“Are you into the scene?” Missy asked.
“No. I only moved here a few months back, from Hatfield.”
“Gem’s a chatline operator,” Cara shared. “A great dancer, too.”
Cue the conversation about my callers, but unlike the general populous the girls here didn’t shriek with surprise at my stories, they were simply interested. I was interested in them, too, itching to ask questions that flowed a lot easier after my second garnet crow.
The third annihilated any nerves that may have been lingering, and I found myself absorbed into the group, so totally that I barely noticed the club filling up. The lights had dimmed in preparation for the show when Cat asked me about my relationship status.
“It’s complicated,” I laughed.
“Isn’t it always?” they chorused.
Three garnet crows made it seem a lot less complicated than it had done previously.
“I like this guy, but I don’t know him. He’s a caller, a complete stranger... but he’s not. I dunno, it’s weird. I just want him. Really, really want him.”
“Him, or his cock?” Cat laughed.
“Most certainly his cock,” I laughed back. “He’s my kind of dirty.”
“And what’s your kind of dirty?”
I took another sip of my drink for Dutch courage. “I like sex with strangers... more than one at once, preferably.”
The revelation barely caused a ripple.
“Me too,” said Trixie. “If I’m feeling particularly adventurous I’ll hole myself up in playroom two, and wait to see who’ll come join me.”
“Sometimes that’s the whole bloody club,” Cara smiled.
“Answer honestly,” I said. “Do you think I’m crazy, lusting after some guy I’ve never met?”
“No,” Cat smiled. “I was crazy about my fiancé before I ever knew who he was. I saw him up on that very stage, a stranger in a mask who turns into a god with a cane in his hand. Sometimes you just know someone’s the right kind of wrong.”
“Jason’s definitely the right kind of wrong. My kind of wrong.”
“Dirty bad wrong,” Cara laughed. “We’re all a little dirty bad wrong here.”
“You don’t think we’re all a little dirty bad crazy?” I giggled.
“Well, Cat is engaged to a guy who wears a mask and likes to hurt her until she cries. Missy met her boyfriend by breaking all the rules in her day job and courting a guy fresh out of prison. Trixie gets her kicks by fucking anyone with a pulse, and my parents freaked when I shacked up with a dominant as fuck tattoo artist, who happens to be a woman, but you know what? We’re the sanest, happiest, cool as fuck people I know, all of us. If this kind of shit makes us dirty, bad and fucking crazy, then I’m happy to take the crazy.”
So was I.
Crazy was beginning to feel really fucking good.
Jason
April had chosen Clancy’s for our romantic spectacle. She likes Clancy’s, not for the food, but because it fits her publicity agenda. Clancy’s is classy, but not too classy. Fit for a paparazzi turnout, without the likelihood of being upstaged by those more newsworthy than us. Welcome to April’s world, where shit like that actually matters. I couldn’t give a fuck about any of it.
She’d feigned frustration as the cameras flashed, gripping my hand as though our perfect cosy evening had been ruined by the intrusion. I wondered who tipped them off every other week, not April herself, that would never do. One of her dickhead entourage most likely.
I’ve never gobbled my dinner as fast as I did that night. I raced through my main course and grunted best I could through April’s bitch fest about life, the universe and almost everyone in it. Typically she picked that one night as the only night in the history of time that she decided to order dessert. I swear it was just to piss me off, and it worked. I compulsively checked my phone, agitated as the clock made its way towards eleven and she still picked aimlessly at her raspberry torte.
It took Steve an age to reply to my text message, but as April finally abandoned her fork, he came through for me. It put a big old smile on my face, the only one of the evening.
“Who’s that?” April sneered as I fired off a reply. “Your chatline slut?”
“You just can’t resist a dig, can you?”
“Just making conversation.”
“I’m just about done with your conversation, April.”
Finally, I called for the bill.
We waited in the bar for our regular driver to arrive. Clancy himself came out to bid us goodbye, and I hovered throughout all the niceties, gushing about how marvellous an evening we’d had. I couldn’t wait to shove April in the backseat, piling in after her and directing the driver back home. Her face was a picture as I got him to pull up around the next corner. Steve’s battered old jeep was already waiting. He’d moved quick.