Secret Skin by Frank Coles Read Free Book Online Page B

slopes.
    We skied as badly as each other to begin with. Thrashing around on the baby slopes until we made sense of where our legs and arms needed to be. Once we had the feel of it we hit the red and blue runs until our thighs burned. I wondered if I could use the experience in some way. Prostitutes who skied. I’d never read that before.
    After two hours, we staggered back into the busy mall, exhausted, thirsty and hungry.
    ‘Do you fancy Madinat?’ I said. Enjoying myself too much to worry about the research I ought to have been doing.
    ‘You’re buying?’
    ‘Sure, but if the tab is too high we do a runner okay? I’m only a lowly journalist after all.’
    ‘Okay then, maybe we go Dutch, you poor little journalist.’

    ***

    The Madinat Jumeirah complex was an effective recreation of the real world souks downtown. It even had a faux creek, with mock abras that transported tourists from private holiday villas on the beach to the rows of comfortable air-conditioned restaurants on the promenade.
    There were people we knew everywhere we went. Yasmin pointed out top tier working girls in the alleyways of the souk, while I avoided tables full of boisterous media darlings in the bars.
    ‘How about the beach for a change?’ I asked.
    ‘Yes, but how do we get there David? We are not paying guests.’
    ‘Hold my hand and come with me,’ I said.
    I guided her through the five-star maze of restaurants and wine bars towards the abra station and the concierge waiting there with his clipboard.
    ‘Slow down and rest your head on my shoulder,’ I said, as we sauntered through tables of drunken tourists sweating at the creek side restaurants.
    She did as I asked, linking her arms through mine.
    ‘Wait,’ I said a short distance from the abra station. ‘Pretend we’re a couple,’ I whispered. ‘Look at me.’ She turned and our bodies met with a bump of hips. Our hands quickly found each other.
    Up close I saw that her eyes really were green. No contacts. I also noticed a small mole above her left eyelid. Instinctively I tried to rub it away. She giggled. I kissed it and held her face gently in my hands.
    ‘My beauty spot,’ she said, ‘my one imperfection.’
    ‘Yes,’ I said agreeing, a small reassurance in her world, so full of casual brutality.
    I stroked the back of her neck. Her hand touched my cheek. Then tenderly we savored the succulent tang of each other's kiss and lost ourselves between eager and impatient lips. Someone’s polite cough reminded us where we were.
    ‘Come on,’ I said.
    We walked nonchalantly towards the abra man, acknowledging him at the last moment.
    ‘Villa number nine,’ I said, smiling.
    He gestured towards a precarious little abra and we stepped aboard.
    A real abra on Dubai Creek is a smoke belching park bench that acts as a water taxi for 20 people at a time. The hotel’s polite electric powered, non-polluting version was a new experience for us both.
    Yasmin continued to hold my hand even though our little performance had finished. The closeness we shared thrilled me, but my motives were questionable.
    A generous tip, months before, had prompted a Madinat waiter to tell me how the unofficial villa nine routine worked for friends and guests of the hotel staff. The furthest stop from the hotel, you simply had to ask for it. No kissing or doe eyes required.
    What the hell was I thinking?
    I rarely let myself get close to anyone. But Yasmin was raw, sultry and very real, and a prostitute, enslaved to a local.
    It could never be anything more.
    The abra created a breeze that whipped her hair around her and a disarmingly cheerful and innocent expression spread over that normally troubled face. Like one drink too many Yasmin was hard to resist.
    Maybe this could be more?
    Yeah? You’ve only just met the girl and this, this is just work, for both of you. Not the eating, drinking and having fun bits of course but…but nothing, you’re smitten over a sob story, don’t get carried