scarves and postcards. I stepped forward so see a picture of Steve smiling amongst a celebrating team.
“Wow, quite a fan.”
“Singers,” he said.
“This is some collection.”
“Aye.”
The rest of the room was plain enough, just a couple of floral prints amongst the football craziness. A signed shirt hung above the fireplace, a signed football in an old armchair. I could only imagine the female touch was long gone.
“Do you go to the games?”
“Sometimes.”
“And Jason? Is he a Singers fan, too?”
He stared at me like it was a trick question. “...Yeah.”
“Does he go with you?”
“...He goes quite a bit.”
“Sorry,” I smiled. “I’m being nosy. Let’s make a move.”
I startled as I hauled myself up into Steve’s old Land Rover. The cut of the seat was familiar. I ran my fingers along the window frame, the same little dents and grooves. “Is this your car?”
“Aye,” he said. The same rumble of the engine as he turned the key.
“But this is...”
“Jase uses it sometimes.”
We chugged down the muddy track, well and truly in the middle of nowhere. “What car did Jason drive off in?”
“His own car.”
“Does he work far away?”
“Few miles,” he said, shooting me a nervous glance. “Over by Cobham.”
“Does he stay here often?”
He shook his head. “Only last night.”
“Does he live close by?”
“Close enough.”
“Have you met his wife?”
Poor Steve nearly veered off the road. He recovered quickly, but his face was flushed. I fought the urge to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
“Yeah, I’ve met her, unfortunately.”
“You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?”
“All my life, nearly.”
“Have you done this before? Threesomes, I mean?”
I could tell he really didn’t want to answer the question. “Not for a long time.”
I could almost hear his sigh of relief as we pulled onto my street. I directed him to pull up outside, knowing the yard would be rammed. He held a hand up in farewell and didn’t loiter.
It pained to find my curiosity hadn’t been eased in the slightest. Quite the opposite.
I only wanted to know more about my dirty bad Jason than ever.
***
Jason
I knuckled down hard at training, giving it everything I had and then some. I made a little pact with myself on the pitch that morning. One extra year’s contract and I’d walk away. Fifty-fifty or no. I could spend smart, sound investments this time, set myself up somewhere pretty good. Maybe not the sprawling twelve bedroom Surrey estate we’d ploughed our money into, but something decent. Something without April in it.
And Gemma? Her image flashed behind my eyes.
Fuck knows.
Powell came charging up the pitch towards me, head down and all out to score. I still felt the pang of jealousy, all too aware of his cock pressing into my dirty girl’s ass on the Kings’ dance floor. Come at me, asshole.
I took him out, a sweet fucking tackle that stole the ball before he had chance to break for goal. I’d taken another five from him already and his frustration was showing. I smirked as he cursed his footwork.
“Better fucking luck next time.”
He shrugged. “What’s your beef, man?”
“Playing the game, Powell, just playing the fucking game.”
Final whistle. My side was up 3-0. Win.
Trevor slapped my back as I headed to the changing rooms.
“Looking good, Redfern, on fucking fire.”
“Feeling good, Trev, right on my game.”
“Keep this up, lad, and I won’t be able to let you hang your boots up end of season. April will have to wave goodbye to all those foreign holidays.”
“I’m sure she’d survive.”
“We might well see, Jase. Keep it fucking sharp, lad.”
I could still smell my dirty girl on my fingers as I took a shower. The beautiful scent of her clinging to my skin. I wondered where she was, what she was doing. A text answered my questions.
Gemma: At home with Chelsea. Can’t stop thinking about you. Please arrange our grand finale soon, Jason. I don’t know how much longer I can keep the blindfold on. xx
Shit.
It was time to text Vince.
***
Gemma
I practically knocked Cara off her pretty little feet.
“Saturday night!” I squealed. “The big night.”
“Whoa!” She grinned. “For real?”
I nodded. “I’m so nervous.”
“Nerves are good,” she said. “Enjoy it.”
I twirled around the pole over and over, jumping into position to begin our routine run-through. Our dance was taking shape, really good shape, and so was I. My calves were gaining tone, my arms too. I hoisted myself up, gripping the pole tight between my thighs.
“Looking good, Figi. Real good.”
“Couple of weeks to go,” I said. “I’m looking forward to being up on that stage. Another fantasy