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That didn’t sting so hard as the thought of him smiling brightly for the camera and denying the whole sorry lot of it. Maybe he’d laugh with them.
No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have the chance. The world would never know about this, not any of it.
I’d make sure of it.
Sensible Gemma was back in the driving seat.
***
Jason
I stared at the flowers on the passenger seat. Overkill? Most likely. I picked them up anyway. Steve was already waiting with his keys, a sly smirk on his face.
“Fucking hell, mate. Roses? Jesus.”
“Just trying to make a good impression.”
He laughed as he threw me the keys. “Nothing says romance like flowers after a gangbang. You’ve got it bad, you soft twat. Never seen you like this before.” He looked me up and down. “Christ on a bike, you look like you’re ready to meet the fucking Queen.”
“Yes, because everyone wears new jeans to meet her Royal Highness.”
“Haircut?”
“Fuck off, Steve. I haven’t had a fucking haircut.”
He grinned his head off. “Hope she doesn’t faint on you.”
“She can faint, just as long as she doesn’t call theDaily Bullshithotline and sell me out straight afterwards.”
“She might.”
I smiled. “She won’t. Not my dirty girl.”
“Hope you’re right.”
So did I.
I was used to nerves and adrenaline and pressure. Used to a million pairs of eyes on me, judging me, rooting for me, hating me. But this was something else. My heart was thumping as I pulled up outside my dirty girl’s flat. I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, then ditched my shades. I couldn’t walk in there in a cap and sunglasses, not today. I looked around the yard to check for onlookers, but the place was dead as a dodo. It’d be safe, just a few paces. Roses or no roses? Shit. Did Gemma even like flowers? I guess I’d find out.
The communal door was open, my path to her flat clear. I took a breath outside.
Hi, I’m Jason.
Hi, dirty girl, I’m your dirty bad stranger.
Hi Gemma, pleased to meet you. I’m Jason Redfern, not quite the trucker you were expecting.
I pushed the door open.
Gemma was stood in the kitchen with her back to me. I saw her take a breath, heard the kettle boiling. Not quite the scenario I had in mind. I lingered with the stupid roses in front of me, uncharacteristically nervous. I should have charged in and taken her, spun her by the wrists and commanded her to look at the man who’d fucked her raw. I should have slapped her beautiful chubby arse and told her this was just the beginning, that the games would get a lot fucking better from here on in. But instead I stood mute, clutching those flowers like a stupid shield.
“Hi Jason.” Her voice was so soft.
“I was expecting you on your knees,” I said. “But I’ll have a coffee if you’re making one.”
She turned to face me, and swayed for just a second, like someone had thumped her in the gut. “I wasn’t sure footballers were allowed coffee.”
Shit. My face burned.
