Masquerade

Thirteen

It starts innocuously. We are at an old haunt of mine, a gay club, and I say, ‘I don’t know what I am anymore.’

‘You’re a recovering lesbian,’ he replies.

The glib answer irritates me and I decide to punish him. A little. ‘I’m kinda missing the feel of soft skin,’ I say.

An expression crosses his face. I can’t say for sure what it is, but he quickly veils it. ‘You want to bring another woman into bed with us?’

The question throws me. I had not actually thought that far, but now that he has said it I can’t dismiss it either. ‘I don’t know,’ I answer truthfully.

‘Only one way to find out.’

I stare at him.

‘Pick a woman you want and we’ll ménage.’

‘Have you been with two women before?’

‘Of course.’

‘Fun?’

He shrugs noncommittally. ‘It was OK.’

I chuck back my vodka. ‘All right, let’s find out where I stand with this bisexual lark. Don’t go far. I’ll be back.’

He lifts his glass to his lips, his eyes utterly veiled. ‘Good luck.’

Vodka is singing in my veins. I walk over to the bar. There is a girl I know standing at it. She is actually very beautiful with long dark hair and she has a stud in her belly button. I know because I have been to bed with her.

‘Billie,’ she says.

‘Sahara,’ I say.

She kisses me on the lips and introduces me to two other friends of hers. Both have just come back from the dance floor with sheens of sweat on their faces. One is a butch girl called Gerry, and the other is a truly stunning half-caste girl with light eyes. Impossible to tell the color in the dark. Her lips are big and delicious-looking. Her name is Poppy. Lovely. Poppy trails her soft chocolate finger on my bare skin. Honestly, black girls have the softest skin of all races. Like baby skin. I knew straight away I could have invited her over. I could have had her.

But I turn away from her and smile at Gerry. Big, spiky-haired, poor, ugly Gerry. She smiles back, eyes shining.

‘Where did you get your tats done?’ she asks.

For a pick-up line it sucks miserably. ‘Kilburn,’ I tell her.

‘They’re nice,’ she lies lamely. Chocolate finger was better. By far better. Still. I guess she’ll do for tonight.

And then I stop myself.

Who am I fooling? I know exactly why I am not picking the real beauty of the bunch. I don’t want Jaron to be interested in her. I can’t bear the thought of him being sexually attracted to another woman.

I think about all their clever pussy muscles clenching and releasing my fingers as I make them come, and yes, intellectually it is a hot thought, but my stomach doesn’t quake. Not even the thought of their tongues licking my clit does it. I turn and look across the room at Jaron. He is looking down at the table and he seems unreachable and…for that moment maybe even sad. I stare at him.

‘Got to go. I’ll call you,’ I tell Sahara. I wink at Poppy (lovely girl) and shrug at Gerry.

I walk back to the table. At a pillar I stop and watch him.

In the light of the nightclub his hair stands out. Blond men are a rare thing. He is wearing black leather trousers that hug his hips and gleam under the nightclub lights. He sits at the table, cool, relaxed. And I have to admit he is drastically sexy. I watch him flick a glance at the dance floor and get distracted by a woman in a bikini top and a nothing skirt.

She is beckoning to him with one finger. Bitch! The flare of jealousy and irritation is instant and burns at my guts. I quell the desire to stalk up to her and ram her finger down her throat. I stare at Jaron. He extends his thumb and last finger and bends all the fingers between and holds his hand as if it is a receiver to his face. What the fuck? He knows someone in my old haunt? A gay club? And the fucking bastard wants her to call him.

I stalk up to him. ‘Who was that?’

‘Gemma.’

‘Gemma?’ I can’t help how sharp my voice sounds.

He breaks into an idiotic smile. ‘You’re jealous?’

‘No. I am not fucking jealous.’

‘Then it’s no problem.’

‘Can I ask you a stupid question anyway?’

‘Fire away.’

‘Are you sleeping with her too?’

‘Why would you think that?’

That answer inflames me beyond all reason. I want to go around and slap him. I am in a bad way for this guy. And he is so cool and unconcerned and so fucking unavailable. ‘Just once can you just answer the fucking question?’ I grit.

He laughs deep and dark. I realize then that there will always be about him an undercurrent of lurking danger. Like a deep, deep well. ‘No,’ he says very clearly. ‘I’m sleeping with you.’

‘So what are you asking her to call you for?’

‘She works for a friend. I want you.’ His voice is tense and low. ‘Exclusively. If you want to bring another woman into the picture and share me it’s your call, but I’m not sharing you with anyone else. If I see a man even sniffing the air around you, I’ll rip his skin off.’

The breath squashes from my lungs.

Jaron is watching me, his eyes deliberately blank. ‘Well?’ he asks.

I make up my mind pretty quick. ‘Come on,’ I say, and pull him off his chair.

He slides off easily and follows me out of the nightclub. I’ll give him this. The guy knows when not to chatter. Never asks me where we are going. Simply follows. I like that. I turn down the road and into a side street. I know this place. I came here once to vomit. It leads to a cobblestone alleyway. There are large silver wheelie bins and black bin bags of rubbish stacked by them.