Addicted

‘You think realism’s so important for a sexy book?’

‘I think that it’s hard to be excited, when you don’t really believe in something. When it seems unlikely that it would ever actually happen, in real life.’

‘And what kind of things do you think wouldn’t happen in real life?’ he asks, and I’m alarmed to find myself stumped. Was it the blindfolds and the talk of Masters that Lori didn’t buy? Or was it something else? When I look back on it now, the story seems so artificial. So full of things that I’ve never experienced.

But I don’t think that’s about realism, exactly.

It’s more about me, and all the things I’ll never be.

‘I don’t know. Some of the kinkier stuff, maybe?’

As soon as I’ve said it, I know it’s the wrong thing. And I was so proud of myself for hitting on an answer that didn’t sound quite so depressing! But of course, he homes in on it like a laser. I can almost hear him laughing, through the door.

‘Kinky stuff, huh?’

‘Well …’

‘That what you like to write about?’

‘Not exactly, I –’

‘Do you dream about being taken by a guy wearing a leather mask?’

‘That’s, uh …’

‘Or maybe you’re the one doing the taking, am I right? You got a secret dominant side, little mouse? You gonna tie me up and torture me with a hot poker?’

‘I hadn’t really thought about doing anything to you. At all. You know, in case you were worried about that. Which you don’t have to be, because I’m purely interested in … uh … in growing. As a writer. See – I even brought my little Dictaphone and my notepad and … and …’

And dear God I wish I could stop talking. He emerges from the bathroom – thankfully in a T-shirt and shorts – with an almost bursting look of amusement on his face. As though I’m just adorable, in the worst possible way. He even gives my hair a cute little pat as he passes me on his way to the kitchen.

And then he says this:

‘Hey, calm down, OK? My penis isn’t going to suddenly lunge at your face.’

Which makes no sense at all. I wasn’t thinking that. I was thinking he was scared of my vagina suddenly lunging at his face. Lord, how can someone be so open and so mysterious at the same time?

Even if I sort of suspect that he’s not being mysterious at all.

‘Did you say you wanted a coffee?’

I should say yes here, I know – normal people have a coffee. But then, normal people also know what to do when a guy hugs them, so in for a penny, in for a pound. He might as well see me for what I am, right now.

‘I don’t drink it.’

‘Really? Great. Now I don’t have to pretend I’m not a child who only drinks soda.’

It’s the first time I’ve really laughed in his presence, but I just can’t help it. I’m startled by his response – so close to how I feel, about that very thing. I’ve just never really said the idea out loud. I’ve always been embarrassed by my lack of sophistication.

But of course, he doesn’t care about stuff like that.

He just swaggers back in, and hands me my fizzy pop.

‘I got beer too if you want it.’ He knocks the cap off his bottle on the edge of a table, then takes a casual swig before finishing the thought. ‘Maybe later though, huh?’

‘Why? What’s going to happen later?’

Christ. Yet again my brain speaks before my mind has chance to get into gear. He sits himself down on the box, and kind of leans back on another two boxes that sit nearly behind it – like an armchair, I think, only rubbish. And then he grins at me, lazily.

‘Ohh, you have no idea what I’ve got planned. Bad things. Outrageous things. You’ll be talking to your therapist about them in ten years’ time.’

‘You’re fucking with me.’

‘Yeah, I totally am. Take it easy, Kitty-cat – I’m not some sex demon.’

What a fucking liar.

‘I tell you what,’ he says. ‘Here’s how I think things are really going to go. Ready? You braced yourself?’

I have.

‘I’m going to talk about some stuff until you can’t take it anymore, then you’re probably going to throw a chair at me and run right out of the apartment. Am I close?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I was actually thinking of using the fire extinguisher.’

‘Oh, I like that deadpan, Kit. I like that a lot. How did you know my weakness?’

‘Your weakness is a woman using deadpan humour?’

‘My weakness is brunettes with bee-stung lips and big round asses. The humour’s just a bonus.’

‘So … you … fancy … yourself?’

‘Huh?’

‘Well, you’re a brunette with bee-stung lips and a big round ass. In fact, your ass is so big and round you could put it in the sky and mistake it for the moon.’

I’ve gone too far. I see that now. Flirting is just too dangerous for someone like me. I have no off switch on my mouth, and once it gets going it doesn’t know when to stop. Now I’ve not only told him that he reminds me of a hot woman – probably Angelina Jolie, if I’m interpreting his comments correctly – but I’ve admitted I looked at his ass.

And that it did shine its glorious light upon me.

It’s no wonder I’m holding my breath. But then he laughs, and I get to let it out. He really, really laughs. I’m starting to worry about how much he’s laughing. Is this the hysterics before the sudden axe murdering?

‘Is that a good thing?’ he says, finally. ‘I don’t know if that’s a good thing.’

I can’t leave him hanging. No one would.

‘It’s a good thing. Your ass is … very pleasant.’