“Jesus, Jenny! It’s me!”
Theo stepped out from beneath the shadows of the staircase, grabbed her hand in his. It took a second too long for reality to filter through terror, but she did stop screaming—eventually.
“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling her into him. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Y-you didn’t,” she lied foolishly. Her voice was shaking. That wouldn’t do. She clawed back her piece of mind, inch by inch, enough to slow the breathing and stop the shaking. Still, he held her, tucking her head into the curve of his neck and rubbing slow, smoothing circles over her back. She breathed deep, inhaled his summer night scent. After a few minutes, she was truly calm—enough to pretend, with a little effort, that she hadn’t just made a complete tit of herself.
Stepping away from his embrace caused feelings she didn’t want to consider too closely—except she’d have to, at some point. She was starting to realise that now. And this certainly wasn’t the kind of thing she could tell Grandma about.
Crap. One problem at a time.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice hoarse.
Theo shoved a hand through his hair, pushing back the few silky strands that always fell onto his forehead. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just thought it would be better to wait here. Hey.” He rubbed her arm. He couldn’t know that beneath the layers of her coat and blazer, she had broken out in goosebumps. But the touch made her feel better. “You’re shaking,” he said, his voice layered with concern.
“Sorry,” she said again. It was a reflex.
“You don’t need to be sorry.”
She looked at him.
“Well,” he smiled awkwardly, the kind of smile an adult gives to reassure a strange and uncertain child. “I guess we scared off whoever was up there, then, didn’t we?”
Jennifer’s pulse grew loud in her ears, until her hearing was muffled by the sound of her own blood. “What?” She asked faintly.
“Whoever was on the stairs. I thought I heard someone else. But they went.” He frowned at her as she turned, ridiculously, to one bare wall, and then the other, looking around the empty stairwell for—what? A chaise lounge to swoon on? Cameras and an obnoxious TV host telling her that she’d been punk’d? What?
She ended up with nothing to lean on but Theo. He stepped forward, close to her, and God, she must be absolutely brainless because she sagged into him, trapping the front of his shirt in a grip that would definitely wrinkle.
“Jenny,” he said, his voice as firm as his arms around her. “I need you to tell me what’s wrong.”
She took a breath. Then another. Gulped them down like water.
“Jennifer!”
“Nothing! It’s nothing! I’m sorry.” She gathered her wits and looked up, only to find his face inches away from hers. She could feel his breath hot against her skin. “I just… I just get nervous sometimes,” she whispered.
He was openly sceptical. She could tell. He opened his mouth to tell her what his expression already said: that he thought she was bullshitting. But Jennifer didn’t want to have that conversation, so she kissed him.
Kissing was not a thing Jennifer did often. In fact, she didn’t think she’d ever kissed anyone as much as she’d kissed this man over the past few days. She couldn’t even remember who’d last touched her lips before him.
Maybe that was why kissing Theo felt like the moment, the single perfect moment, when pills and excitement and that song you love all converse to create a point of pure pleasure, a high that you know will never be surpassed. That moment when you’re there, all alone, surrounded by heaving bodies but outside of your own, and you can do nothing but stare into the flashing lights and hear and feel and want and have. Yeah. It’d been too long. Too long since she’d felt much of anything, never mind that much. That was the only reason why the gentle pressure of Theo’s lips felt like perfection. That was the only reason why his thumb tilting her chin felt like a touch between her legs. That was the only reason why she tugged his shirt out of his trousers and slid her hands beneath the fabric, just to feel more of his skin. That was definitely the only reason.
She couldn’t remember the reason.
He seemed to have a thing for touching her face. The thumb on her chin became a palm against her cheek, and he wrapped one arm around her bod as though she might float away if he didn’t hang on tight enough. That was how it felt: like she was a helium balloon, and he was keeping her grounded. He slid his fingers from her cheek to the nape of her neck and moved his head until she was the one accepting the kiss, and he the giver. She leant back, clinging to him like a fool, and every flick of his tongue felt like devotion. If Jennifer was the sighing type, she’d sigh right now.
He bit her lower lip, and the sharp twinge was matched by a spark of pleasure between her legs. He sucked the place he bit, and the way she felt her underwear dampen, you’d think he was sucking her clit.
She really, really wanted him to do that, actually. She wanted him to do a lot of things.
With that realisation, the way forward became clear. It was logical, really. She pulled away, and he groaned, which was flattering, but he let her go. The hand behind her head moved to cup her face gently once more; the arm wrapped around her slid away, until it was nothing more than a light touch at the small of her back. His pupils were wide like he was on something, but as she watched, they shrank slowly and he focused on her face. Still, his breathing was heavy; his face, naturally angular, was all sharp cheekbones and taught jaw; his brows were furrowed. She wasn’t sure if he was turned on or enraged. But no; he touched her so gently. No rage here.
“Listen,” she began, as though he would do anything else. Her hands were still under his shirt, resting against his ribcage. He didn’t move them. “I think… I mean, it’s been a hell of a day. I think I just want to go home.”
The lines of his face were softened by disappointment. “Oh.” He cleared his throat.
“But,” she added quickly, “maybe you could… Come with me? And we could have a drink at mine? Or something?”
And all of a sudden, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Yeah,” he smiled. “I’d like that. Come on. We can take the car.”
He stepped back, and she was forced to relinquish her awkward grip on his torso—which, what the hell had she been thinking, by the way? With an internal grimace, Jennifer pulled away and patted at her hair self-consciously.
“It looks nice,” he said, tucking his shirt back in. Jesus, anyone could have seen them.
“You always say that,” she mumbled.
“Because it always looks nice.”
“You’ve never seen me half-way through washday.”
“I’m not entirely sure what that means,” he chuckled, “but I’m interested in finding out.”
Jennifer rolled her eyes. “You have your keycard?”
“Yep.” He produced a wallet from his jacket pocket. Together, they went through the heavy back door and out into the building’s car park.
Jennifer didn’t know much about cars—in fact, she didn’t know anything. She couldn’t even drive. All she could say about the car was that it was made by BMW, but it wasn’t a Mini. Oh; and it was blue. Not too old; not brand new. Aria would probably ask.
He opened the door for her like it was 1943 or something, then went round to his side while she slid into the low seats.
“No driver?”
He smiled. “I told you; that was the family car. Where do you live?”
Jennifer named a little town on the outskirts of the city, just to see his face fall.
“Joking,” she laughed. “I live up Forrest Drive. The newish flats, you know?”
“Oh, thank fuck. Yeah, I know it.” He grinned, his white teeth bright in the shadows of the carpark. “Anyway. You can choose the music.”
“Are you sure about that?”
He chuckled. “I bet you think you’re so punk-rock.“
“I
am so punk-rock. Like, totally.”
He snorted. “Whatever. It’s, what, a ten minute drive? I’m sure you can’t destroy my eardrums in so short a time.”
And so, of course, she took the AUX cord and set about proving him wrong.
“So,” he said as she scrolled through her playlist. “What do you need advice on?”
She sighed, let her head fall back against the seat. “Client from hell. My very first account. I was so excited…”
“And it all went to shit?”
“Yep.”
He gave her a sympathetic look. “That’s usually how it goes. What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Let me get a drink in me first.” She laughed. It came out hollow. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice.
“Okay,” he said gently. “Sure. I wanted to talk to you anyway.”
“Yeah? What about?”
“Do you remember what I said last night, about how you need some kind of guarantee from me?”
“Ye-e-e-s,” she said slowly.
“Well, I figured it out. We need a contract.”
Her eyes bulged out of her head. “I beg your pardon?”
“A contract. Outlining the parameters of our relationship, placing all responsibility with myself, and discussing what you’ll be entitled to should you feel that… Well. We’ll go through all that later.”
“But—but—“ She spluttered. “This isn’t Fifty Shades of Grey!”
“I’m aware,” he said wryly. “Although I’d be happy to add the necessary clauses, if you wanted to cover sexual activity.”
She blushed. “Um, no thanks. And what do you mean when you say entitled?
“Well… Let’s just say you decide to end things.” He placed his hand on her thigh, began to stroke her through her stockings, and a low heat unfurled in her belly. “You wouldn’t want to worry about me making things difficult for you.”
“I don’t think that you would.” I think that you’ll decide to end things and I might just lose my mind over it. For a brief while. No big deal.
“I wouldn’t, of course. I’m just saying, you might feel awkward. Basically, there’ll be multiple clauses designed to protect you.”
“And you’re writing this up by yourself? This contract?”
“No,” he said. “I have a friend with a law degree. He’s working on it. I have the first draft, actually.”
“Is he a solicitor?”
His lips quirked. “Not exactly. But the point is, he knows how to write up a contract.”
She thought for a second. It was an odd gesture, that was for sure. But it was weirdly sweet, too; the way he wanted to protect her from some possible future version of himself. Somehow, she couldn’t ever see herself needing protection from him. Maybe because of the fact that he’d bothered to offer it.
“Okay,” she said finally. “I can look at that.”
“Good,” he murmured. “And we can change anything you want. Maybe think about that BDSM clause. I bet you like to play the brat. Don’t you?”
The heat in her belly thrummed in time with the sweep of his thumb over her thigh.
She bit her lip. “Um… I…”
His voice was low as he said, “I can see myself having to spank you. Maybe we should get your hard limits in writing.”
Her jaw dropped.
He moved his hand, shifted gears as the car slowed. “This you?” He said, his voice suddenly light.
She blinked, looked around. “Oh. Yeah. It is. Shall we…?”
“Yep. Let’s go.”
As they made their way into the little block of cheap flats, she kept her head high. The corridors may be covered in graffiti, but that didn’t matter. It added colour to the grimy, grey brick. And yes, the elevators smelled of urine—but he never needed to know that. Her flat was on the ground floor, after all. She avoiding eye contact as she led him to her door, stepping around an unidentified pile of mush on the floor. Looked like some sort of kebab, but she couldn’t tell if it had been dropped or thrown up. She didn’t want to look too closely.
In fact, she avoided looking at anything at all. So much so that she didn’t even see the dark, bulky shape on her front door until they were almost on top of it
“What the hell is that?” Theo asked, frowning.
“I… I don’t know.” She stopped, confused, and in the minute that her mind registered what it was seeing, Theo grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her away from it.
“Don’t look,” he said, voice low. Too late for that.
Jennifer tried to speak, but nothing came out. Absently, she noticed that she was shaking, that her fingers were tingling, her chest pounding. Uh-oh.
“Jen. It’s okay. You’re okay. Come here.” He wrapped his arms around her. Bad idea. But somehow, it snapped her back into the moment—into her body. She pulled away from him, reached a hand out to touch the cold wall beside her, and felt her heart rate slow. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
After a moment, he spoke. “Jenny?”
She swallowed. Gathered her courage. Turned to face him. “I’m fine. Come on. Let’s take a closer look.”
“Is it your door?”
“Yep.”
“Is it your cat?”
She stepped past him, stared at the bloody, furry corpse nailed to her front door. “Nope. No cats.”
“I think we should call the police.”
She bit her lip. “I think you’re right.”
Chapter Twelve
The phrase blind rage had always puzzled Theo. Until now.
Because as he stood over the sweating, anxious, balding figure that was PC Thomas Plum, his vision blurred.
“What the fuck do you mean,” he hissed, “there’s nothing you can do?”
“Mr Chamberlain,” squeaked the other officer, a stout woman with a severe blonde bob. “I believe my partner said that there’s very little we can do, unless a more sustained pattern of harassment can be—“
“Are you suggesting,” Theo interrupted, “that we sit tight and wait for this to happen again?” His voice swelled into a roar. “Have you lost your tiny fucking mind?”
“Theo,” Jen said behind him. “Calm down. Please.” At her softly uttered request, the red haze over his vision faded slightly. He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his broad nose, and took a deep, calming breath.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’m sorry, Jenny.” He stepped back, sat down beside her at the kitchen table. Clenching his jaw, he took one of her hands in his. It was icy cold.
The woman—he couldn’t recall her name; it wasn’t so memorable as Plum—cleared her throat. “Of course, we will be contacting your landlord for the CCTV footage—“
“It doesn’t work,” Jen said dully. “It’s a deterrent. Hasn’t worked for years, I heard.”
Theo ground his teeth with the effort of keeping his mouth shut. She’d already fucking told them that, and they’d written it down on a little fucking notepad along with the rest of her life story. They weren’t listening. They weren’t listening at all.
And this magnificent woman, the woman who made his heart sing, lived in a shitty building with no CCTV and graffiti on the walls. What if she had a stalker, for fuck’s sake? What if some woman-hating serial killer had developed a dangerous obsession? Jesus fucking Christ. He glowered at Plum, who wilted beneath his gaze. Good. The useless man could disappear altogether, for all Theo cared.
But the other one was a little better. Not much, but a little. She didn’t look like she was about to shit herself, at least. So he directed his question to her.
“What can be done to speed up this process without endangering Jennifer?”
She cleared her throat. “Well, sir, we’ll look at CCTV in the surrounding area, and we suggest that you invest in a security system, if you haven’t already. I’ll give you my card, of course.” She produced a cheap rectangle of card with the local precinct’s logo on the front, and her name and contact details scrawled on the back in
Biro. “Should any further incidents occur, please don’t hesitate—“
“Is that it?” Theo asked, his voice quiet and controlled. Every consonant was cut glass.
“Theo,” Jenny said. “Leave it. It’s fine.”
He bit his tongue.
“PC Goring,” she began. Ah—that’s what it was. Goring. “I appreciate your help. I was wondering if you might be able to look into something potentially related. A case I was involved in previously, early 2002?”
Theo frowned in confusion, watching as PC Goring nodded.
“Yes,” the other woman said. “I did take note of that on the way over.”
“Right. Perhaps—“ Jen broke off, looked warily up at Theo, and his confusion grew. What the hell happened in 2002? “Perhaps,” she continued hesitantly, “you could look into any possible links.”
“Of course,” Goring said. “If I could just take some contact details…”
Jen gave her contact information while Theo’s mind ran through possibilities. 2002? What could Jen have been involved in fifteen years ago that might lead to something like this? She could’ve only been a kid back then, anyway—eleven or twelve at most.
A few minutes later, the officers were gone. Thank Christ. Jennifer stood by the kitchen window, the orange glow of the streetlights outside painting stripes across her dark skin. She stared right through him, her arms wrapped around herself, her face haunted.
“Jenny?” He said softly. “I think you should sit down.”
She blinked, and her eyes focused—but not on him. She stared resolutely at the linoleum floor. “No. I’m okay.”
“Alright,” he said dubiously. He stepped closer to her, just in case. “What was all that about?”
“All what?” Her voice was flat.
“What happened in 2002?”
“It was 2001 when it happened,” she said. She sounded like a zombie. “Christmas, 2001.”
Unease crept up the back of the neck like a spider. “What happened?” He asked again.
She looked up at him, finally, and her eyes were terrifying and terrified. “Nothing,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
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