In true 'me' style, I wake up at 11am. Late for work. Again. I must have slept in after staying up all night writing FanFic; yep, there's my laptop, discarded and discharged. After falling out of bed (small bed), I'm having acute trouble taming my wild, dark, frizzy hair (Exactly the same colour as my eyes). Hmmm, perhaps I should straighten my hair today, like I did when I was 13...Nah, I'm too old for pretending (I'm 27). For a quick fix of happiness, I flick on my stereo for a while, Pink's U and Ur Hand bounces off the walls of my tiny flat. Awesome! I'm dancing around, only semi dressed, as I feed my rabid kitten, Avril – who is looking at me psychotically. That's when I remember the time, and I'm dashing out the door to my red Land Rover where my emergency late kit is waiting for me; it's running low.
Damn those red lights. Good thing it gives me time to use up my late kit; I shove on my black lace up boots and stripy, grey hoodie, quickly applying black mascara and eyeliner, sparkly eyeshadow and an ice-shine pink lipstick. And now I'm off zooming down the motorways of London.
"Oh my god, Ray, you're an absolute mess!" My colleague at Beauty School, Gwen, mops at my face with a baby wipe; those things are made for bums!
"GWEN! I have to dock in. I've been here about a minute." I whisper. I widen my eyes and push past, heading towards my boss's office, who will no doubt be irritated I haven't been in to teach my classes. Oh gosh, I'm at his door.
"Rayanna Jones. You are 4 hours late!" My boss, nicknamed Mr Red-Faced-Chub is glaring at me, scrutinizing me.
"Erm...sir...I, uh...my..." I trail off no explanation necessary; this is my fifth time late, "I'll pack up my things, I'll be out in 5."
And that is the end of my career.
After lunch, I walk to the park; the children running around are cheering me up. The bench I'm perched on is cracked and graffitied, a single daisy sprouts from the grass underneath – How depressing.
"Miss, may I join you?" A tall man with short, wavy, dark hair and warm yet bottomless eyes sits next to me. Boy, is he gorgeous. He's about 28, and wears casual attire – a grey shirt and torn up jeans. Mud is smeared on his face and twigs poke out of his hair at awkward angles. So yummy.
"Looks like you've been in the wars." I smile but it falters when I spot a kid fall over. Oh, up he gets.
"I've a day off. Pretty stupid, seeing I ended up at work anyway." he laughs and gestures to his current state. I frown harder and bring out a hankie to stop me from crying – it doesn't work. Suddenly, his hand is on my shoulder, he's asking me what's wrong and he's just a stranger.
"I'm sorry to burden you with my worries and I don't even know your name!" I dry my eyes and stand up to leave, I'm too embarrassed to stay.
"I'm Alex Becker but I go by Becker. And yourself?" Becker pulls a funny face; oh he is so charming. I think he's hitting on me here, he's stands now, writing something on a tissue.
"I'm Rayanna Jones, newly fired." He nods knowingly and smiles sadly, passing me the slightly ripped paper. I do not open it.
"My fiancée disappeared recently. MIA. Anyhow," he says, straightening up, "Where'd you live, I know how to cheer us up!"
"18 Treese Drive."
"I'll meet you at 7, Rayanna, be in your best dancing gear." He winks; and as soon as he was here, he's vanished. But at least I have a date with Becker.
At 7, I'm perched on the black-as-night railings on my drive, in my red and black cocktails dress with red heels; I've even curled my hair. I feel like a total movie star. In my clutch I have everything...
And he turns up in a shimmering silver Ford Hilux, dashing in a white dress shirt and black pants – oh, so, gorgeous. I beam and slip into the passenger seat, the leather is as soft as satin.
"You good to go?" I nod, unable to speak for excitement. Then we zoom off into the night.
The place we go to isn't just any club, but it's a mind-blowing club called the Primeval. We twirl and dive and dip and jump. He is such a good dancer, I think. I pull away from him and twist my hands and legs, but he just grabs my wrists and pulls me into a close grip, and stranglehold almost. Yet, we're still dancing... He hugs me close like I am a close friend, which I am by the end of the night. We know everything about each other – he's 27, works with the government military (Cover-up?), and is incredibly worried about a girl called Jess who has shown an interest: Not good.
Gratefully (It's getting a bit awkward), both of us hop into the car, both sober. He walks me up to my door, and I face him, still holding hands; I peck him on the check politely.
"So are we going out?" he asks me, his face contorted in the grimace of known defeat.
"Yeah, course." I pull him indoors for a glass of wine. But as soon as we're on the sofa, his lips are crashing into mine, Becker's hands supporting my neck (If he didn't, it would be jelly) and then I find myself kissing back; our tongues tying each others in knots. My fingers are weaving through his wonderful hair: it feels like nothing I've ever experienced before. Now, I'm pushing him back onto my sofa, plush, sofa, our bodies melting into one. And he takes off his shirt...WOW, his abs are amazing. And what happens now, blows my mind into oblivion.
When I wake the next morning, he's hobbling back into his discarded clothes: Oh yes, he has work. I tie his laces as he shaves and gels his hair.
"I'll drive you," I say, "I can walk back." He hugs me, grinning, smelling my hair, and he kisses my forehead. The perfect boyfriend.
After I've driven him, to his work off, we both get out. We kiss passionately: I need more of him. I think, I might like him. He mumbles into my hair:
'Maybe you could get a job with me?" He runs off, Mr Fit Boy indeed. I unfold the tissue he gave me.
It's his number.