Ethans Fal (6 page)

“Yeah, I know.” My voice sounds small. I am so embarrassed. The way I looked at him, the way my body reacted all hard and pointy. Christ, I might as well have shoved my tits in his face, I was obviously so …obvious.

“Problem?” He steps closer and I shiver at his nearness. I try to step away, but he just moves with me.

“No, no, of course not.” I swallow the dry lump. “It’s just, I have to be at work and I don’t have time to do everything–” He interrupts but with a whisper, and he leans in closer to my neck. What the fuck is he playing at?

“Tomorrow then. Do what you can today and come back tomorrow to finish. I want it all spotless. I will be entertaining in the evening.” He is standing so close, I can feel his heat–or is that me?
It’s me, idiot.
He has already put me straight on that. I do not need telling twice. “Ah, sweetheart, you look disappointed.” He tips my chin up with his finger and I can feel his warm breath intoxicate me, even as I flush with shame. Am I disappointed? I think I am. It’s been so long since I felt remotely sexual, and with no effort or inclination this guy just has my body all alert and sentient. I hold his silent gaze for long moments before he speaks. His eyes are dark pools. “Sorry, but you’re not my type.” His lips cover mine.
Holy fuck!
His hand slips from my chin to my neck, his fingers gripping up into my hair. I gasp and he dips his tongue into my mouth with precision. I freeze, acutely aware of how naked I am. My hands grip my breasts and I squeeze my legs together. Not just attempting to stop my shorts from falling, but trying desperately to quell the ache. Oh, God, that feels amazing.
Is that noise coming from me?
Tiny frustrated whimpers, groans of desperation escape the back of my throat. I feel starved; I am starved. I don’t remember the last time I felt this need for another body. I do remember, but I choose to forget. Jesus, I want to touch him. I can’t stop myself, he feels so good. But then, everything stops and he slaps me hard across the face.

He doesn’t use his hand. He just pulls back–as cool as I’m hot–he pulls away. Unaffected and casual, he wipes his soft firm lips with the back of his hand, drawing my taste from his mouth. “Not my type at all…Spotless, okay?” He mutters and circles his finger, indicating the whole apartment. He grabs a towel, slings it over his shoulder, and swaggers to the front door. “What’s your name?”

I can feel my anger surpassing my embarrassment. My ‘be nice’ mantra disintegrating by the second. “Artemis.” I try not to spit the name. I haven’t said my birth name in three years, but it feels right now. After all, I’m only Artemis to the people I hate.

“Goddess of the Hunt?” He pauses by the door.

“Amongst other things.” I try to keep my tone neutral.

“The stitching on your bag said Ada. If you are a liar and a thief I think–” I snap my interruption.

“I’m not a fucking thief! I borrowed your fucking clothes, I will clean your fucking flat, and my name is fucking Artemis.” My whole body is now shaking with pent up anger.

“Hmmm fucking Artemis…I like the sound of that. Maybe you
are
my type.” He steps through the door. Open mouthed and incredulous, I watch it drift shut.

“Un-fucking-believable!” I scream out, once the door is firmly shut. Ooo, that felt better. There is a lot to say about first impressions and judging books by their covers. I resolutely stand by my first impression of Ethan Cates, because as gorgeous as his cover is, he is a massive prick. I storm off to a small room along the hall, next to Ethan’s bedroom. I roughly pull his loose shorts down my legs and screw them into the tightest ball, throwing them on the floor. I proceed to very childishly stomp them into the ground with violent, angry feet. Stupid, because I will be the one picking them up and washing them later, but not today. I start to pull my things from the washing machine. They are never going to dry in the thirty minutes I have before I need to leave for work. I separate the essentials I need to dress and escape. The damp clothes cling to my body and chill my skin, but they will soon dry from my body heat. I will have to put the rest in the work dryer and risk Buddy’s wrath. I thought I had all night and after three nights of sleeping on the beach, I was looking forward to a comfy night in a real bed. I was looking forward to a long soak in the bath, once Sky’s “friends” had left, that is. And now I don’t even have time for a shower.

Fuck! It’s the only thing I hate about the summer. I lose my free accommodation to holiday rentals. Last year, I bounced from sofa to sofa when friends offered and had the room. Everyone tends to have family or friends visit during the summer months. Inevitable when you live in such a beautiful location. I am mindful not to outstay my welcome, and never stay more than two nights in a row. This year is panning out to be the same: crashing where I can and stealing infrequent showers at the public swimming pool, when I have to sleep on the beach. I take any opportunity to use the washing facilities where ever I can. An invite to a party–I bring my laundry. Baby sitting or joining a friend to break into their ex’s apartment for an impromptu gang bang–I bring my laundry.

I sigh as I stuff the remaining damp clothes into a bin liner. Never mind, only eight more weeks of high season and I can go back to squatting at Joan’s cottage. I take a moment to thank all and everything holy for my Guardian Angel Joan, and her holiday cottage. One day I will write and thank her. One day, when she wouldn’t be professionally obligated to turn me in. Something I know she couldn’t do, but I respect her enough not to put her in that situation. She probably has an idea that I secretly live in her holiday home during the quiet months. She’s a very bright doctor, but I also don’t think she would have talked about it with such detail, if she didn’t want me to know about it and exactly where it was in the country. She promised she would help and I know she never got the chance the way she had hoped, but in the end this
is
her chance to help. She gave me somewhere safe, a home, even if it is only part-time. I grab the heavy sack, slip my carpet bag over my shoulder, and walk into Ethan’s bedroom.

“Ah Shit!” I exhale. He wasn’t even home an hour and it looks like a bomb site. Typical spoilt rich kid, always expecting someone else to pick up after them. Was I really any different? Maybe not, but I am now. I wouldn’t recognise that silly, foolish, trusting girl from back then if I saw her standing right in front of me. Curiosity makes me step in front of the freestanding mirror in the beautiful driftwood frame at the end of Ethan’s bed. My lips curl with recognition at my image; twenty one years old but born just four years ago. Artemis d’Aubeney died the day they took my baby. Ada, my initials are all that remains of my old life; that and the ink I’d carved into my wrist with Pip’s date of birth. My hair is much longer and in desperate need of a trim, I never have the funds for. The split ends inevitable with my time in the sun and sea, despite my permanent floppy hat in the summer. I usually keep it in a braid of some sort, but it has started to separate into thick matted sections and I may well be heading for dreadlocks, unless I get it cut soon.

I have lost a little weight and it shows around my collar bone. I have a light tan and now that I am dressed in my jean shorts and vest, you can’t see any of the tan lines I know are there. I have five black leather laces tied around my wrist. I add one each year on Pip’s birthday and they cover my homemade tattoo. I grip the bands and try to remember. My head sinks low and I squeeze my eyes shut tight. My fingertips twitch with residual memory, touching Pip’s super soft skin, her pudgy cheeks, her tousled blonde locks despite both her parents having dark coloured hair. I wonder if she’s still blonde. I can see her eyes, wide and smiling. I open mine and can see her looking back at me with eyes, which are glassy and wet. The tears fall unchecked down my cheeks, and her image fades back to my reflection. A brief, lucid, and excruciating memory.

The image blurs as I blink to clear my eyes. I may physically still resemble the girl I was. The d’Aubeney gene pool is strong. I think if my father or mother passed me in the street, they might take a double look. But one look into my eyes would confirm I am not their daughter. My eyes barely have enough life to keep me going each day, and they hold no shine, no fire, no passion. I breathe each day, but I don’t ever feel alive. I actually lean closer to the mirror to check that the feeling I had earlier when Ethan kissed me, hadn’t changed me physically. It sure as shit felt real…intense. I pull my lower eye lid away from my eye and focus hard on the striated blue lines, checking again for any sign of change. A tiny spark maybe, a glow, however brief would be a welcome respite to my constant numbness but no…nothing. That makes more sense. I am not his type and attraction is one thing, but love and passion strong enough to reignite some life into my empty soul…that isn’t going to be a one sided affair. I shake my head at my own cruel musing. To reignite something, you have to have at least the
will
to love again, and I am just not
that
stupid. My fire is long dead…nothing is bringing that back to life.

Except maybe that God awful stench. Ethan has tipped the contents of his rucksack on to the bed, but not left it in a neat mountain of clothes that I could smell from the doorway. He has scattered the garments far and wide across the room. They look like they are trying to escape and judging by the pungent smell, they need to head straight for the bin not waste the journey to the washing machine. God, men are disgusting. I kick his stinky clothes back into a pile and hold a deep breath, I grab an armful and dash to the washing machine. I have over-loaded the drum and haven’t bothered to separate the colours. I spin the dial to boil wash. Let’s hope he doesn’t have anything delicate.
You know what? Fuck him, let’s hope he does. Let’s hope his entire wash comes out dyed pink and shrunk small enough to fit Barbie’s Ken.

His bedroom looks a little better now that the clothes are off the floor. I pull his bed covers flat, puff his pillows but that’s about it. The kitchen is a different story though. Sky really went all out with the oil. Every surface has a slick glossy sheen, and those that don’t are covered in a considerable layer of dust. This place must have been empty for a while. Sky had mentioned that Ethan lives in London, or maybe it was Kent, somewhere up country. He visits but never stays long. Looking round at the expensive fittings and unique original art work on the walls, it is pretty clear Ethan doesn’t rent this place out. No second home owner decorates to this standard. It’s normally Ikea or worse, functional but replaceable and inexpensive, because tourists aren’t so careful with the family china.

Sky said he hasn’t been back for over a year, part of the reason she felt so comfortable bringing the guys back for some fun. I start to run the hot water into the bowl but after a good five minutes, it’s still icy cold. Great, with no hot water to cut through the grease this is going to take ages and a heap of boiling kettles and hard scrubbing. I decide to text Buddy to let him know I am running late, but I can’t find my phone in my bag. I’m just having the best day. It’s only a crappy, pay-as-you-go, but even as a semi hobo I need it for emergencies. I have about five numbers stored on it that I can, if pushed, remember, but still it’s irritating that I can’t find the damn thing. I spend the next twenty minutes doing as much as I can to clean the mess. Scooping handfuls of excess yellow oil directly into the bin and soaking up the rest with kitchen towels.

It’s not great but it, at least, looks better than it did, and Ethan doesn’t strike me as the type to run his fingers along the shelves. From the state of his travel bag, hygiene doesn’t seem a priority at all. Swinging my own bag on my shoulder, I take a last cursory look around. It is a stunning apartment. The view as the sun dips low and catches the gentle waves…a million fiery sparkles dance on the horizon…just wow! Shame the owner is such a tool. I snicker and pull the door close until it clicks locked.
Yeah, I could pick that lock,
I think to myself, and my grin spreads a little wider. I think I have just found some alternate high season accommodation.

Panting I dash straight behind the counter to grab the nearest bar apron, and start wrapping it round my waist. I kick my bag under the counter and look sheepishly at Buddy. He has just finished serving a patron, and he wipes his hands on the trademark towel he tucks in the front of is cargo shorts. He is a good looking guy, in his early forties, about five foot ten and toned with a colourful display of ink across his upper body. He has chocolate brown eyes, a dark and permanent tan, and his ink black hair is now peppered with white, which just adds to his overall worldliness and charm. He has worked bars all over Europe since he was old enough to travel, and last year he broke every girl’s heart in the West Country when he fell for and married Honey, the sweetest girl from New Zealand. “Soooo sorry I’m late…long story that I will happily share when we close.” I flash him my best apologetic smile, but he just looks down and I can see him draw in a deep breath. I’m not
that
late. I decide to just get busy, but Buddy’s large hand rests on mine stopping me when I try to start slicing the lemons on the back bar.

“Ada,” he hesitates, and I can see in his eyes he is hating every second of this contact. He is always so affable, affectionate. It is where I go when I need my cuddle fix, because he has no agenda when he freely dishes out the love. “We need to talk.” His eyes look so sad, I find myself taking his hand and squeezing it for some comfort. He calls for Sky to hold the fort, and her bright blonde curls peek up from the magazine she was reading. Her smiling, green eyes crinkle, but their brightness instantly dissolves when she catches my eye. Ok, now this can’t be good.

Buddy closes the door of his office and I instantly sink into the well-worn sofa. “You’re not sick are you? Only you look like you’re about to tell me you’re dying.” My attempt at humour falls flat when he pinches his lips tight. “Buddy?” My voice catches, my stomach tightens and I feel a wash with anxiety.