The Varlet and the Voyeur Read online

  “No.” They have something against dating me. “I’ve gone on a few dates with women who are celebrities, and it never worked.”

  Based on previous experience, I was not the kind of long-term partner a supermodel, musician, or an actress wanted.

  “Then it wouldn’t be a lie, you’ve done it before.” Ronan’s tone was clipped, like he was losing patience. “You just have to take them out to dinner.”

  But it would be a lie. It would be dishonest because I wouldn’t date someone I had no intention of starting a relationship with, or vice versa. And I didn’t want to. I would be using them to erase a perceived stain on my reputation, and that didn’t sit right with me.

  “Ronan, I can’t use a person like that. I—”

  The team captain cut off my protest, holding his hand up. “Holy shit, William. Will you listen to yourself? You’re dating supermodels and that is that!”

  Three

  @JoseyInHeels: Quite like a dog, I sweat through the pads of my feet. #interestingfactsaboutjosey

  @ECassChoosesPikachu to @JoseyInHeels: That’s hot #punintended

  @JoseyInHeels to ECassChoosesPikachu: On the bright side, I never have to worry about armpit stains #alsohot

  JOSEY

  “I won’t lie, it’s been a stressful week.” I sighed as I sat down to dinner with Eilish and Bryan.

  Patrick was at the other end of the table, discreetly feeding his peas to Rocky.

  “Yeah, you must be tired,” Bryan commented dryly.

  He was obviously being sarcastic, since I’d woken him up several times this week. But it wasn’t my fault there’d been a spider the size of my hand on the ceiling. The next night the neighbors made Rocky bark like mental with their vacuuming, though why they were doing housework at three in the morning is anyone’s guess. And let’s not forget the fact that Eilish had a full-length mirror at the very top of her staircase. I went down last night for a glass of water and got the fright of my life on the way back when I saw a woman standing there. I screamed at the top of my lungs, like any normal person would. And yes, okay, it was merely my own reflection looking back at me, but how was I supposed to know that?

  Needless to say, Bryan’s hospitality was wearing thin. Not that it had been very plentiful to begin with. I knew he wasn’t my biggest fan, and I didn’t blame him. I was a babbling, flustered mess around handsome men.

  Okay, sorry. That’s not precisely true. I was a babbling, flustered mess around people I didn’t know. All people, handsome or not. I always managed to say something to make everyone feel uncomfortable. It was my superpower.

  Here I’d known Bryan almost a full year and was only now getting used to talking like a normal human being around him.

  I cleared my throat, glancing at Eilish. “I spent this morning searching for studio apartments to rent. I also applied for a bunch of jobs online, so fingers crossed I’ll get some interviews.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you will,” she reassured.

  “How are you with interviews though?” Bryan questioned doubtfully, and Eilish lightly elbowed him in the side.

  “Don’t listen to him,” she said, her smile strained.

  “No, it’s fine. I prefer you to be honest with me. Besides, I know I’m not the best at, um, creating a rapport. Now, if only I could rap my way to a rapport. Then I’d get all the jobs!” I grinned, hoping to make them smile and remind them of my better than average rhyming abilities, which also happened to be one of my top three endearing qualities. The other two were my dog and my ability to do complicated maths without scrap paper.

  “You just need to practice. Everybody gets nervous for interviews.”

  “Josey gets a little more than nervous, Eilish,” Bryan said, ever the truth teller. His expression was almost sympathetic as he went on, “No offence, but sometimes you—inadvertently I’m sure—insult people. And you can come across a little overenthusiastic. When we first met I thought you were a rabid fan who would’ve sold her grandmother to be seen with a celebrity.”

  “Oh please, you’re hardly a celebrity. You’re a famous sportsperson, you’re not Benedict Cumberbatch,” Eilish teased, and he shot her a narrow-eyed half-smile.

  “As I was saying”—Bryan brought his gaze back to me—“what we need to do is find you a job where you don’t have to interview.”

  “Ha-ha!” I smacked the table and snort-laughed, causing Patrick and Rocky to jump. To be fair, I always snorted when I laughed. It was just my laugh, nothing I could do about it!

  Still laughing, I sent Patrick an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Patrick. It’s just, who’s ever heard of a job where they cut out the interview part and just skip straight to the Congratulations, you’re hired part? Sign me up.”

  Bryan’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he ate a bite of chicken, his gaze on me. And then he blinked, as something like an idea or a realization formed behind his eyes.

  I tensed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I think I have it,” he pointed his fork at me in a way that had me wanting to lift my plate to protect myself. Bryan continued excitedly, “I actually might have a job for you. I’m just trying to decide if you’re the right person.”

  “I’m the right person,” I enthused, maybe a little too fervently. “And if I’m not, I’ll change so that I am the right person. Seriously, you know how much I need a job. I don’t want to drop out of college or defer my course. I’ll literally do anything if it means I can earn enough money to pay my way.”

  Bryan pointed his fork at me again, this time a little less aggressively. “You see, this is what I’m talking about. You come across desperate.”

  “But I am desperate.”

  “That’s beside the point. If I put you forward for this “job,” you can’t act like that. Think of the mantra, be yourself, and then do the exact opposite.”

  “Bryan!” Eilish hissed.

  “What? She said she wanted honesty.”

  “Well, you could be a little nicer about it, and why did you put bunny ears around the word ‘job’?” She sounded suspicious.

  Bryan lifted a shoulder, not looking at either of us when he replied, “It’s an unconventional setup.”

  “As in?”

  “William needs a, uh, roommate.”

  “William Moore? Your teammate who you used to live with? The American?” I asked curiously. I’d never actually met the Oklahoman before, but I’d seen him at one or two events I attended with Eilish. He was always so reserved and polite, but not very approachable. I only saw him speak with other players on the team.

  Bryan nodded. “Yep, that’s the one.”

  “Why does Will need a roommate?” Eilish asked. “And more to the point, how is being a roommate a job?”

  “Well, it’s actually more of a babysitting position.”

  “Will has kids? How did I not know this?” Eilish exclaimed, dropping her fork onto her plate.

  “No, he doesn’t have kids.” Bryan rubbed the spot between his eyebrows and glanced at his son. Patrick’s plate was empty, though I suspected my dog had eaten half of it. “Hey buddy, why don’t you open that new Lego set, eh?”

  “Can I have cake, too?” Patrick asked as Bryan ushered him into the living room.

  Bryan mumbled something, and then I heard, “… I have to check with your mam.”

  Eilish and I shared a look—she seemed to be mostly amused—and when Bryan returned, he took his seat and exhaled before speaking. “Will is the one who needs to be babysat.”

  Eilish frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “He needs a companion, sort of like a sober companion, to keep him on the straight and narrow.”

  “Okay, this is just getting more confusing.” Eilish wrinkled her nose. “Will barely even drinks.”

  “He has . . . other vices.” Bryan’s eyes were fastened to his water glass.

  “Such as?” Eilish nudged him again gently.

  Finally, he sighed, and spoke mostly to himself
, “I guess you two are gonna read all about it in the papers anyway.”

  Both Eilish and I exchanged another glance, this time she didn’t look amused. She looked worried.

  “Will is into voyeurism.” Bryan blurted. “He’s been watching other people have sex for years and now some gossip journalists have gotten their hands on the story. It’s all going to come out sometime this week, so we’re preemptively working on damage control. I was pulled into the meeting today because we’re friends.” Bryan, still not looking at either of us, crossed his arms; he looked super uncomfortable and his voice pitched higher. “He’s not a weirdo or a pervert. It’s just his thing. But he wants to stop, so he needs a roommate. He needs someone to live with him, and keep an eye on his behavior, and stop him from making any unwise decisions.”

  “Oh my goodness,” Eilish breathed after several long seconds. “That’s so bizarre. I never would’ve guessed. He’s just such a…such a gentleman.”

  “Being a voyeur doesn’t mean you can’t be a gentleman,” Bryan countered defensively.

  “Well, yeah, but it’s still surprising. Will never struck me as the kinky sort.”

  I wasn’t surprised like Eilish, maybe because I didn’t know him. But I did have so many questions—SO MANY QUESTIONS!—but I daren’t ask them. I might’ve been more comfortable around Bryan now, but I wasn’t that comfortable.

  I cleared my throat, folding my hands on my lap. “So, um, what would the job entail exactly?”

  He eyed me speculatively. “You’d have to move in with him, live there in his apartment, check up on him a few times a week, and keep an eye on his behavior. I guess you’ll need to check his internet history, since apparently he finds couples online to, you know, watch.”

  “Sounds pretty full on, like a live-in nanny for grown-ups,” Eilish commented, and I got to thinking.

  Was I the right person for this? It sounded like it’d take a pretty ballsy gal to lay down the law for a 6’5” rugby player who was more than twice my width.

  But…but I needed a job.

  Plus, this wasn’t just a job.

  This was a job and a place to live.

  It’s perfect!

  But also intimidating. Will was a stranger. A handsome stranger, hot in a wholesome farm boy who could throw you around a haystack in the barn—or the bedroom—without even breaking a sweat sort of way. Plus, a gentleman. Plus, a talented and dedicated professional athlete. Plus, from what everyone said, just a super nice guy.

  Plus, he’s kinky.

  The thought made me smirk. I quickly rolled my lips between my teeth to hide it.

  I’d be nuts not to fancy him a little bit already, even though we hadn’t even officially met. If I fancied someone, having an ordinary, grown-up conversation was impossible. This was true for me of both women and men. If I met a woman and I thought she would make a great friend, then I was most certainly doomed to say something horrible.

  As an example, when I first met Eilish I asked if I could climb her (because she was so tall).

  See?

  Horrible.

  Still, this was too good an opportunity to pass up. I had to at least explore the possibility.

  I fiddled with the hem of my shirt. “Do you think Will would be open to meeting with me? Obviously, there’d have to be an interview. No getting around that. I’m more than willing to help, but he would need to decide if I’m someone he could live with,” I finished and tried not to look directly at Bryan when I said it.

  “I’ll run the idea by him.” Bryan eyed me, his smile small and hopeful. “If he’s agreeable, we’ll set up a meeting. You two could go for coffee and have an informal interview.”

  I nodded, nervous butterflies fizzing in my stomach already.

  But I tried to take some of Bryan’s advice and endeavored to sound cool as I responded, “Sounds like a plan.”

  Now I just needed to figure out how I was going to convince William Moore I was right for the job, and not a ridiculous bobble-headed moron.

  Easy, right?

  Two days later, I sat waiting in Bewley’s on Grafton Street to meet William. It was a large, busy café, so at least if things got weird—I mean, when things got weird—there’d be distractions. I was upstairs beside an open window, through which you could hear a guitarist playing an instrumental piece as he busked down on the street. I took this as a good sign. It meant that any awkward silences wouldn’t be quite so punctuated.

  Not that I ever really left room for silence. I was more inclined to ramble about any subject that popped into my head. Since I was trying my best to be “normal” and not come across “desperate” as Bryan so kindly put it, I had a list of subjects that were off limits.

  1.How Rocky once got diarrhea and pooed all over my bedroom.

  2.How I had to clean up said poo.

  3.How I prefer to use men’s deodorant because it works better, but also because it allows me to pretend there’s a man in my life.

  4.My favorite brand of bandages.

  5.That I once had a unibrow, but through the miracle of laser hair removal, I now have two eyebrows instead.

  And yes, all of these were topics I brought up in recent conversations, effectively killing the atmosphere.

  It was an illness.

  I wondered if many other people felt this way, or if it was just me. Was I somehow defective, or did everyone get anxious in social situations? And if everyone did, how come my resultant verbal dysentery was so pronounced? Did I have some sort of vociferous diarrhea gene whereas others had vociferous constipation?

  To be honest, I’d take constipation over diarrhea any day of the week. All you have to do is eat prunes and BAM! However, with diarrhea, there’s nothing you can do to stem the flow . . . as it were.

  But enough about that.

  When I spotted William Moore walking up the stairs I stood immediately, thinking he might not know me on sight. He wore a navy shirt that looked like it barely fit around his arms, shoulders, and chest, gray slacks and brown shoes. They looked high quality, probably Italian. I wished I’d made a bit more of an effort to dress nicely, but I’d come straight from my intern position and was in my veterinary scrubs and oversized knit jumper, my hair a knot atop my head.

  Anyway, standing was my first mistake, because my leg bashed off the table, knocking over the glass of water the waitress brought me. I winced, both at the pain in my leg and the mess I’d made of the table. Will’s eyes came to mine when he heard the kerfuffle. I plastered on a friendly expression and tried to act calm.

  “You must be Josey,” he said with a small smile as he approached. Even though it was small, it set my heart pounding. He seemed completely confident and at ease. I hadn’t even opened my mouth and already I was failing.

  “Yes, I am she.” I nodded. “Sorry about the water. I’m all fingers and thumbs. That’s not a euphemism by the way, hahaha.”

  Oh, man. This was bad.

  At least I managed not to open with So, voyeurism, eh? What’s all that about? But really, my inner pervert was intrigued. She wanted to know where, why, and with whom he engaged in such activities, but I guessed quizzing him on kink right now wouldn’t work in my favor.

  Will’s mouth did a weird, non-smiling quirk thing, but I couldn’t tell if it was a good or a bad sign. Probably bad.

  “Didn’t think it was,” he replied, and I swallowed.

  “Oh my goodness, I’ve offended you, haven’t I? It was supposed to be a joke, but sometimes I have a weird sense of humor. Anyway, just pretend I never said it.” I held my hand out to him. “I’m Josey Kavanagh and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  He took my normal sized hand and shook it in his giant one. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too. I’m Will. Bryan said you’re a friend of Eilish?”

  “Yes, me and Eilish go way back to our days in the ’hood.”

  Silence.

  Stop trying to make jokes, Josey. They’re going down like a glass of cold vomit.

&nbs
p; “She’s my physio.” His eyes got all crinkly and I wondered if maybe he had a soft spot for her. Eilish had her fair share of admirers, so it wouldn’t surprise me if he did. She was kind, strong, and smart, beautiful, easy to talk to.

  “Yeah, she’s great with her hands.” I nodded and internally winced. Usually, I had a ratio of three okay statements for every awkward one. Now every single sentence coming out of my mouth was bad.

  William—er, Will—didn’t seem bothered though, or maybe he was just good at hiding it.

  “Can I take your order?” the waitress asked, having approached the table, and I was glad for the distraction. She used a cloth to dry up the spilled water as I replied, “Yes, I’ll have tea.”

  “Black coffee, thank you,” Will said.

  The waitress left, and Will held my gaze for a second. His eyes drifted along my forehead, then travelled down to my chin. He blinked, his eyebrows inching together.

  I stiffened. “Do I have something on my face?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  I frowned, touching my chin. “Are you sure? You can tell me.”

  “No.”

  “No, you’re not going to tell me? Or no, I have nothing on my face?” Now I was searching my cheeks with my fingers.

  “No, you have nothing on your face.” His eyebrows did this odd thing, where they came together and then apart, and then together again, like he was trying to clear his expression.

  I squinted at him. “In my teeth? There’s something in my teeth.” I picked up a spoon and checked the reflection. Unfortunately, it was concave, so I was upside down.

  “There’s nothing in your teeth.” His calm voice held a hint of something I couldn’t identify. When I glanced at him again his gaze was still moving over my face in a peculiar way. So I dropped the spoon, unhappy with its distorted reflective qualities, and picked up the knife.

  “There’s nothing on your face, I promise. It’s just—”

  “What?” I wiped my nose with the back of my hand because—oh God—I probably had a hanging snot.