Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Sleep didn’t come easily for Matty. She’d got home around three; the short, uneventful roller skate from the bar offering little relief from the buzz in her chest and the chaos in her mind.
“I didn’t say you could leave.”
Those six words looped in her head. Whether they’d been just words or a command, she still wasn’t sure.
They had been the catalyst to an orgasm, and she wasn’t even sure why.
It wasn’t just arousal, but something deeper—a heat that curled at the base of her spine and settled into her skin like an ache.
She’d thought about Sloan. Her physical presence was captivating.
Yes, she was attractive—striking, even—but it was mainly her eyes.
They held something else entirely. Something magnetic.
Not the gentle kind of pull, but an industrial-grade force field that locked Matty in place the moment those eyes landed on her.
It was nearly six in the morning and she still hadn’t really slept. The sun hadn’t risen yet, and the early signs of a hot summer had begun to creep in. Light crept around the edges of the window frame.
At least it was Saturday. She had an extra mid-morning shift at Compton’s, and she wasn’t due at Art until eight. If she could just get her brain to shut up, maybe she could catch a lie-in.
She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, repeating the cadence a few more times. Stillness usually helped when she felt overwhelmed.
But this wasn’t overwhelm. Not really.
She was excited.
Somewhere beneath all the questions was a feeling, a sense that if she could just crack the code for whatever Sloan was doing to her, she might unlock something.
Something she wanted.
She rolled over, thumped the pillow into submission, and then stared at it as though it were the cause of her sleep deprivation.
Times like these were when Amelie would have soothed her, reaching out, resting a hand on her back, or brushing fingers through her hair until her mind stilled enough to drift off. It had been nice at first—that early connection, and the unspoken knowing that no matter what, Amelie was there.
Until she wasn’t.
Matty let the thought of her ex-wife settle beside the image of Sloan, and without meaning to, compared them.
There was no comparison.
Sloan Slater’s presence, with her calm, unshakeable authority, made Amelie’s old protectiveness suddenly feel small and inadequate.
How could that even be? She didn’t know Sloan beyond the coffee drop-off, making her a drink at the bar, and then...that moment.
The way Sloan had caught her wrist.
It had been intentional.
Swift.
Like she knew Matty was going to reach for the glass before Matty knew it herself. And that look, unyielding and deliberate as it had been, would have probably unsettled most people.
But not Matty.
No. It wasn’t intimidation. It was a message.
One that felt as though it had been meant only for her.
And somehow, despite not being able to name it, Matty had understood.
Hadn’t she?
***
Breakfast was All-Bran with the last of the milk.
She’d nicked a splash from Brandon’s milk for her tea—he wouldn’t notice, and half the time his milk went off anyway.
Fair game, she figured, especially considering he regularly ponced ciggies off her when she had them, even though she didn’t smoke regularly.
But every now and then, when she could afford the luxury of going out, she’d treat herself to a pint or two and a pack of ciggies. If she was feeling particularly flush, that treat might stretch to include a small bag of weed.
She thought about the generous tip she’d got from Sloan the night before and wondered if maybe she’d be able to buy a couple of pre-rolled joints off Brandon. He always had something stashed.
Spooning the last mouthful, she chewed slowly and considered it.
It had been a while since she’d done anything fun. And she deserved a treat now and then, didn’t she?
She checked the time—just after ten. There was still plenty of time to shower and get ready for her next shift at Compton’s before moving on to Art.
Normally, she’d have thrown on whatever was clean, along with her staff T-shirt, but a thought crossed her mind and lodged there: What if Sloan showed up at Art again later?
And just like that, the lazy dressing plan was out the window.
Something deep inside her—something she still couldn’t quite name—wanted to impress Sloan, although she was sure a woman like Sloan had better options than a roller-skating hippie behind the bar.
She heard movement in the hall before Brandon wandered in, scratching himself and yawning like some cave dweller forced out of hibernation.
“Alright?” he grunted as he passed, flicking on the kettle without looking at her.
“Hey. You got any weed?”
“A bit,” he said, pulling his milk out of the fridge and sniffing it suspiciously. She kept quiet, not bothering to tell him it was fine. “Why, you want some?”
“Just a couple of joints, you know.” She shrugged. “When I get paid, I’ll pay for them.”
He looked her over and nodded. “Sure, I can sort it. Let’s call it a fiver, yeah?”
Cheap at half the price, she thought. “Yeah, that’s fair.”
Silence settled between them while he made his tea, leaving the only sound just the clink of a spoon hitting ceramic each time he added yet another spoonful of sugar—more sugar than any set of teeth deserved.
Sarah, the final member of their flat-sharing trio, wandered in looking just as bad as Brandon.
“Morning,” Sarah mumbled, feeling the kettle and deciding it wasn’t hot enough. She flicked it back on again before opening the fridge and groaning.
“No milk?” Brandon said. Both he and Sarah looked at Matty’s now-empty bowl, but neither commented.
Sarah shook her head. “Can I nick some of yours?”
“Go on, then,” Brandon offered.
“Don’t forget rent is due next week,” Sarah reminded them.
“Yeah, I’m hoping my tips are good this week, otherwise it’ll be no milk for me.” Matty smiled, having only slightly exaggerated her financial situation.
“Yeah, we’re all in that boat.” Brandon shrugged. “I get my bonus this month, though, so that should see me through.”
Matty got up and took her bowl to the sink, washed it, and put it on the side to dry. “I’d best get ready…last thing I need is the sack,” she joked.
She jogged upstairs to her room and grabbed the old towel that had so many bleach and hair dye stains on it they may as well have been the pattern.
The shower was hot, at least, and she checked the shampoo bottle and tried to work out how many washes she had left in it. She tried to stick to once a week, but café shifts and busy bar nights didn’t always allow it.
She wondered how it was she had got to this age and still wasn’t able to just splurge on the basics. “One day,” she muttered, climbing into the tub and under the spray of the water. “One day.”
***
Sloan stretched into downward dog, breath steady, body fluid and loose. The familiar pose grounded her, soothing the residual tension humming beneath her skin.
When the instructor on the app murmured, “Namaste,” she echoed it softly, eyes still closed. For a moment, she lingered in stillness before rising, collecting her towel, and heading for the shower.
She’d already been up since seven, dealing with her mother’s morning routine. Gloria was washed, dressed, and downstairs with her breakfast, watching morning TV.
She was waiting for the agency to call and arrange a new carer. No doubt, the fee would rise again. She couldn’t blame them. Who would willingly take the job?
Steam curled round her, shampoo foaming between her fingers as she massaged it through her hair. Her hands moved lower, over shoulders, over hips, confident and familiar.
She cupped her breasts, thumbs grazing across taut nipples. A slow intake of breath was followed by a small, private moan as she gave one a careful pinch—just enough, just how she liked it.
Her head fell back, water sliding down the length of her spine. She wasn’t thinking of anyone in particular when she started her explorations.
If she had been, though…
The image surfaced without effort—warm eyes, flushed cheeks, that flicker of curiosity behind the soft features as she handed over the coffee order that evening in the office, and the more adult drink last night at the bar.
Sloan smiled to herself, letting her hands fall away. Not now.