Page 50 of Keeper
Curious, I stride down toward the bathroom door and look inside to see if the coast is clear. Steam billows out of the white, glossy loo. I step in and close the door, hoping that maybe taking a leak will help stave off my erection. When I lift the seat and pull myself out of my pants, I freeze, semi-hard cock in hand as my eyes catch sight of something shiny and silver on the bathroom counter.
Her fucking vibrator.
And now it’s time for a cold bloody shower.
My walk home from work tonight is riddled with thoughts of Booker. The past week and a half have been hell. The wedding is only four days away. I was supposed to be torturing Booker all this time, but all I’ve been doing is torturing myself. I’m running around like a sexually frustrated nutter.
Two nights ago, I was wearing boy shorts while playing PlayStation. I don’t even like video games! You have the same results if you slide your fingers over all the buttons like a maniac as you do if you actually apply yourself. They’re stupid and I don’t understand the appeal. However, the agog expression on Booker’s face was somewhat satisfying, if only he would have bloody acted on it! Instead, he mumbled something about meeting Cam and Tan for a drink and bolted.
Last week I was supposed to plant my vibrator somewhere Booker would find it, but I was so wound up, I had to use it first! I know that’s not what Belle intended for me to do. Now, not only am I pathetic, but I’ve catapulted myself up to proper hussy level, leaving used vibrators out like I’m living in some sort of battery-operated brothel.
But I was desperate. Good God, I’ve never had such an active libido in all my life! This living with Booker Harris shit without having any slips is not my idea of a good time. Thank goodness the wedding is Saturday because I don’t know how much more of this I can take. Above all, Imissmy old friend, and I wish we could just go to the bloody wedding together.
It’s too late now, though. I heard Booker on the phone with someone the other day, and it sounded like they were working out details for the big day. So when I saw Andrew at the gym yesterday, I secured him as my date for an “event,” a.k.a. Tanner and Belle’s wedding.
He was so excited, rambling on and on about what he should wear. Then he asked me what I will be wearing, what colour it might be, and how something form-fitted would be great for my body type. It was then that I realised Andrew likes boys. Really feminine boys. He told me so after informing me that he’s a topper and then asked if there’d be any single, gay men at the event.
And since Andrew did such a top-notch job of over-sharing, I ended up confessing that I am in love with my best friend who’s now my flatmate. I told him about our history and how I was planning to use him to make Booker jealous.
God, I’m a pathetic cow.
Amazingly, Andrew was delighted. He said Scots know better than anyone how to make lads jealous. So I think it’s safe to say I found myself a devoted wingman. I’m thanking my lucky fucking stars for that because I don’t have a clue who Booker is bringing. I can’t bring myself to ask because I don’t want to know. She’ll probably be stunning and tall with legs up to her ears. I’ll immediately regret this entire fucked-up plan that Dr. Love roped me in to.
It’s almost ten o’clock when I return home from work. I walk in and find Booker scrounging around the kitchen. Before making my presence known, I take a moment to appreciate the simple beauty of him. He’s reaching up to the top shelf of an open cupboard, and a sliver of smooth, olive skin shows between the gap of his dark green T-shirt and his faded jeans that are quickly becoming my favourite. I want to run my hand along his skin so badly, I have to make a fist.
“Hello,” I say with an exhale.
He pauses his stretch and looks over his shoulder at me. “Hiya.”
“What are you doing?” I ask, dropping my keys on the kitchen table.
He turns and tugs on his earlobe. “I was looking for something to eat. We have nothing.”
I nod. “Yeah, it’s been a busy week. I was planning to go to the supermarket tomorrow.”
“I can go with you,” he says, looking hopeful.
“I’d like that,” I reply.
His kind smile reveals his perfect dimples and it relaxes my troubled soul. It’s been so strained between us. The sexual tension competing with our friendship has made it impossible to have any sort of relationship.
“Want to go for a walk and grab a bite?” I ask, gesturing toward the door. “I passed a food truck a few roads back that smelled divine. They had kebabs.”
He half smiles, the dimple on his cheek so cute I want to reach out and touch it. “Yeah, that sounds perfect. Let’s go.”
I run to change out of my work clothes, sliding on a pair of skinny jeans, some flats, and a T-shirt. I’m ruffling my hair when I stride out of my room and find Booker waiting at the door for me. We both smile and make our way downstairs.
As we walk, we discuss what it’s like living in East London. It’s such a slower pace over here than the more heavily toured west London. And it’s diverse. From Americans to French, Bangladeshi to Eastern Europeans, you find all types of people walking the stunning mural-painted streets. The neighbourhood is built up with old industrial buildings teeming with a cool multicultural art scene. It’s invigorating. I can see how perfect this area is for Booker. The tranquility allows him to live his life and focus on football without the hustle and bustle of proper London. He looks at home here.
We stride up to the Turkish kebab truck and argue over what we should order. We both want the same thing, but we want the other to get something different so we can sample each other’s. Booker relents and gets the chicken while I get the lamb.
I do a little victory dance as we wait for our order. A homeless man sitting on the ground sees my moves and begins laughing at me.
“Don’t encourage her,” Booker groans with a rueful smile that he’s doing a crap job at executing.
The man holds up a finger, so we watch him while he rustles around his pile of belongings. My jaw drops when he produces a golden trumpet. He presses the mouthpiece to his lips and begins playing some sort of bouncy jazz number.
My eyes are wide and my smile is huge as I turn to Booker like this is the best moment of my life. I thrust my hands in the air and wiggle my butt over to the talented musician, ready to get lost in the music for a bit.
