Torn in Two

by J. D. Weston

  “And you will set me free in return?”

  Stepping toward the door, Emma reached out and slid the key into the padlock, while she waited for Darius to reply.

  “If you would let me hold you, if you would be Anthea. Just for a while.”

  Closing her eyes, Emma recalled the voice of the lady. She took several deep breaths, summoning the power within her.

  “On your knees, Darius.”

  She spied through the hole and found Darius against the far wall in her corner. Sliding down it, just like the years of grime that stained the room, Darius fell to his knees.

  “Turn around and close your eyes.”

  He did as he was told, subservient to her voice, or to the voice of Anthea.

  “Who are you looking for, Darius?”

  The padlock clicked open.

  “Anthea. My one true love.”

  “Do you remember the times? On the hill in the shade of our tree?”

  “Every day and every night. I remember the times with more clarity than I remember my own mother.”

  Light from the corridor found Darius’ face as the door slid open.

  “Do you remember my hair?”

  “Golden against the grass. As if it were coloured by the sun.”

  Emma stepped forward.

  “Do you remember my eyes?”

  “Blue like the sea. I remember the kindness inside them. I remember the passion and excitement. And I remember the tears that fell when your father tore us apart.”

  Standing before Darius, looking down on him as he knelt with his head upturned as if savouring the smell and anticipation, Emma reached out, guided by the lady’s voice, reassuring her that to receive, she must give. How much she should give depended on how much she was looking to receive.

  But, for Emma, she would have given it all to be free, and even more to see her parents once again.

  Just as Darius would give anything to see his Anthea once more.

  The skin on his forehead was cool to the touch. The back of Emma’s finger traced the outline of Darius’ face, which looked as if an expression of warm pleasure had been carved from a jagged rock. She found his hands and held them in her own. Expecting to find a firm grip that sought something more, she found only a tender touch that savoured her skin with gentle strokes of his finger. As if by touch alone, a memory passed across his closed eyes.

  “Tell me what you see.” Turning his hands in her own as gently as she could, Emma placed them over his eyes.

  “I see light. Bright light around you as you stand against the sun.”

  The first button of her pyjamas popped open, and from the depths of her body, the familiar feeling of her power began to spread its warmth.

  “Tell me what you feel.”

  The second button popped open, but this time, Emma’s clammy hands trembled with excitement.

  “I feel the ground beneath my naked body. I feel the warmth of the sun on my skin.”

  Emma dropped the pyjama top to the floor then tugged at the string on her bottoms and let them fall to her ankles.

  “Tell me what you smell.”

  Stepping from her clothes and standing behind Darius, savouring the intensity of the power that coursed through her body, pulsing through her quivering legs and pounding in her chest, Emma wielded the fire within her and, for the first time, felt the control.

  “I smell the sea air on the breeze and the scent of your hair as it hangs against me. I smell the anemone, the wildflowers, and the very earth itself.”

  She took his hands once more, ensuring his eyes remained closed, and coaxed him to his feet.

  “And what do you taste?”

  “Oh, Anthea. Your lips, sweet like the wine we shared, and your body, perfumed by the sea in which we swam.”

  With his back to her, Emma reached around and unfastened Darius’ belt, letting his pants drop to the floor just as her own had done moments before. She kicked them to one side and tugged his shirt over his head.

  “Hands against the wall.”

  The submissive Darius leaned forward, splayed his fingers against the wall and sighed, long and loud.

  Surprised to find Darius’ back alive with muscles, Emma stepped forward, trembling and bewitched under her own spell, lost to the dream she had created.

  “Now tell me what you want.”

  Her fingers traced the outline of his ribs and, with every jolt of pleasure his body issued, a surge of power weakened her own knees.

  “I want to feel you.”

  “Yes.” She stepped up behind him, her hands running down from his shoulders to his hips, where his body tensed. His buttocks clenched beneath her touch and his breathing took on the ragged rasp she had heard before. “Do you feel me now?”

  “Yes.”

  His words fell with his breath and his body convulsed as her fingers reached to his legs and, with the softest of touches, pulled the power from him, leaving him trembling as his thighs tensed and his core hardened. She eased herself forward, pushing her own chest, hard and erect, against the skin on his back.

  “And can you feel my warmth?”

  “Yes.”

  His voice was weaker, excitement taking him far away. He began to writhe beneath her touch, his hips finding a rhythm as if a memory long passed was playing out in his mind.

  “Picture us, Darius. The sun lighting my skin.”

  “Yes.”

  “My hair against your chest.”

  “Yes.”

  Her fingers dug into the skin on his stomach, teasing at what lay below and increasing the vigour of his imaginary thrusts.

  “Can you feel me holding you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Feel my body against yours.”

  “Yes.”

  Then slowly, she eased away from his jerking body. His hands still gripped the wall above him. His head hung as if shamed and his body stayed tense as if waiting for the command to relieve himself.

  “Do you remember me, Darius? Do you remember how I pleased you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you remember the taste of my body?”

  Taking another step back from him, Emma reigned in her own power, controlling the flow of blood, her own ragged breathing, and her quivering legs.

  “Yes. I remember. I remember like it was yesterday.”

  “Tell me what you see.”

  “I see you.”

  “And?”

  “I see your body. Pure and flawless like the flowers in your hair.”

  “Are you ready for me, Darius? Is your body ready for me?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Stepping into the shadows, Emma crouched to collect the filthy bucket, being careful not to rattle the metal handle.

  “Keep your eyes closed, Darius, and turn to face me.”

  He did as he was told, turning to show his body, proud, arrogant, and alive with the memories of Anthea. His hands hung by his side, itching to relieve the pressure in his loins.

  “I’ll give you everything you waited for, Darius. Tell me what you want.”

  She stepped up close to him.

  “I want you to touch me.” His body twitched as he spoke the words.

  Blowing a cool breath of air across his chest, Emma smiled as the full weight of her control, of her domination and her power, found its zenith.

  “Here? Is this where you want me to touch?”

  “No.”

  She leaned into him, watching with lewd fascination at the effect the touch of her body had on his, and blew across his skin cool bursts of air that seemed to wake the hairs that lay like grass, thick and dark, on his chest. She blew across his stomach.

  “Is this where you want me to touch?”

  “No.” There was an urgency in his voice, a breathless, climatic sense of urgency.

  Emma straightened. “Show me where you want me to touch you.”

  As if he’d been itching to hold himself, Darius sighed with relief. His hands gripped himself and his bre
ath came in juddering bursts.

  Fascinated, Emma watched, momentarily distracted by the sight of Darius pulling at himself with far more vigour than she would have imagined pleasurable.

  But his sour breath turned on her. With his eyes squeezed shut and his body taut like the skin of a drum, he began to pant.

  “Touch me.”

  Curiosity held Emma under its intoxicating spell. Part of her wanted to stay. Part of her wanted to touch the filthy man. Her own arousal and longing was far more powerful than she had ever felt before.

  “Touch me. I’m close.”

  His voice turned to a growl, an anxious breath of anger and frustration.

  He reached out with his free hand, grasping at the air where Emma had been standing. He opened his eyes, confused, but still deep in the throes of orgasm.

  His eyes widened at the sight.

  His mouth opened in horror and his body prepared for the attack as Emma raised the bucket high in the air and pulled it down over his head, spilling all manner of filth over the disgusting man.

  By the time Darius had pulled off the bucket and thrown it across the room, Emma had collected his clothes from the floor.

  And by the time Darius had stopped screaming and gagging long enough to wipe his eyes of excrement and search for Emma, she was sliding the heavy steel door closed.

  Once more, like a wild animal, his full weight collided against the door.

  And as the first of his many insults found Emma’s ears, which were ringing with the effects of her power, she snapped the padlock shut.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Retracing his steps to the apartment block, Frankie found the door to the lobby locked as it was before. There was no sign of Adrian. Glancing up at the building, the lights in Angela’s apartment were off, but a soft glow lit the window to what Frankie assumed to be Adrian’s apartment. He was about to hit the button to 202 when he heard a soft ping coming from the lobby. The light on the elevator shone orange.

  Frankie jumped to the pavement and slipped into a doorway just before he heard the electronic lock release. The door opened, allowing the voices of a man and woman in a heated debate to spoil the silence of the street.

  “You can’t do this. Not now. It would destroy him.” The woman lowered her tone, apparently aware of the volume of her voice in the early evening.

  “You should have thought about that when you came crying to me. You weren’t exactly fighting his corner then, were you?”

  Recognising Adrian’s voice, Frankie chanced a quick look to confirm it.

  The voices began to quieten as the two walked in the other direction. The woman wore a large wide-brimmed hat, a blue dress, shorter than her age, and heels that seemed out of place. It was as if she was dressed for a night out. She turned to deliver another hissed argument in Adrian’s direction and Frankie flattened himself against the wall out of sight.

  The lights of a nearby BMW flashed once as the pair approached. Seeing his chance, Frankie darted up the three stairs and caught the door before it closed. He waited a few seconds, listening to the argument further along the road. But when the two car doors slammed and the voices quietened, he slipped inside.

  He found two sets of stairs to the first floor, shiny as if they were cleaned every day. The lobby itself smelled of fresh flowers and scented disinfectant. Taking the stairs two at a time, but being careful not to make any noise, Frankie crept onto the first floor. To his right was apartment 101. To his left was 102. A slice of soft light shone from beneath the door to his left, but 101 was in darkness.

  A hard mat for visitors to wipe their feet sat on the floor outside Angela’s apartment. It looked new, as if nobody had ever used it, or as if it was cleaned on a regular basis. Judging by the standard of the lobby, Frankie assumed the latter.

  Finding the apartment locked as expected, he pressed his foot against the bottom of the door, feeling for any flex in the wood that would identify if there were any secondary locks. Finding none, he applied pressure to the top of the door and concluded that the only lock was the one beneath the chrome handle. The door was not a tight fit in its frame. A soft breeze rattled the wood, which wasn’t good security, but ideal for Frankie’s needs.

  Beside the elevator, inset into the wall, was a red glass-fronted cabinet. Inside was a fire hose and axe mounted beside it. The cabinet was unlocked and the axe came down without any noise. Putting his ear against the door of 102, Frankie heard the sound of a TV game show. He stepped away and returned to Angela’s apartment. The blade of the axe slotted into the gap of the door beside the lock. With a little leverage, the door opened without splintering the wood.

  Checking first to make sure the apartment was empty, he replaced the axe, closed the cabinet, and slipped inside. The door opened into a large lounge area. The flooring was light oak, almost grey in colour, but it complimented the white walls, glossy window frames, and immaculate furniture.

  Two two-seater sofas formed an L-shape facing what typically would have been a TV but in Angela’s apartment was the doorway to the balcony. There was no TV. A few potted plants had been placed in strategic locations to break up the sparseness of the place and a small coffee table fashioned from a piece of driftwood stood as a centre piece. A white baby-grand piano filled the far corner of the room, where Frankie gauged the sun to spill through the long net curtains in the early mornings.

  The walls had been decorated with equal taste and measure as the rest of the apartment. Three paintings, all by the same artist, added to the rich reds, oranges, and yellows of a Mediterranean sunset to the room. In turn, this complimented the pastels of the few cushions that had been placed on the two couches as if they had never once been sat on or moved.

  To the side of the lounge, a marble-topped breakfast bar divided the kitchen from the rest of the space. It was as immaculate as the rest of the apartment. Inside the fridge, Frankie found nothing but bottles of sparkling water, jars of pickles and olives, and a single lemon. There was no wine or beer, and no food that would perish. The cupboards bore similar results. No wine or alcohol of any description. No perishables of any kind. Only jars and tins, and even then, there was a scant selection.

  Four large plates and four small plates. Four bowls and four cups. A set of six glasses. No wine glasses.

  Beneath the sink was a round, silver garbage bin. It was similar to one that Tom and Mary had, which Frankie knew to be the type that was far too expensive for a vessel to hold rubbish. He lifted the lid and found nothing but an empty glass bottle.

  The bedroom door opened into a room nearly as large as the lounge. A large, soft rug filled most of the floor around the bed, leaving enough of the same light oak flooring to add a little contrast to the otherwise gleaming white room. The flooring gave way to tiles as it breached the en-suite, where the earthy tones of a mosaic floor and soft spotlights provided an ambient, relaxing setting for the claw-foot bathtub that filled the centre of the room.

  Beside the bed were two photos. They were the only sign that the apartment wasn’t a show home other than the sparkling water and scant food selection in the fridge. The pictures were in wooden frames. They seemed out of place as if the frames themselves were sentimental, as opposed to being chosen to compliment the decor. But it wasn't the frames that interested Frankie.

  Each of the photos showed two people. The first was a broad-shouldered man in white linen trousers with a white t-shirt flapping in the wind. He was at the prow of what appeared to be a sailing yacht. Beside him, offering a smile that would melt the heart of any red-blooded male, was the most perfect woman Frankie had ever seen. She wore a short, stylish, flowing summer dress with a plunging neckline that revealed enough to display a healthy diamond necklace and entice the imagination, but covered enough to maintain her dignity and integrity. Her dark hair, even despite the wind, appeared flawless. It rested on her shoulders and revealed a sparkling earring that matched her necklace.

  But the perfection stemmed from more than j
ust her physical attributes and care of appearance. It was the way she was standing. Her pose. It was as if she had practiced to appear confident and powerful.

  The second photo showed the same woman. This time, she was wearing a long ball gown that complimented the natural curves of her body. Once again, her neckline and earrings sparkled. But in the second photo, she was holding the hand of a different man. He was older than the first but of equal stature and confidence.

  Finding it hard not to wonder at the woman’s physique, Frankie studied the man in the second photo a little more. The dimpled chin and steely eyes betrayed his flock of dark hair. It was the same man he’d spoken to less than thirty minutes ago. Adrian had been much younger when the photo was taken, but it was the same man. Frankie had no doubt.

  He replaced the photo where it had been standing beside the first and slid open the top drawer of the bedside table, only to find an old paperback, some night time creams, and a passport.

  Remembering his conversation with Adrian, Frankie recalled him saying that Angela was away on business. But without her passport, she couldn't travel. Unless she was a diplomat, in which case she may have two. But Sharon had mentioned that Angela worked for a makeup company. Opening the passport, Frankie found that Angela had somehow even managed to grace the standard passport photo with her immaculate appearance. He dropped it back into the drawer and opened the one below where, to his surprise, he found a half-eaten box of chocolates. Surrounding the gold box were empty wrappers.

  “Not so perfect,” Frankie spoke aloud, smiling to himself.

  He lifted the box out. But as he took one of the chocolates for himself, still smiling at the dirty little secret, his eyes fell onto something at the bottom of the drawer. Buried underneath the wrappers was a box of matches. They were like any other matches only the cover was black, and printed on the front was a symbol. It was a red omega. None of the matches had been used and there were no other markings of any description.