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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.PhoenixI’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.
