Dirty Bad Wrong (4 page)

“I don’t talk about it.”

“About
it,
or about you?”

“I listen a lot better than I talk.”

I smiled. “That’s a terrible cop out.”

“Why so?”

“It’s lazy,” I laughed. “Hiding behind a smokescreen of interest to detract attention away from yourself.”

“It’s not a smokescreen.”

“What’s so bad about talking about you, Mr Clarke? Are you some big, bad serial killer or something? A secret special forces operator? A stamp collector?”

“I value privacy above almost all other things. I think you understand that more than you’re letting on.”

“Yeah, I get it. I’m normally the one doing the listening.”

“Then I guess we have a stalemate. Two listeners out to dinner, far away from any talkers.” His eyes smiled at me, big dark pools of cinnamon. “Were you in love with him?”

“
You
didn’t answer
my
question.”

“You first.”

“Not a chance.” I held his stare, unwilling to buckle. The pressure to give into him nipped at my heels, compelling me with an unknown force, strange and unfounded. Finally he smiled, and the tension broke. He shifted in his seat and I felt the bloom of victory in my ribcage, as though I’d won some battle I didn’t realise I was fighting.

“Rachel is the kind of woman who thrives on the adoration of others. I gave her plenty of my attention, and for a long time we worked like a dream. Then work got crazy and she lost the spotlight of my adoration every waking minute. I didn’t realise she was finding solace in other men until it was too late.”

“She had an affair?”

“Several,” he announced calmly. “So, were you in love with him?”

I took a breath, itching to pursue the adultery revelation. His expression told me I didn’t have a hope in hell. “I thought so.”

“Thought so?”

“I
loved
him. I don’t know if that’s the same thing on reflection.”

“Did he make you wet?”

I nearly spat my wine, staring across at the man opposite, at his crisp, corporate packaging, his steady hands, his considered smile. His goddamn perfect poker face and jaw of steel. “Sorry?”

“You heard me.”

I felt my cheeks burning. “I, um... we had a healthy relationship.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Stuart is attractive.”

“That’s not what I asked, either.”

“Well, yeah, sometimes. I mean... he could.”

“He could, but he didn’t?”

I sat agog, waiting for him to crack a smile and admit he was joking, but the smile didn’t come. “It was nice, but with work, and long days and general life. You know how it gets.”

“So, he didn’t. You’re a young woman, with your whole life ahead of you. When the betrayal fades you’re going to do just fine.”

“You aren’t so old, yourself.”

“Old enough to know what I want, and more importantly what I don’t want.”

I chanced my arm. “So what
do
you want?”

“Dessert.”

He called the waiter.

***

James

The splash of cold water did little to bring me to my senses.
What the fuck are you doing, James? What the fuck?
It was the eyes, her fucking eyes. Cat’s eyes. Pale turquoise eyes full of
fuck me hard.
Lydia Marsh was a sharp little cookie, a guarded little conker full of pain. Tough, and tight, and aching to be broken apart. Jesus pissing Christ.

Fuck no-one you know, and know no-one you fuck.

She’d driven me crazy this trip. The sight of her reverent fucking gaze as I’d delivered my pitch. Staring up at me like I was the God of fucking everything, standing in front of my PowerPoint deck like some kind of goddamn guru. Sweet fucking Christ. I recalled the gentle swell of her tits as she breathed, the slightest imprint of a lace bra under her blouse. Her sweeter than sweet little handshake, her quiet confidence, her eagerness to please. Yet, Lydia Marsh was clearly a fighter. Someone who bottles it all up inside, buries it deep. I’d avoided everything to do with her in the weeks since Kitchengate. Sworn abstinence and no fucking way. Yet here I was, my cock alive and kicking in spite of my better senses. Would she beg? Would she kneel on her soft little knees and plead for release? Would she sob under the cane like a broken little doll? Not easily...

A far off memory danced across my retinas. The gangly unease of inexperienced youth. The crunch of autumn leaves under my feet as I chase after Katreya. Katreya Moore, just a year older than me, but so much taller. Her white socks gather messily at her ankles, showing off pale, bruised legs as she runs. Dark hair streams behind her, tangled in tails. She turns to call after me, her face still streaked with the tears from her scolding indoors. The skidding halt of her body, long skinny fingers reaching for mine.

“I’m going to run away, James, come with me!” Her eyes pleading, wide and green, the palest eyes I’ve ever seen.

“Where?”

“Who cares.”

“What about school?”

“Don’t be such a sissy.” Her savage eyes tease me. Cut me down before her. She smudges her tears with the back of her hand.

“I’m no sissy.”

“Sissy boy, James. You’re so fucking good. So nice. Such a good little boy, James Clarke.”

“Shut up, Kat.”

“Make me.”

My throat chokes up with childish desire, too young to understand how to really play this game.

“We said we weren’t going to do that again.”

“So? I changed my mind,” she giggles.

“No, Kat. They’ll think you’ve been fighting again.”

“Hurt me, James. I know you want to. I’ll show you where... places they can’t see.”

“We said no.”

“I’ve still got the marks from last time... I’ll show you... They told me off. Said I’m a bad girl, but I’ll be a good girl, for you, I promise. I’ll do whatever you say. Please, James. I’ll beg you if you like. Make me beg, James.”

Shit... I forced the past aside before it swallowed me whole, smoothing hair back from my forehead while I eyed myself in the mirror.
Get a fucking grip, James.
This trip was trouble, a whole pissing heap of trouble.
Did he make you wet?
Jesus Christ, what a fucking question. But she answered... her awkward little swallow, the darting of her eyes. So much I’d wanted to say.
He doesn’t know how, does he? Doesn’t know how to fuck your little asshole raw... Doesn’t know how to stretch you all the way open... until you’re riding his fist like a wanton fucking whore and grunting for more... Ever had a tongue deep in your ass, Lydia Marsh? Ever had someone force their fist all the way inside you? Ever pissed down someone’s throat while they tongue your greedy little slit? Have you ever been hurt, Lydia? Really hurt? Anyone ever fucked you up? Slapped your tight little cunt until you cry? Ever gagged on cock until you puke, Lydia Marsh? Ever seen your titties swell purple? Ever choked for breath until the world turns black? I’ll make it feel good for you, Lydia, it’ll feel so fucking good. I’ll make you squirt all over my filthy fucking fingers.

Stop. Just stop.

I was running out of legitimate toilet break time. She’d be waiting, expecting me to come back all smiles and professionalism. Expecting me to steer the conversation back to White Hastings fucking McCarthy and our perfect day’s work.

Fuck no-one you know, and know no-one you fuck.

If only I hadn’t seen her cry...

***

I smoothed down my tie, smiling politely and resigning myself to another round of work talk, but Lydia Marsh surprised me. She toyed with her sundae, poking the thing like it was alive, over and over with pensive spoon gestures.

“It’ll melt if you’re not careful,” I said, forking up a liberal portion of creme brulee.

Her eyes latched onto mine as she took a mouthful of ice-cream. Unconscious obedience at its finest. “You got me thinking. I think it’s really the security I miss. Not him. I mean I do miss him, I love him, but it’s not the relationship I miss so much as having that part of my life all wrapped up. You know?”

“That’s what you want, is it? Security? The happy ever after of companionship and TV nights?”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I thought that’s what I wanted, but a few weeks out of it and I’m not so sure anymore.”

“You’re a bit young to be settling for the nice steady guy, don’t you think? Those guys are normally friend-zoned until at least mid-thirties.”

Her eyes did smile this time. “Stuart clearly wasn’t as steady as I thought.”

“Why did he cheat? It’s never just the drink.”

“Ouch.” She placed a hand over her heart.

“It’s not an attack, Lydia, people cheat. I’m just curious why
he
cheated. Comfy slippers man doesn’t sound like the kind of guy who’d want to rock the boat for a casual fuck.”

“That’s a probing question.”

“It’s a simple question.”

“If I answer, it’s my turn next.”

“I don’t make deals unless I know all the terms,” I stated, bluntly. “I’d need to know the question first.”

She raised her eyebrows, gripping her ice-cream by the shaft of the glass to take another spoonful. Firm grip. Nice fingers. They’d look so fucking sweet around my cock. “Can’t you make an exception? We’re away, aren’t we? Can’t Mr Perfect CTO just be James Clarke for one evening?”

The
no
was on my tongue, so ready to slip out and end this silly game before it started, but her fucking eyes sucked me in again. Big and wide and slightly mischievous, twinned with her sweet little mouth clamped tight around her spoon, cheeks hollow as she sucked away the remnants of ice-cream. What the fuck was happening to me?

“James Clarke the man is as guarded as James Clarke CTO, I’m afraid.
He
doesn’t make deals unless he knows all the terms, either.”

She shrugged. “Ok, so I’ll get the first internal meetings scheduled for next week, maybe call Frank in for the initial brainstorm, what do you think?”

I leant forward, fixed her in my stare, the
no
on my tongue fizzing away into fucking nothing. “Why did Stuart cheat, Lydia? What made him fuck some little blonde bitch from the office?”

If she was taken aback by my crudeness, she didn’t show it. Her expression stayed constant, determined. She had steel.

“My go next.”

“Fine.” My temples pulsed, discomfort at my own sorry predicament threatening to boil over, and yet I knew I’d answer her. Just like I’d always followed Katreya into the bushes. “Talk, before I change my mind.”

“He felt things had fizzled. That our sex life had dried up, and I hadn’t wanted him since the Anderson project came in at work. He said he was weak and horny and she was hot for him, promising to put her sour little mouth around his dick and suck him good, only that’s not the only place he put it.”

“Had things dried up?”

“That’s another question.”

“It’s an extension of my earlier question,” I said, with a dismissive hand gesture.

“I was tired and busy, I thought he understood. He
said
he understood.” Her lips pursed in anger, the first real chink in her facade I’d seen since the kitchen. “Has that answered your question? Do you think he was justified now because I wasn’t putting out for his bi-weekly demands?”

“Not at all.”

“Good, because our sex life
had
fizzled, but it wasn’t a few months ago like
he
thinks it was. It wasn’t down to the bloody Anderson project and tiredness over a couple of lousy months. It fizzled years ago for me, when we moved in together and he substituted any effort with nights of missionary and the occasional blow job in the living room. It may have fizzled for
him
when I stopped rolling over for the obligatory late night shag, but he let it go to shit a hell of a lot earlier than that. It should have been
me
screwing some random in an alleyway on a work night out. Not him.”

I watched her ease down from the ceiling, regaining her composure in measured little paces. I soaked in the rise and fall of her breasts as she pulled back the rage, and the hurt and the injustice. She grabbed the wine bottle from the ice bucket and poured herself a refill, drinking it down with large gulps.

“Does that feel better?”

“What?” she snapped. “Admitting my boyfriend wanted it elsewhere even though he was a boring, conservative joke in the bedroom?”

“Venting the pain. Does it feel good?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “It’s new. I don’t vent, I just deal with shit. I don’t even know why I’m talking about it.”

“Venting is healthy.”

“Says he who doesn’t talk either.”

“I vent,” I said. “I just prefer a more physical outlet for my emotional discomfort - at the gym, or in the bedroom.”

“You vent in the bedroom?” she smiled.

“Sex is my preferred choice, although I have to say I utilise the gym more at this present point in time.”

“I’ve heard. Every lunchtime, at the gym down the street.”

“People talk about that, do they?” I felt the familiar bristling of the hair on my arms, the rage at the whispered discussions.

“It’s hardly a secret. You look sculpted from bronze.”

I forced the irritation back behind the veneer. “So, what’s your question, Lydia Marsh. What do you want to know about James Clarke, CTO?” I forced a smile, an easy one, relaxing back in my seat to diffuse the tension.

“Have you always been like this? Private, I mean.”

I smiled at the relatively easy question. Maybe I’d escape this little round of truth or truth unscathed after all. “No. I wasn’t private with Rachel. She saw all sides of me.”

“Do you miss the intimacy?”

“That’s another question.”

“It’s an extension of my earlier question,” she grinned.

“Give someone enough rope and they will hang you with it eventually. Either intentionally or not, the result is the same. I don’t miss the intimacy, no.”

“So, what happens now? You’ll never have a relationship again? Never let anyone in?”

“Not in the conventional sense. I value my sanity far too much.”

“I think I shall adopt the same philosophy,” she said, raising her glass. “Here’s to us. Single and sane.”

“Here’s to us, Lydia Marsh. Non-talkers anonymous. Private and proud.”

“That should be our new tagline. Single and sane, private and proud,” she laughed.

“I’ll have it printed up and framed for my living room.”

“I’ll have it printed up and framed when I
get
a living room,” she smiled sadly. “I really need to get my shit together.”

“Where are you living?”

“On a friend’s sofa. It’s not the greatest. I need to find a house share or something, but I die a bit at the idea of all the smiles and questions and rigmarole of finding suitable housemates. I need to get a grip.”

“You have to allow yourself a bit of slack, given the circumstances.”

“A bit of slack won’t find me somewhere to live.”

The idea was there in a heartbeat. Maybe it had been there all the time, lurking under the surface.
No, James, no. Don’t fucking do it, no fucking way.
My mouth turned dry, my throat tightening around the words in my throat. “I’m sure you’ll sort something out.”

“I’d better had,” she said. “I think Steph’s boyfriend is getting sick of me. I hear her shushing him at night and pushing him away. Paper-thin walls.”

“Always a bitch, those.”

“They should just get on with it. I’m a big girl, I can handle the odd grunt in the night.”

I itched to ask her more questions, to scratch at the pain under her skin until I found her soft and raw inside, but the conversation was over. Her head was firmly back on planet Earth, complete with its accommodation nightmares. I tried to convince myself it was for the best, but one flash of her eyes put paid to that.