The Whistleblower

"You got spanked last night huh?"

What the fuck? Did she just ask me if I'd been spanked? I do a quick double take to make sure the woman sitting opposite me in the tube carriage was directing the quite random question my way. With nobody sat to my left or right, it appears to worryingly be the case that she was. Man, why did I have to make eye contact!

Not knowing quite how to respond, I shrug my shoulders and emit a nervous and non-descript "Hah!" - musing how you wouldn't credit an attractive, smartly dressed woman to be just another big city crazy.

Scanning the carriage, I'm looking for anywhere to naturally focus on other than her disconcerting green eyed gaze.

From my peripheral vision I can see she's still looking though, inevitably drawing me back in. As I do so, I note her mouth forming words with lips made luscious from the bright red lipstick she's wearing.

"Your hat," she's saying, unperturbed by me ignoring her prompts so far. Her head nods towards mine; the green eyes drawn above me to where a beaten up Redsox cap sits on my head.

"Your cap I mean ... your Boston Cap. Didn't you guys take a beating off the Yankees last night?"

And finally my dorky science nerd, Asperger's-like brain gets the gist with an embarrassing jolt! Oh my god, Mckenzie, you boner! A hot woman strikes up a conversation and you act like a dumbass.

"Oh sorry, did they?" I blurt out, without waiting for an answer adding, "I didn't pick up on your accent when you first spoke to me, but you're American too huh? From New York then?"

"Hell no! As in I'm not from New York. And I hate the Yankees."

This girl has just went up another notch in my estimation!

"No," she maintains. "But I am American. You could be forgiven for not picking the accent immediately though. I've been around a bit, so to speak."

"Well I'm picking it up more now that I'm hearing you talk some," I say. "But your clothes. I didn't take you for a tourist is what I mean."

"Not really no. I'm working here at the moment. I guess you could say I.. uhh, import things. And yourself?"

"Oh... I'm sorta doing research," I reply half- truthfully, and even more vaguely. The whole incredible truth being I'm researching media outlets to sell my story of governmental wrongdoing to.

"Very intriguing," she replies with raised eyebrows.

Lost by verbal cues, I wonder if I'm meant to elaborate further, then realise I've lingered too long and awkwardly nod my head a bit before gazing out the window. Darkness is the only thing visible though, making the split second seem like an eternity before artificial light speeds into view and the subsequent slowing down of the next station.

'This stop is Canary Wharf,' comes the announcement, disturbing me from my morbid thoughts, the distinctive 'Queen's English voice' pricking my consciousness given that my ears are accustomed to American accents.

I haven't been in this country long, and everything is still a novelty, including the London Underground and its difference from the Boston trains. All these new experiences on offer to my senses are fighting my brain's natural tendency to drift off and ruminate over the serious predicament I find myself in.

I hate all this running and hiding; It's pure torture. What I'd give to just hop on a plane back to the States, but I've gotta see this through. When I dreamt of being a scientist I never thought I'd be turning whistleblower on my own country. Stupid lousy conscience! Man I hope these media guys accept the truth. I just need some leverage of sorts; something to guarantee my safety. Nope, nothing untoward has happened - yet, but it's only a matter of time before they come for me.

"Don'tcha just love that accent?" asks the woman, taking hold of the conversation again, distracting me from my ruminations.

Admittedly I do. "Yeh, it's just so ... English," I say, laughing to a reciprocated chuckle from the woman.

The conversation moving along again, she follows up with, "Just listen to the way they pronounce it as gep when they say please mind the gap!"

There's a few people in the carriage but nobody seems to bat an eyelid as to us disparaging their way of speaking. Maybe none of them are actually British?

'Please mind the gap,' duly comes the announcement in a voice which could well be the Queen's, eliciting a knowing smile between myself and the stranger.

I'm undoubtedly attracted to this girl, but just don't have the confidence or skills to make something of this encounter. Hey, she may even be coming onto me - I wouldn't know, I've always been terrible at picking up on inferences or body language. Anyway, I've gotta be someplace. You could even say my life depends on it.

"This is me," I say with a facial contortion that's hopefully apologetic - standing awkwardly to make my exit past her.

Before I manage to do so she takes a rail in front of the seat, a black leather glove pulled taught around her hand as it grips on the pole and hauls her up in one deft movement. "Mine too," she says, now over her shoulder at me as she begins to exit the carriage.

Looking back at me as we jump off - "Hey, if you're not in a rush to be someplace, maybe I could I buy you a coffee? It feels good speaking to someone from back home."

I consciously move out of the way of another passenger tutting at our obstruction, pausing on the platform with my fellow American as my internal debate ensues.

C'mon, you've been feeling pretty homesick, and she's lifted your spirits. Check out the ensemble too; long black trench coat, black nylons, black leather gloves. There's just something so right about it, and her.

But the meeting...

Hell, I'm way early for the meeting anyway ...

"Sure!" I say, smiling, my lusty persona having beaten down Mr Sensible for once.

She responds with, "Awesome! I'm also gonna decide where we get it - a wide smile appearing - "I'm Jess by the way."

"No problem," I say. "As long as its not too far away. I've got an appointment in half an hour or so. And I'm Patrick"

I inadvertently stretch out a hand to shake, which is always a fine line with a woman, especially one you've got romantic designs on. I mean, should you do it in the first place? If we were in France maybe the one thing would be to kiss on each cheek. But I'm an American. We're Americans! And we also happen to be in the UK. Also, do I do a firm handshake as I would a man, or a gentle one? But not too gentle! I'm overthinking it, unsure due to not really ever having had much in the way of touches from a woman in any way shape or form, never mind the correct greeting etiquette.

As I debate with myself she takes my hand. The firmness of her grip, covered by soft, supple leather - my imagination runs wild and my heart races causing me to tense up, effectively leading to a 'not so limp' handshake.

Backing away slightly to let her go first, she strides out away in front of me. I'm taken by the 'clip clop' of her confident sounding cadence, her dark pony-tail swishing to and fro as her hips work it.

Getting jostled into a bottle neck at the bottom of long escalators, we end up separated slightly; Jess a few raised steps ahead of me. She turns momentarily to look back down and acknowledge me, then looks ahead again, affording me the opportunity to surreptitiously take her in from behind a bit more.

Again I note how smartly she's dressed: black stiletto heels, with well toned legs wrapped in dark nylons, and WOW! I wonder if they're actually stockings as there's a very old-school traditional, very sexy seam running up the back of each leg. The trench coat is unfortunately hiding what I'm imagining is a fantastic ass, but I'm happy to again focus on the gloved hand, now gripping the escalator rail.

I realise I've been deep in thought staring at her when she turns back to look at me again, catching me checking her out. Busted!

There's an enigmatic, knowing look on her face. She doesn't look pissed. Maybe almost pleased in fact.

She's probably not so pleased when she looks forward again too late to see the escalator levelling out at the top, causing her to trip slightly over the stationary edge, belying her previous agility and confident poise. The result is one of her shoes coming off, skittering over the floor as she attempts not to fall over.

With Jess impeding my own exit, the steady pressure of people mounting up behind me causes me to hop off the escalator and bump into her, grabbing her by the waist in an attempt to steady us both and move us away from the traffic.

"Sorry!" I say, my face flushing. Jess remains otherwise composed, despite minus a shoe.

Meanwhile the offending item is like a puck in a Bruins v Rangers game, moving in different directions amongst the ongoing stampede of people exiting the elevator.

I dash off instinctively to conduct an embarrassingly long attempt at chivalrously retrieving the lost property. On returning to her and bending down to lay the shoe upright at her feet, I intend to stand up again, but she stops me with a steadying hand on my shoulder - "I'm teetering here Peter; could you?" - proffering a nylon clad foot.

I try not to gulp as I crouch down further to hold the killer heel upright on the floor, then lightly guide her foot into it.

It's an act that takes less than a second, with barely a touch, but there's just something about it. Something about the way she's looking at me.

"Oh, you're a gentleman," she coos, marching off once more as I bound after her.

The cloudy yet glary London morning light as we exit the station illuminates the Canary Wharf vista of high rise office blocks, and at ground level, retail space, from which she manages to find a café almost immediately.

I catch up as she's about to enter, a mind to do something purposive.

"So you've chosen the café," I say, somewhat out of breath. "I should get the drinks."

"Sure," Jess replies, entering. "Make mine black, no sugar, and in a cup to go." She adds before I can enquire further, "It's silly but I somehow prefer the taste from a takeaway cup. Just one of my foibles."

"Alright," I say with a laugh, before ordering accordingly at the counter, making mine a "cappuccino, in a mug please!"

The cafe finds us engaging initially in some idle chit-chat: the decor, how good the coffee is and so on. I'm not so good at this stuff, and come up with a clumsy attempt at making her the centre of attention.

"So what did you say you do? Import stuff?"

"Yeh, this and that," is her closed reply. I'm instantly worried that my small talk is typically going awry, but then also wonder if the vagueness regarding her employment is intended. She's been open so far, so why all coy now?

"Oh very secret squirrel," I say, aiming to be cheeky and probably failing to hit the mark. "Maybe you're really a secret age .." I stare at the steaming coffee, the missing last portion of word replaced by thoughts in my head of just how fortuitous, yet strangely coincidental this meeting is.

"No, no," she says - a hurried response. "It's a delicate subject. Not everyone is on my wavelength," she adds, now looking ahead into an imagined distance. The new apparent vulnerability throws me, waylaying my paranoia, and I wonder if I could be the kind of guy to make it on her wavelength, so to speak. Of course, I just end up looking down at my feet under the table, not confident enough to stake a claim.

"Patrick!" The terseness of her voice implying more than a note of command jolts me into look up at her straightaway.

More measured tones now. "Patrick. Instead of asking me what I do work-wise, why don't you rephrase the question to ask me what I'm passionate about? I've heard that's the way you're meant to get to know people via introductions nowadays."

"Oh yeh, sure," I say, somewhat crestfallen, embarrassed at my attempts at chatting her up, and stung by her reaction. I wonder even if my eyes are welling up slightly. The sudden turn of phrase hasn't offended me as such, but left me confused as hell; at sixes and sevens, and somewhat disappointed with myself.

Her unfaltering gaze doesn't help my composure. Taking a sip from her cup, she awaits my response by leaning back in the chair, the long trench coat falling open, revealing a mid-thigh length black skirt and the nylon clad legs, which she very slowly crosses.

Finally getting a grip on myself with a head shake, I pose the question, "Uhh, so Jess, tell me. What are you passionate about?"

"Well ... let me show you instead," she says.

Scraping her chair alongside mine, and budging up closer to me, my senses are piqued first by her perfume, then the brush of her hand on my shoulder - the intentional closeness of her body once again electrifying me - my stomach feeling as if it were floating.

Taking her left hand off my shoulder now and removing a glove which is placed on the table in front of us, she uses a bare finger to open up and scroll to a screen on the device.

I jump with shock at the picture which flashes up, heat instantly filling my cheeks.

Oh my god! Displayed right there on her phone is a graphic hard-core BDSM dungeon scene!