Well Played Ch. 02

Author's Note: a little heads-up, as it were. The character of Aidan appeared in another story of mine and you may or may not have met him. While he does in fact work in the theatre, he's also a male escort. Ben, as you might have guessed from chapter one, is not aware of this.

HARPER

Once upon a Saturday night, I'd be doused in the shadows of a smoky dance floor, half-draped over a man with skin turned to stained glass under the glare of the disco. We'd reek of cigarettes and cheap cocktails; we'd grind like we enjoyed the feel of sandpaper.

But I am so much better than that.

Then there were the weekends I spent immersed in him. We drove out of the city and went hiking (always with a Waitrose picnic); we had the same CDs that we played in the car over and over again. I remember watching the sun light the hairs on his arm as it sat on the window; the wind tickling auburn hair from the line of his sunglasses as he drove. The I love yous whispered into my neck as I straddled him on the backseat, parked up in the middle of nowhere.

Until he left, with her.

All at once, I had no boyfriend melt into, no best friend to drag to bars. I still go out -- nice restaurants, the odd wine bar, lots of cosy afternoon trips to the movies -- but I don't spritz on Eau de He'll Do these days and while Caroline's lovely, she's no substitute for the years of solid friendship I've lost.

No...my very favourite way to end a Saturday now is to curl up beneath my Laura Ashley throw (heavy white cotton with turquoise silk accents), pour a glass of wine, flick on the laptop and --

"Oh God. You're doing it again. Sorry, sorry! Pretend I never came in!"

"Ben --!"

The door creaked shut again as he scurried off. I heard him stub his toe and shriek five colours of fuck! on his way down the hall: drunk again. He always barged in on me when he'd had a few.

Ben thinks I'm masturbating to internet porn. I suppose I do look suspect, my laptop perched the way it is while I'm naked beneath my lovely sheets. But porn is not my dirty secret.

It's...spa menus.

It started when I moved to London after uni for my first job; I was a PR intern for an advertising company. I ended up in a noisy shared house full of boisterous rugby lesbians and to get to sleep at night, I had to be seriously relaxed. Three nights on whisky told me that life could not stagger on that way for much longer. I'd always enjoyed going for beauty treatments but couldn't afford them much; as the raucous evenings turned to insomniac nights, I found myself browsing for the decadent salons that I'd never dared to research since my budget wouldn't stretch as far -- and once I'd made that leap, I became addicted to the thrill of a tease I'd never taste corporeal.

A certain Mr. Ironside is not an unrelated symptom.

Let me tell you what it's like, though; how it feels when the world closes in and it's just me and the massage of my imagination. How flickering words on a screen make me purr.

I have the lights low, just as they would be in a therapy room. I select a spa website and check out the scenery -- I like them quiet and isolated with archaic features and lots of greenery -- so I can imagine what it'd be like to arrive, and how I'd feel as I looked around for the first time. Facilities should include a large, tranquil pool (preferably with pillars); hot and cold plunge baths; scented saunas.

Next, I survey the treatment section. The brand list is important. Guinot is my personal favourite -- their products always feel rich without smelling too pharmaceutical -- but Dermalogica and ESPA will do too, as well as concoctions mixed by individual spas (I once read about a strawberry and cream facial for Valentine's day -- gorgeous).

I always read the body treatments menu first. Wraps, exfoliations, massages and hot stones...yummy. This full-body envelopment begins with a pressing, lymphatic massage...my temples turn liquid and cool, as if I'm about to pour out of them and be naked without flesh. Warm discs of stone are then applied to the soles of your feet while the oceanic mud wrap provides deep moisture for tired skin...Now my ankles rub together and my eyelids feel heavy. Sinking...sinking...on to the facials menu. Time for my second course.

A lifting massage is performed to aid circulation, before a poultice of lavender and fresh apricots is applied to scrubbed skin. Mmph. Shivers that ache in my shoulders before blooming to prickle down my spine. This hydrating facial includes steam therapy and acupressure to relieve tiredness and remove dry cells. I feel heady; almost aroused. I like the way I swell towards the tranquil images onscreen. Need more facial descriptions, or will maybe move on to manicures --

"Fuck!" Ben fell right through my door, collapsing in a groaning heap on the carpet. I shoved the laptop down in ridiculous paranoia and scooted over to him, a sheet clasped in my fist to protect modesty (ha).

"Ben...what are you doing?"

"I drunk. What's it look like, Harpcore?" He dry-retched and clapped a hand up to catch the sour air. "Fucking fucktard!"

"Me...?"

"Noooo...s'not you. Girl. Utterly fucked it." He sat back against my bedroom wall with his arms hugging his knees. "Over 'afore it even began. Thinks I'm a rapist. Had some beer."

"Do I want to know why she thinks you're a rapist?" I cringed at him. "You weren't pulling a Nathan, were you? Harassing some poor girl because you think it works on everyone..."

"Ha!" He rolled worryingly bloodshot eyes. "No. But new name. I'm Hannibal. Helloooooooo Clarice."

"I think you need to go to bed, Ben."

"Was trying..."

I kicked him in the foot.

"Try harder!"

Then he unleashed the brazen super force of the boy pout, and I sighed.

"If do," he slurred, "you go with me 'til I fall asleep? I'm all...on my own."

"Ok, ok. But I'm not actually getting into bed with you. You might vomit on me."

"Have some class left, y'know." A cough. "Some."

Then he crawled back to his room on hands and knees, and I perched at the edge of his bed until soft snoring disturbed the chocolaty tendrils around his face. He was still flushed from the alcohol and the air was sweet with it.

I don't think Ben is as comfortable with being single as I am. Even asleep, he throws an arm over his pillows as if it's a lover he can draw close. I wonder what he's dreaming about?

I patted his thigh through the duvet and tip-toed out to the kitchen -- I'd been rudely disturbed, my atmosphere was ruined and that called for top-up of wine.

When I spotted the unfamiliar shape at the dining table, I very nearly dropped my sheet.

"Jesus! How...how did you --?"

"Came home with Ben. I wondered how long it'd take you to sort him out." Nathan sat back and smiled brightly; he wasn't half as drunk as my flatmate. "Nice place, by the way. Smells like girlie candles."

I wanted to re-arrange my sheet -- tug in the gape at my back, close the split at my thigh -- but I was afraid I might flash him.

"Do you always put him to bed naked? Is there something I should know?" He raised a slick eyebrow. "Did you and Ben just have pity sex?"

"No. We did not. We do not." I couldn't get my tongue around the words, gah. Here I was, feeling like a complete tool in my own home...and there he was, looking as if he lived here. He did the same when he came into my office at work: strode in and snatched the reins from my hands with a nod and a dirty grin. Yes, I liked that...but I expected it. Here, the perimeters were untested and I worried about when they'd dissolve. "Why are you here?"

He shrugged, tucking up the arms on his shirt.

"Couldn't possibly let Ben walk home alone in that state. What do you take me for?"

"A huge whore."

Nathan's laughter made his collar tremble.

"No," I went on, "opportunistic whore. Fair enough, you brought Ben home -- but you stuck around purposely to --"

"Catch you in the nude? 'Course I did. And looky -- it almost worked." He gestured to my lack of attire. "Add a belt, a few pins here and there...I could take you out in that."

"Now I'm really starting to question what happens at the White Club."

He stood slowly, empty mug in hand.

"If you actually joined me one evening, you'd find out."

Nathan took a step towards me and that was when I felt the charge. We were warring magnets; he, compelled closer and I, repelled back. Eventually, I was going to hit the kitchen island and there'd be no more space between us -- in the dark and quiet of the flat, it was a lot more unnerving than in daylight's waxy shadows.

The problem with backing up when you're only wearing a sheet is that you're going to tread on it. When adrenaline is screaming at you to move quickly, you don't realise this problem until it's a second too late and you've already --

"Woah."

Three things registered in very fast succession: I was about to be naked in front of Nathan. Nathan was suddenly moving a lot quicker than I was. And just when I clapped back against the island, thought I'd totally screwed it and would be exposed...he was the one gripping the sheet.

His fist sat right in the swell between my breasts, nails grazing my bare skin. I remember thinking it weird that his hand was bouncing until I realised that it was my own breath forcing the movement as my chest rose and fell. His thumb rested just an inch or so from my left nipple and it seemed like the distance was measured in disappointment.

He gazed down at me beneath hair the colour of maple syrup, the light splatter of freckles on his cheeks dancing as he blinked.

"Wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable," he whispered.

"Of course not." I peeled his fingers from the sheet reluctantly and he caressed my wrist.

"Do I get a thank you?"

Ugh, god. I could thank him in all manner of breathless and sticky ways. We were just a belt-click and leg-sweep away from him taking me right on the counter and the notion hung in the air, snapping its teeth. Clicking its tongue. Go on...fuck already.

"Thanks for being a gentleman," I managed. "For once."

"Is that what that was? Eesh." A mock shudder; he still clasped my wrist and I felt the tremble. Then his hand dived back and splayed right across my ass, scooping me towards a solid erection. I nearly dropped the sheet again in a feeble attempt at a protest; it seemed the ladylike thing to do.

"Nathan!"

I was smiling, though. My face ached with it.

"There. Much better." His fingers dug in through the cotton. "I'm an inappropriate pervert again and the world is at rights."

There was a moan blooming on my tongue; if I closed my eyes, it'd flood through my teeth and I'd melt into him. It felt like such precarious submission, though, and it wasn't until he pinched me that I remembered I was still mostly naked and just allowing him to grope me. Some lady.

"How tired are you?" he mumbled. I felt the words smack against my neck, cling in the hollows.

"I'm...I've had one glass of wine."

"I'll call a cab and go home if you'll let me kiss you."

There it was. We weren't going to bed -- it was too easy like this. He knew it, I knew it. But he wanted a trophy, a souvenir from the blurry realms of intimacy he'd so brazenly wandered into; the question was, would I break the rules if I gave it to him? Would we be able to leave it at that?

When I looked up, he was grinning. The line was broken as he bit his lip. Nathan's mouth didn't look like it was made for kissing -- it didn't command or invite them. No...it was the way he showed me his teeth at that moment, the flash of firm tongue; Nathan Ironside had never kissed anybody in his life.

But he had breached citadels, taken prisoners and hoisted remnants of desire up to flag posts. He had divided, conquered and devoured. The fact he was asking permission to do this was exciting, fascinating, ever-so-slightly terrifying...and about as logical as a zebra browsing the rails at Gap.

He touched his forehead to mine experimentally and breath steamed against my cheek. One hand slid from my buttocks, along my arm, traced my collarbone -- Jesus -- and came up to cradle my chin. Now, my mouth was in bondage along with the rest of me.

Oh crap -- he was really going to do it.

"Sure about this?" he whispered. "No going back after..."

It might ruin everything. No more crackling static when he got close to me; no rush of teasing hormones on my way to work. The world would be a lot less...safe.

He thinks you're going to crack. That's why he's pursuing you.

Of course I want to crack. I do...

"No going back," I breathed.

His thumb parted my lips before he kissed me. It made sure I felt his tongue before his mouth. It was warmer than I expected, purged the way for him...and his lips weren't half as shocking as the force behind them. My head came back and he caught my ponytail just in time; the moan I'd been trying to repress slid back out with his tongue and I finished the kiss whimpering, berating him for the rough end.

I think he looked me over; checked for flushes, glassy eyes. My observational skills were skewed by my frisky pulse and the tremble of my eyelashes (how lust-drunk do you have to be, exactly, to start cursing that your own eyelashes are in the way of the gorgeous view?).

Then came the words that turned my blood to popping candy.

"Harper...do you still want me to leave?"

I want you to hoist me over the kitchen island, tear this fecking sheet away, kiss me like you bought me at a slave auction (again) and then --

"That's what you said." My voice was a sad little squeak.

"You're right." He straightened, pulled his hands away. They dived into his pockets before I began to mourn them. "Sorry."

I clutched the sheet up, suddenly embarrassed.

"Do you...um...do you want me to call you a cab? I've got a number --"

"No, no. Cheers though." I think he meant to smile but it didn't quite happen. "I'll let myself out, ok?"

"Ok." I watched him peel his coat from off the plastic dining chair, tuck his wallet away, check his phone. Its little light cast milky shadows across our apartment as he moved.

When he reached the door, he paused.

"Sweet dreams, then."

I nodded once.

"I think so."

A grin. A swagger. The piercing creak of the door.

Then Nathan Ironside took leave of my space again, and it was infinitely emptier without him.

****

BEN

The phone was ringing -- no, screaming -- in my ear. I'm not sure why it was next to my head, but at noon on a Sunday, I'm generally not sure of much. Not recently.

"What?" I mumbled into the receiver. Half of Man United had evidently been Russian dancing on my forehead before lining up to shit in my mouth. "Mpppfh."

"Tell me you're not still in bed," groaned Bailey. "It's lunchtime, Ben."

"It's the day of rest. Why are you disturbing my sacred slumber?"

"I'm reminding you about Dad's birthday on Wednesday."

There was an awkward beat of silence before Bailey cleared her throat; we didn't actually share a dad. Mine was dead, and hers had been an awesome stand-in -- but his birthday was always a dull reminder that my Dad didn't have one anymore.

"I remember," I lied.

"Nope, you don't. I bet you don't remember about his party on Sunday, either." She sighed. "Can you Paypal me the money for the cake?"

"Will do."

"Awesome. So..." There was that cloying tone again; the one that meant she was about to pry. "Bringing anyone special to the party?"

I rolled over and rubbed my cheek against the pillow, the way cats nuzzle random people's legs.

"Not really."

"You could bring Harper," she chirped. "I want to introduce you to someone, anyway."

Oh shit. Oh no. My little sister has not escaped the purgatory of rejection before I have. I'm way more suave (which isn't hard, actually. But don't tell her I said that).

"Have you become a lesbian?" I said, hopefully.

"I won't lie. It was appealing for a while. But...no. Erm. D'you remember my friend Linc?"

"Gay vampires Linc?"

She giggled.

"Yep."

Nearly a year ago now, Bailey's YouTube star friends did some storyboards for the advertising agency. In the end, we didn't pick the pitch up, but they'd come in to present them -- a stocky, obnoxious beast called Olly and his evidently embarrassed mate. I was relieved that Bailey had picked the quieter half of the duo, but...she'd barely been single a few weeks and frankly, this was not fair.

I tried to work out how to sound happy for her. No, wait -- I was happy for her -- just...jealous.

"So it's definitely over with Craig?"

Another awkward gulp on her end.

"Definitely. Ben...it was like what happened with you and Kate. He admitted it. He'd been seeing her for months."

"Oh. Bastard. You're well shot of him. Do you need me to kick-box his ass?"

"If you catch him in the street, I wouldn't have any strong objections. Listen -- got to go. We're going to see some weird manga film at the cinema with Olly and Chan."

"You have fun now."

"I will." She made a faux-kissing noise. "I'll see you next Sunday, yeah?"

"Yep. I promise to be more awake, too."

There was a deep, male voice in the background as Bailey hung up, and a kissing noise that was disturbingly non-faux.

This was not the way I wanted to wake up.

When I staggered into the living area, Harper was curled up on the sofa with her laptop while a music channel hummed in the background. She was wearing the little work-out clothes that I always secretly perv over (shorts that cling to a girl's arse as if they've been sprayed on by a legion of adoring pygmies) but my vision was still too blurry to make out any chance flashes of nipple.

"You're conscious," she said, not looking up. "I've got a bone to pick with you, Ben Everly."

"Can it wait until I've ingested half a box of paracetamol?"

"No." The laptop closed with a foreboding click. "Since when do you and Nathan go out drinking together?"

"Since...?" I straightened, remembering. "Oh. That."

It was true; we weren't exactly bar buddies. Last night, he'd been out with someone else from work...one thing lead to another...and we were wandering the streets of London together while I told him...

...embarrassing stories about Harper. Fuck. Come to think of it, he'd wanted to know quite a lot about her. He was quite possibly plugging me for info (but he did it with beer, so hey...can't hold it against the guy).

"So there was a good reason for him being in our kitchen at one in the morning?"

Oh. That.

"He wanted to see the flat," I said feebly.

"And you couldn't have warned me?" she squealed. "I was almost naked! He could've caught me doing anything --"

"But you were saying how much you liked him. It didn't...it didn't cross my mind that you wouldn't want to see him. Sorry, dude." My hand hovered over the sink. "Wait. You didn't...fucking hell. Did you sleep with Nathan?"

Harper blew her fringe up, her arms folded beneath her breasts.

"No. Funnily enough, he asked the same thing about you."

"He wanted to know if I'd slept with him...?"

"If you and me were sleeping together, dickhead." She sighed. "But he did kiss me."

Great. Everyone's getting some but Ben-sha-meen.

"If you got off with him, why do you look so miserable?"

"Because..." She leant forward on her elbows, and there it was...ahh. A teeny crescent of pink aureola just peeking out of her top. Harper is such an ace room-mate (hey, a bloke can look). "Because now it might all be ruined."

"Pretty sure kissing doesn't fuck up a relationship." I swallowed two fat paracetamol with half a pint of water. Hangover cure stage one: in progress. "Fucking somebody else -- that fucks up a relationship." The fridge offered ingredients with a knowing hum: sausages, bacon, eggs. "That's if you have a relationship, mind. Processed meat products?"