Page 12 of The Worst Guy Ever
Forty minutes later, my thighs are on fire and Rob is still going. This is longer than I usually do, but I’m not quitting before he does. Sweat rolls off me like I’ve just stepped out of the shower. I pull my t-shirt over my head and keep going in my leggings and sports bra, using the bunched up material to dry my face, my neck, and my chest. My watch buzzes again.
Knob:I could make you sweat more than that
The thought is heavenly, and I’m sure he could. Sex has always given me that same endorphin high that I get from exercise. I’m cursed with a busy brain and a loud voice in my head that never shuts up. Some people meditate to unwind, some people drink, some people get high. I fight and I fuck.
I learned long ago that the best way to keep my anger under control is to pound it out at the gym, or let someone else pound it out of me in bed.
At school I got into, not fights exactly, but a fair amount of arguments that had me sitting outside the Headteacher’s office. It didn’t matter who it was, I could always find something to argue about. With my classmates, with teachers who felt I didn’t respect their classroom, which I didn’t because lessons couldn’t keep me entertained.
The first time I tried kickboxing, it was like everything went quiet. The first time I had sex, it was the same, and I’ve been chasing that inner peace ever since. If only my brain enjoyed both as solo activities as much as it does with a partner.
I keep my vision trained on the monitor, not giving him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze in the reflection. Doesn’t stop me picturing him in my head though. Me and him at full throttle, wild and unleashed. The kind of sex that leaves you speechless, panting for breath, covered in each other’s sweat.
My hands are clammy, my chest is tight. I don’t even have the energy to respond, and as much as I hate letting him have the last word, I like that he sees me ignoring him. I reach for my water, but there’s only a trickle left. I can’t last much longer and he’s on a bike. He probably has miles left in him. I’ve already done a full weights routine, this was meant to be a quick cool down.
I hate to admit defeat, but I’ve got no chance of winning this one. I slow my pace right down and step off, hoping he won’t catch me wobbling. Stretching will have to wait. Knowing Rob, he’d take advantage of the opportunity and offer to help and get his grubby hands on me.
Knowing me, I’d probably break and let him.
I’m in agony the next day. Furious at myself for pushing it so far. I consider working from home, but I’ve got two important meetings with our creative team whose diaries are impossible, so I hobble into work in trainers and take the lift instead of the stairs. I never want to look at a staircase again. There goes Rob, ruining yet another thing in my life. When I finally sit down at my desk, my phone buzzes in my hand. I smile, knowing it’s him before I even read it.
Knob:How are your thighs today?
Me:Perfect, as usual
Knob:You know, if you’re aching, I’m really good at deep tissue massage
Knob:Great with my hands (and my tongue)
Knob:I could help you work out all that tension
Me:Or you could piss off
Knob:Nah, you’d miss me too much
Knob:Admit it, you love this game
I bite hard into my lip to stop myself smiling. I hate that he’s right.
I must admit, but only to myself, and to my great horror, that Rob is bloody good fun to flirt with. Sometimes I meet men who are attractive on the surface, but underneath they’re incapable of giving me more than one-word answers, grunts, and lip-licking that I’m convinced they’ve copied from an internet celebrity. Bieber. He seems like a lip licker.
If anything, our hate texts are more fun than real life flirting because this way I can imagine him stomping around, getting all hot and outraged, maybe even a little hard. OK, alothard. I like the idea of him being rock solid in frustration with me. I bet he hates it. Which of course makes me enjoy my power over him even more.
However, I will never admit it, and I willnotlose this bet. Losing is not an option, because I know he’d never let me live it down, and it would be brought up at every dinner or party for the rest of my life. I’m not ending a two decade friendship over this fuckboy. No, I plan to win and taunt him for the rest ofhislife about it instead.
I have to be careful, though. I never show my hand, never text him first, but the second I get one from him, I’m smiling like a giddy schoolgirl while I fire off my replies. And he’s fast, as fast as me, and cocky with it. I’ve never met someone like him. We’re at war, and every round of flirting is a battle I’m determined to win.
I shove my phone in my drawer and log into my email before Rob can use up any more of my precious time. It’s a big week at work, my key client’s campaign strategy is shifting from research to planning stage and there are a lot of moving parts to oversee.
There are only two unread emails in my inbox since I keep on top of my workload throughout the weekend and always check first thing in the morning, too. Halfway through my breakfast protein bar, a third pings in.
From: HAWKINS, Andrew
Subject: See me ASAP
Oh shit. That can’t be good. Immediately, my brain assumes I’m getting fired, but I manage to climb down fast. That won’t be happening. I’m great at this job, the client is happy, and nothing has gone wrong over the weekend that I’ve caught wind of.
I peek up over my monitor towards Andrew’s office just in time to see him welcoming another person in. It’s not like him to call an impromptu meeting, but it’s also not like him to use the termASAPand mean anything other than‘you’re already late’.
