Undone (11 page)

When I was researching the history of the building, purely out of interest, I learned that the Victorians would drape mirrors in the presence of death, out of fear that the reflective surfaces would trap the spirit of the dear departed. And so, because I am perverse, I decided there and then to incorporate mirrors, transparency and shininess into the design, mixing insubstantiality with the moody weight of leather, velvet and oak. Body and soul. Flesh and flight.

One of the bar’s talking points is the bathrooms at the far end of the room: the wall of each toilet is inset with a two-way mirror. Once you’re in there, you can see the room full of people and are struck with the conviction that they can see you; that they will turn and gawp when you hitch up your skirt or unzip your flies.

I still smile to see women returning wide-eyed to their friends, exclaiming, ‘Oh my God, you’ve
got
to go to the loo! I’m not saying why! Just go! I almost couldn’t wee!’ The men are generally amused but less fazed. They’re used to pissing in public.

These features add up.

The Blue Bar, I like to think, contains portals to transport people elsewhere, an ironic homage to its origins. It is, as a reviewer in the
Saltbourne Echo
said, ‘a place that intoxicates before you’ve taken your first sip’. That review made me well up with pride.

So, all in all, a good decision. But on Wednesday, about fifteen minutes before opening time at five, the buzzer from the street-level door blared behind the bar.

‘Not open yet,’ I sang out to the empty room as I habitually do when someone wants a drink out of hours. The time I spend prepping is my favourite part of the afternoon. Daylight barely penetrates when the stained-glass windows are closed and the oak-dark, blue-tinged room is a world of stilled-gothic calm. I love the peace before opening when I’m queen of my domain, proud of my achievement and delighted not to be kowtowing to the whims of rich design clients anymore.

The buzzer sounded again.

‘I said not open—’

I glanced up at the small TV screen relaying video from the security camera trained on the doorway. And there he stood, scruffy, sexy and smouldering. My bad decision. Sol Miller.

My heart raced. Without taking my eyes from the screen, I wiped my hands, sticky from slicing lemons, on a cloth. I saw the ragged, digital image of him glance around the doorway; then he clocked the camera above his head. He gave a nod of acknowledgement. Stupid, I know, but my fingers shook as I called ‘Hi’ through the entry phone and buzzed him in.

I was already feeling edgy as this was close to the time Misha would habitually stop by for his weekly Long Island Iced Tea. My Happy Hour is from five till seven, and it’s usually quiet to start with. I do the bar on my own for the first hour; then at six another member of staff joins me. I employ two wonderful, handsome mixologists, Raphael and Bruno, identical Italian twins sporting identical square beards. I also have an enormously talented catering student at the weekend, Sarah-Ann, who dyed her hair blue when she took the job. Good decisions, all three of them.

On Wednesdays after five Misha would often be the only customer. He would sit in one of the oak booths, tapping and swiping at a propped-up tablet while I pottered behind the bar, music playing gently. I was anxious about his impending absence that afternoon, fearing the sadness. Had I mentioned Misha’s weekly routine to Sol or was his arrival a coincidence?

Sol’s feet clanged on the iron staircase spiralling up to the bar. Below The Blue Bar, where, in the nineteenth century, the funeral parlour would have prepared the bodies, is a bookbinder’s workshop. The two floors used to be connected by a shaft but not anymore. Katrina, the bookbinder, has become a friend. When she closes up at the end of the day, she sometimes pops in for a drink and a chat. I’d been wanting to see her since the weekend but she hadn’t been around. I hoped she wouldn’t choose today to drop by.

Katrina, this is Sol. I met him at the party.

Oh hi! How did it go? Can’t wait to hear about it.

Yeah, great, thanks. We had a kinky threesome and the third person died.

I still hadn’t decided what to tell Katrina, or anyone else, for that matter. I knew I should say nothing, should stick to the story Sol and I had given to the cops: we were drinking in the tipi with Misha; then we said goodbye to him indoors after midnight. Sol and I had gone up to my turret room. We hadn’t seen Misha again.

But big secrets are a burden to carry. So far, only Nicki knew about the threesome. Which meant Ian was bound to know because couples share everything. But they knew my reasons for not wanting to relay details to the police and I trusted them to keep my secret safe. I knew I had to resist sharing the details with anyone else, no matter how bad I felt. Instead, I’d use my journal to offload my anxieties and try and bring some order to my whirling thoughts.

I selected background music just as Sol pushed open the door. My stomach somersaulted at the sight of him. Without a doubt, he was the filthiest, hottest creature ever to set foot in the bar, in part because ordinarily I would refuse to serve someone dressed as he was. Besides, people dressed like that don’t generally want cocktails. He wore dusty workman’s boots, battered, dirty jeans and a taupe T-shirt which had seen better days. When he’d said he worked in construction, I’d assumed it was at the higher-status end, as a site manager or engineer, not a run-of-the-mill builder. He seemed too educated to be a labourer and thinking such a thing made me feel like a snob.

But what the hell. He looked incredible. His tee hung from broad shoulders, his jeans hung from sturdy hips, and it was obvious that beneath the clothes was a fit, muscular body. His injured lip was now barely more than a patch of discolouration but he looked tired and tense. Stubble darkened his jaw and the skin below his eyes was heavy with shadows. There was hardness in his expression, his mouth set in a tight line.

I stepped out from behind the glowing blue bar, fighting my instinct to rush to him in a blaze of lust. ‘Hey, how’s tricks?’ I said.

He shook his head regretfully and strode towards me, snaking among the dinky tables, his manner sudden and strong. His aggressive approach startled me and I froze, confused. When he reached me, he briskly steered me backwards with a hand on my hip bone, our feet shuffling awkwardly, his big boots versus my espadrille wedges.

‘Sol, what’s going on?’ I asked.

A bar stool clattered into another as he shoved me against the blue counter, trapping me with his body.

Plaster flecked his dishevelled dark hair and he smelled like an animal, like dogs, semen, earth and multi-layered sweat. I could smell the salt on his skin, the pheromones in his armpits and the nicotine on his big, rough fingertips.

‘All I want to do,’ he said, in a low, threatening voice, ‘is fuck you senseless.’ He grasped my pencil skirt and yanked it up to thigh height.

‘Wait!’ I grabbed his wrists, trying to prevent him from raising my skirt higher. ‘I’ve got to open up. Happy Hour starts at five.’

‘C’mon, Cha Cha. Happy hour starts now.’ He wrestled against my grip, fighting to lift my skirt.

‘Sol!’ I squirmed against him, half laughing, pushing weakly with my body. ‘Mind my clothes. Come back later. I’ve got to—’

‘Mmm, nice.’ He pressed his chest to my breasts. ‘Do that again, baby.’

‘Sol, fuck off! I can’t—’

He shoved his hand between my thighs. ‘Yes, you can.’

‘Sol!’

His fingers crumpled the silk of my knickers into my folds as he rubbed to and fro.

‘You want me to stop?’ His gaze was pinned on my face, his lips tilting in an eager grin as if he were watching for signs of my resolve collapsing. ‘You going to call your safeword, Cha Cha?’

I tried not to breathe him in. He smelled so good. And I was reassured to know our safeword from the party still had currency. What word had we chosen, though?

‘I want you to text first, that’s all,’ I said. My breath quickened as his fingers kept working. Our safeword came back to me: Cinderella. ‘Not show up unannounced. I can’t just—’

‘Well, I’m here now,’ he said. ‘Too late for politeness.’

He leaned harder against me, his arm sandwiched between our bodies, and began smearing kisses over my neck and face. I tipped my head back, not wanting him to destroy my lipstick and leave my skin raw from the scratch of his bristles. The room swayed behind him, walls of cream fleur-de-lys tipping into oak booths and mis-hung mirrors.

His insistent fingers kept rummaging and massaging between my thighs. My hunger for him threatened to overwhelm my reason. I wished he would, or rather could, ruin my make-up and lead me astray. Make me fuck it all to hell. But I needed to prioritise my business, not sacrifice it to some randy new guy who thought he could turn up on my doorstep in the hope I’d drop everything for a fuck. Sure, it was often quiet at five but that wasn’t the point. Plus, if the bar wasn’t open and I had customers trying the door, they might not bother again. You’ve got to be reliable in this game.

‘Sol! I have to open up.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said darkly, ‘I won’t take long.’ His tone carried an edge of humour and I knew he’d back off if I wanted him to. But I didn’t. I was horny. I just wanted him to note that I’d prefer advance notice. With one swift tug, he yanked down my knickers, leaving them around my ankles like loose shackles. ‘Turn around.’

My groin flickered with a rush of pulsations. He dug his fingers into my upper arms and spun me. He pushed me face forwards over a tall bar stool and forced my skirt higher. The skirt was tight so he had to ram it up over my buttocks. ‘Let’s see this cute little ass again.’

I made small noises of protest but we both knew the score. This was hot, if somewhat inconvenient. Or more likely hot
because
it was inconvenient. When I was tipped over the bar stool with my buttocks bared, knickers around my feet, Sol swiped my cheeks with an upward cuff, once, twice, three times. He sank his gritty fingers into my curve and vigorously shook the flesh. ‘Been dreaming of this ass.’

I glanced back to see him unbuttoning and heard him tear a foil. Seconds later, his erect cock was pushing at my entrance. He was too fast. I wasn’t ready for him, wasn’t wet and open enough. I tried to wriggle away, wanting more time.

‘Hey!’ I complained. ‘Ever heard of seduction?’

He pressed a hand onto the small of my back, pinning me to the bar stool. ‘Easy now,’ he warned. ‘We don’t have time for that. You said so yourself.’

His cock nudged forwards, prising me apart and making me gasp. He pushed higher and harder, the angle awkward, until he was in me as much as my body would allow.

‘You’re so tight,’ he breathed, pulling back. He began to thrust, my inner flesh dragging and holding him. He gave me two deep, deliberate shoves. I cried out, objecting to his attitude even as it swamped me with illicit excitement.

‘Gonna wet you up,’ he growled. ‘Gonna fuck you till you give it to me. Till you give me your pussy, all wet for my cock.’

His pounding intensified, his hands still fixing me in place over the bar stool.

My body began catching up with my lust. I felt myself yielding, becoming wetter and wider.

‘Ah, there we go,’ he murmured. ‘You’re all mine now, aren’t you, Cha Cha? Nice ’n’ easy. Loving that dick.’

His hand pressed in the hollow of my back as he hammered with aggressive strength. Soon, he was slipping to and fro, my swollen flesh clinging to him. The stool scraped and rocked. I grasped a metal leg with one hand and gripped the edge of the bar with the other. The dark hardwood floor danced below me, the counter’s LED blueness glowing by my side. Blood rushed to my head, making my face hot. My hair was a blonde curtain swinging around my vision. I heard Sol’s breath pump faster, small grunts drumming in his throat. My cunt was so full of him, I felt as if he’d moulded me to his needs, had created my body to suit his cock.

His noises were contained and focused, as if his fuck was strategic. Which it was, of course. Strategic, selfish, all about what
he
wanted. And I found myself relishing that, loving the sense he was using me for his own gratification.

‘Ah,’ he exulted softly. ‘Ah, yes.’

His slamming quickened, his cock swelling to its hard finality and pushing against my walls. His grunts rumbled deeper until, with a groan of relief which I swear sounded smug and amused, he came. I felt his thighs quiver against my buttocks as he anchored himself deep, letting his liquid jerk out of him. He sighed heavily, paused for a few seconds, and then withdrew. Exhausted, I peered over my shoulder as he snapped off the condom, knotted it and dropped it on the bar. He buttoned his jeans and I slumped again. Still gasping for breath, I stared at the oak-dark floor in a daze, vaguely aware of him moving in the corner of my eye.

‘C’mon, Cha Cha,’ he said. ‘You gotta open up soon.’

I laughed softly. ‘You sod.’

I stood, pushing myself up from my precarious position, and stepped out of my underwear. Lacking tissues to hand, I dabbed at my sticky inner thighs with my knickers which I figured were ruined anyway.

‘Jeez, you’re outrageous,’ I said, smoothing down my skirt. ‘What time is it?’

He grinned. ‘Happy Hour.’

I went behind the bar, dropped the condom and knickers in the bin, and grabbed my make-up bag. Hastily I combed my hair back into a neat bob with my fingers and checked my phone. Three minutes to five. ‘I’m going to freshen up,’ I said.

‘I’ll wait.’

‘Such gallantry.’

In the ladies, I watched him through the two-way glass while doing a quick touch-up of my face in the smaller mirror. Alone, he rearranged his crotch and withdrew a pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket. He scanned the room with a sharp, rapid gaze, assessing rather than admiring. Alone, his manner was different. He leaned over the bar, one arm outstretched, and tapped blindly behind the counter. Was he planning on smoking indoors? Looking for an ashtray?

He stopped searching, perched his butt on a bar stool, flipped open his cigarette pack then closed it again. He continued surveying the bar while tapping his cigarettes on the counter, rotating the box. When his gaze crossed over the duplicitous glass behind which I stood, his eyes slowed. My heart froze. He looked quizzically at the mirror, skimming the edges before staring into the centre.