My Little Secret

Dining With The Devil

I'm fuming. And when I say fuming I mean livid. My gaze fixes on the outfit laid lovingly across my lilac bedsheets. I'd selected a leather type black knee-high skirt, and a long-sleeved leopard print peplum top. I find myself baffled as to why I've even bothered to fish the outfit out from the depths of my, let's face it; pretty bare wardrobe. I'm not planning on going to the stupid dinner. He can't make me go.

I'll just deny everything he dares to tell anyone about my night time activities. Who's going to believe that plain old Kitty White works in a strip club?

He was probably bluffing about the whole thing anyway, playing with me like the strings on a guitar, as I'm sure he has with so many girls previously. I doubt he'll have the nerve to turn up at my house.

Will he?

A glance at my bedroom clock tells me it's quarter to seven and prompts butterflies to start fluttering around my stomach in anticipation. The way this boy makes me feel infuriates me greatly, he knows the exact buttons to press to aggravate me.

Sighing heavily, I fall backwards and envelop myself in the comforts of my sheets. My eyelids fall heavy, my mind wandering to a faraway place, where I don't have to worry about anything or anyone. A place that only exists in the deepest recesses of my mind.

The shrill ring of the doorbell rips me away from my dozing, and my eyes slide over to the clock to see the hands pointing directly to the seven and the twelve. I gulp down the sudden lump at the back of my throat.

It can't be him. We never even agreed to anything solid. Well, I didn't anyway.

Grumbling I trudge down the stairs in my slippers rubbing my hands across my tired eyes. Upon opening the front door I draw back a sharp breath, as I stare wide-eyed at the person in front of me. Indeed it is Jacob Wilde. Stood on my doorstep, groomed and prepped, like he's about to participate in a photoshoot for Calvin Klein.

Damn.

"Jacob," I mumble, squinting in a hurried attempt to adjust to the dazzling light, produced from the street lamp, that stands at the edge of our drive, "You were being serious."

"The one and only!" Jacob shows a Colgate worthy smile, before adding, "Of course I was being serious Kitten."

My gaze drifts down his form, slowly taking in his attire. He presents himself immaculately, in a classy white shirt that hugs his tight abdominals, and a pair of dark denim jeans, that cling to well, other areas. His clothes fit him like a glove, they must be made to measure, from a tailors. Dropping my eyes to the floor, I scrutinise my reflection in his shiny dress shoes. It soon dawns on me that I'm still stood at the door in my pyjamas

"You look..good." I finally manage to speak. That's the best compliment he's going to get, I don't trust my brain to conjure up anything else right now.

"I know," he sings back cheerfully. "As do you my lovely, although, I'm not entirely sure My Little Pony pyjamas would be my choice of clothing for an evening meal." He's biting his bottom lip, unsuccessfully holding back the humour in his voice, and sending my heart into a frenzy all at the same time.

My head snaps up to glare into his steel-blue eyes again, "I'm not going." I say with finality.

The smile on his face transforms into something much more menacing, and all at once, his eyes glow bright with mischief. "You see, I had a feeling this might happen, Kitten. So I bought something that might help persuade you."

Reaching inside his jacket pocket, he pulls out a piece of folded up paper. "Ah, here it is," he says, unfolding it with nimble fingers.

When he hovers the piece of paper in my vision, my stomach drops. I stare at the photograph, clearly depicting me and my colleagues from the night of the photoshoot. How did he get hold of that? Jacob is prepared, as I make a grab for it, and snatches it away, securing it back into his jacket pocket.