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She put her empty glass down. “I am indeed.”
“I might be a little bit famous.”
Already this was too much talking. “Describe a little bit.”
“I play rugby, yeah. For, like, the country.”
“I thought you might play some kind of football. I’m more interested in you playing me. Think you can do that?”
“Posh are you, love.”
Was that a question? It came out like a statement. Why couldn’t he just grunt and drag her off somewhere?
“I’m not posh.” A little tipsy, but no one could ever accuse her of being elitist. Punk, goth or emo, but never upper class.
“S’right if you are, but I’m on, like, a clock here.”
“A clock?”
“Things to do, people to see, you know.”
“Do me and be on your way.” Be on your way, where did that expression come from? England was turning her into a character out of Austen and she’d only been here a day.
“You mean that?”
“Hell yes, shut up and fuck me.”
He grinned. She wondered how many times his nose had been broken and what it would be like to hang on to his thick neck and stop thinking. How long was he going to make her wait to find out? And then his grin fell away, as his eyes shifted to something behind her. “You playing funny buggers with me, love?”
“Playing what?”
A chin bob. “I don’t mind if you want him to watch, but I don’t want a circus.”
One minute Rugby was on the clock, and now he had a watch problem. She was tipsy, not stupid drunk. She sighed. This was over. The more they spoke, the less anonymous she was, and he had mentioned he was famous.
“He the boyfriend, husband? S’right, just no cameras.”
“What? Who?” She turned her head as she said it. There had to be fifty people packed arou
nd the bar and a hundred or more in this room, but there was one man staring at her. Two bar stools along, glass half-full of amber fluid in his hand, rocks. Sun-browned skin, untamed dark curls, light eyes, white shirt, dark pants, superior look on his face that morphed into something she couldn’t name when their eyes connected.
She spun back, her heart rioting in her chest. “I have no idea who that is.” Because it couldn’t be. But he’d been in her thoughts and she’d had four cocktails and was buzzing.
“You sure about that? Matey seems to know you.”
He didn’t know her. Not the real her. No one did. She put her hand on Rugby’s chest. “Just us. You have somewhere we can go. Let’s do this.”
He nodded and took her hand while she spun her stool around and came to stand. He led her through the room, down a corridor and out a fire door into a delivery bay, where he crowded her into a brick wall. This is what she needed; not to think, not to know, just to get her jacket ruined with rough sex against a wall.
“Still yeah, love?” he said, hands spread over her ribs.
She went for his belt. “Yeah.”
“What you got under that skirt?”
Absolutely nothing to make access difficult. “Find out.”
“Fuck yeah.”
