The Contract (Nightlong #1)

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  “Well,” she said, a mischievous look in her eye, “we sometimes have ourselves a little indoor yard sale with toys on offer. Tools the girls might need. You know?”

  “Tools?” I giggled, attempting to remain as non-threatening as possible.

  “Instruments… tools of the trade,” she said, smiling.

  I sipped at a very nice glass of deep-purple port, which was most certainly warming my cockles. “The only things I have to have are notebooks,” I said seriously, “I can’t settle otherwise. Sometimes I have to write things down, call it the Irish in me or something.”

  “I did think there was a little brogue in there somewhere.”

  I smiled, finding her company genial. “I left seven years ago. I was only in London for six months before we met, Dante and me.”

  “Seven years? Oh my god.” She placed a hand over her mouth.

  “Why so shocked?”

  “You can’t be older than twenty-three, surely?” she asked, peering at me now I’d taken my make-up off.

  Snickering, I flapped my hand. “I’m twenty-five. I was of age, I assure you!”

  “I see. So you didn’t flee your family or anything?”

  “Oh, I fled. I was a good girl, though. I fled when I was an adult so they couldn’t drag me back home.”

  Sat in wingback leather chairs by a fire, I suddenly had to check myself. Was I being lulled into a false sense of security? I told myself I was shocked that she’d gotten me talking about my family so quickly – when I never even talked about them with Dante. Sometimes, it seemed much easier to tell strangers all your secrets… which got me thinking…

  “Brothers or sisters?” she asked.

  “Just a sister, younger,” I said, “eight years younger. We weren’t close and when Ma and Da hated on me, so did she. Kind of gets boring, having all the hate aimed at you all the time.”

  “Well, there’s none of that here,” she said, leaning over to touch my hand lightly, “we promote love, not hate, and discipline, not spite. I’m sure you know all about that, having been with Dante.”

  Sat barely making an indent in her chair, she had to weigh eight stones or less, but you could see she was strong. Her legs were spindly and she kept crossing them over and over like they were lighter than air, but Shay was deceptive – I could tell. She walked around like she wasn’t afraid of anything.

  “So… when will I go beneath ground like the others?”

  She shot me an unbridled grin reminiscent of Cruella De Vil. “You’re our guest as far as I’m concerned and after the way he’s treated you, I’ll make sure your living costs here are covered by him. I don’t see why you should be subjected to the same demands as the other girls when it wasn’t your choice to come here. Was it?”

  “Not really, but won’t he know I’m disobeying him?” I queried, one eyebrow raised, drinking another sip.

  Did she really think I was so naïve?

  “He’s never here so he owns it in name and on spreadsheet only,” she said with a smirk, “besides, I run the place. I know it backwards and forwards. The girls answer to me, nobody else. The men who demand services outside of the brochure also have to deal with me. What I say, goes. End of.”

  “I see.” I looked into the distance, digesting her possessive words. This was truly her own dominion. “Dante said you were like me. Young. Needed the money. His uncle found you?”

  She pulled her booted feet underneath herself in the chair, seemingly getting comfortable enough for a long chat.

  “Yes. I left home like you, sure there was everything waiting for me in London. In a way, I found more than everything. I found him.”

  “Him, who?”

  “Dante, of course.”

  Nodding, I agreed outwardly, cursing her inwardly.

  This woman had surely enjoyed my man once upon a time and it made my blood boil. I couldn’t share him. He was mine.

  “Still carry a torch?”

  “Any female with a pulse, no? None of us are immune to him,” she spoke warmly, grinning.

  “Not everyone has had him, though?”

  She turned her bottom lip up, showing a slight chink in her armour. “Oh, but there were many.”

  “He told me that. I sort of always knew he could never be mine, you know?” I thought that by saying things that were half true, she’d truly believe me in all things.

  “Exactly. He belongs to himself. But then, Daltrey got killed… and I guess, there was even less of him to go round.”

  “That’s when he changed?”

  “No. His spirit just went out, like a light. It was devastating to watch.”

  “I bet it was.”

  “Yes.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed. I didn’t hear resentment or see it in her eyes as we chatted, but I felt the sadness she harboured deep inside her soul. A longing, even. She missed him, it was clear.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “as long as it’s not my age.”

  I laughed. “Were you always kinky, or… did it grow on you?”

  “I’m a masochist. I was born this way.”

  “Really?”

  “Always.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  My blood ran cold, imagining Dante beating her… tying her up. Exacting all sorts of fantasies on her that he never had on me. So far we’d only engaged in soft play. I’d struck him, but he had never done anything to me but slap my posterior. At most, he might have also given me a dead hand or two from pinning me down… but I couldn’t imagine the things she might have let him do to her.

  “It’s a choice for you, I take it? Not a persuasion.”

  “It was just something I did for money. There are girls who do it for that, yes?”

  “Yes,” she said, opening her mostly glued-together hands for once, “most are here for the money and the seclusion from life, for a time.”

  “So what about your time?”

  Something like regret crossed her face when she told me, “I had my time. Now, I just live to make sure all these girls stay safe.”

  “Admirable.”

  “I think so.” She rose to her feet, having finished her drink. “I’d love to chat all night, but I must make sure everything’s running smoothly below stairs.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll get you some new notebooks, Cleo. The nights are long but the days longer so for now, goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  I sat staring at the fire, wondering if my life was going to be as boring as it used to be, when I was restricted to living without love, without Dante – when everything seemed grey and pallid as I waited for life to begin – when it seemed impossible I would ever be happy. What sort of employment would I find here? How was I to occupy myself without my fiancé? How would I please myself?

  Shay almost got to the other side of the room where the door was when she turned and bellowed, “I completely forgot my manners! Listen… feel free to use the library, or the heated indoor pool. The outdoor pool doesn’t open until July, so a little while yet. If you’re peckish, the kitchen is always open, but beware of Cook, she’s a little scary so try to wait until you know she’s in bed. We don’t allow laptops, mobiles or tablets, or anything of that kind here but for you, I will let it slide, as long as you’re not seen using them in front of the others. We don’t allow anyone off the grounds without an escort and if you want to use the spa, just call them from the phone in your room. They do almost every therapy known to man. Breakfast at eight, lunch at one, dinner at seven, prompt.”

  “Lovely, thanks.”

  “I’ll say goodnight proper, now.”

  “Goodnight.”

  She turned and walked out of the room, leaving me to imagine what went on downstairs. How did the men arrive? I hadn’t seen another car pull up since I arrived earlier.

  If this was somewhere even the PM came, who knew how they smuggled him in without anyone seeing his face?

  Then
I thought about poor little Shay, with her tired face, and no doubt a tired heart to match…

  Slowly, I rose from my chair and bent down at the drinks table nearby to refill my glass. I walked languidly through the drawing room and out into the reception hall, taking the stairs up as I had done earlier, except now nobody hung around – all the girls otherwise engaged.

  I took the spiral stairs and after shutting myself in the attic room, I noticed a stack of moleskin notebooks on the bedside table, a fountain pen and spare cartridges placed alongside those. Shay couldn’t hate me, could she? Not to deliver such a delightful present, and so quickly.

  As I lay in my robe, looking up at the stars in the ceiling and with the port in my hand… a story began to brew and I decided on my plan of action.

  I was going to write, of course.

  I was going to write it all down.

  All of it.

  Having seen how swiftly life could be taken away, twelve souls delivered up to heaven just like that, it had become clear to me that documenting everything to do with the here, and the now – basically all matters of life – was of paramount importance.

  Seventeen

  2010

  “YOU’VE GOT SAINT CLAIR NEXT, okay?” Miss Lindy said, my House Madam. I’d heard about Saint Clair, but this was my first time with him… and I wasn’t sure what to expect, except to find him as gorgeous and great smelling as all the other girls had described.

  “Okay.” I gulped.

  I’d just finished painting a man with lipstick dot to dots and joining the dots with scratch marks… so Saint Clair couldn’t be any worse, right? He’d probably be a walk in the park in comparison.

  Half of me wondered why I hadn’t yet run back home to Ireland with my tail between my legs. I could’ve even gone to a northern English city where my salary could pay the rent and still afford me some money for food. There was a dream, though… one of me pursuing life in the big city and actually achieving it. I was still young enough to follow that dream and if playing a naughty schoolgirl would eventually land me that dream, so be it. If eventually the place got me down so much the dream faded, I’d leave and find life elsewhere. It was a big world.

  I waited patiently in my little room for him to arrive. It was a bleak room. Black paint peeled off the walls, a lamp sat beside the single bed to light the room and I had made the place look like a teenager’s den with some pop star posters on the walls and all my pink accessories on a little dressing table in the corner. Pink hairbrush, pink comb, nail polishes, make-up set, deodorant and silly girly perfumes.

  “Come in,” I said, when there was a knock on the door.

  In shuffled a man with his head bowed, a crown of blond hair shadowing his face. He flung his coat over the chair at the dressing table and slammed his butt down on the bed, head in his hands. Was he normally so, offish?

  He didn’t shut the door so I shut it for him, trapping us in a small space together.

  “I’m Cleo,” I said, but when I spoke, he didn’t look up.

  “Call me Saint Clair.”

  “All the words? Or just Saint? I’ve always been partial to a bit of Val Kilmer.”

  He looked up and bleary green eyes stared back at me. He seemed weary and exhausted, but he was beautiful and I felt a tiny flutter in my heart.

  “Saint Clair,” he repeated, in an obnoxious tone.

  Did he hate himself? Was the self-given name derisive, or an in-joke?

  He seemed as frail as a whelping pup and I dared not break this man, but this was what he was here for. If there was one thing working in clubs had taught me, specifically clubs like this anyway, it was that in times of need we all seek out the dark to wrap ourselves in its cloying embrace. Only people naturally happy in life don’t see the attraction of vacating the comfy confines of their own home to actually venture out to barbaric environs where anything goes. Literally – anything.

  “Trixy told me you like pain but it’s not something I really do for my guys,” I said, outlining my services. “Perhaps you could be the naughty teacher, watching through the gap in the door of the girl’s toilets as I do my make-up.”

  He nodded briefly and I gestured to the Chinese curtain at the back of the room. He stood and unfolded it, then got behind the wooden drape. Through the slight slits I saw him sat on his knees, peering – perving.

  I went to the dressing table and began applying all my make-up. I was always baby-faced when clients showed up. I went through several baby wipes each night. It was a wonder I still had any skin left. Everyone knew I was of age… though in many ways, I was still very young. Miss Lindy wouldn’t have me doing anything out of bounds. She implemented strict rules.

  Talking of rules, a part of me wanted to break them with this gorgeous man. I wanted to take the sad look out of his eye with a little kiss or a hug. He seemed so lonely. How could someone so beautiful look so alone?

  When I finished my face, I looked in the mirror and asked, “How’s that, Mr Saint Clair?”

  “Beautiful. If you’d just stay there…”

  I heard him shuffling, and feeling frightened, I merely sat at my dressing table and waited.

  He barked out a cry and came, having brought himself to orgasm.

  This wasn’t in the rules… but I didn’t know what this was.

  “Tissues!” he begged.

  I grabbed my extra big pack of wet wipes and took them across the room. “These are all I have.”

  He snatched them out of my hand as I held them around the corner of the divide and he began cursing as he cleaned himself and the floor up (I imagined). I tried not to look through the slits in the Chinese curtain, afraid to see something disgusting. I’d only had sex once and it’d been while I was drunk, in the toilets of a dirty old man’s pub/club. Lucky me, I’d gotten pregnant on my first go… and the guy’s penis had been unmemorable. Alcohol and the low self-esteem Mum had instilled in me had a lot to answer for.

  Saint Clair folded up the Chinese curtain angrily, his hands struggling with the rusty hinges. I leaned over to help him but he flinched and cursed me, “I can bloody do it.”

  When he’d folded it away, he looked at me and barked, “Is that it then?”

  I slapped him hard and fiercely across the cheek. Who knew where it came from, but he feckin’ well made me mad. I read somewhere that the man who has your anger has control of you, and I understood that already, having only been in the same room as him for mere minutes. I was as cool as a cucumber normally.

  We both stood still, shell shocked. He looked at the wall, his eyes wide. His cheek where I’d slapped him burned red.

  “Do the other side,” he barked, “so I’m even.”

  I was so angry, I did it without thinking, slapping the other side of his face too.

  He smiled down at me. “I’ll be back again. Make sure you wear the same outfit.”

  ***

  HE did return for several visits and each time, he did whatever he did behind the screen, always the same. I refused to get angry enough to slap him but sometimes, my tongue ran riot with a few curse words for his standoffish demeanour and I let him know I didn’t like him.

  Eventually, I ended up snapping, “What the hell gets you off about me putting garish make-up on?”

  I didn’t know why he riled me, but he did. I couldn’t help myself. I never spoke like this to any other guy that came to visit. I cared what it was about me that made him aroused and made him… come. Yes, come. He evidently made himself come while looking at me and of course I was interested to know why.

  “It’s not the make-up,” he said, eyes to the floor.

  “What, then?”

  “I’d rather not say, if it’s alright.”

  I frowned. No, it wasn’t alright.

  “Well,” I said laughing, scratching the back of my hair, “you come here and don’t ask to lick my boots or anything and then you just… it makes me wonder why you come at all.”

  “Why do you come at all? I thi
nk that’s a more pressing question,” he said, looking angry too.

  “Money.”

  He sniffed back a disgusted laugh. “Money?”

  “Money.”

  “That’s the only reason?”

  “What other reason could I have? Hmm. Not all the wrinklies that come here are as good-looking as you.”

  “I’m a wrinkly?”

  I winked. “You sometimes act like one.”

  He grabbed his coat off the back of the dressing table chair and cleared his throat before barking, “You’re impossible.”

  He left the room and I whispered to myself, “You’re impossible.”

  ***

  A few weeks later, he finally drummed up the courage to ask me to rub his back, which I did do – because it was easier than listening to him wanking off and me trying to figure out what made him want to wank off! God, he was infuriating.

  I straddled his perfect arse in his perfect slacks and rubbed his perfect naked back – hating him!

  Literally, couldn’t someone just drive the feckin’ tool off a cliff or something?

  “So, there’s no reason you’re here other than to earn money?” He began the conversation.

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Why does a girl like you need this kind of money?”

  “What do you mean, this kind of money?”

  “Haven’t you looked in the mirror? You could do anything. Why this?”

  “I fell into it I suppose,” I confessed, “and honestly, I dunno… I have a boring day job and the contrast between this and it works. It just works for me. Keeps me outta trouble.”

  “What’s your story?” he asked, his face mostly head-down in the pillow, arms propping up his head. “You have an accent. Ran away from Catholic seminary or something, did you?”

  I laughed. “Funny. Given you’re calling me repressed, I’d say that’s what you are!”

  “Hmm, okay… so you didn’t run away from repression. What about, trouble? You ran from trouble.”

  Angry, and abrupt, I leapt off his back and shouted, “A teenage pregnancy gone wrong if you must know, and fuck if it’s any of your business, but I came to London to live an exciting life. I was bored and me family were all feckin’ arseholes… treated me like shit.”