? I’m only pleased you’re not gonna be a claw baws all your life!’ I secretly love it when I can get The Right Honourable Will, aka Lord Travers, to drop into the Scots vernacular.Love it.
‘Fuck it,’ complains Flynn. ‘I hate it when you start talking in that foreign fucking language.’
‘Says the immigrant,’ I retort.
‘Lemme get this straight,’ he says, waving me off. ‘You just called him’—he points at Will—‘a bawheid. That’s like saying he’s got testicles for brains? Like he’s stupid?’
