Aside from making music, fucking is the only other thing I am good at.
Jesus Christ what time is it? She should be here by now.
It’s got to be her because she’s late. Tru was always late for everything.
I wonder if she still plays the piano. I’ll have to ask her. If it is her that is.
Fuck, is she ever going to turn up!
The suite phone starts to ring and I instantly tense up.
Stuart answers. “Send her straight up, someone will meet her.”
“She’s here,” he says turning to me. “I’ll send Dave to meet her at the elevator.”
I sit down on the sofa.
Okay, I’ve gotta knock this off, I’m acting like a fucking woman.
It’s just Tru. And if it’s not, then it’s just another lame ass interview to get through. Then afterwards I can finally stop being a * and find her.
I grab one of the hotel provided mints off the coffee table, unwrap it and put it in my mouth. I don’t want to stink of cigarettes if it is her.
It’s another five minutes before I hear a knock at the main door.
It’s definitely got to be her because it’s a clear two minutes up here from reception, and Tru was always good at taking her time.
I stand up. Nervous energy is rushing through me.
I can hear Stuart talking. I strain to hear the other voice but I can’t hear a thing.
Would I recognise her voice anyway? It’s been so long since I last heard it.
It seems ages before Stuart walks into the living room, and there she is behind him.
Tru.
It’s her.
And fuck me, she looks beautiful, stunning, and I know in this moment I am never letting go of her again.
She walks a little further into the room.
I can’t take my eyes off her. She looks amazing.
She’s wearing a loose grey T-shirt, belted, showing her tiny waist off, and her tits look amazing in it, perfect. And she’s got this cute little skirt on. It’s short and is showing plenty of leg. Fuck those legs got long, and she’s wearing this pair of come-fuck-me-now boots which would look amazing wrapped around my waist.
“Tru?” My voice comes out a little hoarse. I take a deep breath. “Trudy Bennett? My Trudy Bennett?” I repeat like a fucking moron.
Of course it’s her you fuckwit.
I take a step forward. “Shit, it really is you.”
What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I stop talking like a dumbass?
“Yes. It’s really me,” she says.
She sounds like a fucking angel. My dick twitches and starts to harden in response.
Aw, fuck no! Don’t get a hard on Wethers for fucks sake. What are you, fifteen?
Distraction quick.
I think of that time I walked in on Stuart kissing a dude.
Yep, that’ll do it.
Down you go boy.
Okay, game face on now Wethers.
“Holy shit,” I say, smiling at her, moving a bit closer. “When Stuart said the name of the interviewer was Trudy Bennett, I just thought – there can’t be that many Trudy Bennett’s here in the UK can there? – I mean there probably is but –” I laugh. “But then I just thought it would be too much of a coincidence for it to be you … and shit … here you are.”
What the fuck was that dickwad? If that’s what you call your game face nowadays then you are so totally screwed.
I haven’t felt this lame around a woman since I was last around her and at least I had the excuse of been a teenager back then. What’s my excuse now?
It can’t be because I’m clean because I fucked every hot chick there was in rehab, including the hot married counsellor and a few other skirts since I’ve been out.
It’s because it’s her.
“Here I am,” she says.
She sounds nervous. I like that she is. It gives me a rise.
I walk over to her, just needing to be closer to her.
And the nearer I get, I see a blush colour her cheeks.
She just looks so fucking beautiful.
Tru is the most beautiful, perfect person I have ever seen in my life.
More than anything I just want to touch her, but I’m almost afraid to.
And fuck, she smells amazing.
It’s not just the perfume, it’s her. The scent takes me back years. And I suddenly feel an overwhelming sense of love and protectiveness over her.
I haven’t wanted a woman ever, in the way I want her now. I don’t only want to screw her; I want to hold her in my arms.
“It’s been what – eleven years?” I ask her, trying to get my head straight.
“Twelve,” she corrects.
“Twelve. Christ, yeah, right.” I push my hand through my hair. “You look different ... but the same – you know,” I shrug.
“I know,” she smiles. “You look different too.” She gestures to the tattoos on my arms.
I grin down at them.
“But still the same,” she says, pointing her pretty little finger at my nose.
She means my freckles. I fucking hate them.
I rub my hand over his nose. “Yeah, no getting rid of them.”
“I always liked them.”
She did?
“Yeah, but you liked the Care Bears, Tru,” I tease.
She blushes, again.
“You remember that, huh?” she murmurs, looking down.