4. FOUR
OK. Yeah. Thanks.
As words to seal one’s doom, they didn’t seem particularly dramatic, but Poppy followed Roscoe with a sense of having taken a very precarious step. Not that he was acting anything other than unexpectedly nice—she’d clenched with dread when he stepped out of the door and spotted her hiding from the rain. But though there had sometimes been a teasing note in his voice, he didn’t seem like he was laughing at her. Besides, the humiliation of realising her career dreams were absurdly out of reach made last Friday’s misstep seem like nothing. She was jittery, though, furiously hot, sweating now rather than shivering as she walked at his side, her thoughts flashing overbright like traffic lights dazzling in the rain.
What was this? Why had he asked her—? Though she knew why, of course—the same reason he’d approached her the other week. The reason men always approached women in bars. It explained why he was being nice. That much was simple. But as for her “OK, yeah, thanks…” She could have blamed Adjoa—or Adjoa’s theory that the easiest way to get a leg up at BlacktonGold was to get a leg over its Golden Boy. But mostly she suspected it was the whole evening. Her whole life leading up to that conversation with Aubrey, especially the last two years of it at BlacktonGold surrounded by other people’s unearned wealth.
Merit wasn’t rewarded. Life was unfair and made no sense and there were no rules—none that she could play by anyway. All the ones she had been taught about hard work and doing right were wrong. It didn’t matter what she knew. It didn’t matter that she had spent two years teaching herself. That she had innumerable spreadsheets on her ancient, barely working laptop tracking investments for imaginary funds, and that her projected returns were often almost as good as those of the man she now followed. None of that mattered, because she was small, flotsam on an uncaring tide, and the current that turned the world was too strong to swim against; a grey whirlpool carrying her relentlessly down towards the plughole, her options limiting one-by-one until there was nothing left but this.
Take advantage. Play the game.
Was there any game older than this?
Roscoe’s flat really was just round the corner. A modern glass-walled tower by the riverside. Yellow light filtered up through topiaried box-hedges, and an aluminium and wooden walkway led back from the pavement, through security gates, over a narrow, manicured lawn, to wide glass doors. A uniformed security guard was visible in the bright foyer.
“Here we are,” said Roscoe with a smile.
Poppy just nodded and followed him inside, unzipping her coat because her skin was burning, her heart banging like a broken car.
The foyer was all marble and lights. Orchids and palms. Plush fabrics and a water feature. She barely noticed, watched Roscoe nod to the concierge and put the dripping umbrella in an aluminium stand with a growing sense of hysteria. They walked to the lift, Roscoe too big, too tall at her side. Because this was really happening, she really was this desperate, stepping into a sleek little lift with Roscoe Blackton, his heavy woollen black coat brushing her shoulder as he turned to press the button.
He looked at her. Smiled. “Alright?”
What was going through his head right now? He looked a little tense, a guarded caution to his movements. She doubted it was due to her but rather whatever mood had made him leave his own party early. He’d scoffed, giving an ironic nod towards that upper floor and the thousands of pounds spent on him, carelessly shrugging off the luxury as boring. She wanted to shake him by the lapels. Don’t you realise how much you have? The thought was so loud she was surprised he couldn’t hear it. Everything is so easy for you. And now she was here, doing this…and it wasn’t easy. It was insane.
But he gave her a small smile as though they were old friends, and she took a subtle, steadying breath.
How did it even work…? Did he only give out jobs to the women who were good at stuff? She bit her lip, even though none of this was remotely funny. But it was ridiculous the things she was thinking, the thought she suddenly had of them tangled and sweaty in luxurious sheets, Roscoe reaching for his phone, pulling up an organisational chart and asking her to pick. She couldn’t do this… She had to do this. Now. Before she lost her nerve.
They faced each other across the small space, the lift going up and up. Her heart beat everywhere, her thoughts clattering together, a box of wild birds. They were standing so close that she barely needed to move in order to— Was she really going to…? Yes— She reached out and lay a hand on his chest, in the gap of his open coat, making herself smile that smile, the one that said, Yes, me and you. that’s what you want, isn’t it? What you expect.
Which was when everything stopped being ridiculous. Roscoe went completely still. He looked down at her hand on his chest, body frozen like a hunting cat, a crease in his brow that asked, What is this?
Pure desperation,she told herself. But heat flooded her, and she could feel her heartbeat in the base of her spine, in the sudden aching warmth between her thighs, so maybe that was a lie… His chest was startlingly solid under her palm, she felt the living beat of his own racing pulse, found herself stepping closer still. Her fingers shifted on the fine cotton of his shirt as his chest rose in a sharp inhale, and then…
Then Roscoe’s hand was on her hip, under her open coat. Roscoe was walking her the two steps backwards to the wall of the lift so she bumped up against it, his body following, chasing into her space, his thigh against hers. One hand stayed on her hip. His other came palm down on the wall by her head, caging her in while holding himself back. He was huge, looming over her like this, and his eyes dipped down, ran the full length of her body, undressing her in both their minds.
But he didn’t kiss her. There was still a crease in his brow, that question still there, hesitation, doubt, even as his gaze ate her alive. She didn’t feel quite lucid as she trailed her hand up his chest, watching from outside her body as she reached the strong line of his neck, the hair at the nape, caramel-soft and brushing against her trembling fingers. But the ache between her thighs grew agonisingly sharp. Maybe she wasn’t outside her body at all, maybe her body was in control… Maybe she had no power against him, blue-grey eyes on hers, and she was just flotsam afterall, fallen into his tide…
His thumb swept over her hip. His head was hanging close to hers, eyes lowered to the hand on her hip. She could see the perfect line of his eyebrows, the waves of his thick, gold-brown hair falling across his brow. She studied his cheekbones, the dark lashes of his eyes, the curve of his lips, a hard but sensual sweep.
Kiss me. Do it. Make this happen.
The smell of his coat and his skin and the cold rain filled the space between them. Did he even want her? This man who could have anything, anyone? Her feet were wet and he was warm and she was about to start shivering, trembling… Maybe she wasn’t good enough for someone like him, too bloody spoilt, rich, golden, perfect—
His voice, low. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” And his slow, dragging gaze lifted once more to her eyes, his look molten, but the words held a note of reverence that took her by surprise. The heat building inside her splintered into something sharper—a warmth with edges that could cut. But this wasn’t real, she reminded herself. This was transactional. A deal being made, a game being played. He probably said that to all the women, all the BG girls he took back to his place, part of his nice-guy charm. Except there was something un-nice in the intensity of his look, a rough hunger, as certain and sure as the hand that moved from the wall, skimmed down the side of her throat, the tips of his fingers brushing down the side of her breast, her waist, until he gripped her other hip, too, holding her there where she leant against the wall, metal cold at her back. And she was burning…
Please.
His fingers slid down to the hem of her skirt, curled underneath it… The movement made the fabric shift up, just a fraction, and the sliding friction of the satin lining against her thigh was almost too much.
Pull it up, pull it up, touch me, touch me—
The lift doors opened.
Roscoe huffed a rueful laugh, standing back. But he took her hand and led her into his flat.