Perfect Chaos

“You hadn’t thought about it too much?” This gets worse. “Not even a little bit?”

“You kinda forget when you haven’t had it for so long.”

“I’m gonna throw up.” I turn toward the bar, catching the eye of that beauty opposite me again. The urge to jump across the counter and fuck her into next fucking month nearly gets the better of me. Or maybe I should send Sal over? “No,” I say to myself. Fucking hell, what am I thinking?

“What?”

“Nothing.” I turn toward him and shake away my personal trauma at this news. “Listen, mate, you need to sort this out.”

“I know.”

“Take Moya out. Dinner. Movie. Whatever. I fucking knew there was something wrong with you at work. You’ve been . . . tetchy. This explains everything.”

He laughs. “You gonna babysit?”

“Yes.” The answer falls past my lips before I can stop it, telling me that I’m acting on desperation. Desperation for my friend, because if he doesn’t get some action soon, I think he might keel over. Or I might. “I mean . . .” Shit, what have I just agreed to? I can do an hour with Sal’s little girl. Read a quick story at bedtime. But a whole night? What the fuck would I do with myself when bedtime comes? Can you take a plus-one on babysitting duty?

“You would?” Sal’s hopeful face brings my thoughts back into line, making me see just how much he needs me right now. We’ve been friends for twenty-five years. I was best man at his wedding. This man may be my business partner, but he was my best friend first. So . . .

“Yeah, I would.” I cough and sink another beer. No sweat. I can take care of a four-year-old for a whole night. I clock the woman across the bar again, watching her push the tops of her arms into her chest to enhance the dip between her tits. She could be a far easier option to get my pal out of his funk. No babysitting required. No! I shake my head, tossing those unreasonable thoughts away. I love Moya. Maybe I should go speak to her. Try to gage if she realizes where Sal’s at. Try to figure out where she’s at. “Just tell me when,” I say quietly, glancing down at my phone when it chimes.

“Kitty?” Sal asks, as I reject the call. “Who’s Kitty? Skirt?”

“Skirt,” I confirm.

“Lucky fucker,” Sal grumbles. “Anyway, what time are you in the office tomorrow?”

I look out the corner of my eye to him as I swig my beer. Strange question. I’m in the office at the same time every morning. “Eight.”

“Good. You’ll be there to meet Lainey before everyone else arrives.”

Lainey? Did I miss something? “Who’s Lainey?”

Sal coughs, looking away. “My new PA.”

“She’s starting tomorrow?”

“That’s right.”

“And all the legal is sorted?”

“Done and dusted.” He refuses to look at me, and it’s pissing me right off. Legal isn’t rushed. Never has been. And we’ve never wanted it to be, because rushed leaves room for error. I don’t like leaving room for error.

“You hired her today and she’s starting tomorrow?” I ask.

“That’s right.”

“I don’t even get the opportunity to go over her contract? Check the terms of her employment? Agree the finer details?”

“I didn’t have time to fuck about. She was too good to let slip through my fingers.”

“I wouldn’t fucking know, since I haven’t seen her CV or met her.”

Sal’s eyes move from my annoyed glare, looking over my shoulder. “Trust me, she’s perfect,” he says quietly. “And I need some help before I lose my fucking mind.”

“Perfect?” I laugh. “No, my friend. Gina is perfect. A woman you hired after one interview isn’t confirmed perfect.” I follow his direction of sight, looking over my shoulder, wondering what the hell has his attention.

“I have a good feeling about her,” Sal says.

“You’re talking bollocks, you stupid—” My eyes land on a woman sitting at the end of the bar, and I swallow my words. “Now that’s perfect,” I say, running appreciative eyes up and down the long body of the most perfect woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing. Long legs. Fucking, lovely long legs. My mind instantly puts them around my waist. And her hair. Glossy, dark blonde, long, loose, and wild, currently being twirled around her index finger while she scans the cocktail menu. My mind wraps those waves around my fist and tugs. And the lips, currently being bitten in contemplation. She doesn’t know what to order. Can’t decide. I’ll tell her what she needs, right here, right now. And it isn’t a cocktail, though it definitely involves some form of cock. My mind sinks my teeth into those full, rosy lips, and my back straightens. And my dick . . . well, it starts pulsing, the eager motherfucker. Her peach dress is tight, to the knee, and revealing just enough cleavage. My mind puts that dress on my bedroom floor.