Sneak Peek

EASY

WILL

Another day, another round of vaginas.

‘Evening, George.’ I greet the porter with a quick nod in his direction, not waiting for his response before taking the stairs to my apartment two at a time.

Despite being a card-carrying vagina enthusiast, I must admit, being in the vagina business does sometimes get old. Not that I’d say as much out loud.

I’d probably be crucified.

Ask any of my friends their opinions on what I do for a living, and you’ll find they fall into two distinct camps: I’m either the man with the best job in the world, or the one whose job has the potential to turn them gay.

As if that were even possible.

So I do have bad days, but everyone wants to bleach their eyeballs some days, surely? We all have days we could happily drown ourselves in a vat of liquor. And this just happens to be one of those days.

But it’s not all the vagina’s fault. I’ve also spent the last two hours with my father who is, unfortunately, a different kettle of cunt. Excuse my French.

I pause at the third-floor landing, my own apartment one above. The penthouse, actually.

‘Fuck it.’ I flex my jaw in an effort to relieve the tension and the lingering distaste of this afternoon. A finite number of experiences can help ease the tension held in my body, and those are fighting, fucking, or at the neck of a bottle. Only one of those three is available right now, and as I could also do with a dose of sane, light-hearted company, I decide I’m not drinking alone.

I raise my hand to the doorbell when the sound of someone moaning behind the closed door leaves my index finger in the air and the bell un-rung. It’s not the moan exactly that gives me pause, but maybe the tenor, or the tone—the absolutely feminine plead for divine intervention. One that has my cock flickering to life in my pants.

‘Oh, God!’

Go ahead and call me big-headed, but it’s a sound I’m well familiar with. There’s nothing quite like hearing the woman lying beneath you thanking the heavens for the hammering you’re delivering. It’s enough to make a man feel like God himself.

And while you might think the possibility of disturbing someone getting shagged senseless on the opposite side of the door might be enough to make me swing on my heel and head for home, you’d be wrong.

Apart from the voyeuristic element, urgent sex happens to be one of my favourite things. Stumbling in through a front door so desperate that you can’t wait the extra few steps it might take to get to a bed. The absolute need at that moment. The collision of bodies. Mouths and fingers seeking pleasure, slippery and slick. The illicitness in this kind of coupling is unique.

But that’s not the reason I pause. It’s more that the possibility of this happening behind this particular door is slim.

No, not exactly slim. This isn’t an anomaly or an incongruency.

More like fucking impossible.

Because Mo, my neighbour, couldn’t get it up for a girl if he tried. And I know because I’ve known the man for years. He likes to wear a kaftan, for fuck’s sake.

Curiosity, I’m told, leads to trouble, but female trouble is the very best kind, in my opinion. So in my characteristic give-no-fucks way, I ring the doorbell, interested to find out exactly what’s going on here.

The dog barks.

A soft, feminine voice draws closer, her tone chastising. And this time, I hear the exact words.

‘Stop repeating me and tell me exactly what you’ve done!’

The door swings open and—surprise—it isn’t Mo. Nor any relation, as far as I can tell, even without her American accent. Whoever she is, she’s a tiny wee thing. And bloody stunning.

Hair the colour of butterscotch, she’s dressed for a night out on the town. If that night was back in the 1930s. Her silver dress clings to her in all the right places, and as she grapples with the dog, the door, and her phone, there’s a stellar amount of side boob going on.

And then, through the phone, another voice says, ‘I hired you a male escort.’

And by the way her gaze works its way slowly from my shoes to my face, guess who’s it.

I’ve always been a bit of an opportunist. Let’s face it, most men are. And paid for sex? That sounds like an even better deal than my current one.

Why did I go to medical school again?

At the beauty’s stunned expression, I bite back my burgeoning grin, along with the instinct to tell her I’d happily fuck her on the house . . . all over the house.

For free.

SADIE

Ten Minutes Earlier

‘But what happens if he doesn’t remember me?’

‘No,’ Kallie replies stridently. ‘Don’t you go there.’ Her responding look is one I know well; dark and elegant brows pinched above fierce honey coloured eyes. But it’s hard for her to stare me down right now, given we’re oceans apart and reliant on both an internet connection and the phone I hold in my hand.

‘I refuse to indulge you in this negativity,’ she continues. ‘Say the words again. And lift me up; I don’t need to see how fabulous your tits look right now.’

My eyes glance down at my silk covered form, ash coloured to accentuate my pale colouring. According to the sales associate, at least, right before she’d parted me from the equivalent of a week’s rent. ‘Do you think it’s too much?’

‘Take me to a mirror so I can get a better look.’

I make my way over to a massive gold rococo style mirror in the hallway.

‘Hang on. I’ll just switch the camera around.’ I do so, feeling a bit silly; I look like I’m about to take a selfie. I know this is how some friends are, but not me and Kallie.

Probably because our social lives aren’t all that interesting.

‘Sadie, it’s . . . beautiful. You look like a starlet from the days of the silver screen.’

The dress does have that sort of vibe. The cowl neckline leaves most of my back bare, save for the V of the straps clasped low at the base of my spine. I’ve never owned something quite so gorgeous. Or so expensive.

My self-conscious moment over, I flip the camera to Kallie smiling back at me.

‘You know, when I’m sitting in bed pulling toast crumbs out of my hair, I could maybe do with not seeing just how fabulous.’ I ignore this. Jammies or not, she’s gorgeous herself—quite the exotic beauty.

‘I wished I was still in bed.’ And not because of jet lag.

‘Play your cards right tonight and you might be,’ she answers with a bawdy wink.

‘That’s not why I’m in London,’ I mumble. Although the chance would be very welcome. I think. It has been a while since . . .

But I have higher hopes for tonight.

‘We had a real connection,’ I whisper, running my fingers over the invitation I’d printed from my email. The familiar mixture of anxiety and thrill twists inside—familiar because I’ve been riding its wave since I boarded the plane a few days ago.

It’s safe to say I’m sort of terrified.

‘Yes, that connection is why you’re there.’

‘No,’ I say, looking back at my screen. ‘I’m here because you got me drunk and made me book a ticket to fly to London last Saturday night.’

‘Ha, true story,’ she replies, delighted. ‘It was a tactical plan on my part. You’ve been droning on about the fair Julian for weeks with no signs of movement. A potential love connection or not, this thing has to be tested by physicality, if not physically, to see if this spark has actual power—a momentum, if you will. And you were never going to do it without me.’

‘I was supposed to be doing it with you,’ I complain. We’d both booked flights. We were going to travel to London together.

‘Believe me, I’m not happy about it either. But now you’re there, and you have to make the most of it—grab love by the balls and make it your bitch.’

‘Your metaphors are . . . frightening. Best you stick to teaching science.’

‘What I’m saying is, you have six whole weeks before school starts again. That’s six weeks of lounging in bed to look forward to, and whether you’ll be accompanied by hot tea or a hot man largely depends on your attendance tonight. Now, the words,’ she demands. ‘Say them again.’

‘For me or for you?’

Kallie doesn’t answer beyond the quirk of one highly defined brow. Phone still in hand, I inhale deeply, my heartrate spiking in an excited pitter-patter.

‘He said he’d never met anyone like me.’ As he’d pushed a lock of my hair behind my ear, staring longingly into my eyes.

‘And?’ she demands, sounding like the school principal she’ll, no doubt, be one day.

‘He said he wished we’d met earlier. That we’d had more time.’

‘Because?’

‘Because he said I was exactly the type of girl he could see himself falling in love with.’ My heart hitches a little higher in my chest.

‘What I wouldn’t give for a little wooing,’ she says, sighing blissfully. ‘All I ever get are cock shots and invitations to fuck. I’m one text away from officially becoming gay.’

‘I’m not sure about the woo factor.’ We only had one day—a few hours, really.

I’d met Julian at Dulles airport exactly forty-five days ago. I was on my way home after a weekend visit with my parents, while Julian was waiting to fly back to the UK following a business trip. Due to a freak storm, all planes had been grounded that afternoon. At the time, I’d cursed the fact that I hadn’t acted quick enough to get a room at any of the nearby hotels. But then I met Julian as I ordered a coffee. Tall, dark, and so sweet. Handsome, and with an accent that made me melt. In fact, everything about him seemed just . . . perfect.

Witty and smart, he’d kept me entertained the whole ten-hour period. Truthfully, I think I fell a little in love with him right there and then. We’d parted with such sadness in our smiles and promises to keep in touch, which we hadn’t really, beyond a couple of emails. And an email is exactly how I find myself in my current predicament, standing in Kallie’s cousin’s swanky apartment in London’s West End.

‘Sometimes you just know, though, right?’

‘What?’ Kallie’s voice pulls me back to the moment, and I blow out a breath, long and slow. ‘The only thing I really know is I feel sick with nerves. I wish you were here.’

‘Me, too,’ she answers quietly. ‘Stupid Dee,’ she adds, her brows drawing in over the connection again.

‘Your poor sister can’t help that her baby was born early.’

‘But I wanted to go to London! My God, she’s such a princess. It’s not like it’s even her first pregnancy.’

‘I shouldn’t have come.’ The words are out of my mouth with the half formed thought I know to be true. ‘This is mad.’ My words become frantic. ‘What kind of fool flies to the other side of the world to attend the birthday party of a man she barely knows?’ It’s not even as though it had been a personal invite. I’d just found myself tagged onto the end of a mass email.

Kallie doesn’t answer, though her amber eyes burn fiery over the internet.

‘You can’t stare someone down via iPhone connection, Kal. They might just hang up, thinking the internet is on the fritz.’

‘Please, you’re staying in NW1, not darkest Bombay. Cousin Mo is such a techno geek, I have no doubt he has the best technology, including internet.’

‘This is so ridiculous. I must be mad.’

‘You’re not mad. A little kooky, maybe,’ she says, adding a short shrug. ‘Where’s your sense of adventure? Don’t you want to leap before looking, just once? Jump without a parachute?’

‘You know I’m afraid of heights.’

‘Sweets, you have the chance to find love—true love. Isn’t that a risk worth taking? It’s not like you’re throwing your whole life away. It’s just one summer—or even one evening, if you’d prefer. If it doesn’t work out, you can come back, and nothing is lost.’

Tucking the invisible strands of my fair hair into my crown of braids, I realise she’s right. In six weeks, the new school year begins, but in some ways, I’ll pick up exactly where I left off. Sure, I’ll have a class full of new students—new personalities to discover and minds to engage—but at the end of the day, I’ll go back to my apartment alone. I’ll do the same things and tread the same path; the pattern of my life barely changed from one year to the next.

‘And stop biting your lip. You’ll end up with lipstick on your teeth, and that’s not a good look even for pretty girls.’

‘You’re sure you didn’t frighten Dee’s baby into a preterm delivery?’ Her expression frowns back at me. ‘You frighten the hell out of most people. I’m pretty sure you could hire yourself out to frighten babies from the womb.’

‘I’m authoritative, not scary.’

‘You’re persuasive, all right.’ Wondering if a little Dutch courage might help, I eye the very kitsch 1950’s cocktail bar across the open plan space. Kallie’s cousin’s very lavish tastes extend from his décor to his liquor collection.

‘Oh, God,’ I groan loudly, deciding against the idea. Hard liquor and I aren’t the best of companions. It tends to make me a little reckless.

Why, hello, London . . .

‘I’m so nervous. How could I possibly have thought I could walk into this party by myself?’

‘About that,’ Kallie says suddenly. ‘I have a sort of backup plan.’

My eyes snap back to the phone. ‘Backup . . . what?’

‘Plan,’ she repeats as though I have a hearing problem.

‘No, I mean, back up and explain. You’re rubbing your ear.’ Anxiety flickers in my chest. ‘You always rub your ear when you’ve done something shady.’

‘Shady?’ she repeats as though finding the word so disgusting, she’d hold it at arm’s length. ‘When was the last time I did something shady? And to you?’

My reply is short. Two words, in fact. No explanation necessary. ‘Blind date. The one you set me up on.’ Okay, so it’s more than two.

‘How is it my fault you took home a man with questionable interests?’

‘I didn’t take him home. He invited himself in for coffee.’

‘You’re too nice for your own good.’

‘Not so nice that I’d extend the invitation to access of my closet or to masturbate on my shoes!’

‘It’s a very sexy shoe collection,’ she says, chuckling. ‘How could I have ever guessed his secret fetishes? He works in IT, for goodness’ sake! How boring is that? Look at it this way, tonight’s blind date can only be an improvement on the experience.’

‘But it’s not a blind date,’ I scoff. ‘Remember the whole meet-cute airport story that’s had you drooling for weeks?’ There’s that flicker of anxiety again.

‘Oh, no.’ I bring my fingers to my gloss slicked lips. ‘What have you done now?’

‘Remember that study I told you about? The one with the titi monkeys?’

‘Yes,’ I answer cautiously. ‘The one about jealousy.’

‘It wasn’t jealousy, per se. More a study into the cingulate cortex, which, in humans, is the area of the brain associated with social pain.’

‘Get to the point, please!’

‘I didn’t want you to feel any of that. So as well as engaging someone to walk in with you tonight, I thought a little potential primate jealousy might work in your favour. A little testosterone-fuelled action—a guns blazing at midnight, sort of thing. Only the other sort of guns. Not the weaponry kind.’

‘I don’t follow.’ Because she really can’t mean—

‘I’ve arranged for someone to take you to the party.’

‘A date,’ I answer flatly. ‘You’ve arranged for me to take a date?’ I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. For a super bright woman, sometimes Kallie can be so ridiculous.

‘I wouldn’t say a date, exactly.’ Her lips sort of twist, and though it’s hard to make sense of her expression, it’s easy to tell she’s been up to no good as she begins to rub her ear again.

‘So I’m going to a party to see if I can reconnect to Julian. Tell me how the whole taking a date thing works? You know, me turning up with another man.’

‘Men like a little competition,’ she answers mulishly. ‘It’s a primal thing. It might help.’

‘Or it might not!’ My delivery of the words is quick, my tone incredulous. ‘What if he thinks I’m with the date? With-with, Kallie?’

‘I’m sure you could enlighten him. Use your feminine wiles.’

‘And what about my date, huh? Don’t you think it’s a little cruel to take a man to a party only to ditch him?’ I do a double take as Sir Lancelot, a behemoth of a dog, lifts his bulk from his antique daybed, the kind that looks as though it was once housed in an Edwardian opium den. The dog and the apartment came as a package deal. In other words, I’m dog sitting in exchange for accommodation. As a lowly teacher, my alternative would’ve been much more basic. Like hostel basic. London summer prices are astronomical.

‘Faint heart never won fair Julian. You need to be more open to new experiences—to say yes more. You might even find you have fun.’

‘Besides—’ Kallie’s reply is cut off by the doorbell, the noise quickly followed by Sir Lancelot’s pounding feet and his deep and deafening barking.

‘You said he was a poodle cross,’ I complain as he almost knocks me over in his quest to get to the door.

‘He is,’ she answers. ‘Poodle cross wolf hound, I think. Aren’t you going to open it?’

‘Open the door to my date, you mean?’

‘Hmm. Like I said, sweets, he’s not a date exactly. More a . . . service provider.’

‘What does that even mean?’ I grumble, my annoyance quickly ramping from slow simmer to rapid boil. It’s probably this anger which powers me to pull Sir Lancelot away from the door by his collar. It’s the first time I’ve been able to make him go anywhere he doesn’t want to since I’d arrived. The spoiled curly lump must weigh at least a hundred pounds.

‘Mean?’ she asks benignly.

‘Stop repeating me and tell me exactly what you’ve done!’ I yank open the door, dog collar, curly fur, and phone all grasped in the other hand. ‘Down, Sir Lancelot!’ I yell, using my weight as a counterbalance to his bulk.

Dark, shiny shoes. Expensive looking. My gaze travels up. An undoubtedly tailored dark suit. A sharp jawline—clean shaven. Broad shoulders. Dirty blond hair. Brilliant blue eyes. Pillowy lips that are just an invitation to kiss. Holy hell, he’s gorgeous.

But I can’t quite fully appreciate the sight as Kallie replies.

‘I hired you a male escort.’