Authors: Hera Leick
The Mad British
by
Hera Leick
The Mad British
Copyright © 2015 by Hera Leick
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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Published: Hera Leick 2015
Editor: Sam Carter
Cover Design and Photography: Far Escape Designs
Hera Leick is a British author and writes in British English. They like to stick ‘u’ in things. They’re
mad
like that.
To the dream killers of our world,
thank you for the mad victory.
“
Ever since I fell in love with him, I dream him. Then I paint my dream
.
”
– Hera Leick
Hatter
I ram my hand between the closing lift doors. It’s another flawless, picture-perfect girl in Wonderland Hotel.
Her blue dress fits like a glove, showing off a tight body, hugging each and every curve. I’ll label this one Lady in Blue. Do they manufacture them in a warehouse in China and ship them over, or something?
When I finally look at her face, I’m taken aback. Her almond-shaped eyes are almost black, a blinding contrast against her creamy skin. Okay, she’s the most stunning girl I’ve seen so far; I’ll give her that. But I’ll bet behind that flawless bone structure, and those flawless plump lips is a personality of a brick wall.
She’s not moving, staring at me with parted lips. “You coming in or did you just want to see how strong I am?”
“I. . . sorry. . . ”
When she rushes into the lift she trips over her heel and her purse drops. She pulls her long hair to the side. It’s a very white blonde that reaches all the way to the root and hangs loose in waves. Looking at her hair, at the ends, I notice something I rarely see on a girl in the circles I walk in.
Interesting. . .
Her back facing me, she bends down and picks up whatever junk chick’s like to carry. That’s when I notice something else that’s interesting. A small blue splodge on the back of her neck.
It’s dried paint.
Not so flawless, Lady in Blue.
I straighten up, suddenly at attention.
I check her out. “They say the top floor has the most stunning view of London, but they’re wrong. Nothing can beat the fantastic view I’m getting in here.” In about three seconds, I’ll know if I’ve hit another brick wall.
She shoots back up. “Wow, you’re not even trying to be subtle about being a pervert.”
My hunch was right.
She presses the button for level one and gives me a look.
“I’m a man, love. Not a pervert.”
She leans against the back of the lift, shutting her eyes when the doors finally close. I watch her from the corner of my eye and catch her stealing a glance. No surprise there.
“Isn’t this the part we get to know one another?”
“Isn’t this the part I knee you in the balls?”
“I’d prefer—”
“Look, can we ride in silence, please? I’m really not in the mood.”
“I’m not sure. A woman’s never been silent when I’ve ridden her.”
She pretends to clean something off her heel. "Seriously? Why do British men think that being crude is going to make a woman swoon? Because I can tell you, the only thing swooning right now is the contents of my stomach." She goes back to watching the numbers descend on the panel.
"I didn’t think that, love. But I do think if I show you the Blue Peter badge I got as a kid for best picture—will.”
A hint of a smile tugs at her pretty lips and I think about what they’ll feel like wrapped round my—
A loud screech pierces the air and we cover our ears. I stumble when the lift jerks suddenly and stops. I hold my balance, but the feisty blonde isn’t so lucky, crashing into me. I catch her. "Now who’s the pervert?"
The lights flicker on and off above us, and she shoves me away. “Get off of me.”
“I’d love to get off with you.”
"Will you stop? What the bloody hell is going on?" She bangs a fist on the doors. “Hello?”
"Tell me if I’m wrong here, but I think the lift stopped working." She gives me a look. I shrug and bring out my mobile.
"Just great. . . a cocky yuppie.” She bangs on the door again. “Help us!”
"You're making me blush, love."
"Of all the people to be stuck in a lift with. . . a gigantic toff." She points to my mobile. "How is playing Candy Crush going to get us out of this mess?"
"No reception. And who pissed you off? Let me guess: You got stood up on Valentine’s."
"I’m still on a date and don't call me love." She fishes out her mobile only to realise I was right about the lack of reception. Her jaw ticks, knowing I’m loving being right. She steps over to the wall panel and starts pressing random buttons.
"Tell me your name and maybe I’ll stop, love."
She bangs on the door again. "We're in here, help us! Or help me from this—"
“Gigantic toff. Yeah, yeah, we’ve established that already.”
I sit down on the floor and stretch out my legs. "Calm down, love, I'm sure they'll fix it soon."
It’s silent for a while.
"Adelaide."
"What about it?"
"It’s my name," she says slowly, like she’s talking to a child.
She has a strong English accent so I ask, “Australian parent?”
She shakes her head. “Mum’s from Finland and my dad’s English.” So her blonde hair is natural.
"Right. . . ” I start to grin. “Is that where your parents consummated you?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I pause, enjoying the view I’m getting by being so low to the floor. “James," I offer. “James—”
“Bond?”
I tilt my head back and laugh. “I’m much more handsome than any Bond, don’t you think?”
Her dark eyes lower briefly, sweeping over my large form. She’s admiring me for all I’m worth and who can blame her?
I take in her spectacular toned legs from my low vantage point. "Do you mind?" She tries to pull her dress down lower only to have to inch it up even higher.
"Not at all. Pull it down—or up—as much as you like. It won’t offend me, love."
"The only reason I told you my name was so you would stop calling me that." She sits down on the floor, probably to stop me from looking up her dress.
"Yeah, but I'm much more partial to love," I tell her. "Tell me more about this date. I’d love to know why you’re alone with me in this lift, not that I'm complaining."
"I'm not the only one alone if you hadn't noticed. What happened to
your
date?" she asks. "Wait, it’s my turn to guess. Your charming personality sent her running for the hills."
"Wrong. I ended our date just before I got stuck in here with you."
"Don’t believe you. Probably the other way around."
"Believe it." I loosen my collar. "She was wearing more makeup than a clown. I had to end it before dessert in case she started juggling."
She looks at me like I’ve just killed her pet dog. "For goodness sakes. . . What’s with men not letting us have dessert tonight?"
"I didn't want to crush her hopes. I mean, once you give a chick dessert, there’s no going back.” I chuckle and a shadow crosses her face. "Don’t all girls love
getting
dessert from a man?" If looks could kill, I’d be six-feet-under now. “Your turn.”
"I can't believe I'm even entertaining this conversation," she moans. "If it will shut you up, William, that's my date, had to take a business call when our dessert came out. . . I. . . He said it was important. . . I’m meeting him downstairs in a bit, at that casino fundraiser the hotel is hosting for Valentine’s Day. . . It’s fine. . .” She mumbles something and starts fishing around in her bag, pulling out two white napkins. She unwraps one.
"He leaves you in the middle of your date, on Valentine’s Day, and you didn’t knee him in the bollocks?”
"You don’t know anything about it," she says and wraps her mouth over the brownie in her hand, moaning loudly as she savours every bite. I watch her devour the dessert, her eyes closing as her tongue darts out of her mouth to lick the crumbs off her lips. I want to bite into her brownie, and not the one in her hand.
When my top brain finally beats out on my lower brain, I notice her looking at me strangely. "Are you okay?"
"Fine." I clear my throat. "I've just never seen someone eat that quickly."
"I can’t help it given how yummy it tastes." She lets out another moan of pleasure. "I have his dessert if you want that?" She holds it out to me. I shake my head. "Good. That just means more for me."
She unwraps the second napkin and begins biting into it, starting the process all over again. I close my eyes, my fist clenching against the urge to share her brownie with her.
"Love, don't you think you've had enough?"
"No. . . I tend to eat when I'm not feeling too good."
"Yeah, that isn't half obvious." I open my eyes again. Finishing her dessert, she starts to lick her fingers slowly, one by one. It’s almost as if she’s doing it on purpose. I pull my legs to my chest, suddenly feeling restless.
"So Wayne—”
“You
know
his name is William.” She gives me a sidelong glance.
“—Is he gay?" I continue. "It's obvious you're a tetchy little thing, but you don't scrub up too badly." My eyes roam over her body.
"Keep looking at me like that. . . I’m still not going to swoon.” I notice she doesn’t exactly look me in the eyes when she says that. “And I scrub up pretty damn good, actually. I'm still struggling to believe you dumped your date and not the other way around. God knows I want to run away."
"You're avoiding the question, Adelaide."
“And you like asking a lot of questions.”
"Look, we're not going anywhere so let it all out. It’s good to share your problems with a stranger, right?"
“What problems?”
“Come on, it’s obvious. He leaves you smack in the middle of your date and you let him off? He’s clearly a tosser who doesn’t have a bloody clue on how to please a woman. You’ll probably get more excitement out of a spider crawling into your knickers than him touching you.”
"Nice. Real nice.” She tips her head back and sighs. “It just happens to be the first date I’ve had since. . . " She trails off. "Why am I telling you any of this? It’s none of your business—"
"Yeah, he's shagging other girls. Eating his cake and having your brownie too. Ditch the tosser."
"You really are charming. I think—no wait—could it be? Am I starting to swoon?" She smirks to herself.
I’ve never met a chick that gives as good as I do.
It’s bloody hot.
I pull out a hip flask from my suit jacket pocket, taking a swig before I offer it to her. She doesn’t take it. "Worried you won’t be able to keep your hands off me after those endorphins from your chocolate binge?"
"You wish. Even if I was considering going there, which I'm not, I’m on a date."
"Ah, yes, the date that's currently on the phone with his booty-call. You should check the toilets, if you catch my drift."
"Okay, here's a tip if you're trying to sleep with someone: You might want to be less of a prick." She stands up and bangs on the door again. "Hello!"
"Look, I'm not saying this to be a prick. I'm trying to help. It's obvious you're good for this Wayne guy." I get to my feet, standing behind her. “We all make mistakes.” She bangs on the door again, shouting for help. “My turn to guess. . . You went out with the girls, went to a club, had a little too much to drink and met this guy. Right?” Her body stiffens, and her hand, poised over the door for another bang, pauses. I’ve hit the nail right on the head.
“Classic case of beer goggles—or wine. And it’s a few days before I-can’t-be-alone-on-Valentine’s-Day, and now you’re regretting your decision to come to this lame-arse date because you realised at dinner what a complete and utter tosser he is.”
She whirls round, opens her mouth to retaliate, but I don’t give her the chance. “And Tosser picks up on your lack of interest so he called a booty-call, just in case the night doesn’t end his way.” I’m on a roll so I don’t stop. “But he doesn’t want to give up on you just yet on account that you’re the hottest girl he’s ever had a chance with and I don’t bloody blame him, love.”
Long, uncomfortable silence fills our confined space. I lean against the opposite corner of the lift, giving her some room, and take another sip from my flask. Sighing a moment later she joins me, her arm wrapped round her middle.
"So. . . ” she begins. “What’s your name?" She focuses on the closed doors.
"You can call me Sexy. Let’s not beat around the bush.”
She stands ramrod straight and turns to face me head-on. Suddenly we’re closer than we had been before.
"Has anyone ever told you that you're—"
"Charming, handsome, sexy as hell?"
"I was going to say: annoying, egotistical, and arrogant."
"Has anyone ever told you that you're tetchy, snappy, and in desperate need of having those perfect feathers ruffled?" I lean in closer, our faces mere inches apart. "I can fix that for you, love. All I need is one night and you'll never look at another tosser again."
"Wow, your ego really knows no bounds."
"Trust me, I've never left a woman unsatisfied."
"Here's a little tip for you: Women have been known to fake orgasms."
"Is that right? Maybe you had to fake it because you've been with the wrong men this whole time. I'm more than willing to show you where men like Wayne go wrong."
"William. His name is
William
and I'm not that desperate."