20
She was like a corpse, naked, flat on her back, one arm hanging over the side of the bed.
Lying doggo: that’s what they called it. It was an act and she was bracing herself for her big scene. She’d run it through her head a dozen times, had no idea how it would pan out. Even so, when the key turned, her body stiffened. She was better prepared for the sudden shaft of light from the landing, she didn’t move a muscle.
“I said, are you decent?”
Pluto was framed in the doorway. She sensed him hovering, wondering what the problem was. Ordinarily, she’d be up and about, dying for a pee. His face was hardly friendly, but it was becoming familiar, and lately she’d taken to babbling on, in vain attempts to get him to talk. Seeing her like this, she was hoping the fear factor would get him over the threshold. If anything bad had happened, Pluto’d be in a whole world of trouble.
“Get your arse off that bed.”
Was there uncertainty in the voice? Difficult to tell, when she only had a series of grunts to judge by. She had to get him to open up, had to get him closer, and not just feet and inches. The longer he treated her like a piece of meat, the likelier she’d end up a carcass.
“Come on, you lazy cow. It’s gone nine.”
She didn’t need telling. The toast and coffee combination coming up the stairs was alarm call enough. She was ravenous but if her stomach rumbled, so would Pluto. Once he was in, she’d busk it; play on his weak spot, assuming she could find it. She’d be working to her strength. As far as she knew, she only had one.
She counted the silence: ten seconds, fifteen, twenty, then she heard the key being taken out of the lock and the door closing. She held her breath, heard his footfall. He was inside, getting nearer, she could smell him now, smoke and soap. She’d already calculated where he was likely to touch her and didn’t flinch when he tapped her arm.
Her legs were slightly apart and she’d bet a week’s takings his eyes were opened wide. Up to now, Pluto’s ogling had been done on the sly. She’d clocked him gawking through the crack in the bathroom door and sneaking glances every time he dropped off a tray. He’d have to be gay or carved out of granite not to be getting an eyeful. There was no rush. A bloke with a hard-on had to be easier to manipulate. And this was the tricky bit. Soon as he realised she wasn’t sick, the second she moved, it might all go pear-shaped.
She kept her eyes closed, although something told her his peepers wouldn’t be glued to her face. She eased her thighs apart, lifted her haunches a tad and moaned. Her left hand was lying at her side. She inched it over her hips and let it lie between her legs. He didn’t make a murmur. She stroked her fingers through her pubes then slowly drew the tips up her body; over her belly and between her breasts. He hadn’t given her a slapping; she hoped it was a good sign, hoped he was gagging for it.
She ran her tongue along her lips and lifted her hand to her mouth, moistening each finger with exaggerated licks, then gently slid her leg over the side of the bed where he was standing. There was definitely a bit of heavy breathing now. She’d better open her eyes, in case he figured the whole palaver was a wet dream.
He was looking at her fanny. Looming over her, he seemed even bigger. What was he? Six foot two, more than twice her weight, old enough to be her dad. She wondered if he had kids; bet he wouldn’t want his daughter holed up in a place like this. Up close, he wasn’t as gross as she’d thought: dark chocolate eyes, long lashes. He was wearing black again: combats and a cotton shirt, open at the neck, a pack of Silk Cut in the breast pocket. But what was going on inside?
She was only going to get one crack at this. If she said the wrong thing, hit the wrong button, it’d be back to square one. Coming on strong had got him in, but talking sweet – if anything – was going to get her out. She waited till he was looking at her face then flashed her brightest smile. “It gets lonely in here.”
He shrugged but didn’t move away. She sat up, hugged her knees, watched as his eyes roamed down. “Hate sleeping on me own. Always have. Ever since I was a kid. Hated it when me ma turned the light out. Always thought there was a bogeyman under the bed.”
She shivered, hunched narrow shoulders. “Seems like nowadays, they’re all in it.”
She looked down at her feet, put a catch in her voice. “They make me skin creep. All them old geezers, pawing and slobbering all over the place.” She sniffed loudly, ran the back of her hand across her nose.
She knew he was looking at her now, she lifted her head and met his gaze. “Know what I do when they’re trying to get it up?” She paused but there was no reaction. “I think about you. Imagine you’re in here with me. Pretend you’re my feller.”
He was frowning. She made a space on the bed but he stayed where he was.
“I’ve got this favourite one, see. You’ve taken me to the pictures. Something mushy, romantic. We’re holding hands in the back row and all that. Popcorn, cokes, choc-ices, the lot. Then you take me to that posh Indian place down Broad Street. Some geezer comes in selling flowers and you buy me a red rose. Then we go back to our place and we take each others’ clothes off and have a bath.” She paused. “And all that.”
He perched on the edge of the bed. “All that what?”
She wasn’t brilliant at coy; hadn’t had a lot of practice. She bowed her head. “You know.”
“Tell me. What do we do? When we’ve had this bath?”
She looked up; he had a lovely voice, like something off the radio. She lifted her hand to brush an imaginary eyelash from his cheek, well pleased when he didn’t back off. He wouldn’t have let her touch his boots ten minutes ago. Her smile was genuine, the first for days. “Not what you think. It’s different with you.”
“How do you mean?”
“We have a good snog and everything. But in bed, we just have a cuddle and hold each other tight all night. You whispering my name and…” Her bottom lip quivered, then she swallowed hard.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “What is it? What’s up?”
“I can’t call you anything. I don’t know your name. You know I’m Vicki and I don’t know what to call you. Spoils it, doesn’t it?”
He took the cigarettes from his pocket. “Smoke?”
She nodded, like a child who’d been offered ice cream. “Yes, please.”
He lit hers as well, handed it over. “You can call me Dan.”
“Dan.” She tried it a few times. “I like that. Thanks, Dan. Tonight’ll be even better. I’ll be able to call —”
“You said the film one was your favourite?”
“That’s right. There’s loads, though.” She took a deep drag, spoke through the smoke. “The thought of you’s the only thing that gets me through.” She was swinging her legs. “Don’t suppose you’d..?”
“What?”
“Nah. Doesn’t matter.”
“Go on.”
She laid a hand on his knee. “We wouldn’t have to do anything, like. But one night, when everyone’s gone, and I’ve had a bath and everything, could you just come in and lie with me, just for a couple of minutes or something, just till I get off to sleep, like?”
He moved her hand a few inches higher. “Maybe. Who knows?”
She left her hand where he’d placed it, started circling her forefinger. “It’d be lovely. Just the two of us. It’d give me something to look forward to.” She dropped her glance, realised how true it was.
He inched his thighs open. “Have to see, won’t we?”