Curve Ball

CURVEBALL

An erotic novella 

Charlotte Stein

Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2013

ISBN 9781909520677

Copyright © Charlotte Stein 2013

The right of Charlotte Stein to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

Chapter One

The trouble with this holiday is the heat. I just didn’t think of the heat. It’s unrelenting and raw, turning everything a blinding white while it roasts me to an embarrassing shade of red. I step out in it for two seconds and my shoulders lose a layer of skin. I can’t lie out on the slippery surface of my brother’s yacht, because the heat tries to eat me. But I can’t go below deck either, because down there it’s a suffocating, stifling cave.

Even at night, I have the urge to lie on top of the covers, stark naked. Only I can’t, I can’t, because of the other trouble with this terrible holiday: Steven bloody Stark, and the fact that his door is three feet from my bed. He could open it at any time and find me like a great unclothed wedge of flesh, sprawled out on top of my duvet. He wouldn’t even have to go through another door to stumble across me, seeing as how my room doesn’t have one.

I don’t actually have a room, at all. I just have this open space between the kitchenette and my brother’s boudoir, and when I’m done sleeping my bed turns into a table. My wardrobe is more typically known as a suitcase, and every night I doze off to the scent of whatever we cooked three hours prior, for dinner.

I really don’t need to be told that this was the worst idea in the history of the world.

Though, in my defence, it sounded nice when my brother and his wife invited me. They didn’t even turn it into one of Jason’s patronising “so you won’t be alone” sorts of sermons. He’d made it sound, instead, like something that would take my mind off things – help me get over yet another failed relationship.

And in all fairness, it has achieved this. I’m no longer thinking about Frank, at all. I can barely remember his face, in fact – though I’ll admit that probably has more to do with the Mediterranean heat and its ability to melt my brain, than anything else.

Not to mention the effect of Steven Stark, and his ability to be absolutely everywhere, all at once. I turn around and he’s right there, like the Incredible Hulk. Only bigger. Oh God, he’s so big that his presence everywhere is practically a law of physics. He has to be in ten places at once, just to cram in his massive pecs.

Because honestly, I’ve never seen pecs like his in all my days. I almost asked my brother about it, once – after we’d had that pool party and Steven had turned up wearing a T-shirt so tight it almost qualified as a secondary layer of skin. But of course, I’d chickened out at the last minute. What sort of person asks their brother about his best friend’s manboobs? Not a normal person, that’s for sure.

And besides … What did I really think he was going to say? “Ah well, he developed those rock hard bosoms with a strict regimen of daily squeezings?” That’s just me, hoping for something daft, in my head. When really it’s something awesome and sweaty and sexy, like 17,000 push-ups using just one hand.

He probably does them half-naked. He probably does them half-naked, while covered in baby oil. And then when he’s done, he goes out to a nightclub and laughs at girls like me, for being so fat and awful and useless – because that’s the other problem with being in close proximity to Steven Stark. It’s not just his size, or his fast-talking-always-moving mouth. It’s not just his face, which tends to haunt my dreams a bit.

It’s his ability to make me feel like nothing. Like less than nothing.

And he just does it so effortlessly too. I’m there, busy minding my own business, book in hand. I’m not even paying attention to the conversation going on next to me, in all honesty. I’m still mad at my brother for springing a surprise Steven on me, for reasons I really don’t want him to go into.

So I’m doing my best to keep to myself. I’ve reduced my presence down to almost nothing, in fact. You’d barely know I was there, if it were not for the half-eaten slice of pizza on my plate and the two-thirds of a bottle of wine that’s now missing, thanks to me. I’m slightly woozy and nicely relaxed, when Steven blunders in with his size 57s.

‘So I picked up this cute little fat chick,’ he says.

And suddenly every inch of skin on my body is prickling and bristling. My armpits feel like an alarm has gone off inside them, and the already unbearable heat intensifies. If it gets any hotter, my face is going to melt right off the bone beneath – and all because he said that one magical word.

Fat
, I think, and then I’m picturing myself beneath it in Steven Stark’s dictionary. I’d definitely qualify as that very thing – it can’t be denied. Anything over a size two would likely make the grade, in his eyes, and I passed that stage around 12 levels ago. You could times his ideal size by seven and still not get where I’m at.

So of course this story is going to apply to me. I can feel how much it’s going to apply to me. It might even be aimed in my direction – you know, like one of those helpful passive-aggressive tossers who talks loudly about Weight Watchers around you in the hopes you’ll get the hint.

Though I don’t know I’m right until he gets to this part:

‘And I mean, she was a
big
girl. I could hardly get my arms around her waist.’

That’s definitely me. Even though he could wrap one of his massive arms around my waist twice and still have room for half a rugby team.

‘And her arse … Man, her arse was the size of a small planet.’

He’s practically reading my bio!

‘But the best part was these thighs she had … These big, billowing thighs.’

Oh God … My thighs
billow
? I didn’t think they were that bad. They’re actually quite smooth and cellulite-free, in truth, and up until this point I’d almost dared to wear a swimsuit a couple of times, because of them. My legs are quite short, but I definitely didn’t think they were this horrible.

Until right now.

Until Steven Stark, and his almighty gob of horrendous awfulness. He just keeps going on and on about this poor girl who’s probably really me, every word punctuated by a snigger as though he’s the most hilarious person in the world. And what’s worse – my brother agrees with this assessment. So does his wife, Kimberley. They’re both laughing away at Steven’s nightmarish tale of soul-crushing cruelty, while I quietly die inside.

Seriously. I want to die. I don’t know why no one will let me. This wasn’t just the worst idea in the world – it was the worst idea for several solar systems. Aliens are busy wondering what the fuck I was thinking, agreeing to this holiday. Hell, aliens are busy wondering why I haven’t killed my brother, for allowing this to happen.

And I can’t find a flaw in their logic.

My brother is currently guffawing, over this:

‘It was like an avalanche of flesh, on top of me. At one point, I was genuinely afraid for my life – one false move and I could have been crushed.’

While something like mild anger brews in my belly. And of course, once I’ve let the mild anger take root, it starts mutating into more than that. Before I know where I am, it’s become a small bonfire lowdown in my body – which is never a good thing, when the outside temperature is already akin to the surface of the sun. The two problems just mix together until they’ve made some sort of natural napalm.

So really, it’s not a surprise to me that I do what I do.

It’s just a surprise to my brother, and to Steven, and to Kimberley. In fact, I think it would be a surprise to anyone who knew me, considering my inability to say anything to anyone ever. But it’s not unusual to my suddenly scorching soul, which practically combusts when he ends on this doozy:

‘But then it turned out that she was a total maniac who liked to eat paint. Thank God she was heavy … I didn’t have to run all that fast to get away from her.’

I swear I barely know what happens to me. Great gouts of burning debris blaze through the rational centres of my brain, and suddenly I’m saying this:

‘Yeah, because all fat chicks are so desperate for a man they just can’t wait to chase after you, right? Give me a fucking break. I’d sooner catch gonorrhoea than you – which would probably happen, if I was ever stupid enough to touch you.’

And naturally, it’s only after the words are out that I realise the mistake I’ve made. In fact, I realise several of the mistakes I’ve made. For a start, I just yelled while on a yacht, in the middle of the ocean. The silence out here is so total and dream-like that anything above a whisper sounds loud.

So this … This sounds
really
loud.

And then of course there’s the fact that I said all of this to Steven. Steven, who was my brother’s best man. Steven, who once fixed my scooter for me when I rode it right off the kerb and into my Dad’s car, at the age of 13. Steven, who’s now looking at me with a face like a deflated balloon.

Oh God, why is he looking at me with a face like a deflated balloon? Isn’t he meant to be massive and impervious to all attacks? I was certain he was. At the very least, I was certain that nothing I could ever say would make the slightest bit of difference to him. He’s like a glorious golden god, and I’m like …

Well.

I’m a flesh avalanche. I’m a nothing. I’ve long since accepted that the kid he used to pay attention to grew up into the kind of person he looks right through, now, and that he grew up into the kind of person that no one can look right through, ever. A mole would mysteriously find its eyeballs drawn to his presence.

He’s magnetic.

So why does he seem so horrified, now? Was the thing I said really so bad? I mean, true. I implied that he has gonorrhoea, and that no sane person would want to chase after him. But everyone in the world knows that this cannot be true. Just look at that mouth of his – I’ve seen Angelina Jolie look less pouty than that. And of course it’s even more pronounced, now, because he’s so deeply saddened by my terrible words.

Plus, he keeps slicking the thing with some kind of sunblock stuff. I could slip and slide across the surface of his lower lip no problems at all, and worse … I think I’d like it. Anyone would like it. His mouth suggests so many sinful, sensuous possibilities – as do those sleepy blue eyes of his.

The ones that rival the ocean, on any normal day.

But now best it, in this slightly wounded state. It’s like someone has pulled a skein of smoke over them, and for a second I’m actually hypnotised. I’m completely drawn in, to the point where I almost apologise. In fact, the words are on the tip of my tongue, when he finally breaks the silence.

With a laugh.

A big, booming, careless laugh, as though none of this matters at all. It was just me imagining that he had things like feelings, when really he wouldn’t know one if it punched him in the face. I don’t why I let myself feel guilty, if this is all he’s got to say about it.

‘Well, you’re probably right,’ he tells me, and that’s the end of that.

Only it’s not the end of that. I see the look he gives me, and I know what it means. I’ve seen the same look in the eyes of all kinds of arseholes, as they plot their slow and silent revenge. Then, just as I think I’m safe, they pounce.

But I’m not going to let that happen. There will be no pouncing, between Steven and me. I’m going to avoid him with all the ruthless efficiency of a piece of cotton, avoiding the eye of a needle – or at least, that’s what I bank on, before I realise two very important things:

a) I am not very good at being a piece of cotton. and

b)It’s almost impossible to avoid anyone on a yacht the size of a shoebox.

I’d never previously realised how small my brother’s boat is, until I’m trying to escape someone on it. But its tiny size cannot be denied, once Steven Stark sets his mind on having a conversation with me.

Because that’s definitely, definitely what he’s trying to do. I can tell. I can feel it. It’s in the air whenever he’s close to me – that sense of things left unsaid. He wasn’t casual and full of laughter, like he claimed. He was bitter and angry about that gonorrhoea crack, and now he’s just dying to tell me off for it.

Or possibly worse.

Oh God, what if it’s worse? It certainly seems worse, as he follows me around a small Spanish town like some rather more laidback version of
The Terminator
. We parked the boat at some port whose name eludes me, and now I can practically sense his eyes pressing into my back as I make my way through the cobbled streets. And then again, just as I almost buy a scarf that’s way out of my price range.

It’s like he’s stalking me, despite my total lack of stalkability.

So I have to do a little test. I have to see if he’s really on my case, or whether it’s just my imagination – because on the boat, it’s sort of hard to tell. On the boat he could be hovering near me, wanting to talk. Or he could simply be expanding, to fill every available nook and crevasse. One morning I’ll wake up to find his bulging bicep wedged against my face, even though he’s sleeping in a completely different room.

But out here, it’s easier to figure out what he’s up to. I just have to go somewhere really, really boring, then see if he follows me there too – because if there’s one thing Steven hates, it’s dullness. In fact, that’s probably part of the reason why he no longer likes me: I’m not Club 18-30. I’m not cool, or hip, or flashy enough to catch his attention.

Like the ruins I stroll my way down to. The ruins that don’t have any food to be purchased, or weird cocktails to be consumed, or girls to be partied with – unless you count the elderly hippy backpacker with the odd, tubular boobs.

Which I really don’t. For a start, her hair’s at least 30 per cent weirder than mine. Mine at least attempts to remain in the plaits I’ve made of it, on either side of my head – but I can feel it kind of trying to escape, as the day goes on. The humidity simply gets a hold of it, and suddenly my whole hairdo is bulging. It’s thick enough on its own, but now I can feel it puffing out against the restraints.

Whereas hers is much more wispy and flyaway. And it’s this really strange shade of grey too – kind of like a dull spoon, or a tarnished teapot – though even as I’m considering where she lies on the colour chart, I’m aware of why I’m really doing this.

I’m nervous, I think. I’m nervous, because Steven has definitely followed me. There’s simply no denying it, now. I turn a corner around the ruins of an old post office, or something similarly boring, and he’s right there about ten yards away from me. I have to stick with the old lady just to afford myself some protection, despite the insanity of such a move.