Page 12 of Parker

Chapter eight

Nicky's Mother's Apartment, Inner-City Glasgow

Nicky

I skip into my mother’s home, high on life, the previous night with Joel orgasmic in my memory.

“Where were you last night?” she barks. “I thought you went to a meeting?”

“I did.” A huge smile spreads across my face. “And I met this most amazing man.”

My mother balks. Her mouth opens and closes, but no sound materializes.

She looks like a child’s toy waiting for its puppet master to control it.

Giving her no further explanation, I sweep past her to my room.

“Don’t be stupid, Nicky,” she snaps, finding her voice again.

“You don’t know this man. You don’t know what a man like that wants from a girl like you. ”

I pause in the doorway, hand on the frame.

“You’ve been out five minutes and you’re already throwing yourself at the first bloke who looks your way.” Her voice rises with every word. “Don’t forget what happened the last time I trusted the wrong man. Look where it landed you.”

There it is. The sting. The reminder she can’t help but toss in, sharp and accusing.

“I’m not going back to prison because of a man,” I mumble. “Don’t worry.”

She scoffs. “You better not. Because if you screw this up, I won’t be here to clean up the mess.”

Sitting on the bed, I rerun the events of yesterday, breaking each part into tiny frames that I can lose myself in.

His late entry to the AA meeting. How he swaggered in full of confidence, beholden to no one.

Our stolen glances across the circle as other members driveled on about their lives.

The café, where we talked for hours and consumed mountains of cake.

Then last night at his home, the way he fucked me. I felt alive. Female. Wanted. Like I’d stepped straight into someone’s fantasy. But the way he snuggled in behind me, planting kisses on my shoulder, had made it feel like so much more than sex. It felt like something I didn’t dare want.

He dropped me at the bottom of the street on his way to work this morning, promising to call later.

If he doesn’t, then I know it was a one-night stand.

I deleted his number as soon as I got home, not wanting to lose my nerve and call first. He is going to have to contact me.

With dozens of AA meetings across the city, chances are I would never see him again unless he wanted to see me.

The day drags. I pick up books and put them down again, unable to focus.

Nothing holds my attention, not when I’m already halfway lost in the fairytale building in my head.

My wayward eyes constantly flick to my phone, lying mute on the floral bedspread.

I keep picking it up, shaking it, and pressing the buttons to make sure it is working.

The time hits two in the afternoon, and there is still no word.

Panic bubbles in my chest. Perhaps this is what the stunning Mr. Parker does on a weeknight.

Picks up unsuspecting women at alcoholic meetings and takes them home to have his wicked way with them.

Thoughts of his hands on my body cause my arousal to surface once more.

Never have I felt so connected to someone.

Perhaps my mother was right. I have fallen foul to the first man to look my way more than once.

Ten years in prison has meant I haven’t had a relationship with a man in a long time, not since my late teens.

I’m not sure what a good relationship looks like.

There was one woman in prison. We filled the void for each other while stuck inside, clinging together in our shared cell during sleepless nights.

Prior to being incarcerated, I had never had a relationship with a woman.

Many were close friends, but never a physical, romantic friendship.

It made me question my sexuality briefly, wondering if I had crossed a line that I could never return from.

But now, I realize I was attracted to her, not the gender assigned at her birth.

My fingers twist the edge of the sheet as my thoughts spiral. Outside, a car backfires, dragging me back to the present.

My phone buzzes against the soft fabric. I recognize the final digits of the number. I smile to myself. He called. The screen lights up, and for a second, I just stare at it. My pulse spikes. He called.

Picking it up, I hit the green button, hardly able to contain the grin spreading across my face.

“Good afternoon, beautiful. How was your day?”

My words don’t come easy. I realize now I’d been bracing for disappointment.

“Nicky, are you there?” His voice is velvet on the line, smooth and warm, and I feel my heart quicken with each word that slips past his lips. “Are you just going to keep heavy breathing down the phone? Because right now, you’re speaking directly to my cock.”

A giggle escapes. This man is filthy. And it’s a complete turn-on.

“I’m here,” I whisper. “Good afternoon, Mr. Parker. I hope you’re not working too hard.”

He chuckles. “My mind’s elsewhere. I can assure you of that. Can I see you this evening?”

My breath hitches at his unexpected suggestion. Another soft laugh from him follows, like he already knows the effect he’s having.

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” I admit.

“Is it a problem?”

I bite my lip, considering. To hell with it—of course it’s not a bloody problem. This man makes me feel alive. Like sparks in my veins.

“I’d love to.”

“Excellent. I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear something sexy and bring your overnight bag.” His voice drops, thick with promise. “Prepare to be spoiled.”

The line goes dead, and I’m left staring at the blank screen. A date. A real date. He didn’t just call. He wants me.

***

Sophie sits on her bed; she’s casually swiping through outfit ideas on her phone. We’ve spent the past hour in her bedroom, tearing her wardrobe to shreds. Prison left me with limited options for sexy outfits, and any of my pre-jail dresses were too small or embarrassingly outdated.

Sophie, on the other hand, has a wardrobe the queen would envy. She loves shopping. Her dresses are crammed into the small space on her rail, and the overflow is stacked neatly at the bottom of the wardrobe.

“So,” she says, “we’re aiming for classy but sexy, with an undercurrent of slutty.”

I laugh at her summary. “Sounds about right.”

“There’s no point pretending you’re not a slut.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Considering you spread your legs for him last night after three hours of his company.”

I flush. Her words hit me like a freight train.

Yesterday, I was a complete and utter whore.

So much for growing up in prison. A sexy man comes on to me, and I fall straight onto his dick.

But to be fair, Joel Parker is the most gorgeous man, and the incredible orgasms are one hundred percent worth having loose morals for.

“Wait until you see him, Soph,” I tell her again.

She smiles softly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Concern lingers there, unspoken.

“He’s wonderful.”

“Nicky, I don’t want to rain on your parade,” she says.

“But you’re about to.” I try, but fail, to stop my face looking like I’ve sucked on a lemon.

“No, but please be careful. I don’t want to see you hurt just after you’re back with us.” She stares at me, and her voice drops. “I can’t lose my best friend again.”

Tears spring to my eyes. The lump in my throat grows too big to swallow. We hold each other for what feels like a lifetime. Sophie was the only person who came to visit me every other week when I was in jail. She never missed one—unless she went on holiday with her asshole ex-boyfriend.

“I counted down the days until you were home,” she murmurs into my hair. “I won’t let anyone wreck that.”

I blink, startled by the quiet pain in her voice.

I’d spent so long wrapped in my grief and survival, I hadn’t stopped to consider what it cost Sophie to lose me, to visit month after month, never knowing if I’d be okay.

She was always the bright one, the funny one, but beneath that, she'd been holding the thread between us with shaking hands.

And I never once asked how it felt to be the one left behind.

Guilt squeezes my ribs. I’ve been selfish. I thought prison only destroyed my life, but it took pieces of hers too.

“Right,” she says finally, pulling back from me. Her cheeks are wet, and her mascara has run, giving her panda eyes. We giggle at each other’s appearance.

“Let’s make you impossible to forget.”

Two hours later, I stare at the woman looking back at me in the mirror.

She’s stunning. I can’t quite believe it’s me.

My dark eyes are rimmed in liner, lips painted a deep red.

My hair hangs in thick, glossy curls down my back.

I’m wearing a royal-blue bandage dress which dips into a low V-shaped neckline.

The push-up bra Sophie has me stuffed into leaves nothing to the imagination.

On her advice, I’m not wearing any panties.

“Trust me,” she demands. “When he runs his hands up your thigh and you’re open for him, he’ll go wild. Don’t be a prude now, Nicky. Go there and fuck his brains out.”

I laugh, nerves bubbling under the surface. Sophie is always so sure of herself, but right now, I feel anything but.

Joel is picking me up from Sophie’s apartment.

I didn’t want my mother to know where I was going.

She wouldn’t approve, and in the one hour we spent together today, her nagging became incessant.

Her words roll around my brain, and I smirk.

When you live under my roof, you play by my rules.

What a first-class hypocrite. It’s a shame she didn’t have the same morals when it came to my father’s sex life.

My phone buzzes. A message lights up the screen.

Outside, Beautiful. You’ve got five seconds before I come up there and carry you down.

Butterflies dance in my stomach. Is he as gorgeous as I remember? Will things be as easy as they were last night, or was it some sort of out-of-body experience?