As my expression hardens, hers only relaxes as a small smile plays across her lips.
‘It’s up to you. I mean, I’m happy enough to keep my bum covered, thank you very much. You’re the one who seems to think he knows it all.’
‘Reverse psychology? Really, Heather, I thought better of you.’
Bringing her napkin to her mouth, she begins to chuckle before dropping the square of linen to her lap again. ‘Think what you like. I don’t care.’
I didn’t need her invitation because I’m already trying to resist the recollection of how creamy her skin is. Of her tiny waist and the flare of her hips as her dress had blessedly gaped. Of how her skin had rippled in response to the brush of the feathers. But most of all, I try to resist the image of my tongue swirling those tiny dimples above her peach of a backside.
Trying and failing for most of the afternoon, if I’m honest with myself. And I rarely am.
And now I have other imaginings to add to the vault in my head dominated by Heather as she slips into the ladies’, skimming her dress up her thighs. Of her thumbs hooking into the elastic of her tiny blue knickers before sliding them down her thighs. She’d be embarrassed yet turned on. Would she touch herself? Would she press her palm to the door of the stall and discover for herself just how much she wanted this?
Fuck. Fuck me. When was the last time I wanted something this badly?
I want to keep my secrets, but I want her more.
‘I spent my life bouncing between my mother and the care system from the age of five to eighteen, while she bounced from loser to loser and from flat to grimy flat. The first time I was put in care, I was put in a room with three other boys about my age.’ I sniff and rub my hand under my nose like a city boy on this way out of the gents after a couple of cheeky lines before carrying on, emotionless. ‘The place was warm, and there was food, plus there was no drunk arsehole threatening to dangle me out of the eighteenth-story window, but I still wanted my mum. See, I hadn’t learned at that point.’
What could Heather know of poverty? About growing up in a succession of shitty sink estates, of violence and hatred, and men who smacked your mother around before the door slammed on their bedroom as they stumbled to a filthy mattress to screw.
I glance at her, expecting to see her horror or, worse, pity, fully expecting to stop myself here. I’m strangely grateful to see neither of these things as she waits for me to pick up the story, that isn’t really a story but the sad tale of neglect that was my own.
‘I was given the top bunk where I lay facing the wall. It had racing cars on it, and I wrote my name above the fastest looking red one. One of the other little bastards grassed me up—he told. I was sent to the office of the big fucker in charge. It was vandalism, right?’ My skinny little legs were wobbling as I was led down the hallway, but even at that age, I knew he couldn’t do worse than what had already been done to me. ‘When I got there, he almost complimented me on being able to spell my name.’
I stop there, my lips pressed together to stop further spillage. Eventually realising I still have a glass in my hand, I bring it to my lips.
‘Thank you.’ Her softly spoken words elicit one more from the vaults.
‘There’s a kind of glory almost for having working-class roots but people never talk about poverty. Poverty is all I knew. For a long time.’
‘If you’ll excuse me.’ Heather rises, dropping her napkin to the table. ‘I believe I have my side of the bargain to keep.’
I wrap my fingers around her wrist before she has a chance to leave.
‘But you haven’t lost yet.’
‘No, but you’ve exposed a little bit of yourself, and I appreciate it. I think it’s my time to do the same.’ Then she blows me away by bending at the waist and pressing her lips to my cheek. ‘I won’t be long.’
I pull out my phone, hoping she isn’t looking because the semi I’m currently sporting is bound to become a full-on stiffy, considering where my mind went the moment she left the table. Talk about being blown away—she didn’t even react to my goading. She challenged me, not the other way around. I can’t think about what this might or might not mean because I can only think of her just metres from me, wiggling out of her underwear.
And she really isn’t gone long as, my eyes glued to my phone, her chair is pulled out. I look up, a stupid smile glued to my face.
‘There you—’ Fuck. ‘What do you want?’
12
Archer
‘What do I want?I want you to leave her alone.’
‘Heather?’ I ask breezily, sliding my phone away again. ‘Why would you ask me that?’
‘Because she doesn’t deserve to be taken for a ride by the likes of you.’
‘Hmm.’ I stretch out my legs and fold my arms across my chest. ‘I’m not sure what you mean by thelikes of me? Do you mean someone who’ll treat her well? Make her laugh? Make her feel good about herself? You don’t think Heather deserves that kind of attention? Or ride?’
‘She doesn’t deserve to have her emotions played w-with.’ He begins to stammer, rage burning in his gaze. ‘Men like you use women and fuck them over. I won’t let you.’
