by Orla Bailey
So he’d spent the night nearby and witnessed Jack’s security firm arriving early to work. It must have triggered something in his mind.
“Thank you for that information, Phil. I guess I’d really appreciate it if you’d see me safely to the bus stop.” The sooner we get away from the source of his flashback, the better.
He gives me a curt nod, takes a firmer grip of my arm and starts to march me determinedly towards the roadside just at the second the Bentley screeches round the corner. My heart sinks as Jack dives out the door before it even pulls to a halt. Arctic blue eyes, full of rage, bore into Phil at the place where his heavy hand holds onto me. Phil’s grip tightens round my flesh and my heart gallops.
I’m not the only one whose tension soars. I feel it in Phil’s tightening grasp. I see it in Jack’s ice-cold features. A shiver courses through my body as my skin chills to the unseen pressure pulsing in the air around us; all that potential for violence, literally thrumming. Jack doesn’t know Phil. Doesn’t understand the poor guy is harmless.
My breath stutters, shortens.
I know what Jack will see: a monster of a man, unkempt, crazy-eyed, with little left to lose, restraining me, threatening me and likely to cause me harm. He remembers everything I’ve driven into his brain about what happened to me against my will that night in the hotel. About the danger someone poses to me. He’ll jump to the wrong conclusion.
If this confrontation is a fraction of what Phil experienced on the battlefield, I’m glad there are tough guys like him willing to go to war to protect people like me. But this isn’t one of those times and nobody seems to understand it but me.
“Take your filthy hands off my woman!”
Phil starts at Jack’s roar. He heaves me forcefully behind him and adopts an automatic defensive stance. For a homeless guy he’s very strong. “Stay close, ma’am and I’ll get you out of this alive.”
Blackstock materialises quietly on the opposite side of us to Jack. They both advance on our position in a steady pincer movement. Phil twists his head rapidly from side to side assessing the perceived threat. I try to speak but shock renders me speechless. My legs are leaden. I can only stare and will Jack not to move any closer. But he’s not listening to the words in my head. I have to pull my wits together. Inhale enough to speak.
“It’s alright, Phil… They’re friendly,” I tell him. “The good guys.” I try to keep my voice as calm as possible. For whose benefit is anybody’s guess. But Jack stalks even closer. His ice-frosted eyes never leave Phil’s. He hardly sees me at all.
“I told you to take your fucking hands off her and I won’t tell you again.”
“Fuck you. You’re not having her. Not on my watch.”
My lungs refuse to inflate. I dredge up a tiny squeak to appeal to the one of us in this testosterone-fuelled nightmare who I hope might still retain some spark of reason. “I’m okay.” Can’t Jack see what is happening? I’m not in any danger from Phil. Why won’t my voice work?
Phil grunts. “Don’t sound too friendly.” He circles my wrist in a vice-like grip and pulls me in close, laying claim to me; showing Jack he’s not willing to surrender me to the enemy.
In his hyper-wary state he’s hurting my wrist but I know I mustn’t over-react although it’s taking every ounce of will-power not to scream and struggle away from the unfolding nightmare. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion.
Jack is almost within arm’s reach. I see his chest heaving, the muscle twitch in the grim line of his jaw, tension narrowing his eyes. Phil dances on the balls of his feet, pulling me back and forth with him, keeping himself always between Jack and me.
“Jack, don’t. He doesn’t want to hurt me,” I plead, trying not to make a sudden move or sound as alarmed as I feel. If either man gets any impression of how scared I really am, God knows what they’ll do to one another.
Jack isn’t listening. He never listens. His body is tense, his muscles reactive. I feel a cold dread flowing through Phil’s body into mine. When a sudden glint of sunlight flashes in the corner of my eye, Jack’s eyes and mine turn towards it at the same time. Phil has a thin, vicious looking blade in his hand. Where did that come from? My dread mounts. Things are turning horribly wrong.
Blackstock manoeuvres himself behind us so Phil swivels his body to face this new threat, the blade sliding in his easy grasp like a charmed but deadly cobra from side to side waiting to strike. It appears hideously comfortable in his hand and he looks like he knows how to use it.
Jack springs without hesitation, the force of his momentum driving Phil to the floor. Held tight, I’m dragged behind them both and we land together in a heap. Jack lunges for Phil’s knife arm, fighting to hold it in a death-grip away from me. Phil has the strength of madness but Jack’s matches it in grim determination.
Their frantic movement scrapes me back and forth across the concrete. I see the flash of metal then a spray of blood and cry out but I don’t know whose it is. Jack wrenches my arm painfully from Phil’s as he resists, scrambling to his feet again. Phil’s wiry and tough and knows how to defend himself, a blend of army tactics and dirty street-fighting blurring his predictability. Blackstock grabs hold of me to yank me out of reach.
I see the blade for a second in Jack’s closed fist before he tosses it off into the distance. It lands with a clatter on the concrete and skids just behind the wheel of a parked car. In that moment of distraction Phil attacks. He lands one solid blow beneath Jack’s ribcage doubling him over with the impact. Jack snaps upright instantly, heaving for oxygen as they drive punches at each other’s faces. Phil breaks away, scrabbling to retrieve his weapon.
I struggle, needing to calm Phil down; needing to stop Jack’s attack but Blackstock restrains me.
“Get her out of here,” Jack yells, tackling Phil to the ground again with arms around his calves.
Phil rolls and lunges and Jack rears backwards; glances down for a second. My eyes see the bloody blade in Phil’s hand and follow to where Jack is looking downwards and my lungs deflate.
A shock of crimson blooms over the shirt beneath Jack’s jacket. He’s been stabbed. Jack’s hurt. I cry out, screaming and fighting like a wild cat to get to him but Blackstock won’t let go. I see the drops of blood soaking into the dirt beneath him.
Blackstock heaves me backwards bodily, lifting my feet from the ground as I lash out to get free, but one huge arm clamps round my middle, the other restrains my wrists in front of me. No matter how much I kick and fight, he’s too strong, I can’t gain purchase.
I want to go to Jack. I need to.
But he’s moving forwards again. Like two starving wild animals rolling in the dirt, fighting for ownership of a carcass, they’re both getting badly hurt. I’m so mad at their pig-headedness, I want to rip the two combatants apart. I’m so afraid.
I scream for them to stop as loudly as I can but no-one reacts to me. Tears stream down my face. Both warriors regain their feet, circling each other. Phil lands a right and a left into Jack’s bloody torso. I hear the dull thud as air is forced from Jack’s lungs but he retaliates with his own closed fist like a demolition ball to Phil’s jaw sending him sprawling backwards. Phil’s not down for long before he hurls himself at Jack again. They’re never going to stop.
“For God’s sake get her away from here.” Jack spits, holding onto his bloodied side with one hand, jabbing at Phil to hold him at bay with the other.
Blackstock, ignoring my angry protests, wrestles me into the back of the Bentley, deploying the locking mechanism so I can’t escape and drives off with me battering frantically on the window. In my last sight of them, kneeling on grit-peppered, scraped knees staring out the back windscreen, Jack has Phil pinned beneath his body, but Phil’s knees are jack-knifing up to lever him off. I see him groping round for his knife to finish off the job.
I yell for them to stop; scream at Blackstock to turn the car around, to go back and help them.
“Calm down, Miss Caid. It�
��ll be alright.” His voice sounds tense but he maintains his detached composure.
“It won’t. It’ll never be alright.” Nothing will ever be alright again. “You left him. How could you leave him? You made me leave him.”
“Mr Keogh wanted you out of danger. He can take care of himself.” Blackstock sounds angry. As if this is all my fault.
“He’s been stabbed… Phil didn’t mean to hurt me… Why won’t Jack listen?” Tears fall unashamedly as I gasp.
“There’s no point getting upset, Miss Caid.”
Jack always thinks he knows what’s best for me and it makes no difference what I tell him. I didn’t want him to leave just because I was young but he did it anyway. He didn’t allow me to run back to Lassec to get over him once and for all. Instead he brought me back. Yet he didn’t even stick around long enough to understand I was assaulted in that hotel; going away instead to lick his wounds, based only on his own knee-jerk perceptions. Jack thinks he should make every decision. But this is my life too.
I picture the blood draining from Jack’s lifeless body. I can’t do this anymore. My absolute knowledge of that is utterly devastating. Someone is going to get badly hurt and better that person is me. I can handle it. I’ve handled it so many times before.
No matter how much I beg him to turn the car around and drive back, Blackstock doesn’t slow until we reach Belvedere. He follows his boss’s orders implicitly. He marches me into the elevator and takes me up to the apartment yet he doesn’t come in.
“The sooner I see you safely inside, the sooner I can return and help Mr Keogh.” I can tell by his tone, Blackstock’s blaming me too. “Don’t leave the apartment. He expects you to remain inside.”
“I’m not bothered what he expects,” I snipe, misery and failure overcoming all rational thought. “It’s Phil I’m worried about. He’s harmless. He’s the one who needs my help. I wasn’t in any danger and Jack had no right. It wasn’t his call. He doesn’t even care what I think.” I’m crying hard now and shaking, not sure who to blame but myself.
“It looked like you were in plenty of danger to me.” Blackstock is coldly angry. “The guy pulled a blade.”
“Only because he was attacked.”
“Do you think Mr Keogh would ever pull a blade in front of you, even if he was attacked? That guy’s a danger to anyone around him. And you shouldn’t have been exposed to that.” Blackstock takes a deep breath to calm his rising temper. “Ex-army?”
I’m stunned into silence by the rebuke. I’ve acted like a jerk. I nod. I suppose Blackstock recognises a military man only too well. “He’s harmless, really. A nice guy.”
“One very screwed up, nice guy.” Blackstock desists arguing and ushers me inside. “Stay put, Miss Caid. I mean it.”
I march into the empty apartment, throw myself on the sofa and weep in self-pity as Blackstock leaves, the elevator doors closing behind him.
I contemplate phoning a taxi, just to spite the pair of them, to go back to the scene but decide I’ve caused enough trouble. I imagine the Police have been called by now and they’ve both been arrested. Or worse. Perhaps they’re lying side by side in the emergency room getting knife-wound surgery. I can’t get the sight of all that blood out of my head.
What if Jack is badly hurt? His lung punctured? My stomach is weighted down with a rock of dread. I can’t stand all this waiting. Not knowing. Anger and alarm wage their own little war inside me and I’m frightened. Shaking badly.
I stagger to the guest room, rip off my torn, filthy clothes and stand beneath the shower with the temperature turned up so hot my skin scalds but I welcome the physical discomfort.
Digging in my handbag for the new phone I call Jack but it goes straight to voicemail. Unable to do anything, say anything, I text my feelings instead.
Sorry u got hurt. Pls be OK. Don’t have Phil arrested. He wanted to protect me, same as u. Call me x
I sit on the bed to wait for a reply which never comes. The long hours of silence terrify me more. What is happening? I yank on a dress and wander aimlessly about, barefoot. By nine thirty I’ve heard nothing at all and am going steadily out of my mind with worry.
I’m overwhelmed by a primal need to protect my own. Whether it’s my way of creating order in a world where I feel there is none or because my heart feels so vulnerable and raw, I have no idea but I have to monitor my breathing for ages to prevent it spiralling dangerously out of control.
Anything to distract me from going crazy, I seek out Lenuta’s preparations for dinner. Cold roasted chicken and bowls of various salads rest covered in the refrigerator. Almost unconsciously I set the table for dinner. I’m so tired of fighting. So tired of needing and wanting and waiting for something that never comes.
As I place the candles I become conscious of the romantic setting I’m creating. I take a few simple flowers from a larger arrangement and pop them into a crystal glass to put at the centre of the table. It reminds me of that first dinner Jack invited me to at Belvedere. I thought he was arrogant and selfish, playing with my emotions, only wanting me there to amuse himself. I was scared, yet seduced by something I’d dreamed of forever. Jack.
Deep down, even then, I knew I needed him in my life. I’ve never been able to truly let go, through all our years apart, I accept that now. And he never knew I loved him like life because I held it as a secret treasure in my heart. We might have forged some strange business deal instead of dealing with our feelings honestly but this was all about grabbing our chance to be together.
Now I have to let Jack go. I’m hurting him and he’s hurting me. Being together is simply destroying us. I have to forget the past as if it never existed. I rub distractedly at the ache forming beneath my ribs. It’s the same place the blood was flowing from beneath Jack’s shirt. I don’t know why I’m holding back the tears. There’s no-one here to see me cry.
* * *
When the Sirocco blasts through me until I gasp, I know he’s home. I twist the eternal knot pendant impatiently between my fingers until the elevator doors finally open and Jack steps into the apartment.
We stand and stare at one another.
He looks drained and, for the first time, uncertain. It will be very hard to give Jack up and I’m not sure if I’m strong enough. I see the deep-reaching exhaustion in his eyes before anything. My eyes slowly travel, searching, absorbing. His expensive jacket is slung carelessly over one arm. His trousers are dusty and torn. His tie lies draped opened round his unbuttoned collar. Yet he stands stalwart and undefeated.
Nothing matters but him, home safe. I fly to him and he catches me against him and holds me tightly with one arm. He winces almost imperceptibly as I land against his hard body. I soften my touch. Even beneath the dirt, sweat and medical antiseptic, the faint smell of Clive Christian is familiar to me and as comforting as breath.
“I love you.” I stretch up on my toes and press my lips to his to worship him. “I’ll always love you.”
He lifts me from the floor in the power of his embrace as he gradually moulds my body to his.
“Are you alright?” My eyes run over his face, his arms. I pull the jacket away and let it drop to the floor. I see the bloodstain – spread wider than I imagined – across one side of his shirt and tear the fabric upwards to witness the large dressing beneath. “You’re badly hurt.”
“It’s a scratch. Don’t cry. I’m fine.” He takes my head between his hands and rests his forehead against mine. “I was frightened you were going to get hurt, I didn’t stop to think. Why didn’t you wait for the car like I told you? How can I keep you safe when you never do as I tell you?”
“I’m sorry. But it doesn’t matter anymore.” For the first time I see things from his perspective. I’ve been such a self-centred child.
I want him to accept I was held against my will in that hotel and drugged. I want him to believe Amanda is a threat to me. And he wants to believe me. I can hardly be surprised if he wants to surround me with safety now. Har
dly expect him not to react when he sees me taking off without him but with some perilous-looking stranger holding on to me the way Phil was.
“I’m not trying to crush you, Tabitha. Can’t you understand that?”
“You want to save me. Protect me.” I think he might be even showing me that he loves me.
He nods.
I feel the heart of the man thundering against mine.
“Come.” I take his hand and lead him to his bedroom and straight through to the bathroom. He watches me as I undress him tenderly. I tug the tie from his collar and pop open the final buttons on his shirt, sliding it over his broad shoulders and down his arms, tracing my fingertips over the bruises already darkening the flesh there.
My fingers quake against his belt buckle as I lever it and carefully lower his zipper. His gaze blisters me. I allow the trousers to fall, then crouch to the floor at his feet to undo his shoelaces, remove his shoes and socks one at a time. I lift his feet from his trousers and he simply lets me. I kneel up, dragging his underwear down his thighs. He’s naked and unapologetic, as naturally confident in this state as any other. It’s who he is.
I gently kiss his stomach; his erection. When I look up, he’s staring down at me. His hand reaches down to stroke my hair as I slide my lips over him and gently, reverently, take him inside my mouth, suctioning and pulling rhythmically, again and again.
“Kitten.” He moans gently and stirs in my mouth, his hand carefully cupping the back of my head. “Stop.”
“Tell me what you need, Jack.”
“I need you. Always need you.”
He lifts me to my feet and kisses me like he’ll never kiss me again. As I break away, he lifts the dress over my head, casting it to the floor and I lead him by the hand to the bed. “Make me believe I’m yours forever, Jack.”
He lowers me beneath him, stroking unashamedly between my thighs, dipping beneath my panties, exploring my sex. He runs his fingers into my damp heat. “You’re always mine.”