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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