Dirty Bad Strangers (12 page)

I smiled, admiring her loyalty, but she ruined it in a heartbeat.

“...I’d look like a right loser in there on my own!”

***

Jason

My dirty girl was easy to spot in the queue, a world removed from the silly little bitches surrounding her. I hung back from the doorway just enough, joining in a conversation with a couple of kids I knew from the training ground. The queue took a fucking age, but I couldn’t bring myself to walk away.

She’d walk past me without having a clue who I was. Maybe she’d even meet my eyes for a moment. I’d like that.

“Can I help you, Mr Redfern?” A smiley hostess grinned up at me. “The VIP area is upstairs.”

“I know where the VIP area is,” I said. “I’m fine here, thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

“Deadly.”

Gemma’s blonde friend was through the barrier first, grinning her head off as she stuck her head around the doorway. I took a breath. Any second now.

But Gemma didn’t come.

I watched in horror as Blondie dashed back to the queue, my stomach turning in knots as my dirty girl’s cheeks blushed pink.

Sneering bitches all around the place.

“This is Kings the club, love, Burger King is back up the street.”

“As if they were ever gonna let her in. Not in a million bloody years, chubby cow.”

“Look at the fat arse on it. Gross.”

My blood fucking boiled, shooting dagger eyes at the whole fucking lot of them as I barged on past. I grabbed the smiley hostess by the arm, heart pounding in my chest as I watched Gemma’s friend take off after her.

“Your bouncers just turned away a redhead and a blonde. I want them let in. VIP bar, complimentary champagne, pronto!”

She shot over like a bullet, and the bouncer glanced in my direction before opening the barrier. He dashed through the queue, heading off at speed down the street.

I stood around just long enough to make sure he’d caught up with her.

I only hoped the asshole was apologetic enough to get her to stay.

***

Gemma

“You can’t be serious,” I snapped. “I’m not going in there now.”

Chelsea practically fell to her knees. “Pleaaase! Gemma, please don’t do this to me!”

“You go,” I said. “Enjoy your complimentary champagne or whatever it is.”

“VIP pass and complimentary champagne.” The asshole bouncer reached for my arm, but I shook him off. “Like I said, miss, it was my mistake. We’re very sorry.”

“PLEEEASE!” Chelsea squealed. She was pitiful, truly pitiful. “Please don’t ruin this for me!”

Shit.

I stomped back towards the club, jabbing a finger in her direction as the bouncer trailed behind. “Never again. This is it, favour of the century. No matter what happens from now until the end of time, Chelsea Rawlings, you owe me.”

How fucking humiliating.

The shocked expressions of all those bitches who’d laughed at me made it slightly satisfying to waltz through the VIP entrance, but not nearly enough to justify the embarrassment.

A hostess woman waltzed us past the cash desk, without even a mention of payment. Good. I’d milk the complimentary champagne too, for their bloody cheek.

“I’ll take you up to the VIP area,” she smiled. She was so fucking smiley. Smiley and fake like the rest of this place.

She led us through the club, and it really was something. All mirrored glass and fancy lights. Shame about the plastic people inside it.

“Why are we in VIP?” Chelsea quizzed, eyes wide as a kid’s at Christmas.

“Your presence was requested.”

“By who?” I asked.

“One of our VIPs,” she smiled. “The Singers are in tonight.”

I grabbed Chelsea’s hand, genuinely chuffed for her, and her face was a picture.

“One of the Singers asked for
us
?!” she shrieked. “Which one?!”

She was in. Blatantly. Suddenly the night didn’t seem so bad. Maybe this really was Chelsea’s big shot.

“Was it Theo Fernando?” I had my fingers crossed for her. Toes, too.

The hostess shook her head. “Not, Theo, no. Jason Redfern.”

Oh the irony. Sacrificing a night with my Jason, so Chelsea could land hers.

Our guide opened the barrier to the VIP area, letting us through. It was considerably more packed than I’d anticipated, heaving with Z-listers, and footballers and hangers on. Smiley woman got us our champagne then left us to it.

“Oh my God!” Chelsea squealed. “Jason Redfern wants me!”

Her eyes darted around the crowd for a glimpse of him.

“What about Theo what’s-his-name? I thought it was true love?” I teased.

“Nah, Redfern’s better,” she grinned. “Much more A-list. I just didn’t think he was an option.”

“He’s not, presumably. He’s married to that Cherry Electric woman, you said?”

“Not an option for a relationship, no.” She swigged her champagne. “But a night would be enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“Are you for real?” She rolled her eyes. “Enough to make me a
name
.”

“You cannot actually be serious?”

“Have you any idea how much money there is in kiss and tell?” she groaned. “Picture this. Centre-spread:
Chelsea Rawlings spills all about her hot night with the England captain. April Redfern in hiding, devastated by betrayal
. And then there would be cute little me, dressed in a Singers scarf and stockings and looking fucking awesome. Just think how much
that’s
gonna do for my modelling career.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. “That’s your great career plan, is it? Fuck a footballer and sell him out for a kiss and tell story?”

She shrugged. “Only if he’s already married, I’d rather be a footballer’s wife than a kiss and tell girl.”

I sipped my champagne. “I’m bloody glad I’m not famous, not with people like you around. It must be a nightmare.”

“Stop being so bloody moral and help me find him, will you?”

My eyes scanned the booths. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Does he look like an ogre?”

“Fuck no. He’s fucking gorgeous.”

“That doesn’t really narrow it down.”

“Tall, dark... athletic...”

“…Twelve inch cock,” I giggled. “Probably one of my callers.”

She didn’t even pause. “He’s got tattoos on his chest, and shoulders. Top of his arm, too. Faces and stuff, like icons. Think his gran was Roman Catholic or some shit.”

“That’ll sure help me identify him, since everyone is fully clothed this evening.” A trio of blondes walked past in little more than belts with their pert little arse cheeks on show. “I take that back...”

She squealed in my ear, jumping up and down on the spot. “I see him!” she hissed. “Over by the DJ booth in the corner. He was looking right over here!” I tried to look but she yanked me by the elbow. “Jesus, don’t make it obvious.”

“What now, then?” I sighed. “Can we dance or something?”

“You think that will work?”

“No idea, I just want to dance,” I grinned. “Worst case scenario you’ll have to march on up to him, and say
Hey, I’m Chelsea. Fancy a fuck so I can sell your story to the papers?
How could he possibly refuse?”

“I
could
go up to him.”

“I was joking.”

“What if someone else pulls him in the meantime?”

I grabbed her arm, determined to get my groove on. “Then you’ll just have to take Fernando instead, won’t you?”

“Redfern’s got until midnight to make a move,” she said. “After that I’m just gonna jump on him...”

Poor guy wouldn’t know what hit him.

***

Jason

Theo’s birthday crowd was dripping with hangers on. They spilled onto the dance floor, giving more attention to who was watching them than they did to the music. Hair flicks and pouts, and exaggerated wiggles. Fake. All fake.

But not Gemma.

She found her groove without a care for the crowd around her, shaking her juicy arse without a damn for how cool she looked, or who was dancing next to her. A whirling, smiling tornado of red curls, vivacious and contagious. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

Her blonde friend was pretty but couldn’t dance for shit. She swayed like a mannequin, eyes scanning the crowd as she shifted from side to side. I’d avoid her eyes as they hunted adoration, but they seemed to follow me. Me and any other guy who was anyone, most likely.

I sank into the Singers’ crowd, keeping a hand in the conversation without losing sight of my dirty girl. Theo was already well gone, a drunken mess by midnight, slurring and chanting and grabbing any tits within arm’s reach. Lads will be lads, and I was too old for this shit. Too old for this place.

It didn’t take long before the usual drunken bullshit started up. Dare or forfeit. Forfeit invariably involves necking down some alcoholic monstrosity and dare invariably involves fucking about with women.

I made it pretty damn clear I wouldn’t be joining in.

Theo’s dare was a piece of piss. Snog some random at his table. The girl didn’t even pretend to object, slobbering his face off while he copped a good grope of her ass for the privilege. Riley’s dare gave him sixty seconds to get a girl to flash her tits for the boys. He managed it with twenty seconds left on the clock. Then came Powell’s dare. Powell’s good for anything, crazy bastard.

Theo surveyed the crowd, scoping out a challenge. My stomach hit on the floor when he pointed it out.

“There,” he laughed. “Chubby red strutting her stuff on the dance floor. Fuck her in the toilets and bring us her knickers.”

Powell grinned his head off. “Not into fat girls, mate. Pick again.”

The table stamped their feet.
Forfeit, forfeit, forfeit,
but Powell put his hands up.

“Alright, alright. Chubby it is.” He skulked away, heading for an oblivious Gemma while my fists twitched at my sides.

“Show’s over,” I said. “Training on Monday, you’ve all had enough.”

“Only just getting started,” Theo laughed.

“Show’s fucking over, Fernandez,” I snapped. “I fucking mean it. This shit’s going too far.”

I made my way towards the dance floor, but Winstanley blocked my way, necking champagne from the bottle. The drunk prick was stumbling about the place; obscuring my view of the dancefloor and spouting barely-audible drivel. I struggled to get away, palming him off onto Danny Fieldman on his way back from the toilets.

I made an escape to the shadows at the side of the DJ booth for a better vantage point, scanning the dance floor for my dirty girl and that stupid asshole Powell. If he touched her, I’d rip his fucking spleen out. And yet I was fucking hard. Hard at the thought of him pounding her soft, wet pussy in the club toilets.

Shit.

My eyes followed Powell, tracking him across the room. He was dancing with a leggy brunette, mission potentially aborted. I’d only just caught sight of Gemma when a hand grabbed at my arm.

“Looking for me?” The voice was giggly and drunk, cutting above the thud of the bass like chalk on metal.

I stared in horror as Gemma’s blonde friend grinned up at me.

“Outside earlier? You asked for me.”

“You seemed to be having some problems,” I grunted.

She twirled a wisp of hair around her finger. “My friend had the problems.” She gestured in Gemma’s direction. “They wouldn’t let her in. She’s not really cut out for this kind of place, you know?”

That strange irritation again, right in the pit of my stomach.

She pouted a stupid duck face. “We could go somewhere, if you like, and I could, um, show you how thankful I am.”

“No thanks necessary.” I turned away enough to give a hint, but she followed, angling herself between me and the dance floor.

“I can be discreet... we could get a hotel... go to mine...”

“Thanks but no thanks,” I said, politely. “I’m heading home soon.”

She looked like I’d slapped her, a slack expression of wide-eyed disbelief. “I’ll really make it worth your while, Jason. I promise.” She leaned in to run a hand up my arm.

Jesus.
My eyes flitted to Gemma. Still a mass of bodies between her and Powell.

I took Blondie’s knuckles and gave them a squeeze. “You have a nice evening, sweetheart.”

I stepped away, but she wouldn’t let up. “Wait, I mean, um, you asked for me... I thought...”

“I’m sorry you thought,” I said. “I was just trying to help.”

“But I’ve seen you looking... I know when a man wants me...”

People were staring, I could feel them.
Redfern’s pulled, get in, mate. Look at the tits on that one.