by J. J. Sorel
“What to happen? Say it.”
“You to happen.”
“You make it sound as though I’m a disease.”
“You’re not.” His voice had a frustrated edge. “You’ve given me more pleasure in the past couple of months than any woman I’ve ever known. And it’s not just the sex. I like talking to you. You’re incredibly smart, brighter than most. And your art, your creativity, your drive… you’re one very special girl.”
Special girl? I wanted to be the love of his life. I wanted to hear that he couldn’t live without me.
“What’s wrong, Penny?”
I turned to face him. “You called me Penny.”
A little smile touched his lips. “That’s what you wanted.”
Short, sweet, and evasive as always. That was Blake. Not short of course, as he was tall and broad and so fucking beautiful, I wanted to devour him. And the darker he got, the sexier he became. Only, I wasn’t sure my nervous system could cope.
We arrived at my new house—the house that bound us together.
He leaned in and kissed me gently on the lips. “I have an important meeting, but I’ll drop in later. Okay?”
A cold feeling swept through me. Separation anxiety. I had it bad after two days together not just fucking but watching a little telly, talking about art, and working on my projects together as well. I’d loved every minute. Even if the nightmares soured things a little, those tender moments of closeness had meant everything to me.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I’m scared because I’ve fallen hard for you.” I opened the car door and hurried out to avoid another stretch of silence.
I went to the door, and just as I was turning the key, I turned and noticed Blake watching me from the car. Our eyes met, and his face softened into a gentle smile. It was Blake’s way of telling me that things would be okay and that we’d find a way.
I lightened. My clutching core released, and I blew him a kiss. His smile widened. It worked. We were good. For now.
* * *
LOST IN A DAYDREAM, I was sitting in my sunny living room overlooking the park when my phone buzzed. Blake’s handsome face, trying to smile looked directly at me. His sultry stare seared into me with the same look as when he was inside of me.
“Hey,” I said.
“Penelope. I’m afraid I can’t come over later. I’m off to the Cotswolds. Milly’s dying.” His voice had a slight tremor.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I want to stay with her. I’ll call you.”
“Sure. Please take care,” I murmured.
“Bye.”
And that was it. No “I love you.” It was probably too much to expect and selfish of me to think about that. Milly meant the world to Blake. She was like family. In any case, I’d only heard him utter those words once, while he was in the throes of an orgasm.
I rose from the sofa. I had to stop thinking about Blake. There were things to do. When I wasn’t in my studio, which was most of my spare time, I liked the kitchen to potter around in—I loved how it overlooked the garden. And I needed to organize rehab for my mother. I’d decided we’d drag her there screaming if necessary. I had to try something, or else I’d end up drowning in guilt for not doing enough.
I picked up my phone and pressed on Sheldon’s animated face. “Hey.”
“Hey, Penny.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I’m in my studio, looking for any excuse not to work.” He laughed.
“Why don’t you come over to my new house? I baked some cupcakes, and there’s a bottle of prosecco in my fridge.”
“How can I refuse.” He giggled. “I’m dying to see your new little house.”
“It’s not so little.”
“That’s right—a double-story terrace. Woo-hoo. We are stepping up.”
“I can’t wait for you to see it.” I smiled. His contagious excitement bubbled through me.
“I’ll jump in a cab now. Text me the address.”
“Will do. Can’t wait.”
The cupcakes I’d baked sat prettily on the bench. I’d made them for Blake as a surprise, knowing his fondness for freshly baked cakes—a weakness he’d admitted to along with mentioning my tits and pussy. He had to, of course, make his love of sweets erotic. I didn’t mind. Blake could keep whispering dirty little nothings all he wanted as long as he kept wanting me.
A pang of pathos touched me. I knew how much Milly meant to him. Leaning on my elbows, I contemplated his relationship with that sweet old soul, when the door knocker sounded.
I answered the door and found Sheldon standing there. “Hey, Penny.”
I stepped out of the way, and he entered. “My God, overlooking the park.” He whistled. “He didn’t skimp, did he?”
I released a deep breath. “Blake’s pretty generous.”
“He really likes you.” He stretched out his arm. “Show the way.”
We entered the sunny living room. “It’s a little bare. I haven’t had time to shop.”
Sheldon turned in a circle. “It’s so sunny, and a gorgeous bay window—how delightful. You’ll have to have a party.”
“Maybe when, and if, I graduate.”
“’If?’ You’ll be okay. You submitted your essays. You’ll pass. You’re brilliant.”
I tilted my head. “You’re so supportive. Let’s go into the kitchen, and I’ll open the prosecco.”
“I like the sound of that. And there’s that delicious smell of baking in the air. Yum.”
When we entered the kitchen, I stood by as Sheldon looked out the window.
“The garden’s gorgeous.”
“Isn’t it? I love being here. And wait till you see this.” I led him into my studio.
When he saw the large space boasting the type of natural light an artist pined for, he squealed with approval, drawing an excited giggle from me.
“Oh my God, Penny.” He went over to the bench, where my studies were scattered.
“These look great,” he said, studying the pencil sketches.
“I’ve started working on one already.” I pointed at my easel.
He stepped in front, and my heart beat with anticipation. Apart from Blake, no one had seen it.
“Oh my.” His eyes switched between me and the painting. “This is amazing. Let me guess—the masked man is Blake? And you’re the one in the ball gown?”
I nodded.
“You’re carrying a briefcase,” he said, studying it.
“In the next painting, that briefcase flies open,” I said.
“Pandora’s box?”
“Am I that predictable?” I didn’t hide my disappointment. A little mystique went a long way.
“I just know you and your work. And I love that idea. The story of a mysterious billionaire and a young innocent soul whose life is also complex.”
“You got it in one.” I took hold of his hand. “That’s why I love you. You get me.”
“And I miss you,” he said, hugging me. “I’ve become so unproductive. I liked having all of this around me. You motivated me.”
“You can come here and work whenever you like. There’s room for another easel and plenty of bench space.”
“I might take you up on that. I don’t work alone well. Too many years at art college, I think.” He giggled.
“Come and have a drink.”
I poured us a glass of bubbly, and we sat at the kitchen table, in the middle of which a plate of cupcakes smiled back at us.
The rest of the afternoon, we drank, laughed and then watched a movie together. It was like always, only this time, instead of me being at Sheldon’s house, he was at mine. I saw him out at ten o’clock after he got a booty call from the love of his life, the cop.
When I settled back, I replied to a message Blake had sent me earlier.
He’d written: I’ll probably be here all night. Speak in the morning.
Not even an
X for a kiss. He was dealing with the impending death of someone close, I reminded myself.
I replied: Feel free to call me at any hour if you need to talk. Love, Penny XXX.
39
* * *
BLAKE
MILLY OPENED HER EYES. Her cool hand touched mine before she drifted off again. I asked if she was in pain, and she shook her head. She seemed peaceful.
Her quivering finger pointed to the drawer.
I pulled it open and found her journal.
“It’s all there.” She struggled to speak.
All there? My heart froze. What will I find?
I leaned in and whispered, “You’ve been like a mother to me. I’ll always cherish your memory.”
A tear slid down her pale cheek. “I’ve always tried to protect you… I’m sorry. I should have owned up to it …too scared you’d hate me.” She heaved. Breathless, she paused. “Just remember, I’ll always protect you…”
Those were her last words.
Milly’s paranormal inference shouldn’t have surprised me. She’d always believed in ghosts.
I leaned in and kissed her withered cheek. Her last breath touched my face. One tear escaped my eyes. Just one. I wanted to cry more, but the tears remained frozen, close to my heart. The words “owned up to” kept ringing in my ears.
* * *
DRIVING INTO THE NIGHT, I wasn’t ready for London. I needed a room alone, a bottle of whisky, and nothing but silence. No pulsating lights or the rib-punching noise of a bustling city.
I found a hotel through an app and booked it. It was only ten minutes up the road and somewhat shabby.
As I parked the car, people staggered into the hotel, obviously soaked in booze. It was that kind of place. Opulence would have been inappropriate and disrespectful to Milly. I needed to mourn somewhere real.
The room was clean, and that suited me. In any case, something told me I might not get much sleep.
I could count on one hand how often I’d cried. A knot of guilt twisted at the lack of tears I’d shed for my mother. It was when I’d found Harry hanging from our childhood tree that my spirit spewed out despair. Seeing my friend dangling from the tree that we’d climbed had broken me.
I poured a generous serving of whisky. It wasn’t the time for moderation, and when it came to liquor, I had, according to Milly, the liver of an Irishman. I smiled at the memory of her and lifted my glass in a salute to the moon. “To you, Milly.”
I returned to the journal that lay on the bed. Grabbing the lamp, I placed it over the page. In order to acquaint myself with her cursive writing, I read slowly.
Dear Blake, read this first. The rest is just the ramblings of a dotty woman.
When Harry died, tears poured out of me like blood from a torn artery. I wanted to scream the house down. Instead, I ran into the wood and yelled at God, telling him I no longer believed in him. How could I? Considering the evil-doing of men who preached his word. Harry’s death came one week to the day after I killed that rotten priest.
I stopped reading. My heart palpitated wildly. Milly killed Reverend Michael? But how? Didn’t I kill him?
Memories flooded back. I thought about that sickening crack of the skull followed by a deafening echo as the blood-stained candlestick crashed to the ground.
Pacing, I gulped down my drink, reliving that ugly moment that had been festering in my soul and haunting me all this time.
Frame by frame, I replayed that fatal encounter.
As he grabbed me one time too many, I seized a candlestick. For a fat man, he was strong. Just as he unzipped my pants, I cracked the brass stick over his skull.
The ground vibrated at my feet from his heavy thud. I didn’t even look. I just dropped the weapon and ran.
An hour later, I returned to the scene. The candlestick had disappeared, and the place had become a crime scene. I trembled at the thought of prison. I was only fourteen.
Lucky for me, nothing had happened because the weapon was never found.
I continued reading the journal.
I entered the chapel and discovered that horrible priest moaning on the ground, his skull cracked and bleeding.
“Did you try to touch Harry?” I demanded.
“Please help me,” he whimpered.
I stood over him. “Tell me the truth, or else I’ll leave you to bleed to death.”
“I love Harry,” he moaned, his eyes pathetic and lost, pleading for mercy.
Possessed by anger so fierce that the very devil shot through my veins, I picked up the bloodied candlestick and knocked the evil bastard dead.
No other mother would lose her son again.
I hid in the forest, crying like a madwoman.
When I returned to the church, the candlestick had gone. My heart was in my mouth. The police had yet to arrive.
I tried to imagine what might have happened to the incriminating weapon. My fingerprints and Milly’s were stamped all over it. Taking a deep breath to still my nerves, I returned to the page.
One week later, Harry hung himself. And it was my fault. The police had spoken to him, and then my son disappeared. I should have owned up to it. But I was too weak. In the end, as you know, they closed the case.
When Sir William told me one day that you’d saved his life, I knew I had to act, even though your mother had sworn me to secrecy.
Mary was like a younger sister to me. We both had had husbands who bashed us. She was pregnant with you the same time that I carried Harry.
She was a very beautiful woman, so it didn’t surprise me that Sir William had taken a fancy to her. Your mother told me that she’d been Sir William’s lover for many years, even while living with that savage man, who you thought was your father.
I couldn’t judge either Sir William or your mother harshly. They’d both married badly. Sir William was a handsome man with black hair and deep-blue eyes. I never understood why Lady Catherine ended up in the arms of Gareth Wolf, that scruffy gardener.
Sir William wanted to marry your mother, but imagine the scandal, given that her husband was in prison.
One day, she confessed that you were Sir William’s son. I should have guessed. You both had the same eyes.
The blood drained from my face. Sir William, my father? My father was the refined, elegant man who I’d admired for all those years, not that brute languishing in prison.
I opened the window and yelled. It burst out of me like an exorcism. My heart thundered. But it wasn’t enough. Blood raged through me, so I grabbed the pillow, smothered my face in it, and cried my guts out.
Relief, frustration—an overflow of colliding emotions spewed out of me onto that pillow. After I got that out of my system, I filled a glass with whisky and drank it with the thirst of a man possessed.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I picked up the journal and continued reading.
I managed to convince Mary to tell Sir William that you were his son. That was the same day that Lady Catherine, who’d been drinking heavily, told Dylan, in front of me and one other, that his father was Gareth Wolf.
It was then that I decided to collect a strand of your hair and Dylan’s for concrete proof. Mainly for legal reasons so that you would inherit what was rightfully yours.
Sir William cried. He kept asking your mother why she’d waited so long. On his own admission, they were tears of relief. He’d always seen good in you and evil in Dylan.
On his deathbed, Sir William told Mary he’d changed his will. The DNA test and a testimony by the cook sat with the solicitor. Should Dylan have contested the will, he would have incriminated himself.
As for Lady Catherine, Sir William left her enough to keep her from spitting vitriol.
Your mother came to me the day before her disappearance, making me promise to watch over you. She was only forty, and I told her that she’d be around for a long time. The look on her face contradicted that.
Sir William made me swear on his grave never to reveal that he was your fathe
r. I could only assume it was to protect you from Dylan.
Never one to go against my word, I obeyed. Sir William was a good and honest man. I couldn’t have asked for a fairer boss.
But I couldn’t have gone to my grave with such a burdened soul.
I can now rest in peace.
All I ask is that my ashes be scattered in the wood by Raven Abbey.
40
* * *
PENELOPE
HE STOOD BEFORE MY bed like an apparition. I jumped. It was early morning and still dark outside.
“Sorry to startle you like this,” he said.
“What are you doing here, Blake?” I asked, lifting myself up from the bed.
“I had to see you.”
I turned on the lamp. He looked different. His large eyes were alert.
Sitting on the side of the bed, he said, “I let myself in. I have a key.” His half smile was so sweet that I leaned forward and held him.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m a Fox.”
“Huh?” I asked.
“I’m a Fox, and Dylan, that lowlife, is a mongrel. A nobody. Just a piece of dirt.”
“Have you been drinking?”
He removed his shirt and dropped his pants. He stood before me like a Greek god. My eyes traveled down to his cock, which had gone steel hard as his fingers slid over my skin, leaving a trail of heat.
I moved over, and he joined me in bed. I parted my lips, ready to speak, when his mouth landed on mine. His plunging tongue swirled around mine. We hadn’t seen each other for a day, but it seemed like longer.
My body melted in his arms. I knew something big had happened. In that gaze lay the pain of loss but also a sense of release. I could feel it in his body as he held me.
“What’s happened?” I asked, pulling away to stare into his eyes.
“I want to feel you. I need to know that you’re real.”