Buy Me, Sir(44)

It's a comfortable silence. Strangely comfortable.

Resting my hand on her knee feels like the most natural thing in the world, even though it shouldn't be.

I've no idea why I feel like I've known her my whole fucking life, but I like it. I like it too fucking much to stop.

I pay the driver as we arrive outside mine, and if she's shocked by the grandeur of the place she doesn't show it.

I take her hand as we head to the front door, and turn to face her as I slip my key into the lock.

"My dog is …  difficult," I tell her. "He really doesn't like strangers."

"Don't worry," she says. "I'm good with dogs."

I want to apologise for him in advance and tell her the dismal story of  his existence before I saved him from death row, just so she'll give him  a chance, but she's already shivering from our evening in the cold.

"He'll be aggressive," I tell her. "But don't worry, I promise I won't let him hurt you."

"It's okay," she says. "I'm not scared."

But she will be. I know full well she will be.

I open the door and head on through to deactivate the alarm. She looks  so dainty in my hallway as I get the lights. I can't stop staring as her  eyes soak the place in.

I'm still staring as Brutus comes charging through, and he's so much  fucking faster than usual. He's a dog who stalks from a distance, growls  like a fucking demon before he attacks, but not tonight.

I lunge but I miss him, I yell his name and tell him to come fucking back, but he ignores me completely.

My blood runs cold as I charge down the hallway, and I'm shouting at her not to run, please don't fucking run.

But she doesn't.

She drops to her knees and the horror hits me in the gut.

She holds out her arms for him and I swear he's going to tear her pretty throat open.

But he doesn't. He fucking doesn't.

His tail is thumping as he skids to a halt, his tongue lolling out as  she coo coos in his face and scratches his ears. And I stare. Mute.  Fucking astounded.

"What's his name?" she asks.

It takes me a moment to find my tongue. "Brutus."

"Brutus!" she says, and his tail thumps harder. "He's lovely."

"He's not usually," I tell her.

"Rescue?" she asks, and I nod. "He's lucky you found him."

"I'm the lucky one. He's great when you get to know him."

He's still staring up at her like a sappy poodle when she gets to her feet, and I can't believe it. I can't fucking believe it.

"You have a beautiful house," she says and I thank her. "And a beautiful  dog," she adds, and I think she really believes it, even though he's  hardly going to win a beauty pageant any time soon.

Maybe he doesn't need to. Maybe she sees through all that.

I shouldn't even be hoping, but I am. I shouldn't be this invested in some pretty girl who moonlights as a prostitute, but I am.

"Are you going to give me a tour?" she asks and I come to my senses enough to stop fucking gawping at her.

I lead her through to the kitchen and ask if she'd like a drink, and she  sits herself at my island with her cute little feet tapping against the  stool. Brutus plops himself down at her side, his head on his paws like  she's part of the furniture.

Un-fucking-real.

"A coffee would be divine," she says, and I ditch my stupid incognito  cap and get to work putting the beans in the machine, trying to work out  if I've had a woman in this place since Claire. I haven't.

I'm still making the drinks when Brutus gets to his feet. He needs a  piss, I know it as soon as he barks, but it's not me he's asking. He's  barking at her, as though she'll know what the fuck he's asking for.

But she does.

She slips from the stool and heads for the back door like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"He wants to go out, right?" she asks, and I nod.

"Please."

She catches me watching and tips her head. "What? What is it?"

"Milk?"

She nods. "Please. Two sugars." She smiles. "You weren't wondering if I take milk, were you?"

I hand her a mug without saying a word, but she won't let it up.         

     



 

"What?" she says, and giggles. "You're making me nervous."

I look about the room, look anywhere. "Just this," I tell her. "This is strange. Brutus is strange."

"Dogs can tell who their kind of people are," she says.

"So it seems."

"I'm glad he likes me." She smiles.

I have a niggle in my gut I can't place. It feels tender  –  as though the  tiniest green shoot is poking its fragile form up through charred soil.

It's not entirely pleasant.

Brutus pads nonchalantly back inside and I wonder what the hell he's  thinking as his eyes meet mine. His eyes say nothing other than he loves  our new guest, and I trust him. I trust his judgement as much as my  own.

I force that niggle aside. Force myself to go along with this insanity, because why not?

What else is there to do?

How could I possibly walk away from this?

Amy locks the back door without being asked. I watch her drink her coffee and enjoy the way the colour comes back to her cheeks.

"It was cold out there," she says. "But worth it. I love working with  the homeless. It makes you so grateful for what you have, right? I'm  just glad I can do something to help, even if it's just a little."

"I fell into it," I admit and her eyebrows lift.

"Fell into it?"

But I don't want to expand on that. Not today. Maybe not ever.

I finish up my drink and she follows my lead.

"I'll give you the tour," I say.

She holds out her hand and I take it.



Melissa



This is so much harder than I thought.

My heart is pounding despite my easy smile, so worried I'm going to give  the game away with some silly oversight. Like knowing the way his dog  barks.

Knowing where his bathrooms are.

Knowing the names of his kids when he unavoidably points out their  pictures on the mantelpiece. I ask about them as though I don't know.

"Thomas and Matthew," he says. "They live with their mother in Hampshire."

"That must be hard."

"Very," he admits, and I see a flash of pain in his eyes. "But it's for the best. They're thriving. Happy."

"They must love the dog," I say, and that makes him smile.

"They do, yes. And he loves them." He lifts one of the photos as though  he's looking at it new. "My ex-wife isn't quite so fond of him."

I don't think it's my place to ask about his divorce, so I don't.

The pressure of acting ignorant is building up behind my eyes, but I  don't show it. I keep my questions light and vague, oohing and ahhing  over the place as though I'm seeing it all for the first time.

"I love the smell of orchids," I say, and a shiver zips up my spine as he angles one to my face for a sniff.

"My cleaner gets them," he admits. "She's excellent. They're a nice touch."

She's excellent.

My smile feels ridiculously bright on my face, but he doesn't seem to notice.

I don't know if I can really go through with this phase of my master  plan, not now it feels so personal in here. Not now I feel so …   overwhelmed.

As we step past the entertainment unit I'm forced to make my decision.

I make it in a heartbeat.

I spin so quickly towards his selection of CDs, my expression one of pure fake-shock as I pull out an album from the pile.

"Oh my God! You like Kings and Castles?!"

My fake-shock has nothing on the surprise on his face. "You know them?"

"Do I know them?! Hell yeah, they're my all-time favourite band!"

I hate this even as I'm doing it. Hate the shock in his eyes. Hate the  fact I feel so obliged to perform like a circus monkey to make him fall  in love me.

"That's extraordinary," he says. "Hardly anyone knows they exist."

"Crazy, right? I'm always saying it. I mean take Casual Observer, that  song is my all-time favourite. How it doesn't get more radio airplay I  have no idea. Criminal, don't you think?"

"Criminal, yes." He stares right through me. "That's my favourite too, actually."

I put a hand on my heart. "Wow. What are the odds?"

"Slim," he tells me, and he's not kidding.

I rattle off my imaginary history with the band, how my dad loved them,  how I knew the singer dedicated a song to his dying grandmother, how I  think their first album is seriously underrated, and how terrible the  first mainstream music journalist who tore them to shreds in his column  was for destroying their chances before they'd really started.

He listens. He nods.         

     



 

I tell him how I love the lyrics in Casual Observer. How deep they are.  How well they capture the loneliness of being surrounded by people and  yet feeling so utterly misunderstood. So alone.

He's barely even nodding now. Just staring. His eyes piercing and raw.

"Sorry," I tell him. "I get a little carried away. I just love them so much."

"That's ok," he replies. "I do, too."

I slide the CD back in the collection and hold out my hand for the rest of the magical mystery tour.