The Bad Boy Wants Me(7)

I read it again. Got it. Don’t act impulsively.

I flick the pages disinterestedly. Imagine my surprise when I turn a page and see a large picture of a shit-faced Cash in leather pants and silver shirt. A disheveled blonde is snuggled up to him. They are in a nightclub or restaurant. The title of the piece is:

Is Cash Hunter the most

eligible man in the world?

On closer inspection I note from their reflection in the mirror behind them that his right hand is full of blondie’s butt. Inappropriate and quite frankly tasteless butt grab, but the blonde seems to dig it. She is looking up at him with an awed, stupid expression on her face. I let my eyes move over to his free hand. A sigh escapes my mouth. I’ve always loved his hands. They are big, strong and manly. Mooning over his hand, God, you’re lame. I leave the picture and start scrutinizing the next one.

That turns out to be a to-die-for picture of him at a sunny beach. All his lovely, hard muscles are on display and he is with a different blonde this time. This one is curvier and seems more self-assured. She has a pair of sunglasses pushed up on her head, one hand is resting on her tanned hip, and the other is placed possessively on his chest.

He’s always had a thing for blondes.

A stray thought pops into my head. I’m blonde.

I turn the page quickly and there is a full-page, black and white photo of him in a tux at some kind of award ceremony or music bash. This time I recognize the woman he is with. Octavia Harding, his manager. Except for her fake breasts, that actually look like two halves of a tennis ball shoved underneath her skin, she is two lean nuggets away from being an anorexic.

I don’t like her. I never have.

From the first moment I laid eyes on her I felt that there was something cold and malicious about her. A couple of times I have seen videos of her standing next to the band members, an arrogant smile stretching her crimson mouth; she actually makes my skin crawl.

I could easily have sat there gazing at his picture a bit longer, but I close the magazine with a snap and drop it into the wastepaper basket. Seeing the magazine in the bin makes me feel mildly victorious. I’ll conquer my silly crush if it is the last thing I do. I decide to have a bath. Britney will be at least an hour, and being in the bath always relaxes me. Allows me to think and clear my head.

I run the bath, pour in a whole load of fragrant bath cubes, put my hair into a messy topknot, and lower myself into the scented water. Mmmm … this was definitely one of my better ideas. I lean my head back against the folded towel and close my eyes.

Let’s think this thru.

I shouldn’t be so harsh on myself. First off, I’ve been in love with this guy for years. Obviously the first encounter is going to be either traumatic, disastrous, or both. It was both. So what? The worst is over. From now on I’m prepared. I’ve read the side effects warning label: This asshole is likely to break your heart.

The good thing is I now know just how hot he is and how strong he comes on and things will be different. If I just stay calm and unaffected, bit by bit he will reveal his true self and I’ll discover that he ain’t all that. Once I see that my memories of him are all flawed and he is far from perfect, I will realize that he is a hero only in my mind.

At that point I will either be put off, or better still, so totally sickened that I will wonder why I ever wasted so many years pining for him. On that happy day I will put in my notice and go on to my aunt’s house in Surrey and wait for Leah to join me for our victory backpacking tour of Europe.

Sitting here in this fragrant steam, I see clearly that I over reacted. There is nothing to worry about. Everything is under control. I’m in charge of my body and my decisions. And in a way it is good, because he has shown his hand. He tries it on with every female he meets. Slut. Manwhore. Womanizer. Prick.

So, now that I have redefined the parameters, I can relax. I wave my arms a little to circulate the hot water and exhale slowly.

‘Mmmm.’

I start to chill.

My mind wanders lazily away. I don’t check it. Whatcha gonna do? I’m in the bath. It goes to … Cash … no, not Cash, of course not Cash, just a man who looks like him. He is in bed. Between white silk sheets, his tan intense, some kind of lop-sided smile on his face. He pats the space next to him.

And I, I’m in a slinky black nightie, my hair’s freshly washed and bouncing like a shampoo advert as I walk up to him with a sexy, totally sophisticated smile. As I reach the bed, he is so eager for me he jumps me and throws me on the bed. Before I can say, ‘You called?’ he has his face between my thighs and starts feasting his heart out.

My fingers move to the hard nub between my legs. Swirl. Swirl. In the silky water. Ohhhh. Oh, Cash. Yes, Cash. Yes. Just like that. Oh, God, yes—