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“Fuck, yes... oh fucking God, yes! Fuck me up, Jason, stretch me so fucking wide for you... I’m ready... I’m so fucking ready...”
I was ready, too. Ready enough to curse under my breath and shoot my load all over my fucking stomach. It pooled in my belly button, spilling down to the dark nest of pubic hair. The girl was driving me fucking crazy. A grunt and a groan and I was done, my temples pounding as reality piled in. 3.30a.m. Training in five fucking hours. Shit.
“Jason...?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. Wow. Shit.”
“That was fucking epic,” she giggled.
“I’m fucking epically fucked for work tomorrow. Again.”
“I think I’m worth it.” I could feel her smile through the phone.
“Tell me that when the alarm goes off.”
“Maybe one day...”
I smiled. “Your anti-domesticity drive doesn’t include sleepovers, I’m sure.”
Neither does my marital or career status.
“Who said anything about sleeping?”
“Fair point. I can go all night if you can.”
“I’ll hold you to that...” she said.
“I hope so.” My tired eyes bailed on me, screwing shut at the horror of another four hour sleep cycle. “But not tonight, I’m out of here.”
“Make sure you don’t crash at the wheel. Don’t want to hear about any filthy truckers shooting their loads off the motorway.”
“I’m not a trucker,” I said.
“Whatever you are...” she purred. “Sleep well.”
“You too, my sweet dirty girl.”
I made for the cancel call button, but her voice stopped me in my tracks.
“Eight four seven.”
It didn’t need repeating.
***
I’d been itching to search online since the second my fist greeted the alarm clock that morning, but I’d been late. Clumsy with my pissing breakfast, and too bloody groggy to get my shit together in time. How many burlesque nights could there be in London on a Thursday evening? Supposing my dirty girl was reallyinLondon. She could be shacked up in the arse end of nowhere for all I bloody knew. No. She was in London.
I rubbed my eyes, squinting against the drizzle and jogging on the spot to stay awake. Five a side at the training ground, coach had set me up against the youngsters, a couple of newbies with easily enough arrogance to match their fancy footwork. Theo Fernandez, a whippet of a striker, fresh from Barcelona for a season in the Premier League. Barely eighteen and wet behind the fucking ears. He was coming at me, prancing around in his fluorescent pink boots, more concerned with looking the part than he was about his line of approach. Or so I thought. I was too sluggish to read him, too sluggish to catch him as he darted to my left, nipping around my clumsy tackle and scoring a perfect goal over Winstanley’s head. He whooped in victory, fist pumping the air while my teammates cursed.
Jesus, Redfern, get with the fucking show, will you? Call that defence, do you? Wakey fucking wakey.
April’s snotty little pout flashed through my mind, her eyes rolling at my uselessness.
What the fuck, Jason? You’re such a fucking loser lately.
Who’s going to pay you for that shit, Jase?
I didn’t sign up to be the wife of a failure, Jason Redfern. If only your Dad could see you now. So much for making him proud, Jason. Well fucking done, asshole.
