A Bad Boy's Gift

Chapter 2

"Thanks for coming, Mr Jameson, will we be seeing you next Saturday?" I ask as our Saturday night regular is walking out of the door. He's our last customer for the night. 

"I'll have to check with the Missus, dear. I hope so though!" He gives a sweet smile and waves as he walks out of the door. 

I start shutting down the bar, looking forward to swimming lessons tomorrow morning. 

I lock the building up as I leave, checking and double checking that I've done everything I needed to do. 

I walk to my car in the 11o'clock darkness, feeling the April chill down my neck, wishing I'd brought my cardigan into the building instead of leaving it in the car to get cold. 

I start my car, hearing the purr of the engine, as loud as a race car, wishing it was just that. I pull out of my parking space and pull up to the edge of the car park contemplating a trip to Maccies before heading home. The decision is made before I can weigh up the pros and cons, deciding I deserve a few calories after the busy Saturday night I've had.

I slip the car into first and release the clutch, putting just a little too much pressure on the accelerator, encouraging my car to spin as I pull off. 

I feel the high from flying down the country roads at at least 10mph above the speed limit. Driving at this time makes me feel free, there's no cars or, more importantly, tractors, slowing me down. Music blaring as I pull into the drive thru and quickly decide on a large chicken nugget meal and banana milkshake. 

When I get to the counter to receive my order the young boy, who looks about 15, says, "Nice whip, mate." I realise he hasn't realised I'm a girl, expecting the typical boy racer to poke his head out the window to thank him. His jaw drops when he sees my face, "Thanks, mate." I smirk at him with a slight dig at him calling me mate. 

I rev the engine, sure to get his dick twitching, take the paper bag from his hand and pull off from his hatch. I giggle to myself, loving the way lads stop in their tracks seeing me driving my BMW M140i, in the sleekest of greys, of course. I know some may think it's a drug dealer's car, but it makes me happy, and that's what's important.

I stuff my face with my dinner while I drive to my residence, pulling into the driveway as I finish my last nugget. I pull into the parking space my parents keep reserved for me outside, keeping the garage for my Father's Porsche 911 and Lamborghini Aventador. My Mother's Range Rover sits a few metres away from me, but the Jaguar F-Type isn't anywhere to be seen, reminding me that they're both in the Maldives for another ten days. 

I open the front door and am greeted by the smell of cookies. Hudson must have been baking. 

"Hey, dickhead, where you at?" I shout through the house that's too big for our family of four. 

I hear the sound of pots and pans being clattered around the kitchen. What mess am I going to walk into now? 

I swing the kitchen door open to see my 12 year old brother putting a saucepan in a cupboard that it doesn't belong in. But I'm not surprised that he doesn't know where anything goes, the only person who tends to cook in our house is Agnes, the chef my Father hires when they're home. It tends to be takeaways or ready meals when our parents are away, why waste a chef's excellent food on their ungrateful children, my Mother said when they left for their second holiday this year. 

"Hud, it doesn't go there." I startle him. "That one." I point to a different cupboard where the pots and pans actually go.

"Thanks Sis, want a cookie?" He beams, looking towards the cooling rack covered with American style cookies. "They actually taste quite nice!" He looks proud of himself.

I head over and pick one up, break it in half and smell the sweet smell coming out of it. I take a bite and it melts in my mouth. How did the kid learn to cook this well? I think to myself, savouring the taste of chocolate in my mouth.

"Wow, just needs a cuppa." I smile at him and boil the kettle. "Want one?" I ask him, he nods and I pull two mugs out of the cupboard above the kettle. 

"How was work?" He asks, pulling himself up onto the kitchen worktop waiting for his tea. 

"Busy," is all I manage to say. I pour the tea and hand him his mug, "Don't stay up too late, I have swimming in the morning, and you've got rugby too, I don't want to drag you out of your pit for another Sunday in a row." I tell him as I pick up another couple of cookies on my way out of the kitchen, flicking off the main light, leaving the spot light above the island so Hudson doesn't fall on his arse trying to get to bed.

I don't wait for a response, just head upstairs and into my room. I turn my bedside light on, illuminating the room in a soft glow. I put my mug and cookies on my bedside table and head into my dressing room, strip my clothes off and have a quick rinse off in my enormous en-suite, reminding myself I'll be washing my hair after swim teaching tomorrow. 

I pull on my silk nightie, the only piece of clothing my mother insists I wear; we wouldn't want to be seen dead in a tee-shirt if we had to be rescued in the middle of the night would we River, dear? My mother's words make me shiver. At least I shaved before putting it on, letting the silky smoothness slide over my intimate areas. 

I climb into bed after letting my hair fall, in it's ringlets, down my back. Reaching only 6 inches above my hips. I drink my tea and eat my cookies in the quiet of my room, letting myself relax before I settle to sleep.

When I'm finished I turn the light off and smile, thinking about the excitement of the new children I'll be teaching to swim tomorrow as I fade into sleep.