Abigail

Tarts and vicars is a whole lotta fun. I open my parcels with glee as Sarah looks on.

I hold the tiny red slip dress up to my chest as she watches from my sofa. It’s ridiculously short, ridiculously split, ridiculously everything.

I’m laughing as I do a twirl. “It looks like a nightdress. I’d feel like a slut even in bed alone in this thing.”

“You’d look like a slut in bed alone in that thing.” She pours another wine for both of us.

I pull out the stockings and suspenders from the parcel.

“Yes!” she says. “Yes, yes, yes!”

I’ve got a black feather boa and black elbow-length velvet gloves, and some actual hooker heels that I’m likely going to break my ankles in. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” I say and take another swig from my glass.

In fairness, Sarah doesn’t look any more demure than I’m going to look. She’s wearing a leopard print boob tube and satin micro-mini. Her heels are red PVC with a heel that could be classified as a lethal weapon.

I wonder where she’s dug all this stuff out from, since she hardly struck me as being some kind of vixen behind closed doors. Still, I guess you never really know someone until you’ve seen their bedroom wear.

I feel like I’m getting to know Sarah. I feel like I’m getting to like her too. A lot.

She digs a bottle of nail varnish from her handbag. “Should match like a dream,” she says, and she’s right.

I’m glad we’re doing this. Really glad.

I’ve been excited for days, giggling over outfit choices with the girls at the office, checking out websites during quiet minutes. Sarah was over last night to help me confirm my orders for real, and was straight back round this evening for the great unboxing.

“Any hot guys I should keep an eye out for?” she asks, and straight up I tell her about pink-shirted Jack and his oh-so-conventionally attractive cheekbones. She tips her head. “So, how come you aren’t out to hook up with Mr Cheekbones?”

I flash her a smile. “Too clean cut for me. I prefer my guys a little more… rugged.”

“Rugged?” She sips her drink. “Rugged like hairy and sweaty and built like a bear?”

I shake my head. Smile to myself. “Partially. Maybe.” The wine has gone to my head, clearly. “I like them wild. Dark. Dangerous.” I glance at my phone, knowing full well he’s out there somewhere, watching me. Maybe.

Maybe tonight. “Unpredictable,” I add.

She nods, waves a finger. “I got it. You like the excitement. The chase.”

She’s more right than she realises. I can’t hold back from expanding. “I like tattoos on the neck, and arms that could crush me to death. I like pierced cocks and sharp teeth and a guy who’s rough enough that I’ll know about it next day.” I laugh. “Or next week.”

“You’re a dark horse,” she tells me. “I had you down for a fey little thing. Fragile and floaty.”

Her observation takes me aback. “You did?”

She nods. A lot. As though it’s stating the obvious. “Yeah. Sure thing. Very floaty. Didn’t think you’d say boo to a goose.”

I ponder her statement. Fragile and floaty. I think of how my old friends back home would collapse in hysterics at that description.

Or they would have… before…

I don’t feel so fragile and floaty right now. I feel sharp and daring. Bold and brave and… tipsy.

“What did you think of me?” she asks. “When you first saw me, I mean?”

I try to think back, but there’s nothing there, just a vague memory of some blonde woman next door. I didn’t even notice, didn’t care.

Didn’t care about anything.

Not even myself.

Especially not myself.

Shit.

I think of all the people I’ve neglected in my own misery. All the obligations I’ve ignored. All the life I’ve missed out on.

And it’s there, in my barren living room, with a red hooker dress hanging from my shoulders, that I realise I’m myself again. Or at least some convincing semblance thereof.

I’ve been gone a long time. Too long.

I tapped out of life for a whole season and then some.

I take a breath and slide my feet into my new heels. I’m back in the life game. Back for a whole new season in a whole new team.

I like it. I like all of it.

I like him best of all.

“We’d better get ready,” Sarah says. “Plenty of hot vicars ready to hear our confession.”

“That’s priests,” I say.

She shrugs. “I don’t give a shit, I’ll confess to any hot guy who’ll listen.”

I don’t doubt that. I laugh aloud at how wrong I was about Sarah. About this town. About everything.

And then I bring out my inner tart. It’s about time she got an airing.

 

* * *

 

Phoenix

 

I’ve been watching her. Keeping an eye on her location through the app on my phone with compulsive frequency as soon as Cam is snug in bed at night.

It’s almost become an addiction. Borderline unhealthy.

As of yet she’s been home every evening. It’s been a struggle to hold back from joining her there, but a fine wine needs time to mature.

I don’t want her to be expecting me when I use that key for the first time. I don’t want her to be waiting expectantly when I use her sweet little body however I want with the luxury of time on her own turf. So I hold back, even though my cock hates me for it.

It’s when I see that circle move on my handset that my heart speeds into life on Thursday evening. By eight o’clock she’s out at some club in the centre of Hereford. I look it up online.

And then I check her social media. The social media she’s only just been using again these past few days.

Really, I’m amazed at what a stalker I’m turning into.

I’m taken aback by the picture she’s uploaded to her timeline. She’s with some pretty blonde woman with bobbed hair, and I don’t need to see any more than the selfie shot to know she’s dressed to impress.

To impress or get laid. Or both.

The thought is a lead weight in my gut.

She’s wearing gloves, and a feathery wrap around her neck. Her tits are high over red satin. Her lips are glossy red.

I’m downstairs in a heartbeat, holding up my keys to Serena in the living room as I ask if I’m okay to head out for a few hours.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Just out,” I say as I grab my jacket.

She puts her TV show on pause. “Just out with someone?”

I feel acutely uncomfortable with the implication, but she had a point the other night. Too many secrets, too many lies. “Maybe someone,” I admit.

She smiles. “And what is this someone’s name?”

“Abigail.”

Her face is a picture. “Abigail,” she repeats. “And does Abigail enjoy mud wrestling by any chance?”

“We may have taken a stroll in the countryside.”

“A stroll, sure.”

I hold up my phone. “Call me if Cam wakes or you need me. I’ll head straight back.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. You just worry about strolling with Abigail.”

I smirk. “I’ll do that.”

I experience an additional sense of reality for having spoken her name out loud. My mind is as wired as my body as I take the drive over to Hereford.

Her selfie is firmly on my mind as I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. My balls are tight and aching. My cock fucking desperate to feel that sweet pink cunt squeezing tight.

I wonder what I’m walking into. I wonder who else she’s out with, if anyone.

I wonder how easy it’ll be to grab her with no spectators. I wonder how easy it will be to wait for the right moment.

My composure feels stretched pretty thin already.

I park up down the street from this place. Diva’s the glowing sign reads. The place is busy but not heaving. I’m careful as I make my way through the throng inside, skirting the edges to ensure I see her before she sees me. She’s nowhere inside. I watch the entrance to the women’s toilets long enough to make sure she’s not in there either.

The beer garden out the back is surprisingly big compared to the interior. Picnic benches and outdoor heaters are dotted around the terrace. The gardens stretch right back into the darkness and curl around the pub to the left. Drinkers congregate in groups. I see hers immediately – a huddle of girls wearing virtually nothing. Leopard print and lace and feather boas. Abigail looks different.

It’s more than the clothes she’s wearing or the slutty lipstick. It’s the way she stands so confidently. The way her eyes sparkle. The sound of her laughter.

The blonde woman is on one side of her and a guy is on the other. I clock his black outfit. I don’t need to see him from the front to know he’s dressed as a vicar. Tarts and vicars. Of course.

I edge closer, making sure I’m always a wall of bodies from her eyeline. I’ll never make it beyond her to the shadows at the back of the garden without her seeing, so I opt to venture around to the side instead.

It’s a good call. Edgy. Borderline insane, but good. There’s an emergency exit onto the street from here, but it’s closed and latched. There’s a big wheeled recycling bin and a load of trolleys for general waste. The vents from the pub kitchen come out this way and the lights are off inside.

The sound of voices is loud enough to be invasive. I’m close enough to her group to make out almost every word.

They’re talking work. Innocuous chatter laced with drunken laughter. Abigail’s laugh is loud and free. I step closer to watch her body language.

Her legs are tense and tight on those stupid heels, and her skirt is short enough that you can see her suspenders.

It makes me prickly.

Agitated.

The guy on her right likes her. His face is turned to hers, smiling. He laughs at every fucking word she says.

His arm hovers at her back. He presses his hand to her as she regales everyone with a tale about a client at her old company. She’s either too drunk or engrossed to notice, but I do.

My gut twists. My hands are clammy.

My jaw clenches as his hand slides lower. He’s a heartbeat from her ass when I disregard every one of my sensibilities and pull my phone from my pocket.

She’s laughing as the ringtone sounds from her handbag. She looks confused at the unknown number.

I hate the way handy boy looks at her screen along with her.

I listen as she excuses herself. “Maybe it’s my mum,” she says, and presses it to her ear.

“I’m not your fucking mother,” I whisper, loving the way she stiffens.

I wait. Watch as she looks around her.

“Hi,” she says. “I, um…”

“You will say this is a family call. You will keep your phone to your ear and you will excuse yourself. You will walk to your right, down towards the emergency exit. If you’ve any sense, you’ll make sure nobody follows you.”

The prick is staring at her. Puppy dog eyes.

I almost hope he can fucking hear me.

She flicks her gaze in my direction. “Okay,” she says, but I’ve already hung up.