Читать книгу Final Target - E. Seymour V. - Страница 18

In a strange mood, I headed out that evening. I wanted booze. I wanted excitement.

I didn’t enjoy being shot at, but my brief flirtation with danger had definitely whetted my appetite for adventure. It put me in a fix.

Seeing the evil of my ways, I’d done as much as I could to reinstate my old identity, the one I’d had before my life went bad. I was still struggling, feeling my way. I wasn’t really certain who I was, but I’d been making progress. I now felt like a drunk who’s fallen off the wagon.

After trawling a couple of bars in Montpellier, I made my way down the Promenade and into Cheltenham central. My destination was Coco’s Beach Bar in Cambray Place where they made the meanest cocktail in town.

The interior is like a ghost train ride meets Malibu. Sand and thatched huts made from straw at the entrance and, inside, double leather seats in near darkness. Behind the illuminated bar, a full-size screen of beautiful girls on white-sand beaches playing volleyball and surfing waves. There are guys too, but they didn’t interest me.

I took a high stool at the corner of the bar and ordered a Manhattan from a young guy who had a degree in marine biology and passion for bourbon. I watched in fascination as, with expert skill, he poured and crushed, sliced and shook, and presented me with my chosen poison with all the flair of an illusionist. Ten pounds’ worth of luxury and it tasted terrific. We exchanged a couple of remarks, nothing personal, and he moved off to weave his magic on the next customer. I took up my favourite occupation – people watching.

The clientele was varied: young professionals, older groups having a sharpener before dinner, guys who’d got paid and wanted to spend, businessmen hoping to pick up a slice of glamour. A group of girls wandered in and ordered a couple of rounds of Cosmopolitans, stoking up before hitting the nightlife. Me, I sat and sipped and kept my eye on the entrance. If someone had taken a pop at me they could attempt the same thing again.

As I was about to order another drink, a woman with lustrous long black hair and dark exotic features, hinting at either Spanish or maybe Jewish blood, sashayed in. She looked like a model or an actress. Like a collective call of the wild, every red-blooded male was instantly transfixed and I was one of them. Luckily for me, she took the only available bar stool – next to mine.

She spoke softly to the barman. ‘I’d like a classic champagne cocktail.’

I listened hard, caught the strong French accent. The guy next to her, sleazy-looking with pouched skin, spiked gelled hair and a seasoned boozer’s complexion, instantly rolled out a wad of notes and offered to pay for her drink.

‘That’s so kind, thank you, but no,’ she said with a cool smile.

‘Maybe you’d like to share mine,’ Mr Lonely and Loaded insisted. ‘Two straws, please,’ he told the bartender.

‘I don’t wish to be rude,’ she said, ‘but I don’t accept drinks from strangers.’

With a big sweep of her slender shoulders, she turned towards me. I smiled. She smiled back. Mesmerising. It was hard not to be captivated by the curve of her eyebrows, sculpted cheekbones, espresso-coloured eyes and skin the colour of warm treacle. As she crossed her long legs, her coat fell open, revealing a short crimson dress with ruched sleeves, nipped in at the waist with a leather belt. Breasts high and firm. Her shoes were velvet, strapped around the ankles, with peep-toes and deep crimson-painted nails to match. Her perfume, which I guessed was Hermès, was floral with underlying notes of musk, amber and cypress. Everything about her shrieked class and wealth. Had she been a brand of cigarette she’d have been Sobranie. I wondered who she was and what she did. Could have been a lawyer. Could have been a high-end escort. Could have been a whore. Somehow, I didn’t think so. Wasn’t sure I even cared.

I took a drink. She did the same. When her knee brushed mine I did not move away. As I smoothed an imaginary crease from my trousers, she ran her long ring-less fingers over the satin of her dress. I ordered another Manhattan. She ordered another champagne cocktail. When I drained my drink, she finished hers. Not a word passed between us. As I stood up to leave she slipped off the bar stool, looked me dead in the eye, arched an eyebrow, and flashed the most seductive and inviting smile. There was enough electricity generated between us to power the grid.

I followed her out, slipped into step beside her, walking close, matching her long strides with my own as she headed right then left. It flashed through my mind that she was an elaborate form of honey trap. She could be a killer or an accomplice. It was time for a reality check. She was not luring me to a dark alley, away from human heat. We were at the epicentre of town with cops, clubbers, kids out to have a good time and revellers, and we were one of them. It didn’t negate the possibility of danger. I remembered the crowd in Berlin. At that moment I was willing to take the risk. I wanted it and needed it.

We hit Regent Street and a club that I’d never been to before. I paid the entrance fee, handed over our coats, and let her take me by the hand and lead me to the second floor. Within seconds, we were enveloped by the noise of pulsating music and by dozens of people dancing. It felt as if my ears might bleed.

Arms raised, snake hips twisting, her fabulous hair shimmering under the lights, my girl danced like a professional, the pace frantic and feverish. I’m not bad, but next to her, I made a clumsy dancing partner. Not that I cared. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. And I wasn’t the only one. It had been a long time since I’d been in a public place where half the men lusted after the woman I was with.

Wordlessly, after an hour or so, we made for the bar, ordered water and more alcohol, and danced some more. Later, we broke out onto the street. At around two-thirty in the morning, there were not so many people about, but enough cops and paddy wagons to ensure my personal security. We crossed a square flanked by shops and silent cafés. I didn’t know whether we were heading to her place, whether I should take her to the empty apartment intended for the fictitious Miss Armstrong, aka McCallen, or what exactly my girl for the night had in mind. I could only hope. Silence was like static. At any moment it could charge and burst into flame.

Impulsively, she grabbed my arm, pulled me into the entrance of a big department store and pushed me up against the closed double doors. Most would surrender there and then. I caught both her wrists in one hand, forced them down, negating any possibility that she might try something nasty. A pure gasp of pleasure broke from her open mouth. She moved in close, breasts swollen against my chest. It would be fair to say that she fell upon me. What happened next was a blur of bruised limbs, torn clothing, my fingers in her hair, in her cunt, her lips on my mouth and then my cock.

I knew we should stop. At any moment someone could see us. I wasn’t even sure whether what she was doing classed as an act of public indecency. It felt raw and dirty at the same time as highly sensuous. I couldn’t take my eyes off her bobbing mane of long black hair, the smell of her perfume, the way in which this wonderfully sophisticated and glamorous woman got my rocks off. Scary as hell, it was like keeping a foot hard down on the accelerator of a Lamborghini as it reached two hundred miles an hour. Jesus.

We broke away, panting, a fine film of perspiration coating our skin. I loved every feral moment. The next I knew, she was walking away with long strides. I called after her.

‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘In your pocket.’

Baffled, I slipped my hand into my coat and felt something the size of a credit card inside. Pulling it out, it said: ‘Simone Fabron at Bagatelle’. Underneath was an image of the board game of the same name and a telephone number.

Fuck, I’d had a free blowjob from a high-class hooker. Foolish, for sure, but I needed her and knew I had to see her again.