She took his hand and led him down the street to the bar, crowded, thankfully loud. The kind of place you had to shout to be heard or shut up. His kind of place because he could pull the strong silent type shit and get away with it. He found them a corner. They drank shots. He had to admire that. She was going to get drunk quickly. So was he if he tried to keep up. He was out of practice.
The place was full of talk about the explosion. It was as good a reason as any to let Jacinta press against him, run her hands over him. It was the best kind of talk and not hard to pay attention. Now she tasted of liquorice and Jagermeister and her body had lost its steel-edged stiffening. He pulled her out of there before either of them found it too difficult to get motivated.
Outside it had cooled down and she wobbled on her heels and laughed at herself. He caught her arm and righted her. “How drunk are you?”
“Enough.”
“Enough to want me to take you home and stay, or just take you home?”
“I can’t make you want to stay.”
Yeah. She. Could. Like this, loose, relaxed, laughing at herself, her hair falling out of its twist; she could make him do just about anything. They went back in through the fire stairs and he retrieved his bags from the car. She took her shoes off, suddenly so much shorter, younger. He might’ve picked her up so she didn’t ruin her stockings, but he was loaded up, and drunk enough dropping her was a real possibility.
They kissed in the elevator, a little sloppy, a lot of tongue. She giggled, actually giggled and dropped her keys twice at her front door. Swank, so much swank in just the corridor, the brass railings and distressed concrete, the old polished marble and tile, and glass walls clean as air, floating in space.
When he finally got inside it sobered him up some. “Fuck.” Serious money was laid down on this place. There was the harbour spread out, watching them, huge open plan room, ceiling way up there, red pipes and metal beams.
“Something wrong?” she said.
“Nope.”
“I live alone.”
Good to know. That eliminated awkwardness in the morning, awkwardness now, because this would make him feel out of place if he wasn’t juiced. That was some kitchen, all smooth surfaces, the inner workings hidden behind glossy fascias. Beyond it a dining room, a table you could seat a football team at. The TV was a kind of wall of its own and the furniture leather, lustrous, designer chic and retro fabulous. There was a chair hanging from the ceiling. There was a piano with its lid open.
It wasn’t unusual that the homes of women he slept with were nicer than Buster’s bungalow, but they’d never been this. This was a magazine layout—lifestyles of the rich and famous.
He put his bags down, took his coat off and laughed.
“You’re so easily amused.”
“You own this place?”
“The company does.” She gave a wobbly curtsy. “I’m here by the good graces of the great Malcolm Wentworth.”
The CEO. Her father. “Daddy’s girl.”
She tossed her shoes, bag and coat on a chair that was some kind of freaked out exploded Honey I Blew up the Kid size. “Only when he feels like it.”
“Selective parenthood.”
“He’s not my natural father.”
She wandered into the space and he followed. He might need breadcrumbs, string, to find the way out again. That wasn’t common knowledge and so much about her was.
“He’s my ugly stepfather.”
Beautiful daughter.
“I don’t do this often, but when I do it’s always a hotel.”
She wasn’t too drunk to make things clear. He wasn’t too drunk to wonder why she’d brought him here. “We do this and then I leave.”
“Perfect.”
It was perfect, just the sex; clean, pure then done. Worry about any weirdness Monday. He wondered briefly how this was going to work. Who was doing the seducing? He didn’t have to wonder long.
She walked into the lounge room. “You’re so fine, so not like the geek you are.”