Читать книгу The Make - Jessie Keane - Страница 12

Chapter 5

‘So what was she like? The Cougar?’ George was hunched over the computer in his bedroom, bashing keys and staring at the screen the afternoon after Harry’s ‘date’ with Jackie Sullivan.

Harry put down fifty pounds beside George’s keyboard and threw himself back on George’s bed, thinking about Jackie, how sweet she’d been, how small and shivery with nerves. And then, when he’d left, how embarrassed – avoiding his gaze, paying him and ushering him out into the dawn like a guilty secret. Which he knew he was. Of course he was. He’d escorted her nowhere. She’d literally just paid him for a chat and for sex. Still . . . Jackie Sullivan had brought out something protective in Harry, something he’d never before suspected was in his personality.

Of course he’d had women before. Plenty of them. He had the height and film-star looks. He was a snappy dresser and he knew exactly what suited him best. He favoured tight black slim-fit jeans, boots, black or white shirts – all of which flattered his pale skin, emphasized his grey eyes and made the best of his upright bearing and the auburn hair that fell in thick glossy waves on to his broad shoulders. Harry had a unique style, and it drew in the women like a magnet.

‘She was okay.’ He shrugged.

George stopped typing, pocketed the fifty and turned his bulky form in the swivel chair to smirk at Harry. ‘What do you mean, okay? You didn’t . . .?’ He made a gesture with his arm.

‘No. I didn’t,’ lied Harry. He was surprised to find that he didn’t want to even suggest to George, let alone talk about, the fact that he had bedded Jackie. Usually they gave each other blow-by-blow accounts of their conquests, but this . . . this was different. The poor little bitch was vulnerable, still in a state of mourning over her dead husband. He suspected she’d acted totally out of character last night, and it had mortified her. Harry didn’t want to turn her pain into sordid entertainment.

‘Well, why the hell not?’ demanded George with a grin. ‘Look at you, boy. Mega babe-attractor. Thought she’d eat you and spit out the bits.’

‘Look, we went out, she paid me, end of.’

George gave Harry a long, thoughtful look. ‘Ohhhh . . . kay,’ he said finally. ‘Anyway, we got mail. Two new ladies, one for you, one for me. Not cougars.’

Thank God, thought Harry. He couldn’t take another night like the last one. George had promised him that escorting girls would be straightforward fun with the occasional fuck thrown in: that was the deal and he was happy with it. He didn’t actually want to start liking any of them.

‘You got one too?’ Glad of this new diversion, Harry adopted a teasing tone. ‘Likes a bit of rough, does she?’

‘Listen, I scrub up,’ said George. ‘Mine’s a banker. Hasn’t got time for boyfriends and so needs an escort to her firm’s pre-Christmas bash.’

‘Bet she hasn’t had it in years, poor cow. And you’re just the man to put that right . . .’ Harry squinted at George. ‘Have you been entirely straight with me, bro? Is this job in fact less about eating out at five-star establishments, and more about jumping around between the sheets with desperate women? Is this job in fact going to be more about fucking than finger buffets?’

‘Yep,’ said George. All right, he didn’t relish the job like Harry seemed to. In fact, it worried him. Did he have a low sex drive or something? He was never, ever going to discuss it with anyone, that was for sure. Especially not Harry.

‘That’s what I like to hear. So who’s mine?’

George pressed ‘Print’. The machine whirred and a sheet of paper emerged. He handed it to Harry.

‘Laura Dixon,’ Harry read aloud. ‘Fashion designer, twenty-eight years old. Oh, and a pic.’

He looked at the photo. Long, straight-brown hair, a tanned, high-cheekboned face and serious dark eyes. Brunettes, blondes, whatever – he was game for anything.

‘Hey, this could turn out to be fun, sensei,’ said Harry.

‘Grasshopper, you’re learning,’ said George with a wink.