Friday Night, Saturday Morning

Chapter One

(September 2015)

The last couple of months had been awful for Danny. No, they had been downright terrible. Even now he couldn't work out why Jessica had left him, muttering about "irreconcilable differences" as she went. Hell, he hadn't noticed any differences at all, never mind irreconcilable ones. Four years they'd been living together . . .

Yes, four years under the same roof, sharing the same bed and having sex at least once every night (and lots more at weekends). They'd shared everything else too, watching TV together, eating meals at the same kitchen table, showering together, only ever going out socially as a couple.

Four years. And at least a year of being boyfriend and girlfriend before she'd finally moved in.

Never an angry word between them in all that time, and suddenly Jess had had enough.

Struggling to cope, Danny had only ventured out of the house to go to work. That's right, for nearly ten weeks he'd avoided pubs and company of any description. Truth was that he didn't know what to say to people. And his circle of boozing buddies had shrunk to next to nothing anyway, thanks to those five years or more of infatuation.

Ten weeks and, work aside, he'd locked himself away from the world. Weekly shopping was brought to his door courtesy of ASDA's delivery service, and those delivery guys were the only folk he saw.

Well, he saw colleagues every day in the office, obviously, but he hadn't been his usual self. If invited for a lunchtime pint and game of pool he invariably said no. Ditto for invites to after-work events like birthdays, engagements and leaving parties.

Normally he'd head home alone and drink himself silly on bottles of supermarket wine before trying to ring and text Jess, wanting to sort out those differences. But without any success. Jess ignored all of his texts and never once answered his calls. Then, perhaps a fortnight ago, he'd started to get the dreaded "number discontinued" response from her service provider.

She'd only gone and bought a new mobile, retiring the (not-so) old one, presumably for all time.

That's when he finally accepted life as he knew it really was over. That's when mystified frustration turned into the blackest depression.

Over, he thought again and again. Everything is over forever.

Things couldn't possibly get worse . . . but this afternoon they had. Friday was early finish day, in line with POETS day everywhere else; he'd been surprised to be called in to his boss's office shortly after four o'clock. His boss was into extreme sports and was usually keen to haul her (admittedly sexy) ass out of there ASAP, doubtless bound for some woodland assault course or other.

But not today. Mystified by the latish summons he sat in the visitor's chair in front of her large, solid oak desk, half-expecting to be quizzed about his slow progress on a potentially lucrative deal . . .

Only to be hit by a list of shortcomings. His workmates were worried about him. He was untypically cold. He'd become reclusive and uncommunicative. And his day-to-day input was noticeably slipping and sliding. From ace performer he'd become decidedly average.

Come to that, was he going to close a deal on the Richardson contract anytime this century?

'What is the matter?' his boss had concluded, eyeballing him closely. 'Can we help in any way? Can I help in any way? Let me know and I'll do whatever I can. All I want is to have you back to normal.'

Danny hated talking about personal weaknesses. For perhaps thirty seconds he considered lying and blagging it out. Then he'd realized it was a fair cop; he couldn't dream up a credible excuse any time soon. Ditching subterfuge, he'd admitted he'd been dumped and was struggling to adapt to his new circumstances.

'Do you need input from HR?' his boss had asked, her expression as tender as he'd ever seen it.

(Sexy ass or not, his boss was known as Ming the Merciless behind her back; tenderness didn't come high in her everyday list of virtues.)

'No,' he'd replied. 'Consider me given the wake-up call. I'll be back in on Monday, and I'll be back to normal as well. Pool, pints and everything else.'

He had meant every word of that promise, but the question was how to go about it. In the real word here he was, home once more, six thirty-something that worse-than-ever Friday evening, full bottles of ASDA vino beckoning him like crazy.

'Avaunt thee Satan,' he said aloud. 'I'll get pissed, but I'll go out to do it.'

And where better to get pissed than Bingley? The old market town had far more than its fair share of lovely hostelries. It was a relatively small community as well. He would no doubt run into a few long-lost boozing buddies as he went along.

Assuming he could raise the courage to step over that first threshold . . .

*****

Freshly showered and casually dressed, not bothering with any jacket because the weather was still warm, he left his Poplar House terrace and walked through Myrtle Park, passing the swimming baths and the rear of the Arts Centre, crossing a large Pay and Display car park before pausing outside of a relatively new watering hole, one that was favoured by the younger element.

(A class he hoped still included him.)

Come on, come on, he thought when his feet refused to accept his brain's instructions. Exactly how many pubs have you walked into alone over the years? Hundreds, that's how many.

Maybe even thousands.

Amazingly, his plates of meat took notice and next he knew he was through plate glass doors and on his way to the bar, casting around for old acquaintances as he went. Seeing nobody.

Buying a pint of San Miguel, wincing at the few pennies change from his fiver, he withdrew and took a place against a pillar. To his left were two large TV screens, one permanent, the other roll-down for projected images. On the roll-down Manchester United were already two goals ahead of some set of no-hopers in blue. On the permanent screen Leeds Rhinos were imminently due to hit another set of no-hopers in red and white for six tries or more.

Business as usual, in other words.

Taking his first swig of lager made Danny wonder why he'd wasted his time on vino for so long. This was more real; this was a big step on his way back to normality.

Sighing deeply, he helped himself to another big swig.

And then he saw her.

Chapter Two

For the avoidance of doubt, Danny's (mostly) spontaneous night out on the lash had never focused on girls in any shape or form. His loose schedule included lots of booze and hadn't included girls at all. Far as he was concerned, from now on girls could go whistle.

But the shape and form of this one . . .

Ignoring Manchester United altogether he gaped at the vision not ten yards away from him. Tall with jet-black hair falling most of the way down her back, sculptured like Miss World only vastly sexier . . .

The vision was dressed for the office. Standing as she was just then she was rear-on to Danny, giving him a perfect view of her perfect ass and long legs in sheer black stockings.

Oh my, wasn't she tall!

Raising his glass Danny realized it was empty . . . already. Something must have diverted him along the way.

The plan had been to down one pint and head off for the next pub. As if! Heading back to the bar, he did his best to look everywhere else but took in as much as he could of the divinity as he went by.

Currently holding court to a small crowd of similarly dressed office workers, the black-haired beauty was clearly telling a tale. There was an element of power dressing there too. She was clad in a short grey skirt, a brighter than bright white blouse, both revealing curves in all the right places.

For the first time in ages Jess wasn't haunting Danny's thoughts. In all truth she was nowhere to be found.

Did he miss her?

Eff missing her, right then she wasn't even a consideration.

Buying himself a second pint he turned away from the bar and stopped in his tracks. The divinity was not just a new, previously unencountered stranger, he knew her!

Well, he knew her by sight, anyway. He must have seen her a dozen times over recent years, usually in bars and nearly always with a different partner in crime, often a male but more frequently a sexy babe. And she was always deeply tanned, to extent of possibly being mixed-race.

But what does that matter? he thought as he (yet again) kicked life back into his feet and returned to his pillar. Maybe she likes girls as well as guys. Who am I to hold that against her? I prefer girls, don't I? That preference puts us on a level, doesn't it? And as for the colour of her skin, it suits her, so who cares about her parentage. Green with an ariel on her head she'd still be way beyond gorgeous.

The image of holding anything against her flipped his mind. On his return trip he had a proper sight of the girl's face and almost died. Okay, so he'd seen her face before, but generally he'd seen it from a distance whilst admiring the various bits of her scrumptious body.

And scrumptious hardly summed her up. He hadn't a clue who she was, but she certainly ticked all of his boxes.

Why hasn't she affected me like this before? he wondered. Then, with Jess still totally absent from his head, he tried to pluck up courage to make some sort of an approach.

But no need. As he stared at her she turned on prompting from her small crowd of girly admirers, all of them obviously alert. Breaking into a wide, beyond attractive grin, she said something witty then marched across the room towards him, followed by hails of ladylike laughter.

Omigod, thought Danny, she's homing in on me. Am I about to get shouted out for openly ogling?

That grin offset the worry. So too did the irresistible shape of her. Broad shoulders, big (but-not-too-big) tits on a body that curved divinely to a narrow waist with wide (but-not-too-wide) hips.

And double omigod, those eyes . . .

Danny hadn't previously got close enough to realize she had bright, emerald green peepers. As she came closer and closer, he realized now, of course. Those weren't just eyes, they were deeper than deep pools, well capable of dragging someone in and drowning him.

Not that any red-blooded guy would seriously object.

At a shade under six feet himself Danny realized the divinity really was tall; almost as tall as he was.

I've never been with anyone who matches me for height, his mind rambled dizzily. How sexy would that be.

Assuming she's not about to lynch me.

'Hi,' she said in greeting, stopping maybe a foot short of bashing into him. 'I'm Heather. Wherever is your ball and chain?'

He mumbled something inarticulate in reply, not at all understanding the question, trying his utmost not to take a suicidal dive into those wonderous green depths.

'I've often seen you out and about,' Heather enlarged, 'and you've always been with a large-chested young blonde. She's always been possessively anchored to you, too. Where's she gone?'

Shit, she was talking about Jess. Danny let the once most familiar name into his thoughts a couple of fleeting seconds then dismissed it, perhaps for ever.

'We've moved on,' he said flatly, as if referring to someone who used to do his washing (which she never did!), 'she left home two months or so ago.'

'Shame,' said Heather, that grin wider than ever, 'I quite fancied her.' Then, doubtlessly spotting his flinch, she added: 'Not that I didn't fancy you as well. And not that I need tell you how attractive you are. I bet you've spent the last couple of months shagging every girl that moves.'

'I've spent the last two months behind closed doors,' Danny's treacherous mouth advised her. 'This is my first venture out since . . . since then.'

If he'd expected that little revelation to deter Heather, he'd have been disappointed. Her grin now as good as split off the top of her head.

'How long were you living with her?' she demanded.

'Four years, give or take.'

'Is that four years of regular sex, maybe as often as ten times a night, followed by two whole months of living like a monk?'

'Well,' he squirmed, 'perhaps that's how it's been.'

'I'm right, aren't I? Good grief, is this my lucky day or what!' Then, chuckling as her eyes drew him in ever deeper and so, so beguilingly: 'Or should I say: Is this your lucky day!'

'Listen, I need . . .'

'What you need is another pint. Is it San Miguel or have they just given you the wrong sort of glass?'

'It's San Miguel, but I couldn't possibly let you.'

'But nothing. Wait right here; I'll be back.'

Danny treated himself to another rear-view ogle as Heather sashayed up to the bar. Exquisite! She'd looked good from the front and her looks from behind definitely enhanced the overall picture.

Standing still her rear-view had been unparalleled but, seen in full sexy motion . . . well, like wow!

What the fuck did a girl like that see in him?

Noticing her gaggle of mates ribbing Heather as she passed his heart fell. Was this some sort of set-up? Was she leading him on only to publicly let him down, reducing him to a figure of fun?

She made some comment to her mates as she returned from the bar. Hearing their ribald laughter Danny hardened his resolve.

Then he realized he'd hardened another part of himself altogether . . . hardened it like a stick of rock or maybe even a bar of steel.

Confronting the shameless hussy no longer seemed like an option.

Unconsciously making the best decision he'd ever made in his life, he said nothing and meekly took the fresh pint glass as she gave it him (his second pint was, like the first, mysteriously gone way too soon). He noted her own refreshed drink: white wine in a colossal 250 mils glass. Whatever else she was, Heather wasn't a girl to go in for half measures.

She wasn't a girl to back off in any respect, either.

'That gaggle of geese aren't anything to worry about,' she began, as if reading his mind, identifying "that gaggle" with a toss of her luxurious hair without a glance in their direction. 'They're cheering us on like crazy, but they won't be there in my bedroom, will they?'

Danny almost fainted. If it hadn't been for that pillar he'd have collapsed. Behind him, on the roll-down screen, a black guy in a red shirt scored an absolute screamer from over twenty-five yards.

Danny never even noticed.

'I don't really know you,' he hazarded.

'You haven't even introduced yourself,' Heather agreed. 'But how much do we really need to know in order to shag?'

'Sorry, but I'm not sure I believe . . . well . . . you know.'

'Drink your drink,' Heather replied, draining her glass in one. 'And stay right here. If you run off, I'll track you down. And what is your name, anyway?'

'Danny,' he confessed. 'And it's my round.'

'Can't you recognize a girl on the pull when you see one? And have you really gone two months with no sex at all?'

Danny's cheeks flushed as he nodded. But no matter; he'd chosen the correct answer.

'Stay right here and wait,' Heather purred. 'You won't be sorry.'

Chapter Three

Two pints later and Danny was far from sorry. Heather had finally allowed him to buy a round and, as he passed her little circle of girlfriends, some anonymous person had called out, "Lucky you. But beware, Hev doesn't take prisoners. Well, not long-term ones, anyway."

He'd looked around but couldn't identify that anonymous person. Right then the girls all looked the same: meaning young, attractive and dressed for the office. By his estimation and assuming the early POETS day finish, this crowd could have been here in the bar for two or three hours.

As could Heather herself.

But who was he to object? Friday nights were all about having fun, weren't they? At least they'd all been fun back in the day. When he was footloose and fancy-free.

Much like he was right then, at that very moment.

Then suddenly, magically, he was in the back of a Bingley taxi, headed he knew not where, as fading twilight steadily changed to full night.

And (maybe sadly) unaccompanied by the gaggle of geese.

Over those more recent drinks he and Heather had filled in each other, sketchily explaining who they were and (rather vaguely) what they did. Heather was "something" at the local West Yorkshire Bank and the gaggle were workmates of various descriptions.

For his part Danny had admitted working in credit insurance in Leeds, refusing to comment on Jess in any way at all, positive or negative.

How confusing was life! Sharing the taxi's back seat, Heather's hand was straying over his groin in so deliberate a sort of a way. No question of it being accidental.

And no question of him being unable to respond. He was up bigger and harder than ever. She must have noticed but never desisted to any degree.

Maybe she wasn't playing the tease after all. Maybe her invitation to examine her "rather extensive wine cellar at home" had been no more than a subterfuge.

Maybe he really was going to visit her bedroom after all.

Gathering darkness aside, Danny was grateful they were effectively screened from the cabbie. That attention of Heather's was increasingly thorough.

Don't cum, don't cum, he silently urged himself.

Not so far, maybe five minutes past Bingley Parish Church, the taxi took a right into Micklethwaite Lane, Heather chatting merrily to the driver as her wicked hand wove its wonderful spell.

Aha, the last rational part of Danny's brain concluded, she must live in on that new estate at the top of the village. Probably in a semi, built with young, go-ahead bankers in mind.

But they never made it as far as the estate. They took another right turn perhaps a hundred metres before the first of the new houses, onto a track through woods. Well, "track" wasn't the right word. There was nothing rough and ready about that road surface.

As if he was taking much notice. The rogue hand's attention was more thorough than ever.

Don't cum, don't cum, he reminded himself, adding in a childhood prayer for luck.

Leaving the track, they arrived in a sizeable barnyard(?), with a large farmhouse(?) dominating the scene. Obviously knowing the routine, the cabbie pulled up and Heather passed him a bank note, in such a way that Danny couldn't see the denomination.

'Keep the change,' she said, opening the door on her side and gracefully stepping out. Infinitely less graceful, Danny followed suit and they stood a moment, watching the cab U-turn and go off after its next fare.

'The real gaggle of geese live over there,' Heather announced chirpily.

Following her pointing finger, he saw the yard contained a decent-sized pond, fringed by tall reeds. As he took in the sight by moonlight, he noticed something big and white moving in the vegetation.

'That's Grumpy,' Heather told him, taking hold of his hand (for a change!). 'There are seven of them and for you there's now no escape. Shall we go investigate that wine cellar?'

'Wine not,' he replied limply, even though part of him was still far from limp.

'Guard geese are more effective than guard dogs,' Heather babbled as they went. 'It's been proven scientifically. They have been used for thousands of years to protect farms like this. And everyone is afraid of them.'

Danny was staring at the farmhouse. It was immense and relatively recently refurbished. 'Do you live here?' he wondered.

'I was born here,' she replied. 'And I'll die here. It's all mine and always will be.'

'And you live here alone?'

'Too true I do,' she said, a trace of Aussie in her accent.

Using some sort of gadget, she remotely unlocked the front door and gestured for him to go in first. He did and, coming to a standstill on a lengthy welcome mat, gasped. This place looked good on the outside but was palatial inside.

Escape to the Country or what!