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He gave me a salute. “Yeah, yeah, one last shot. This one’s our girl, I can feel it in my bones.”
I laughed. “In your boner, you mean.” My cursor hovered over minimise, but I didn’t click. I didn’t want to click.Maybe, just maybe.“Message her, then, now. Set it up.”
He reclined in his seat, hands behind his head. “Don’t need to,” he said with a smirk. “I messaged her before I sent you the email.”
Hi, I’m Katie, pleased to meet you. Handshake? Hug? Air kiss? Maybe not. Hi, I’m Kate. So good to meet you, finally. Finally? Does that sound desperate?
I reversed the car at the bottom of the street. Again. Clunky gears made me over-swing and they ground like teeth on chalk. Nasty. I could just feel the curtains twitching. They’d be calling neighbourhood watch before long. I’d already circled the road three times in the past fifteen minutes, and still I was early.
Hi, Rick! Carl! I’m Katie. Katie Smith. So lovely to meet you! No. Too gushy.
I put the car in neutral and looked again at my surroundings. The road was suburbia central, and I was surprised the street itself wasn’t paved with banknotes. I felt totally out of my comfort zone, a pathetic little duckling bobbing on the waves.
But I should have known it would be like this. It should be like this. It would be considerably more concerning to rock up on some deadbeat estate somewhere and find my sugar daddies weren’t all they were cracked up to be. I’d checked this place out on Street View, many times, but Street View doesn’t account for scale. These properties were big.
It seemed so easy in the safety of my own fantasies, but now it was a whole other ballgame, parked up in money town with a bellyful of butterflies and a serious case of fight or flight.
Fight or flight. More like fuck or flight.
The thought gave me jitters.
Maybe that’s what they’d expect. Pleased to meet you, strip now, please and show us your pussy.
Rick said not, but he would, wouldn’t he?
Still, that wouldn’t be the worst that could happen. Murder on money row, sugar daddy slut gets butchered in Cheltenham suburbia.
Unlikely, I’d checked them out. Facebook profiles, electoral roll, the business connect website. They were everywhere, bold as brass, and all the lines matched up neatly. Plus, I’d left a practical dossier of information on them in my dressing table drawer. Even Much Arlock’s sleepy police force could crack that crime in a heartbeat.
I stared over at their house, realising all over again that my car was going to look like a bag of shit on their driveway. My car would look like a bag of shit on anyone’s driveway.
I took a breath. Here goes nothing.
I pulled my battered old Ford onto their property, and immediately wished I’d given it a jet wash. Mine was covered in mud and scratches and probably half a hay bale, and theirs were gleaming. Gleaming and new. A posh Range and some sporty silver BMW, pristine on their fancy pink-bricked driveway. At least I’d made the effort to spruce myself up. I turned off the engine and kicked off my pumps, replacing them with the killer heels I’d stashed in the passenger footwell. I checked my makeup in the rearview mirror, lipstick still behaving in a shade only one darker than nude, and a few token dabs of mascara. I’d pass. Hopefully. I shimmied my dress further down my thighs, conscious of flashing my slutty little knickers as I clambered into plain sight. Long legs are both a blessing and a curse, harbouring the ability to turn a perfectly respectable dress into a whore-gown with just one false wiggle. Finally I reached for my bag, checking my paperwork just one last time. Paperwork, yikes. This was some crazy shit, but my dreams weren’t getting any smaller.
I could do this.
I needed to do this.
I took a breath and stepped out into the cool evening air, a welcome relief against burning skin. My dress was the most expensive I owned; a soft pink strapless number with a demure little diamante rose at the bust.
My strides defied my lack of confidence, my heels clacking against the ground as I approached their front door.
Rick and Carl, Carl and Rick.
I hoped it would be Rick who answered. Rick seemed nice, and kind, and cool. Rick was hot, and funny. I could fall for Rick. He had full-sleeve tattoos and his clothes were nerdy-chic. He had messy brown hair and dark eyes, and a full-on hipster beard. He was a designer, too. What’s not to love?
Carl, on the other hand. I’d never spoken to Carl. Carl seemed… intense. Intimidating. Posh suits, and steely muscles, and chiselled features, and absolutely everything I wasn’t. The corporate bogeyman under my country-girl bedspread. Maybe the photos made him look more that way than he really was.
I knocked on the door and my heart thumped like a crazy bitch, my breath raw in my throat as I saw a shadow move behind the glass.
The door swung open and I couldn’t breathe, just plastered on the warmest, brightest smile I could muster and it stayed. It stayed because it was Rick who answered, and he was smiling, too. His smile was incredible, big and genuine, and it gave him dimples. He had tight black jeans on over brogues, and a purple tie over a short-sleeved checked shirt. Rick Warner, graphic designer extraordinaire, was absolutely goddamn fucking gorgeous, way more gorgeous than his gorgeous pics. One for the win.
“Katie! Hey!” He beckoned me in like a long-lost friend, and wrapped me in colourful arms that were hotter in the flesh than they were in any online photo, and he smelled of both the ocean and cherries simultaneously. His chest was hard under his shirt, and he was taller than I’d expected, as tall as me, even in heels.
He pushed the door closed behind us, and reached for my hand and it felt alright. I could do this.
Or so I thought.
