Dirty Bad Strangers(65)
“I’d best get you home.” I heard him take a few steps forward. “Do you, um, are you gonna keep the blindfold on?”
“Do I have to?”
“I dunno.”
A mischievous flare danced up my spine, and I pulled the blindfold off with a smile. “Decision made.”
Steve was short and stocky, but not unattractive. He had a messy mop of dark blonde hair, and a strong, square jaw. His blue eyes were friendly, kind.
“Hope Jason doesn’t freak.”
I shrugged. “Don’t see why he would.”
“Guess not.” He smiled. “I’m Steve, I mean, hello.”
“Hi Steve.” I looked around the room I’d spent the night in. It was nice and airy, tastefully decorated in cream and beige. A woman’s touch, most certainly. “I could help you tidy up?”
He shook his head. “Nah, no bother.”
“I live in Blackfriars, do you know it?”
“You can direct me.”
“Guess I can.”
I followed him through the house, casting my eyes all about the place. It was a farmhouse, much larger than I’d expected. A bit rough around the edges but nice all the same. Steve led me through the hallway to the front door, but I stopped as I passed by the living room.
“Is this the room we were in, when I came over?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
I stepped inside. “Weird to actually see it, you know?”
I took in everything, smiling at the sight of the beige carpet, recalling how it felt against my ass. The far wall was covered in football memorabilia, signed pictures and scarves and postcards. I stepped forward so see a picture of Steve smiling amongst a celebrating team.
“Wow, quite a fan.”
“Singers,” he said.
“This is some collection.”
“Aye.”
The rest of the room was plain enough, just a couple of floral prints amongst the football craziness. A signed shirt hung above the fireplace, a signed football in an old armchair. I could only imagine the female touch was long gone.
“Do you go to the games?”
“Sometimes.”
“And Jason? Is he a Singers fan, too?”
He stared at me like it was a trick question. “...Yeah.”
“Does he go with you?”
“...He goes quite a bit.”
“Sorry,” I smiled. “I’m being nosy. Let’s make a move.”
I startled as I hauled myself up into Steve’s old Land Rover. The cut of the seat was familiar. I ran my fingers along the window frame, the same little dents and grooves. “Is this your car?”
“Aye,” he said. The same rumble of the engine as he turned the key.
“But this is...”
“Jase uses it sometimes.”
We chugged down the muddy track, well and truly in the middle of nowhere. “What car did Jason drive off in?”
“His own car.”
“Does he work far away?”
“Few miles,” he said, shooting me a nervous glance. “Over by Cobham.”
“Does he stay here often?”
He shook his head. “Only last night.”
“Does he live close by?”
“Close enough.”
“Have you met his wife?”
Poor Steve nearly veered off the road. He recovered quickly, but his face was flushed. I fought the urge to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
“Yeah, I’ve met her, unfortunately.”
“You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?”
“All my life, nearly.”
“Have you done this before? Threesomes, I mean?”
I could tell he really didn’t want to answer the question. “Not for a long time.”
I could almost hear his sigh of relief as we pulled onto my street. I directed him to pull up outside, knowing the yard would be rammed. He held a hand up in farewell and didn’t loiter.
It pained to find my curiosity hadn’t been eased in the slightest. Quite the opposite.
I only wanted to know more about my dirty bad Jason than ever.
Jason
I knuckled down hard at training, giving it everything I had and then some. I made a little pact with myself on the pitch that morning. One extra year’s contract and I’d walk away. Fifty-fifty or no. I could spend smart, sound investments this time, set myself up somewhere pretty good. Maybe not the sprawling twelve bedroom Surrey estate we’d ploughed our money into, but something decent. Something without April in it.
And Gemma? Her image flashed behind my eyes.
Fuck knows.
Powell came charging up the pitch towards me, head down and all out to score. I still felt the pang of jealousy, all too aware of his cock pressing into my dirty girl’s ass on the Kings’ dance floor. Come at me, asshole.