On the Bare (10 page)

Even as she entertained the petulant thought she knew she was only reinforcing his position. Online she would have called him a brute and a bully, cursed him for the degradation he’d inflicted on her. Except she couldn’t hide
behind
her computer here. And he
hadn’t
forced her; she’d come here on her own and asked for his help. She’d agreed to this. She had no one to blame but herself.

She did need help. She did need someone to address her wrongs. She did need consequences for her actions. It was a hard, cold truth to face, but as her resentful stubbornness crumbled, so did her composure. Her eyes burned and soon her face was streaming with cathartic tears.

Mr Haversham ignored her strangled sobs, delivering several more hard slaps to her burning cheeks before finally stopping. She lay crying over his lap for a long time, too ashamed to get up, not wanting to meet his eyes.

‘There, there,’ said Mr Haversham. ‘It’s all over now.’

He stroked her back as she wept and when her tears at last subsided, he helped her to her feet. She stumbled unsteadily, as though drunk.

He pressed a tissue into her hands. ‘Brave girl,’ he said with something like affection.

Without thinking, she mumbled ‘Thank you, sir’ as she mopped the tears from her face and blew her nose. When she had calmed herself she reached down to touch the flaming skin of her bottom, wincing at the pain.

She twisted round to look. Her cheeks were bright red and speckled with tiny purple bruises. She wondered if the maid had similar bruises. The silk knickers were cool against her warm flesh and she smoothed her skirt down over her throbbing bottom.

‘Well, Miss Turner,’ said Mr Haversham, resuming his businesslike demeanour. ‘I think that was most effective.’

Erica blushed and nodded her head. ‘Yes, sir. I’ve learned my lesson.’

‘You realise that a second visit will be more severe. Next time it will be a birching.’

She felt the soft warm flash between her legs again. She plucked the business card off the desk, tucking it into her bag. She felt weightless. As though her feet didn’t quite reach the floor. ‘Can I ask you a question, sir?’

‘Certainly.’

‘The maid. Is she a client too?’

The corners of his eyes crinkled, hinting at a smile, as he opened the door for her. ‘Good day, Miss Turner. I hope I won’t be seeing you again for a while.’

CONGRATULATIONS! The item is yours!

Erica beamed with delight, then followed the link to PayPal. She hesitated only momentarily before clicking the button that would remove £357.82 from her account, putting her considerably in the red. But she couldn’t live without the three-tail Lochgelly tawse. It was a bargain too. The three-tailed ones were rare, and often sold for much more than that.

As Erica printed out the receipt, her eyes flicked to the business card propped against her computer.

Modern problems, old-fashioned solutions

She wondered if the utility of her latest extravagance would placate Mr Haversham. Perhaps this time he wouldn’t birch her after all.

The Decoy

I HAVE THE
coolest job in the world. It consists solely of getting chased by paparazzi and deranged fans. I get to ride in limos and blow kisses from the balconies of fancy hotels. Queen for a day. And all because I look like … well, I can’t really tell you. But you know her. You’ve heard her songs, seen her music videos. She’s a megastar. And – lucky me – I could be her twin.

Her handlers spotted me at a club one night (mistook me for her, as a matter of fact) and offered me the job on the spot. All I had to do was pretend to be her, to lure the press and public away while she made her escape. Me – in oversized sunglasses, hurrying past with a tiny wave at the adoring masses. It’s the easiest money I’ve ever made. And that includes the fiver my cousin Dave gave me when I was ten to watch me pee.

You know those ‘What were they thinking?’ pics you see in the gossip rags? The ones of celebrities in bulky tracksuits and mismatched socks, with snide captions like ‘Laundry Day’? The fashion Nazis take everything so seriously. Well, it’s not just a disguise; it’s a piss-take. Some stars enjoy the charade. They’re like urban guerrillas, camouflaged in drab discount clothes no one would ever expect them to wear. That way they can move undetected amongst the masses.

Except some people are too blinded by their own brilliance to laugh at themselves. You see, I get to wear the fancy stuff while Boss Lady wears the crocheted jumpers and clumpy boots. And oh, does she hate it!

I’ll be honest: she’s not exactly Little Miss Sunshine. I don’t hang out with her or anything. I’m not even part of her entourage; I’m just an employee. And our encounters tend to be, shall we say, a bit frosty. She resents me in a big way.

But hey, I’m not complaining. It’s money for nothing. Though I swear if I have to endure another one of Miss Snot’s sulks because some fashionista hinted at an eating disorder …

I’m not on call 24/7 and she does get snapped plenty herself. You’ve seen the screaming headlines about how she was a size 8 last week and suddenly now she’s a size 10? That’s because the paparazzi can’t tell us apart. I’m sure as hell not eating leaves and berries just to make
her
look good; I like my curves.

I was listening at the door one night as she harangued Alex – that’s her manager – about why I seemed intent on humiliating her. When they photograph
me
, they accuse
her
of putting on weight. When they shoot
her
, she’s anorexic. It’s actually pretty funny.

I was just stifling a laugh when I caught the phrase ‘her fat arse’ and nearly broke down the door.

Then I got hold of myself. No, Kelly, be nice to the poor little prima donna. You have no idea how hard it is to be her. The pressure of being admired and desired all the time, the pressure to be perfect. Everything open to exposure and ridicule. If every one of her personal demons manifested itself, you could populate a small country.

I’m a year younger (and I have better hair), but I’m more grown up than she is. I guess the fame and glory insulates you from reality, makes you forget what it’s like to be human. Hell, having seen what the tabloids do to her love life, I wouldn’t want to be in her overpriced shoes. Well, except when it’s to make those glamorous little scampers between hotels and limos.

Things, however, were about to change. Big time. It may have been her money that paid my salary and kept me well fed and clothed, but I didn’t sign on for her abuse. Without me running interference for her, she’d have had to face the
explosions
of flash cameras every single time she set foot outside. Even when she didn’t feel like it. Let’s face it – she’s just another overrated performer with a smidgen of talent and an ego the size of space. (And about as much between the ears.) I was sick of feeling unappreciated.

So I stole her boyfriend.

You know him too. He’s the not-quite-cutest one in an equally famous boy band whose songs are like bubblegum on steroids. He’s also the only one in the band with any brains. He and Miss Shit-Don’t-Stink had just had a massive row because she’d actually suggested hiring his band as a support act for her. I know – can you believe the cheek of the girl?

He stormed into the hotel bar and sat fuming in a corner, drinking pint after pint to anaesthetise his bruised ego. I watched until he had cooled off a bit before going over to say hi.

‘Hey, Will.’

‘Kelly,’ he drawled, waving at the nearest chair. ‘Sit down. I’ll buy you a drink.’

I ordered a Kir Royal. No use skimping when a pop star’s paying.

Boy-toy stared glumly at the tabletop, then examined his fingernails for several minutes while I waited for him to say something.

‘Bitch,’ he muttered at last.

I hid my catty grin behind my glass.

‘I guess you know about the fight,’ he said, turning his earnest puppy-dog eyes to me. ‘The support act thing?’

‘Yeah. I know. She’s not exactly renowned for her humble spirit.’

He snorted in agreement and drained the rest of his pint before signalling to the bartender. He stirred his finger in the air over our empty glasses and gave me an unsubtle appraising glance.

I affected a feline stretch and shifted my chair a little closer to his. Boys are so easy.

By the time we’d finished another two rounds, my feet were in his lap and he was giving me dirt a reporter would
have
sold his soul for. Her collagen injections. Her rehab last year. (Even I hadn’t known about that!) The tantrum she’d thrown at the studio during her
Cosmo
cover shoot because she didn’t like what the make-up artist had done with her hair.

‘The photographer actually called her a spoilt brat,’ Will laughed, relishing the memory, ‘and said if she was his daughter he’d put her over his knee and warm her overpaid little bottom.’

I wept with laughter at the image of the little diva, her legs kicking madly as the photographer’s hand came down again and again on her scrawny little arse.

Will was stroking my insteps with casual affection, his long guitar-player nails strumming the straps of my sandals in time to the Bowie song playing in the bar. A wistful expression crossed his face and I waited for the I-coulda-been-a-serious-musician speech. Instead, he unlaced my sandals and caressed my bare feet, his insinuating fingers making me gasp with pleasure. I writhed under his touch, feeling the unmistakable hardness of his own arousal beneath my thighs.

He looked at me with an expression of frank longing, his shaggy black hair falling over one eye. A little pulse of heat flared between my legs and I closed my eyes to encourage him. His hands crept up the length of my calf, hesitating at the hem of my tight denim skirt. I bit my lip as he worked his hand up under the skirt, along my inner thigh and, finally, to the hot moist place at the top.

His knuckles slid over the gusset of my knickers and I gave a little cry of surprise. Encouraged, his skilled hand cupped my sex, exerting gentle pressure in just the right place.
Too
gentle. With real hunger I thrust myself against his hand, grinding my crotch into the stimulation.

His left hand made its way up under my T-shirt and pushed my flimsy bra up and out of the way. He tweaked my nipples roughly, making me whimper with both pain and pleasure. I spread my legs as wide as I could on his lap, darting one quick glance at our surroundings. We were alone.

I bit my lip as his fingers slipped inside my knickers, finding their way to the slippery crease and stroking my clit with agonising precision. All the while he continued to play with my nipples, squeezing, stroking, pinching. I clutched the seat of my chair, arching my body up to meet his touch. It had been months; it didn’t take long.

Electric spasms flashed through my nerves as I writhed shamelessly against him, throwing my head back with a silent scream as the climax overtook me.

I lay sprawled, panting like a well-used whore, my body vibrating and hungry for more.

You have to give those stealth photographers credit; Will and I never saw or heard a thing. But there we were on the front page the next morning. Two pop celebrities overcome with lust in a hotel bar.

The diva went postal, knocking over a wire rack of newspapers at a street kiosk and injuring a little girl who was waiting for an autograph. More headlines.

‘That’s not me!’ she’d screamed on seeing the photos of Will and her hated decoy. The paparazzi gleefully snapped away at what they’d describe as a full-on psychotic fugue the next day. Spectacular.

I roll my eyes at the sound of breaking glass, the familiar whine of her drama-queen voice as she plays the martyr. Alex trying to calm her down. Will banished from her life. Come on, it’s not like she’s never cheated on
him
before.

I can’t help but laugh. Always practical, Alex tries to convince her that a break-up would be very bad for publicity right now, given her front page freak-out and the injured fan. Even the payoff to the girl’s parents couldn’t remove the stain. She’s the talk of the town – in the worst possible way. Alex tells her it’s time to be a big girl and repair the damage. He reminds her about the photo spread she and Will are scheduled to do for
Rolling Stone
in two weeks, publicity for the film they’re shooting at Christmas.

‘I don’t care!’ the diva wails. ‘I never want to see him again!’

There’s a weighty pause before Alex says, ‘Then let Kelly play the girlfriend in public until you get over it.’

I nearly choke. I can just imagine the icy glare she must be giving him as she seethes at this suggestion. And I can hear her thoughts as though she’s speaking them aloud. If she appears in public with Will she’ll never be able to pretend to be the starry-eyed lover. Yet how can she possibly let
me
be photographed on his arm? Which one of us does she hate more?

Another bout of sobbing, but nothing else coherent. I go back to my room. Will is still in bed, lolling in the sweaty tangle of sheets. We’ve been learning a lot about each other since our indiscretion in the bar. He’s a far more adventurous lover than anyone would guess from the cheesy music his band puts out. And who’d ever have guessed he was into such kinky stuff?

An hour later Alex phones, interrupting us. While I try to focus on what he’s saying, Will teases my legs apart with a riding crop. I arch my back with a little gasp as he taps my clit with the leather tip.

The news is like early Christmas. The prima donna is going to a glamorous Swiss retreat for two weeks. To ‘recuperate’. While she’s away, Will and I have to repair her image.

‘Repair her image,’ I repeat for Will, covering the mouthpiece to hide my laughter. He grins.

To Alex I say, ‘Of course we will.’

This is my chance –
our
chance – to pay her back good and proper. And I can tell from the way Will thumbs my clit like the safety of a gun that he’s thinking the exact same thing.

In public we’re the beautiful couple, oversexed and unable to keep our hands off each other. The press eat it up, shooting us with merry abandon everywhere we go and framing us with gleeful headlines.
NYMPHOMANIAC
! they cry, ever eager to rip the diva to shreds.