Soldier Boy Page 18

  I fill the kettle, flick the switch, then turn back to Max, leaning my bottom against the kitchen countertop.

  He really is turning into a carbon copy of our father, at least physically. He has the same chestnut hair and brooding expression. Byron-esque, my mother once said. Though I don’t think either my father or Max lean towards Byron’s partiality for bum sex, not that I would care if they did. I sigh quietly. I’ve made no secret of my business, and in turn, my family have made no secret of their abhorrence and disgust. My aunt Camilla might be a fan, but I think she’s the only one. The only one who admits it, at least.

  I’m sure my mother would prefer Max to sleep on Genghis Khan’s sofa rather than stay with me. I’m sure she thinks I’ll corrupt him—have him starring in one of my skin flicks. If only they knew how it’s the opposite—how he harasses me to persuade me to let him “have a go”.

  He doesn’t understand. He’s just an oversexed, overgrown boy. I don’t think he believes that being an adult actor is hard work. Hard to remain focused over long days. Hard to fake enthusiasm some days. Hard to stay hard!

  But I don’t often talk of my work. And our family is dealing with my career choices as they do with all things: by pretending it’s not an actual thing. Brush it all under the antique carpet and make-believe that everything is fine. Stiff upper lips, not penises. Lie back and think of England. Tradition and heritage over smut.

  ‘Something will turn up,’ I tell Max, tearing myself away from my thoughts again.

  ‘Well, in the meantime, I’m going away.’

  ‘Again?’ He must have more frequent flier points than the Kardashians combined. ‘I mean, so soon?’ I amend, taking in his glare.

  ‘Yeah, Josh’s parents have a place in Goa. We’re going to hang out and meditate.’

  Self-medicate, more like. ‘Look, Max, you’ll find the thing that sparks your interest—something that you can see yourself doing. A thing you’ll love.’

  ‘Not like you did,’ he answers morosely, still looking out at the dark, wet night. ‘You’ve found a passion.’

  Lost it more like. Who can’t bloody orgasm? If I can’t find it soon, I’ll probably end up having a stress-related heart attack. And who will be to blame then? Flynn bloody Phillips, that’s who.

  I reach for the cannister of tea to avoid Max reading my expression. I’m told I wear my emotions on my face, and no one wants to question my thoughts right now. Because Flynn Phillips has stolen my orgasm, and I need to come up with a plan to make him give it back.

  FLYNN

  ‘Barbecue. Tomorrow.’

  ‘Fuck off. I’m not working Saturday.’ My retort is immediate though Keir, my boss, doesn’t bite. ‘Working for you is like indentured servitude. And actually,’ I add, another angle occurring to me. ‘I think that invitation might be a little racist.’

  ‘What was racist?’ Keir asks, not really paying me any attention as he sifts through a pile of papers cluttering his desk, searching for the plans I have in my hand. It’s late Friday evening after a hellish day, but I love my job. Almost as much as I love winding up my boss. ‘The bit where I invited you to spend an evening with pleasant company, providing you food and drink, or when I asked you where the paperwork for Simmons had gone?’

  ‘The barbecue,’ I respond. ‘Just because I’m Australian, don’t think you can pigeonhole me. It’s culturally insensitive.’

  ‘I dunno about pigeonholed, but I wish you’d shut your hole,’ Keir murmurs. ‘Where the fuck have those fucking plans gone?’

  Keir McClain might be a killer businessman, but he’d be lost without me. ‘These plans?’ I say, chucking them down in front of him. ‘You left them on my desk this morning.’

  ‘I’ve been looking for them for an hour,’ he growls. ‘You’d better not have been fucking with me.’

  ‘I was prioritizing your workday.’

  ‘Manipulating it, more like.’

  ‘It’s called managing, you arsehole.’ My words come out on a chuckle. ‘Come on, admit it. You couldn’t arrange a shag in a brothel without my help.’ Not because he’s forgetful or unfocussed. Quite the opposite. He just has too many plates spinning to tend to them all. Not without me behind him, spinning those plates just as hard. I say again: I love my job. And it pays very fucking well.

  ‘Fuck, I’m done,’ he says, standing suddenly straight at the same moment his phone buzzes with a text. I know it’ll be Paisley, his wife. The pair seem to have some sort of telepathy or intuition going on. ‘You’re done, too,’ he says without looking at me but rather looking down at his phone. Looking at it. Smirking at it. Sliding it into his pocket with a satisfied air.

  That, in front of me, is a man on a promise—a promise of a good shag. And you can call that intuition if you like, too.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he says, shutting his computer down. ‘Just be a good lad and turn up at three. Bring a decent bottle of wine that I’ll pretend you haven’t already charged to my credit card.’

  ‘The company credit card.’ One of the perks of the job. I don’t use it often—I don’t need to—and I only usually do to wind Keir up. And occasionally to send a “thanks for last night’s fuck” flowers. And when I do that, I always make sure flowers are also sent to Keir’s house. His house is overrun with women. Paisley, his wife, Sorcha, his daughter, Agnes, Sorcha’s stand-in granny. I love all three of them. I don’t think it’s conceitedness to think the sentiment is returned.

  ‘Is it a bring a date kind of thing?’

  ‘You can,’ he replies, grabbing his suit jacket. ‘But Chastity will be there.’

  My heart does one of those cartoon thumps. Ba-dum! Though, unlike a cartoon, it’s not exactly my heart that springs forth through my clothing. My heart isn’t straining from my chest, but my dick might be feeling a bit lively.

  Chastity . . . fuck me. Now there’s a handful. And a little bit more. I’ve never had a thing for posh girls before her—in fact, I’ve actively avoided them—and though she pretends to hate my guts, she sure was fun to fuck.

  Sun, sea, the Seychelles, and Chastity. That was a killer combination right there. I’d met her before Keir and Paisley’s wedding. At her house, in fact. Let’s just say sparks didn’t so much fly as ignite into a bush fire. She was so—the dangerous kind. She somehow got the idea I was a journalist and after some juicy gossip from her friend, so she threatened to impale me in the nastiest of ways. Grabbing an umbrella from an antique-looking umbrella stand, she suggested she’d shove it up my arse. Then she insulted my balls. It was the liveliest bit of foreplay I’d ever taken part in. So I reciprocated by telling her if she came any closer, I’d teabag her.

  Her face. My balls. A date.

  She wasn’t impressed. Seems the foreplay idea was a bit one-sided. So by the time the wedding rolled around, she’d made it abundantly clear that as far as she was concerned, me and her weren’t ever going to happen. To cement the point, she brought a parasol to the beach service—a white floaty thing I overheard her telling Sorcha was to protect her English rose skin.

  Nah, she brought it to make a point. And that point was: I should keep my distance or else she’d make good on her threat.

  But I’ve always liked a challenge. And Chastity was certainly that. And though she might look like an angel, it’s a total ruse. She’s petite and sort of sweet looking. Blonde ringlets, peachy skin, and has an accent a bit like the Queen. But beneath her sweet beauty she’s fierce, feisty and fiery. And she runs a porn company, of all things.

  My dad once jokingly said he’d aspired to marry a nymphomaniac with her own pub. I think an angelic looking pornographer is something more along my fantasy lines.

  Jesus, how she burned in my arms—flayed the skin from my limbs. Because, despite her apparent disinterest in any activity that didn’t involve some kind of disfigurement of me, we spent the night together, fucking until dawn. I’ve never had a night like it. And probably never will again. At least, not until the next time I get to work m
y charms on her . . .

  ‘Was the question too hard for you?’ Keir’s voice brings me back to the moment. The office. The dreary London spring.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I asked you if you were still bringing someone. You know, seeing as how Chas will be there?’

  I try not to wince. As an Australian, it’s in my DNA to shorten everything. We Aussies love a good yarn, or chat, but we like to abbreviate where we can and are the kings of brevity when it comes to renaming things. Service station? Servo. Breakfast? Brekkie. Afternoon? Arvo. Australia? Straya. John? Jonno. Okay, so the last one didn’t quite work, but you get what I mean. But I hate—hate—how Chastity’s friends shorten her name to Chas. She so isn’t a Chas. A Chas is a Charles or a Charlotte, but never a Chastity. At least, not my Chastity. Not in my eyes. Not from my tongue.

  Come to think of it, maybe that’s because her name has the word titty in it? And as far as tits go, she has the best fucking—

  ‘You’re doing it again.’ When I look up, Keir has this weird half-smirk on his face.

  ‘You got wind?’ I ask with an aggressive tip of my head. ‘It’s not like you to smile so much. That must be, what? Three times today?’ That’s not true. Keir is a solid bloke, as well as a good boss, but I shake my head in fake exasperation anyway. ‘It must be Paisley’s influence.’

  ‘My smile is a reflection of how good my life is.’

  ‘You’ve become an evangelist. Next thing we know, you’ll be banging on doors to spread the word.’

  ‘I don’t need to. See, I’m also smiling because of what I see in your face when I mention a certain blonde cinematographer. Looks like you’re about to be clued in.’

  ‘Clued in? Mate, stop talking in riddles.’

  ‘Flynn,’ he says, clearing his desk to clamp his hand on my shoulder. ‘Women are good news. Relationships are good news. Embrace it. And get your arse to my house tomorrow afternoon. Bring wine but not a date.’

  ‘It was just a thought,’ I say with a shrug. ‘My mate Sorch is all I need for entertainment.’

  ‘And do yourself a favour,’ he replies with an air of long suffering. ‘Don’t keep shortening my daughter’s name in front of Agnes. Or one of these days, you’ll get a nasty surprise. Most likely via delivery of her rolling pin.’

  What is it with women threatening me with long or sharp objects lately? A question for the ages, though not one for Keir.

  ‘Nah, me and Agnes, we’re like that.’ I cross my middle finger over my index one, holding them between us so he can see. ‘Tight.’

  ‘Yeah, ’cause everyone loves Flynn.’

  ‘Too fucking right. And you especially.’

  His hand slips from my shoulder as he makes for the door. ‘You keep tellin’ yourself that. And don’t forget to lock up when you leave. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘You do know it’s March, don’t you?’ I call after him. ‘It’s fucking freezing—not barbecue weather.’

  Keir doesn’t turn. He’s adept enough to shoot me the bird without breaking his stride, multitasker that he is.

  CHASTITY

  It’s true that I don’t have a lot of friends, but those I do have, I consider more like family. Paisley is like the sister I never had, which is odd, considering I haven’t known her all that long. But I love her all the same. And I love hanging out with her and Keir, her new husband. I even like his friends. Well, most of them. I refuse to include Flynn Phillips, though it’s strange that my body seems to know the minute he walks into their kitchen. A brush of anticipation dances from the nape of my neck down, causing me to turn at the same moment as he enters the room. Our eyes meet, electricity humming between the space. It really is the most shocking of things until I let my eyes wander over him . . . and I’m met by the most ridiculous outfit I’ve ever seen.

  ‘I don’t remember saying today was fancy dress.’ Keir sounds wearily amused as he relieves him of a bottle of red wine and a very decent bottle of champagne.

  ‘Mate, you invited me to a barbie.’ I’d forgotten how much his voice affects me. There’s something about that drawn-out, lazy speech pattern of his coupled with his deep tone. ‘This,’ he says, plucking at his shirt, ‘is suitable attire.’ Ah-tie-ahh. ‘Boardies, thongs, and my sunnies.’

  One arm wrapped around my waist, I bring my glass to my lips to hide my snigger. Sunnies, I guess, are sunglasses. Boardies, board shorts, and while I know thongs are what Australians call flip-flops, here in England, they’re flimsy bits of underwear that get stuck between the cheeks of your bum.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ Flynn asks. Despite his relaxed demeanour, I can almost physically feel the touch of his gaze. ‘I suppose if a bloke comes to a barbecue at your place, he’s expected to wear a tux.’

  Immediately, the prickling hairs on my neck turn to bristling spines. Spines that I tamp down, though I can’t help my vinegary reply. ‘Oh, that’s right.’ My tone is heavy with false sympathy. ‘You wouldn’t know, would you? On account of you’ve never been invited?’

  ‘I’ll just go open this and, er, let it breathe,’ Keir says, tactically raising the bottle of red. As he pulls open one of the French doors, a gust of cold air sweeps through the room before he steps out, closing the door behind him. The room falls quiet, and I begin to feel mean. I shouldn’t be so unfriendly, only—

  ‘That’s true.’ My attention snaps to Flynn once again. ‘I haven’t been invited to your home.’ I don’t fail to notice his eyes travelling over me blatantly this time. It’s definitely not a casual glance, more like a thorough inventory. And the bastard knows—does it on purpose, even. All to draw a reaction. A reaction I’m not in charge of, it seems. My throat is dry, and my nipples are hard enough to poke out an eye, and let’s not talk about the reaction currently dancing between my legs.

  He steps closer. Close enough to make my nerve endings erratic. Close enough to make my fingers twitch with the desire to pull him closer by the front of his ridiculous tropical print shirt.

  ‘I might never have been invited into your house, duchess,’ he repeats in a husky whisper, bending his mouth to my ear. ‘But I was lucky enough to receive an invitation into your underwear.’

  The absolute bastard.

  Instinctively, I unwrap my hand from my waist and press it to his chest. I think if it weren’t for the recent presence of Keir, I might use it to push him up against the wall to see if I can discover where he’s hidden my orgasm. Because I’m suddenly sure it’ll be on him somewhere. Say, on his fingers, his tongue, or maybe his dick . . .

  Instead, my brain sends a barrage of cock-blocking words tumbling from my mouth—clit-oference, if you will. ‘I thought we agreed not to mention that night.’

  It’s not surprising I’m sabotaging my own plans. For one, I don’t like him very much. I don’t think.

  ‘Did we?’ His forehead creases as though deep in thought before his eyes rise to mine, his gaze full of daring. Full of mischief. Somehow, I know he’s going to say something provocative, yet I’m still unprepared for how his words make me feel.

  ‘Nah, that’s not right.’ His accent renders the words into a drawl with a serve of taunt. Not roi-t. ‘I think what was said was that you’d prefer to pretend it didn’t happen. To forget. But I haven’t.’ His eyes make another shameless sweep of my body. ‘I haven’t forgotten one bit of it.’

  Oh. My. God.

  I came here today with a plan. A plan to get my orgasm back. Well, maybe it wasn’t so much a plan as it was a demand—a demand for a second go on the Flynn ride. See, I’ve decided the blockage is all in my head. I’ve made too much out of the night we spent together—it can’t really have been that good.

  So I’d decided a do-over would work. A one-time deal—okay, another one-time deal—here on my own turf, where the tropical setting wouldn’t seduce me, or I wouldn’t be drinking the wedding-romance-y Kool-Aid. But it’s not going to work if he keeps looking at me like that, not if he keeps speaking to me in a tone that remind
s me of rum cocktails, sunshine, and mind-blowing sex.

  ‘Flynn!’ The man staggers back as Keir’s daughter comes barrelling into the room. Flinging her arms around his waist, she squeezes him tight. ‘Why are you dressed for the beach?’ she asks. Stumbling back, she’s prevented from falling by Keir’s hands.

  ‘Watch it, Sorch.’ His voice trembles with laughter. ‘You’ll have Agnes coming after me with her rolling pin, or so your dad says. And I’m not dressed for the beach; I’m dressed for a barbecue. So the question should be, why are you dressed for a patrol of the arctic?’

  ‘Because it’s cold in the garden, silly!’ Sorcha replies, giggling as she feeds her hand into his. ‘And now you’re going to freeze.’

  ‘What? You mean your dad hasn’t opened the barbecue lid and brought summer alive?’

  ‘You know that’s not the way it happens.’ She giggles, pulling on his arm. ‘My dad’s not magic.’

  ‘Not like me, you mean.’ With that, he pulls a bright shiny coin out from behind her ear.

  ‘A two-pound coin! How’d you get that out of my ear?!’ she exclaims, clearly delighted.

  My God. If as if being annoyingly attractive wasn’t enough, it suddenly hits me that Flynn is also good with kids. Fuck. Why does he have to be good with kids? I love kids . . . even if they don’t seem to like me very much. He’ll be one of those hot, fun dads someday. I shut the thought down immediately, taking a sip from my glass and ignoring the sudden stinging of my eyes.

  ‘He must be trying to impress someone. Doubling the stakes, huh, Flynn?’ Paisley shoots me a sly wink as she enters the room, thank the Lord. She pulls open the door to a commercial-size fridge, hiding her smile in the depths of it. ‘Watch out for bankruptcy.’