High Horse Bastard Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  High Horse Bastard

  Kit Smart

  Copyright © 2018 Kit Smart

  All rights reserved.

  To my ever patient husband, the best partner in piracy a woman could want; My feline crew: Nemesis, Poppi, Leo and Mehduggi, and to the Special Agents—You know who you are.

  1

  “Absolutely not.”

  I blinked confused. Maybe I hadn’t heard him correctly. I peered at my boss' jowly face to see if I could somehow gauge confirmation that I had in fact heard correctly. It was no use. His watery, slightly bloodshot blue eyes were alive with the same fake righteous indignation he was notoriously able to call forth at the drop of a hat. Briefly I flashed on his garrulous old man's voice raising in ever higher tones of outrage as he described, at the office Christmas party, to a gaggle of office hostages, how his wife of sixteen years had left him after she had discovered he'd been lying to her for years about lunching with a particular female colleague. "It was all because I was stupid enough to write the lunch appointments down in my diary." He crescendoed in an exaggeratedly helpless shrug that invited his audience to be outraged on his behalf.

  It's because you lied. I thought now as I had thought then. It's because you are a liar. "I'm sorry?" I said it politely because I needed to know what he had said as well as because I didn't like to argue with him.

  "I said no and—” His pitch rose on the 'and' and I resisted the urge to step away from him. "I'm offended." He declared with a smug theatricality that oozed with an invitation for me to pander to him.

  "You're offended?" I felt myself frown despite my best intentions to maintain a careful neutral expression.

  "I'm offended." He repeated setting the statement between us in much the same manner he would present a manuscript for me to work on.

  He wanted me to tend to his ego, to alleviate his feelings of 'offense'. I knew it the same way I knew that in any other circumstances I would have attended to his feelings in order not to have to deal with the instinctive stirrings of guilt that arose automatically in response to idea that I had caused negative feelings in another. Indeed, I had done it many times in the past.

  Today was different. Today I was on a mission and today I knew with certainty that what I was asking was neither beyond the pale nor a cause for offense. It was in fact, something that was granted with such regularity and minimal fuss as to seem on the same level as requesting a change in the morning meeting coffee order.

  "I really don't see how asking to be released from my contract is a matter offense.” Despite angry stirrings in my gut that had me imagining punching him that smug look off his face, I managed to retain a reasonable tone. Clasping my hands behind my back I forced myself to rock back on my heels into a relaxed 'stand down' position that I fervently hoped would help me retain my cool.

  "I'm offended that you would have to ask." He leveled at me in response in the equivalent to a toddler sticking out his lower lip in an angry sulk. Deal with it bitch.

  It hit me then, almost with the force of a brick to the head that contained within that statement was the expectation that I would soothe his feelings. That somehow I was, in his mind at least, under obligation to alleviate the sense of offense he felt, no matter how unjustified. You would never expect this from a male colleague. It was a revelation, one that cast every interaction I had ever had with this man in a new light and decimated any lingering tendrils of guilt developing as a result of this attempted emotional manipulation. It also had me slapping the proverbial gag on the voice in my mind that whispered: Maybe you should just play along so you can be released.

  "I am sorry that you are offended." I said carefully. I wasn’t sorry, but I didn't want to wade out of civilized waters if I could help it. Fifty-eight horses are depending on you. Not to mention a whole bunch of people. "However, I will still need to be released from my contract with—“ I added quickly as I saw him begin to open his mouth to interrupt. “—appropriate notice of course." Stepping forward, I dropped the official printed declaration of my intentions in front of him on the desk. "Effective immediately." I intoned as I stepped back again.

  Clearly flabbergasted, he flapped his jaws at me a couple of times before rage induced red suffused his face all but obliterating, I couldn't fail to note, the liver spots dotting his face and balding pate, so intense was its depth. "I will destroy you!" He spat at me. "When I am finished with you, your reputation will be history." He pointed a finger at me. "Everyone will know you for the disloyal bitch you are! Mark. My. Words!"

  I hadn't expected his escalation and so I found myself blinking at him blankly once more. Mark my words? I wondered once again if I had misheard but this time the evidence was so clearly written on his face that I did not need to ask for clarification. How did I end up in a bad movie? I wondered. As if from a distance I heard myself repeating. "Effective immediately." And I had a moment to be proud of the calm firm way it came out before my thoughts fell to contemplating just how it was that I felt myself turning and exiting the office without having myself given the command to my body to do so.

  * * * * *

  "Pippa!" Not three steps out of the office and I felt myself being grabbed by the arm by Anne from reception. An aspiring model, she towered over me by head and shoulders and dressed in a sleek, form fitting black sheath that showed off her long sleek frame and highlighted the flaming red hair that fell and bounced in natural waves over her shoulders and to her waist, she made me feel hobbit-like. Hobbit-like and dowdy. I amended glancing down at the swingy high-low wool and linen blend dress that I wore over a pair of tights. I had chosen the outfit more for warmth and the cheeriness of the dress's red color than for aesthetics. Because it was raining and I was a lazy klutz, I had paired the outfit with a pair of flat leather ankle boots that were more practical than stylish and certainly no match for Anne's designer stilettos. "I've been looking for you! I need your help!"

  "Uh." I said helpfully as I examined the silver spikes decorating the backs of her shoes and wondered if she ever got caught up on anything.

  "I need you to take over as party-planner." Grabbing my arm she started pulling me along the hall in the general direction of my office. "I have a shoot you see, and I can't do it!"

  "Uh." I said again as I tried to recalibrate myself to the conversation at hand.

  "It’s pretty simple really. Everything's done. Well almost everything." Anne babbled as she urged me into a trot so that I could keep up with her. "I only have five minutes left on my break." She told me before launching back into her list of things that remained to be done for the party. "You'll just need to get a cake and a present really—everyone's chipping in!" I staggered as she released me in front of my door. "Oh and you'll need to emcee the party too of course."

  "Is that all?" I muttered even as I wondered about this party. Everyone's chipping in? Who is everyone? Why is the first I've heard of this? "Anne—“ I tried to interject.

  "So you'll do it?" Anne nodded her head encouragingly at me as she started to back away.

  "Anne—" I tried again.

  "Great! Thanks Pippa!" I knew I could count on you!" With that she pivoted on her heel and began to stride away proper.

  "Anne, when is this party?!" I called a
fter her.

  "Tomorrow evening. Half past seven at Grove she called over her shoulder. "I'll email you the details when I get back to my desk!"

  "Tomorrow?!" Immediately my mind began to spin through last minute cake options and consider presents. I would have to call for the cake this afternoon and pick it and a present up after work. Perhaps that new shop across the street from the office—the one that had the most beautiful selection of scarves in the window—Abruptly my train of thought ground to a halt as I realized that I was missing an essential piece of information. "Anne!" I started down the hall after her. At the junction of the hall and the reception area she paused to look back. "Yes?"

  “Whose birthday is it?" I called from where I had halted only a few doors away from the junction proper.

  "Oh! I thought you knew!" Anne tossed her hair back over her shoulders as she pulled her headset back into position in preparation for resuming her duties. "Hadrian Hastings from editorial." She said as though I didn't work with editorial myself. I felt my heart sink into my stomach as she smiled at me and pivoting round disappeared into reception. Hadrian Hastings the High Horse Bastard. No wonder I hadn't known about the party. Most likely I had not been invited. It was a well-known fact that we had very little use for one another at work, much less outside of work. And now you're stuck planning and hosting his birthday party. "Shit.” As, doing my best to mimic Anne's dramatic pivots in my heel-less boots, I swung round aggressively and started to stride back to my office.

  The pivot began well enough but the moment I kicked my right leg out of the spin and connected with something long and metallic, then things disintegrated into a blur of wrong and I felt myself falling sideways as the long metallic thing succumbed to my inadvertent kick. In an attempt to catch myself I threw my right hand out against the corridor wall only to find myself lurching in surprise and wishing that I had pulled my hair back that morning as my hand and forearm connected not with the cold plaster of the wall but with the warm, hardness of the male torso. A clear field of vision always helps. Grabbing the shirt beneath my palm in a reflexive attempt to stop my descent towards the floor I abruptly felt an arm wrap around my back and pull me firmly against the torso in question. Even before I opened my eyes and saw the long metal object I had kicked on the floor beneath our feet, I knew from the feeling of hard plastic encapsulating part of the upper arm of my savior as it pressed against my spine who had caught me. "Shit.” I muttered again as I carefully began to untangle myself. Carefully stepping back, I bent down and retrieved the forearm crutch from the ground checked covertly to ascertain whether I had damaged it in my fall and then upon finding only scuff marks from my boot straightened and after pushing my hair back out of my face with my free hand proffered the crutch to Hadrian Hastings with the other.

  He raised both eyebrows at me with his customary condescension as he accepted the crutch. "All-right?" I suddenly felt like the village idiot. As was per fucking usual whenever I found myself in his orbit.

  "Fine thanks. And you?" It sounded snappish even to my own ears and I winced internally. You really shouldn't let him get to you like that!

  I watched his mouth flatten in disapproval. "I'm fine." He told me as he refitted his crutch to his arm and pushed himself off the wall where he'd fallen as he caught me. I wondered half guiltily if the fall had aggravated whatever caused him to need the crutches in the first place while the other half of me thought rather maliciously that it would serve the arrogant bastard and his condescending looks right if it had.

  He spared me one more look before turning and making his way toward his office. "You had best look where you are going in future." He called over his shoulder.

  Asshole.

  * * * * *

  "May I help you madam?"

  I tried to ignore the squelching sound my rain drenched boots made as I shifted to look at the sales associate who had appeared somewhere around the region of my right elbow.

  "Umm..." I wondered where my words had disappeared to for the day. With all the uhs and umms that had crossed my lips in the past six hours I was certainly not going to be on the receiving end of an award for articulateness anytime soon. I took a deep breath and tried to gather myself. "I am looking for a present." I told the woman. "For a man." I added when she continued to look at me expectantly.

  The woman offered me a sympathetic look as she took in my rain drenched clothing and messy hair. "For your—boyfriend?" Her tone made it clear that I had better select an amazing gift if I were going to keep any creature willing to date the mess in front of her.

  “I—” I opened my mouth to protest when the scent of garlic bread wafted through the air and reminded me that not only had I missed dinner but lunch as well. Suddenly the urge to be done with the birthday party from hell and head home to the comfort of my apartment and dinner over-rode my previous urge to explain the situation to the sales associate. "Yes." I nodded definitively. No need to waste time explaining. I congratulated myself on my quick thinking. "For a boyfriend—my boyfriend." I clarified and earned a narrow-eyed glance from the sales associate in return. Too much? Does she think I am having an affair? I wondered in hunger induced hysteria.

  "Please bring the food through to the break room." The associate called to the delivery man. "The money's on the table." She turned her attention back in my direction and the gleam of censure in her gaze had me starting to bristle. Have I not been through enough today?! "I am assuming you are wanting something sexy?" Snide definitely snide.

  "Absolutely. The sexier the better." I goaded her. I told myself as I followed her to the men's section of the store.

  I found myself regretting my impulse ten minutes later as I sat ensconced in a plush red velvet chair with a variety of men's underwear laid before me on an elegant marble-topped table. I surveyed the various silk, leather, mesh and pattern littered concoctions before me and did my best not to imagine the High Horse Bastard in them. An attempt that was flatly ruined when the sales associate raised her eyebrows at me and inquired as to my boyfriend's size and I realized that a) I didn't know which combination of measurements with which to describe a man's penis, and b) I had no idea what size the High Horse Bastard's penis was. How would I? My brain, loosely under control at the best of times headed off in the direction of trying to remember whether I had possibly felt anything this afternoon when I had been plastered up against him and it was with great effort that I reined it in before it could gallop off in the direction of wondering whether we had any visual recollections of having seen his package pressing against the front of his trousers as he sat which might prove useful in answering the question. Get a grip for gods sake! I told myself even I began to wonder if perhaps I should be using the work cock in place of penis. Penis is so medical. My inner editor lamented.

  "Small, medium or large." The associate prompted. Compared to what?! I wondered. Perhaps sensing the direction of my wayward thoughts; the woman frowned at me suspiciously. "Waist and hip measurements." She said severely and I stifled the urge to laugh with relief. This I can answer! "Medium." I said with confidence recalling the narrowness of the High Horse Bastard's hips as highlighted by the suit jacket he habitually kept unbuttoned. Less restrictive for using crutches I suppose. I though with the slightly insane hysteria of the starving. My stomach growled as if to remind me to get my ass in gear and I stood. "I will take these, these, these and these." I selected four pair of the least garish silk underwear and handed them to the sales associate. "In medium. Gift-wrapped." I told her in an impressively level tone as I turned to head to the sales desk. "Oh-" I paused as something else caught my eye. "and that sweater." I indicated a somber navy blue cable knit sweater vest whose only concession to fashion was the presence of two wooden buttons that would permit the wearer to open the otherwise ubiquitous neck in a casually yet still office appropriate dis-arrayed manner that was the style of the moment. "In—" I eyed the sweater as I mentally envisioned the width and breadth of the High Horse Bastard's chest and sh
oulders. "large."

  * * * * *

  When I finally stumbled through the doors of my flat, it was half past nine and I was both soaked through and exhausted. After kicking off my shoes and hanging my coat to dry I made my way into the bathroom where I turned on the water for a bath, put out a fresh towel and dumped an obscene amount of lavender infused epsom salts into the tub in the hopes that they really were as good for releasing stress and muscle tension as their label decreed them to be.

  That attended to, I made my way to the kitchen to appease my growling stomach while the bath filled. Too tired to even consider making anything, I put the kettle on and grabbed a package of chocolate biscuits from the cupboard. Sliding my hand into my tea canister, I snagged a bag at random and after noting that it was a peppermint blend and from the box I’d purchased at the new teashop in my neighborhood I tore it open and gave it an appreciative sniff. Will definitely be returning to the new teashop. I hummed a happy little tune as I took my favorite cup from the cupboard.

  As I dropped the bag into the cup and wrapped the string round the handle of my cup to prevent immersion, the tag caught my eye. Lifting the cup, I squinted incredulously at the words printed on the tag just below the brand name of the tea. ‘Why join the navy, when you can be a pirate?’

  “Seriously?” I asked the teabag. “Since when does Steve Jobs get quoted on tea bags? Is Apple making tea now?” Picking up the tea bag from where I’d dropped it on the counter, I turned it over to see where it had come from. Zen Tea, the package proclaimed, Helping you Achieve Your Dreams.

  “That’s a tall order even for a cup of tea.” I told the teabag as I poured hot water on it. Tea in one hand and chocolate biscuits in the other, I wandered off to my bath. Be a pirate my ass.

  As I climbed into the tub and settled in for my desultory meal of chocolate biscuits and tea, the words on the tea bag tag caught my eye again. Pirates don’t make do with tea and biscuits for supper. I realized. Pirates have feasts.