When I graduated from university, I had the opportunity to distance myself from my father’s world. I had no desire to follow in his footsteps, and no intention of ever stepping foot on a ship of any kind.
It all worked for years. I lived and worked in London as a journalist. Had a few nice girlfriends—none ever panned out into something serious—and lived with my best friend and her cat.
Then I got a call from dear old dad asking for a favour. Seemed he was spearheading a PR campaign in a bid to push young people to sign up for the Navy. He wanted me to do a special segment on the fleet’s flagship, HMS Queen Elizabeth. I’d not had a chance to refuse because he stated it was a foregone conclusion. He’d obtained the necessary permissions from my paper’s editor, so it was inevitable I was doing it.
That’s how I found myself in Portsmouth last night. I’d arrived earlier in the day and dropped all my baggage off at the apartment my father owns. It’s a reflection of how well paid he is, that’s for sure.
After half an hour of sitting on my own, I made the mistake of thinking I could nip to the pub for a quiet drinkbefore heading back for some sleep. I had every intention of being alone when I returned.
Two-thirds of the way through my adequate Chardonnay, a group of sailors spilled through the door. They were loud and overly excited. It didn’t take a genius to see they were fresh from a long time out at sea. There was a nice mix of people, which in hindsight I realised made me comfortable enough to let my guard down. If the group had just consisted of women, I’d have left sharpish.
They left everyone alone, including me. Like an idiot I stayed for another drink, and that’s when it happened. The coordinated strike of two sailors and their well-tested pickup routine.
The dark-haired one—River, I’d learn later—slid onto the stool beside me with the confidence of someone who’d never been told no. Her mate, a tiny blonde with a wicked grin, flanked my other side.
“You look like you could use better company than that Chardonnay,” River said, nodding at my glass.
“The Chardonnay’s adequate. The company, I’m not so sure about.”
Her grin widened. “Ouch. I like her already, Cheddar.”
I should’ve left then. Should’ve paid my tab and walked out. But those hazel eyes had a glint of mischief that made me curious despite myself.
At first, I brushed them off, which only made the dark-haired one try harder. She was used to women falling at her feet with just a bat of her eyelashes. Which, to her credit, were naturally long and lush. Her hazel eyes had a speck of green in them, and her hair was tossed to look casual. It reached just over her shoulders and looked impossibly soft. Later, I learned it was equally soft to touch.
She stayed long after her friends left, and we drank together. I rebuffed her time and again until she finally gave up and we just chatted. Another miscalculation on my part. I should’ve known better than to accept her offer to walk me home. We were both drunk enough that our decision-making skills were not at their best. That goes twice for me.
River, a.k.a. my drunken mistake, came upstairs for a “coffee.” I didn’t even get the kettle on. She kissed me, and I let her. I even initiated the second one. Both were sloppy, not my finest work. But then again, the entire night was like that. She proved herself to be like every other lothario sailor I’d let in my bed. She was efficient and to the point.
Sure, she was a giver. If there’d been an ounce of feeling behind it, I would’ve enjoyed it more, but as it turned out sex without any sort of emotional attachment just wasn’t my thing anymore.
River had been skilled—I’ll give her that. She knew exactly what she was doing, hit all the right notes with practised precision. But it felt choreographed, like she was running through a routine she’d perfected on dozens of women before me.
I’d wanted to feel something. Connection. Heat. Anything beyond the mechanical pleasure of it. Instead, I’d felt like a box she was ticking. Another conquest. Another notch.
Pathetic, really, that I’d expected anything different from a sailor.
That leads to now. My head hurting and my mouth dry. The flat is silent when I wake. Too silent. I don’t need to roll over to know the other side of the bed is empty—I can feel the absence. The bathroom door hangs open, no sound of running water. Her clothes are gone from the floor.
I’m not surprised in the least to find River gone. I can almost picture her tiptoeing in the dark so as not to disturb me in fear of breaking her MO.
I get it, I really do. Loads of people have no-strings-attached sex. I’m all for it if that’s what you want. What bugs the shit out of me is the ridiculous sneaking out bit. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just disrespectful. Two consenting adults don’t need to play silly buggers. Have your fun, wake up and say goodbye like a fucking mature grownup. Is it really that hard?
Whatever. I need caffeine and carbs to deal with this shitty hangover. I’m expected at the naval base later this afternoon. I’m going to meet the captain of HMS Queen Elizabeth and my dad.
First things first. I need to clean up. The sight of my strap on the floor makes me queasy. She wielded it well, but I’d hoped to christen it with someone who’d at least remember my name in the morning. Someone who’d stick around for coffee.
Breathing out a frustrated breath, I snatch up the toy and throw it in the bathroom sink. I’ll clean it after my shower. The water is scalding, just how I like it. It literally burns away the disappointment I feel in myself.
At least I feel vaguely human again afterwards. The coffee machine in the kitchen is industry grade, giving me the boost I need with decent flavour.
My phone rings with a piercing sound that ricochets around my head. Ugh, why isn’t it on silent like every other mobile phone in the world?
“Dad.”
“Cleo, good morning. I need you at the base in twenty minutes. There’s been a change in my schedule.”
Rolling my eyes, I count to ten before answering. My father has the habit of thinking his life takes precedence over everyone else’s. It’s why he’s two times divorced and well on the way to a third.
