Dirty Daddies(31)

“And who I leave a fucking key with it seems.”

She drops to one knee to unlace her boot, kicks it off and does the other. Too little, too fucking late.

I watch as she places them neatly on the mat by the kitchen door, then rummages under my sink for some cleaning products. She’s a vision on all fours, her jeans riding low on her ass, loose enough at the waist that they show the top of her pale blue knickers. Her hair hangs free from her shoulders and gathers on the floor tiles, and her feet are tiny in silly pink spotty socks at odds with the rest of her grubby attire.

She glances up at me over her shoulder, and the involuntary image of me pounding her from behind jars my senses.

“Can I use this on the table?” she asks and holds up a random bottle of polish.

I nod.

She gets back to her feet, cloth in hand, and I wonder how much cleaning the girl has done in her life considering she thinks she’ll get started with a bit of table polish. It’ll take a damn sight fucking more than table polish to clean this place up.

I’m gawping like a fucking idiot when she strides past me into the dining room, and it’s only instinct that possesses me to grab her by the waist before she treads on broken glass. She gasps at the contact, stiffening in my grip as her bright blue eyes stare up at me. I imagine how well the colour of her knickers go with her eyes when they’re the only thing she’s wearing.

“The glass,” I say, “you’ll cut your feet.”

“Surprised you care.”

“Blood’s harder to get out than mud,” I say and she thinks I’m serious. Her eyebrows pit until I smile.

I can’t believe I’m fucking smiling.

“He really didn’t mean it,” she tells me. “Michael, I mean. He’s been nice to me.”

I wonder how nice Michael’s been.

I wonder whether he’s had his hands inside the cami top I’m staring down into. I wonder if his mouth has been on her. I wonder what she tastes like.

I’m usually unmoved by attractive women. I’ll fuck them and enjoy it, but they make little lasting impression. Blonde, brunette, redhead; they’re usually much of a muchness. As long as their body is tight and their pussy is wet, that’s good enough for me.

Carrie Wells isn’t like any of the attractive women I’ve ever seen. Her eyes are much older than her years, glinting with the promise of both a potty mouth and a massive chip on her shoulder. She dresses like a tomboy, a loose bomber jacket obscures her surprisingly tight cami. I get the impression that stripping the layers will show more and more woman the deeper you go.

She’s all woman. There’s no doubt about that.

Her scruffiness only adds to her femininity, as odd as that sounds.

“Let me clean up,” she says, and I let out a breath as I release her.

She tiptoes around the broken glass, being careful with her feet as she sprays polish over the table. I watch her scrub the bird crap from the top. Her fingernails are grubby. They’re also bitten to shit.

I can’t believe I’m doing it, but I grab the brush and pan from the utility room and work to clear the glass from the dining room carpet. I tell myself it really is to save it from bloodstains, but I’m saving her feet and I think she’s well aware of that, too.

She doesn’t say a word as she goes about her cleaning and neither do I.

I’m almost relieved as I hear Michael’s car pull onto my driveway.

Almost.

The other part of me wishes I’d never called him.

Worryingly it seems the Carrie Wells delusion might be fucking contagious.





Chapter Ten





Michael



I should’ve called Carrie last night. Or I should’ve at least tried. Even better, I should’ve turned back up at Jack’s and told her I’m not going to be pushed away by her sticking her middle finger up to everyone trying to help. I should’ve told her that if things were different, if I was ten years younger and hadn’t spent the last five months with her on my books, that I’d be falling into bed with her in a heartbeat, for right or wrong.

I should’ve told her I care. That I care too much.

Jack’s right; this is a midlife crisis and it’s getting the better of me. I can’t get her out of my mind, and it takes every scrap of determination to stay focused on my meetings through the morning, knowing full well she’s at Jack’s getting up to Christ knows what.

If she’s even still there.

The idea she’s taken off again sends a chill up my spine.

I’m talking through career options with a kid called Brooklyn when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I hope it’s her calling. I hope it’s her who’s left a voicemail when I feel the second buzz go off.