The Honey Trap Read Online Free

Besides, I’d closed my eyes when
it was happening.
    But it
did
happen and I’d broken the rule. ‘The rule, the rule,’ echoed my conscience, then added for good measure, ‘You’re so completely
fucked.’
    I’d fled the scene of the crime and caught a cab home. It was 3 a.m. when I arrived. Maria was really pissed off.
    ‘What happened?’ she cried, as I tumbled into the hallway, displaying some drunk stunt action and tripping up on my heels.
    Bleary-eyed, I’d managed to mumble, ‘Shorry, shorry,’ then hurled myself through my bedroom door, collapsed in a heap on the bed and watched the four corners of my room
spin.
    ‘Here . . . Issy, some water.’
    Maria had followed me into the bedroom with a large glass of water, a bucket, and several Paracetamol.
    ‘Issy, you be OK?’
    ‘Bysee bye.’
    Eyelids closed, opened, closed, opened.
    Morning already.
    ‘Stop, Max. Please. Mummy has a sore head,’ and him jumping for joy at the sight of a new day.
    The enthusiasm of youth, the boundless energy that he has, in sharp contrast to my own, lack of, and up on my bed, bouncity bounce.
    I was sick as a dog, yet managed to get every drop in the bucket. Next up? A shower. Felt a smidgen better, ready for painkillers, two please, no, make it three, and all washed down with
extra-strong black coffee.
    It was by then eight-thirty, and I felt a. very delicate and b. extreme guilt, as I’d barely managed to say a word to Max, having only the capacity to grunt, and shake some Rice Krispies
into his bowl.
    Fresh air would help. I managed to cart Max down to the nursery, growl a pathetic, ‘Later,’ about-turn, shuffle home, and make it back to the cistern-leveller for some good old
heave-ho.
    And then it hit me. My mind near paralysed by the realisation that I’d put my job on the line for a Bob.
FOR A SHAG
    A mucky fumble. Come closing time we’d tumbled out of the pub and for some reason I was laughing. Oh yeah, that was it, Bob had actually stumbled and I thought this
hysterical. Back on his feet, he brushed himself down and then, half joking, sort of pushed me up against the brick wall and . . .
    My lips, swollen, were flooded by such warm feelings. Hey, I’m referring to my facial lips. I hadn’t been kissed in a long while. Lip suckered, ah what joy. His pressed against mine,
hands clasped around my face, mine around his waist, and I pulled him in close. Impassioned or desperate? The latter if I’m honest. Whatever, it happened and he, the thing was . . . he was a
great kisser. Gobalicious. Up against the wall, we shuffled round a bit.
    Then . . .
    ‘Where you going?’ I gasped, as his suction pads left mine.
    ‘My car.’
    ‘You can’t drive in this shtate.’
    ‘Want to get my bag, live around the corner.’
    Well, it happened sort of quickly and by then it was too late, the damage done.
    I’d followed him to his car, to the back seat. Jesus, I needed it bad – been watching too many episodes of
Sex and the City
.
    ‘This really, really, really, shouldn’t have happened,’ I shlurred.
    ‘Trixi. That your real name?’
    ‘No.’
WISHING ON MIRACLES
    In the light of day, the next day, having dropped Max off and emptied my stomach, in reverse, I sank back on to my bed. There was no way I’d be able to keep my job. This
indiscretion was, after all, a major balls-up. In every way, I was screwed. I resorted to religion and prayed.
    Dear Lord,
    I know I haven’t believed in you since I found out fairies didn’t exist, and that my imaginary friend was merely a voice in my head, but in my hour of need,
     please, I beg you, please don’t let me lose my job over this minor blip. You see, my job, well, to be honest, it’s the only sane thing in my life at the moment. So I’d
     really appreciate it if you were able to provide some sort of minor miracle on my behalf. God, please don’t let anyone at the office find out I slept with Bob. Please?
    Are you there, God?
    Look, I know it was a truly