Dirty Bad Strangers(75)

Yet still the Redferns smiled pretty for the cameras, and still the country loved them for it.

Maybe this was his modus operandi. Maybe there were a hundred chatline girls out there, just like me.

The thought made me run cold.

Finally, I checked out the response to Chelsea’s tall tales. It wasn’t pretty. Cherry Electric die-hards were baying for blood, calling Chelsea every name under the sun and then some. They’d picked out photos of her looking less than her best, and lined them up against April Redfern looking far, far from her worst. The result was a bitchfest. A spiteful, hate-filled outpouring of venom, slating everything from Chelsea’s hair, to her willowy body, to her teeth and even her shade of foundation. Crazy. She could be an idiot, for sure, but she was a pretty idiot. For a moment I felt sorry enough for her to go back outside and make amends, but it passed quickly. She’d done more than enough bitching in my direction for one evening.

I tried to brush the social media tirades aside, but my stomach didn’t rest easy. That could be me. It could easily be me, except the hate would be ten times worse. I couldn’t even imagine my worst picture up alongside April Redfern’s best. The keyboard warriors wouldn’t even be hating, they’d be laughing too hard. And then they’d dig, trowelling up my personal history, my chatline job, my poor family back in Hatfield. His, too. They’d drag Jason through the mud all over again, maybe even Serena would seize another reality TV job on the back of it.

That didn’t sting so hard as the thought of him smiling brightly for the camera and denying the whole sorry lot of it. Maybe he’d laugh with them.

No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have the chance. The world would never know about this, not any of it.

I’d make sure of it.

Sensible Gemma was back in the driving seat.







Jason



I stared at the flowers on the passenger seat. Overkill? Most likely. I picked them up anyway. Steve was already waiting with his keys, a sly smirk on his face.

“Fucking hell, mate. Roses? Jesus.”

“Just trying to make a good impression.”

He laughed as he threw me the keys. “Nothing says romance like flowers after a gangbang. You’ve got it bad, you soft twat. Never seen you like this before.” He looked me up and down. “Christ on a bike, you look like you’re ready to meet the fucking Queen.”

“Yes, because everyone wears new jeans to meet her Royal Highness.”

“Haircut?”

“Fuck off, Steve. I haven’t had a fucking haircut.”

He grinned his head off. “Hope she doesn’t faint on you.”

“She can faint, just as long as she doesn’t call the Daily Bullshit hotline and sell me out straight afterwards.”

“She might.”

I smiled. “She won’t. Not my dirty girl.”

“Hope you’re right.”

So did I.



I was used to nerves and adrenaline and pressure. Used to a million pairs of eyes on me, judging me, rooting for me, hating me. But this was something else. My heart was thumping as I pulled up outside my dirty girl’s flat. I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, then ditched my shades. I couldn’t walk in there in a cap and sunglasses, not today. I looked around the yard to check for onlookers, but the place was dead as a dodo. It’d be safe, just a few paces. Roses or no roses? Shit. Did Gemma even like flowers? I guess I’d find out.

The communal door was open, my path to her flat clear. I took a breath outside.

Hi, I’m Jason.

Hi, dirty girl, I’m your dirty bad stranger.

Hi Gemma, pleased to meet you. I’m Jason Redfern, not quite the trucker you were expecting.

I pushed the door open.

Gemma was stood in the kitchen with her back to me. I saw her take a breath, heard the kettle boiling. Not quite the scenario I had in mind. I lingered with the stupid roses in front of me, uncharacteristically nervous. I should have charged in and taken her, spun her by the wrists and commanded her to look at the man who’d fucked her raw. I should have slapped her beautiful chubby arse and told her this was just the beginning, that the games would get a lot fucking better from here on in. But instead I stood mute, clutching those flowers like a stupid shield.

“Hi Jason.” Her voice was so soft.

“I was expecting you on your knees,” I said. “But I’ll have a coffee if you’re making one.”

She turned to face me, and swayed for just a second, like someone had thumped her in the gut. “I wasn’t sure footballers were allowed coffee.”

Shit. My face burned.

“How long have you known?” God, her eyes, beautiful green eyes, and those freckles. Gemma Taylor was truly beautiful.