Kinky Boots. KD Grace
Читать онлайн книгу.
her and just kept walking with the strange buzzing in her ears reducing everything else to background noise. She felt like her head was too full, too full of everything, colour and light and darkness and texture and scent and sounds and distance and space and time. And everything felt so completely solid. Inside her there was a powerful urge to run down the street laughing hysterically. The job from hell was finished. Finished! She’d never have to face Devlin again.
Right next door to the urge for hysterical laughter was the urge to panic hugely. The battling urges threatened to rip her chest open, threatened to cut off her breathing, threatened to drive her to her knees. But the sun was bright and the air was warm and she was going to Shoreditch to fuck the clerk at Kinky Boots.
* * *
In the end Chelsea called her fuck buddy, the banker, who called Vivie. Because she fancied him, it hadn’t taken him long to wheedle Jill Hart’s name out of her. It turned out Vivie was a bit of a matchmaker and found the idea of hooking up her friend with a hot bloke irresistible. The hot-bloke bit was Chelsea’s embellishment, not Finn’s, but if it worked, it worked. By noon, Finn had tweeted and Facebooked Jill Hart. He was sure it was her because she had a fairly good photo of herself as her avatar. He’d got the number of her landline, but there had been no answer, and he’d had no response from his efforts with social media. Jill didn’t seem like the type who would leave a debt unpaid. He was sure she’d be back once she realised that she hadn’t paid him for the boots, but by then it could be too late. It was frustrating. It was more than frustrating, it was frightening. Eleanor had never deliberately hurt anyone. Not deliberately. But after the last time, Finn couldn’t believe that she would willingly do what she’d clearly done. The thought made him cold inside.
He was getting desperate when he got a call from the Water Poet pub. The bartender was a friend. There was a woman at the bar fitting Jill’s description. She was doing tequila shots.
Chapter 4
It was only when Jill was in the tube heading toward Old Street Station that the impact of what she had done hit her full-on. She probably would have collapsed in a heap, but the carriage was packed cheek to jowl. She had just quit her job! Christ! Not only had she quit her job, but she’d told her boss to fuck himself. She hadn’t even realised she was recording the bastard. How could she not realise? If anyone else had done what she’d just done, she’d be congratulating them, patting them on the back, buying them a drink for giving the arsehole what he deserved. But it wasn’t someone else. It was neurotic, shy, insecure and now unemployed Jill Hart who had done it. What the hell would she do now?
Instead of paying for the boots she could no longer afford, Jill ended up wandering aimlessly around Shoreditch silently arguing with herself amid the Saturday bustle of shoppers. The job, which she would have otherwise enjoyed, had been a nightmare from the beginning, and all because of Devlin. And now she had the man by the short hairs. She would have a bit of a cushion until she could find what she wanted. It was all so exciting, she tried to convince herself. She had just opened the door to all kinds of new possibilities. On the other hand, she had just opened the door to poverty and moving back home with her mother, a thought that made her queasy.
She wasn’t sure how long she wandered about, or which part of her had won the argument, but when she finally came back to herself, leaning against the bar at the Water Poet pub downing her second tequila shot, she figured it was not Betty Bright-Side who had come out on top.
‘Tequila before lunch is not a good sign.’
She was surprised to find the clerk from Kinky Boots standing next to her, if anything looking even sexier in the bright light of day than he had in the mood lighting of the shoe store. He ordered a coffee.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘Are my boots equipped with a tracking device for customers who leave without paying?’
He offered her a smile that seemed to turn inwards, as though he knew a private joke. ‘Something like that.’ Then he added, ‘I figured you’d come back, and even if you didn’t, I can hardly begrudge you the boots after … well, after such a lovely down payment.’
She laughed softly at her own private joke, but then she decided not to keep it to herself. ‘Afraid a down payment may be all you’ll get. I just quit my job.’
‘Oh?’
‘My boss is an arsehole, OK, but that’s nothing new. Up until now I’ve managed to get by keeping a low profile. But today … don’t know what came over me. Guess he finally just pushed me too far.’
The man’s startling eyes darkened like a storm, and he leaned closer. ‘What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?’
She found that she didn’t, which was strange. There was a time, only yesterday in fact, when what her boss had done to her would have embarrassed her, would have made her doubt herself and wonder what she’d done to make him think of her that way.
When she’d finished her story, the clerk’s eyes had gone from stormy to a total cyclone of rage. The muscles along his jaws looked like he could chew bullets, and Jill noticed his fists clenching and unclenching at his side. ‘Sounds like the bastard deserved what he got and then some,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have had to deal with that.’
‘Well, I did. And now I’m unemployed.’ When she started to order another shot, he laid his hand on hers.
‘Don’t do that.’ He held her gaze, and the feeling wasn’t unlike looking over the cliffs into a raging sea. ‘Since you can’t afford to pay for the boots, I see no other option but to have you work off your debt, and you can’t work off your debt if you’re drunk.’
She blinked. ‘But I don’t know anything about selling shoes.’
Ignoring the fair-sized crowd of early lunchers and the press of loiterers at the bar, the clerk tilted her chin with the curve of a finger and brushed a tease of a kiss against her lips. Even though it was barely there, no part of her anatomy missed the flick of his tongue. When he pulled away, still holding her gaze, they were both breathing noticeably harder. She was suddenly aware of just how trimly the T-shirt with the electric-blue Kinky Boots logo fitted across his chest. ‘Though it wouldn’t be that hard to train you to work in the shop, what I had in mind is something that I hope you don’t need any training for.’
‘Oh. Oh!’ There was something delightful, refreshing, regenerating in the fact that he wanted her still, even in the naked light of day, even with her miserable confession of unemployment. She responded by kissing him back, by answering his tongue with a flick of her own, by brazenly resting a hand high on his thigh. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, I don’t get out much.’
‘I like women who don’t get out much. That means they’re focused on things that matter to them, and I like that a lot.’
‘Vivie calls that clueless,’ she said breathlessly.
‘I’m not Vivie, am I?’ This time the kiss included an embrace that jostled the drinkers at the bar next to them and nearly pulled her off her feet. He placed a warm hand against her bare skin, beneath the jacket and under the edge of her blouse. This time there was more than just a flick of the tongue, much more. And Jesus, did the man ever know what to do with his tongue!
Still ploughing her mouth like he expected to find hidden treasure, he fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a tenner and slapped it down on the bar. Then he pulled away for breath. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
They were only a few blocks from Kinky Boots, but it seemed too far. He barely had her out of the door before he crushed her to his chest and ravaged her mouth again, this time running both hands up under the back of her blouse, then down to cup her bottom and haul her up onto her toes until she could feel the rake of his growing hard-on against her pubic bone. He pulled away gasping, grabbed her hand and dragged her at a breakneck pace down Shoreditch High Street toward Kinky Boots. ‘We’d better hurry,’ he said. ‘This time I don’t intend to come in my pants, and I certainly don’t