Page 43 of Star Struck

‘So where’s Geth?’

‘Having a shower.’ Now I couldn’t miss the look Jack was giving me. It was two-thirds contempt and the rest was made up of scorn. Maybe with half a percent left for pity. ‘And will you stop eyeballing me like that? I’ve not been having rampant sex with him, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Right.’

‘Get a look at this dress, Jack. I doubt I could brush my teeth wearing this, let alone get down and dirty.’ I wafted a hand at myself. His eyes followed the hand.

‘Looks good on you.’ There was a bit of a spark in his eyes now. ‘I’ll just go get Geth . . .’

‘No!’ If he set one foot in that reeking bedroom he’d know that Gethryn had been on a bender. Jack eyeballed me a bit more and the spark died. ‘I’ll go and fetch him.’

As I spoke I tottered out, down the hallway again and into the bedroom, where Gethryn was just emerging, tawny and splendid, from the shower. ‘Hey, girl.’ He sounded steadier. ‘What’s the rush?’

My eyes were transfixed by his chest, which rivulets of water were still navigating, passing between nipples so perfectly brown and round they looked like pennies, and down into uncharted regions, now concealed beneath a fluffy blue towel. Even with all I knew about him now, I still felt a little tremor of lust — Felix was right, I was shallow. ‘Erlon’s here,’ I started to say, but my voice went all thick at the way his fringe split into fragments, each with its own diamond-tip of water over those treacle-golden eyes. ‘And Jack.’

‘Fuck.’ Gethryn muttered something I couldn’t hear, but it didn’t sound good. ‘Better get back out there, cariad. Don’t let him in here, he’ll know something’s up. Like a bloody terrier that man is. Just . . .’ he swiped a hand over his wet hair and blinked hard, ‘just keep him talking. Okay?’

‘Right.’ Again I tottered down the hallway, arriving just as Jack had started to walk towards the bedroom and we ended up nose-to-nose. I performed a little jig to prevent him from getting past me without pressing me into the opposite wall. From the look on his face, pressing me anywhere at all was a long way from being on the agenda.

‘What is going on?’ We were back to the hiss again and the spark in his eyes now was one of anger.

‘I want to go to the ball with you.’ I’d meant to lead up to it, to smile and soften his expression first, but it just came out, I don’t know why. First thing in my head, probably, pushed out by that smouldering look on Jack’s face, the way his eyes burned into me. He was like a cold supernova, a black hole. Dragging me in with his gravitational field.

‘What?’

‘Remember, you asked me? To go to the ball? I want to. Please,’ I added. ‘You said you could dance.’

He looked curiously behind me, towards the bedroom. ‘You’re behaving very strangely. What’s going on back there — have you left Geth dead on the bed or something?’

‘No.’

‘Then why are you . . . why choose now to tell me you want to come with me to the ball?’

‘What’s wrong with now?’

We stared at each other again, until Erlon interrupted, clearing his throat. ‘’Um, maybe I could just do one or two of you first? Maybe, with Jack?’ He waggled his camera under his non-existent chin. ‘While we wait.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’ Jack spoke with his teeth clenched.

‘Aw, go on. Just be natural.’ Erlon led me to the velvet couch, onto which the dress snagged like Velcro. ‘Look as if you’re chatting.’ Defeated, Jack slumped beside me, folded his arms and dropped his head down onto his chest. If we were chatting, it could only be about death and despondency. ‘Now, put your arm around Skye.’ The world’s most reluctant hug commenced as Jack slid one arm between my neck and the couch, leaving his hand flopping onto my shoulder. ‘Ah, that’s great.’

Erlon’s digital camera didn’t have the decency to go ‘click’ so we didn’t know when it was safe to relax. Jack remained with one hand behind my back, the other loosely in his lap, as though covering up some furtive groinal activity, and both my arms lay lifelessly along the seams of the wine-dark dress. We looked like a mannequin and a mannequin fetishist.

‘Hey, Jack.’ Gethryn wandered in, fully dressed in his uniform. He smelled very strongly of aftershave and his eyes were a bit unsettled, but apart from that he looked sober. ‘Erlon. So. Pictures then?’

I thought I heard Jack mutter, ‘Thank God,’ but it might have been something else, as he made way for Gethryn to pose alongside me. Geth looked lip-lickingly tasty in the tight uniform, hair still curling damply down his neck but, when he sat beside me, there was a distinct whiff of sourness on his breath and his pupils were shrunken. Erlon took a few shots, then made us stand up, arms around one another, smiling into the lens. My smile was tight, I could feel tremors running up and down Gethryn’s body and there was a faint alcohol-scented sweat breaking out on his neck.

To think, only a few weeks ago I would have eaten my own arm for the chance to stand this close to Gethryn Tudor-Morgan. I’d seen him naked for God’s sake! And now . . . now that the glamour had broken and I’d seen Gethryn for who and what he truly was, I could still admire that sexy physique and that sculpted face, but I was glad that there were other people with us. Gethryn had clearly been in another room when the self-control was being handed out.

Jack was gazing at us both with a very odd expression on his face.

As soon as Erlon had the last picture satisfactorily in his camera, Jack hustled me out of the van. He almost manhandled me down the steps and around the side of the motel, not letting me stop to hitch up my skirt and I had to settle for letting most of it trail behind me in the dust, where it sent up little flurries of worried sand as I moved.

Finally we reached the yard near the dumpsters, and Jack let go of my arm. ‘Well?’

‘Well, what?’ I reeled in as much of the skirt as I could and tried to brush the worst of the dirt off with my hands.

‘Gethryn didn’t hurt you, did he?’ Jack leaned back against the wall and managed to find a cigarette somewhere about his person. God knows where from, his jeans were skin-tight and the grey shirt had no pockets. ‘Just tell me. If he hurt you, I’ll . . .’

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