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THIRTY FIVE: THE B, M, C AND W WORD I
can’t believe he suggested it. What was he thinking? “Tell
you what” he piped up. Something was going on inside that head of his and I
very much doubt it was cleaner than that grimy window in that room “I’ll
strike you a deal” Oh,
no. I wasn’t falling for that trick again. “Just give me your shirt-“ “I’ll
ask you a question and if you answer it, I’ll give you the shirt” “I’m
not playing-” I sang, holding my hands over my ears. Suddenly, I felt his
gruff hands pry them off. “If
you don’t, I keep it on and I get to ask you another question” “A
strip version truth or dare” I stated dubiously. “Basically”
he sang. “Strictly professional, down the line” he prompted. What
a load of crock. He’s wasting his breath talking like this. “So
we have a deal?” he even held his hand out; I glanced at it, grimacing.
“What, you want me to draw blood?” The
bastard undermined me again. “Hit me” “Lets
see…” he paused, as he eyed my shirt; I felt very uncomfortable under his
gaze. “Okay, I’ve got one” he paused. I held my breath. “Why
do you like to make yourself so miserable?” That
did it. “Screw you” “I
play to win, Minerva” “I
answered your question, now gimme the shirt” “The
truth” “Look,
how many times do I have to tell you? You don’t deserve the truth” Why do
men always want something they can’t have? “No one does, least of all men”
“Humor
me” he prompted, with incredibly sombre eyes “I’ve got all the time in the
world” he sang I
was trying to make sense of all this, but I just shook my head “I’m violent,
I curse, I twist your words around, I piss you off-“ “And
you talk too much” he added. “Look, I said I feel you, but I don’t friggin’
love you” I
shuddered “Don’t say that” “What?
Love?” “Aren’t
you men supposed to have some kinda problem with saying that word?” “Looks
like you’re the one with the problem, not me” I
glared. “Stop analyzing me!” “I’m
not fuckin’ analysin’ shit!” “You’re
the one who asked me about my misery!” “You’re
the one who wants the shirt” We
just glared for a few moments, without saying a word. “Are
my insecurities just a game to you? Is that it?” “What
insecurities?! You won’t let me get near you, how would I know what fuckin’
insecurities you have?” “Don’t
play stupid, AJ!” “Look
whose talking” he sneered. “You’re no saint yourself, Minerva” he
muttered as he lit up a smoke. “Fuckin glad this fuckin’ charade’s over”
he muttered under his breath. “Look,
stop smoking!” I screamed as I yanked his cigarette out of his hand and stubbed it out
“There’s not enough air in here as it is” “Leave
me alone” he said, pushing me over. “God, why’re you such a bitch, man?” “Why’re
you such a bastard?” “Cow” “Misogynist” “Whore”
I
looked at him at that one moment, and all hell broke loose. It wasn’t merely
madness and anger running through my veins; it was an adrenaline, a morphine
deemed sanity, but verging on the extreme of pure and utter pandemonium. I wish
I could tell you I’ve never felt like this before, but I would be lying. This
same, satanic allure engulfed me like a suffocating fire, in that restroom,
thousands of miles up in the air where he and I seemed to be inescapable of each
other, feeding like werewolves on the words that flung carelessly into that
oxygenic void. This time though, I think I overdosed, cos I was knee-buckling
giddy, drunk on the idea that he didn’t want me which, oddly enough, turned me
on. So
in other words; I’m a walking contradiction. In this one moment of foggy, irrational clarity, I gave it up. I wasn’t good
for it, I wasn’t strong enough to pretend he was as mediocre as Prada shoes to
me, because I knew, deep down he was my coffee; strong, dark and very much a
necessity to my every day drudgery. “Dog” “Bitch” “How
long do you think they’ll take to find us?” I
checked my watch. We had been in there for about half an hour already; taking
into account how many pop princesses would begin to perform lap dances after a
sip of Heineken, and the number of Ricky Martin wannabes wanting to get laid,
I’d say- “Five
minutes, fifteen tops” We
didn’t have much more time left; I grabbed his face pulled him in and
practically mauled him; no wait, the correct un-political term is pashed.
Yes, we pashed on the couch which creaked under the pressure of two
able-bodied people on top of it (I don’t think it’s seen much action since
1974, when it was moved down here for suggesting a fashion faux pas in the main
room), but somehow, we made it onto the floor still clung together like leeches
to a human leg, except he had his pants off and my shirt was no longer on. He’s
an expert at handling bras, and he had mine just about off when we heard a few
murmurs outside. “Shit” “How
many minutes?” I
checked my now scratched watch face as I threw him his pants and I grabbed my
shirt “Three and a half minutes” I did up my last button just as the knob turned.
She
bore through us with suspicious eyes. Suspicious smoky eyes, but suspicious all
the same. I
haven’t denied I fucked like a dirty little wanker since my teen days, but I
had to pretend we hadn’t done a thing, just so I could maintain what was left
of my rep. “Kylie,
you’re finally here” Minerva piped up, pulling on that fake smile she gave
me that first night in the convenience store. “Let’s do the interview now” The
tiny woman glanced at me like I was going to rob her or something before she
took a seat “Who’re you?” she asked. “Backstreet
Boy, AJ McLean, at your service” I grimaced before clasping her hand in mine,
which oddly enough, disappeared inside my own. I looked to Minna and held my
breath “Well, it was nice to meet you, Ms Prescott” I said, holding my hand
out. She
shook it “Yes, I hope you have better luck next time” I was a bit confused,
but when I pulled my hand away, I felt a piece of paper slipped inside my own
palm. Kylie
didn’t say a word as she primped herself up, so I just left. “Don’t
close the door, thanks” Minna shouted before I walked out. I
unfolded the piece of paper inside my hand Room
389; Piccadilly Hotel, West Sussex. Prescott,
L. L?
What the hell? |
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