by Ruby Molloy
“Fine!”
He looks confused. Bewildered. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means fine, I get that you didn’t know it was my birthday, but I’ve had enough of Molly, of you running to see her every time she calls. And she calls a fuck of a lot, Boyd. I know it’s selfish, but I want you to be with me, not Molly. Is that so wrong?”
His voice is soft when he says, “No, it’s not wrong.”
I hesitate, taken by surprise. “It’s not?”
“No.” He combs his fingers through his hair, tracking it away from his forehead. “I’ve been waiting on you to say something before now. I know it’s getting out of hand and I’m trying to get her to be more independent, but she keeps calling. I’ve told her to quit, told her she needs professional help. I went over there tonight because she threatened to self-harm. When I got there she was smiling, like it was a fucking social visit.”
“She thinks she’s in love with you, Boyd. What did you expect?”
“I don’t know,” he says, jaw set tight. He looks troubled, as if I’m about to blame the whole Molly fiasco on him. “If she is in love with me, I swear to God I never did anything to encourage her.”
“I believe you,” I tell him.
He seems surprised. “You do?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought, with my history ... “ He scans my face, as if he can’t quite believe me. “I thought you’d think I was leading her on ...”
“I don’t think that,” I say quietly.
“That means something,” he says.
The way his eyes are shining down on me suggests it means everything. I lay down my glass and move towards him. He meets me halfway and pulls me into his warmth. For long seconds that’s all I need; the weight of Boyd’s arms and the warmth of his body against mine.
“Not letting her come between us,” he says.
“Okay.”
“Not losing you, Boots. We’re gonna make this work.”
I believe him.
His hand slides into my hair and he kisses me. Need builds fast, same as it always does with Boyd. His hands slide over my hips and buttocks, urging me closer. I’m wearing a blue checked shirt. Boyd wants it gone and he doesn’t waste time on buttons. He tugs it over my head, his mouth returning to mine when he reaches for my breast. I can feel his palm and the scraping of his fingers through the lace of my bra.
I reach under his t-shirt, hands roaming over smooth skin. It’s not enough. “Shirt off,” I plead, already scrunching up his hem and tugging it upwards. He lifts it free and my mouth lands on his chest, coasting, my tongue gliding over his small, flat nipple.
Cursing, he tugs at my hair, bringing my head back so he can claim my mouth again. His fingers push inside my bra and find my nipple. I don’t know how he does it, but he releases the catch with one hand, his mouth descending to my nipple. Heat courses directly to my thighs and I writhe against him.
“You feeling it?” he rasps against my ear.
I manage a breathless, “Aha...”, before he ramps it up, pulling at my skirt until the fabric is bunched at my hips. I guide his fingers to my panties, waiting for the slide of his fingers.
“Boyd ...”
“What, baby?”
His hand dips inside the elastic. And stops. It’s close but not close enough.
“Please ...”
“You want this?” His fingers glide to where I need them and I whimper. “Or maybe this?” Now they’re inside me and I’m incapable of talking.
I reach for his neck, gripping tight as he brings me high only to leave me hanging, both hands now on my hips as he kisses me sweetly.
“Turn around, Boots.”
He guides me towards the back of the sofa, spreading my hands on its uppermost cushions. One hand trails over my breast, the other pushes my panties down until they glide to my feet and I kick them away, feeling exposed. “Boyd ...”
“Trust me.”
His hands begin moving, stroking my breast and between my thighs, his mouth at my neck and ear, trailing hot kisses and warm bursts of air that sensitise my skin. I’m shivering and trembling, close once more, my fingers biting into the sofa. “I need more ...”
“It’s coming,” he says, biting my ear lobe. “You ready?”
I’m not sure I am. I’m standing on a wire, perched over a precipice, waiting for the fall. I hear the rustle of a condom, imagine him rolling it over his cock. I feel him pushing inside me, just barely, his hands on my hips, gripping as he pushes his whole length inside. I cry out and Boyd’s groan rumbles past my ear. He moves slowly, his chest and stomach arching over my spine, one arm around my waist, the other at my breast, his hips thrusting and retreating. My breathing is shallow and I’m not thinking, I’m feeling. Everything.
His hand loosens on my belly, his fingers skimming down, finding me, stroking and sliding with perfect pressure.
“Boyd, I’m ...”
He grasps my hips, his own powering forwards, holding me tight as he surges inside before retreating, over and over, pumping his hips until I’m plunging over the precipice and Boyd’s cursing with the force of his own orgasm.
My legs are trembling and he’s holding me upright, his chest expanding against the damp skin of my back.
“Fucking beautiful,” he says, tilting my head just before his mouth lands on mine.
He’s wrong. He’s beautiful. I see this when he disengages and I turn to see his jeans unbuttoned, resting low on his hips, everything exposed. Boyd’s torso is lean and sculpted, his nipples neat. I watch him pull his jeans in place, that arrogant half-smile of his making an appearance when he sees my expression.
“That work for you?” he asks.
“You know you’re smirking like a schoolboy, right?”
His grin widens and he brings a hand to the back of my head, pulling me close for a kiss that’s downright possessive as if he’s staking his claim.
“Gotta clean up,” he says, disappearing into my bathroom.
I’ve just put on my panties and bra and I’m smoothing down my skirt when he returns. He’s shaking his head, though there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “You seriously need all those bottles and tubs in there?”
“Okay, Mr He-Man, just because you’re the shower-and-go type doesn’t mean the rest of us are the same. Plenty of guys use those products, only theirs are labelled to look more manly.”
“You ever seen Mason’s bathroom? The guy has products for his quiff, lotions for his tatts, and fuck knows what else.”
“Sure is worth the effort though.” Mason is one hot looking guy with his beard, quiff and tattoos.
Boyd’s eyebrows rise.
“What? I’m not allowed to admire other men?”
“Not when I’m with you and I’ve just fucked you.” He backs me up against the wall, fingers linking through mine as he raises my hands above my head. “You want me to punish you?” he asks, mouth against my ear. “Maybe spank you. Get those round cheeks of yours nice and red.”
“Uh, thanks for the offer, but I’m not into kink.”
“You think spanking is kinky?” he leans back and gazes into my eyes. “Yeah, you do,” he says, grinning.
“Oh God, please don’t tell me you’re into that kind of thing.”
His mouth is against mine when he says, “I don’t know. Never tried it. Maybe something to consider should things get a little stale.”
I glare at him. “Nothing about us is ever gonna get stale, Boyd.”
“You got that right,” he says, mouth lowering to mine.
*****
Single beds are not meant for someone of Boyd’s build and they sure as hell aren’t meant to be shared. The only way I can sleep is with him aligned against my back and while normally I’d enjoy sleeping like this, it’s too constricting when my nose is pressed up against the wall. In short, it’s claustrophobic as hell.
“Uh, Boyd ...”
He’s asleep. I should have known from the wei
ght of his arm around my stomach.
I can’t move. There’s not enough space for me to bend my legs and I can’t get into a position that would allow me to climb over him. I try wriggling and shimmering down the bed, but the sheet tightens around me and now I’m really struggling.
“What are you doing?” Boyd’s ultra-patient rumble comes from somewhere above my head.
“I’m three seconds away from having a panic attack. The wall’s pressed up against my face, you’re at my back and the sheet’s so tight I can barely breathe.”
“Are you for real?”
He realises I am when my elbow accidentally strikes him in the ribs. His “Fuck!” escapes around the same time I manage to roll on top of him. And now I’m trapped , completely swaddled in the sheet. I moan and groan and Boyd flips positions so I’m against the mattress and he’s straddling my hips, pulling at the cotton sheets until I’m free.
Released from my cocoon, my chest rising and falling as if I’ve just come last in a hundred metre sprint, I smile. Boyd looks like he’s asking himself how the hell he got here―literally and figuratively.
“I need to get up,” I remind him.
He glances down to where his thighs are spanning my hips like a naked, human bridge. He cups his balls, possibly having a flashback or two, and swings his leg to the side until he’s standing. I twist free of the sheet and now we’re both standing beside the bed, naked.
“You take the bed,” I tell him. “I’ll take the couch.”
I’m retrieving my blanket from the end of the bed when Boyd snags my wrist. “No way you’re sleeping on the couch.”
“Okay, you take the couch and I’ll take the bed.”
He’s shaking his head. “We sleep together.”
“Boyd, that bed does not sleep two. Least not when you’re one of them.”
“Fine. Get dressed and we’ll go to mine.”
I pick up my phone. The time comes up in large font and I wave it in front of Boyd’s face. “It’s three in the morning. I’ll take the couch.”
Boyd hasn’t yet released my wrist. “We’re going to mine.”
“That’s crazy!”
He’s picking up my clothes and shoving them towards me. “Get dressed.”
I stare at him, my hands on my naked hips, my boobs sticking out like they’re crying for attention. “Are you telling me where I can and can’t sleep? Because that’s the kind of thing Liam―”
Boyd’s snarl stops me in my tracks. “Don’t fucking go there, Kayla. I like sleeping with you, I wanna sleep with you, but if you’d rather stay here, fucking stay!”
He’s getting dressed, whipping his jeans up his legs like the building’s on fire. He’s dressed in no time and I’m still clutching my clothes. “Wait!”
He’s already walking out of the room, searching for his keys.
“Boyd, wait! I’m coming, okay!”
He slows and his shoulders straighten. He turns reluctantly, his gaze taking in my nakedness. I get dressed while he watches and when I’m ready he hooks an arm round my shoulder. “Just so you know, Boots, we’re fucking before we go to sleep.”
I’m not sure if he expects me to argue, but it’s the last thing on my mind seeing as I recently experienced him straddling me, naked as the day he was born.
Chapter Fifteen
Love & Molly
JACK
Kayla’s hands are tucked beneath her pillow. She’s out cold, breathing slow and deep. I do everything I can not to disturb her, including biting back a curse when I stub my toe.
Last night we celebrated her birthday with a meal at Carmichael’s. A week overdue, but I wanted it to be special. I trekked up and down Oxford Street searching for the right gift, asking shop assistants’ opinions because I needed all the help I could get. I wanted Kayla’s gift to be perfect. Not going to examine why that was so goddamn important.
In the end I didn’t need their advice. I saw it and I knew I had to get it. I also knew it wasn’t exactly pretty, but seeing that gold cobbled boot hanging from its chain, it felt like karma; a boot for my Boots.
I’m pretty sure she liked it. Damn, I know she did, the way her smile wobbled and her eyes grew damp. She made me tie it round her neck, as if my fingers are small enough for a chain that fine. I may have cursed a time or two in my frustration, but I liked seeing it round her neck, the gold warm against her skin.
As much as I don’t want to disturb her, I’m not leaving without a kiss. I press my lips to her cheek, taking a lungful of vanilla scent before I go.
I’m leaving early today. Kayla thinks I’m working a long shift. I didn’t exactly lie to her, but I did omit the truth. I’m meeting her ex, Liam Berwick. Not that he knows that yet.
Tag and I did some research. Finally found the fucker living in Bethnal Green. Berwick didn’t lie about having a partner. She’s pretty; pretty enough that it’s easy to miss the scar that runs down her right cheek. It’s an old scar, too faded to have been inflicted by Berwick, but that’s where my thoughts were headed when I saw the white line. His girl’s ginger-haired with dense freckles. She’s slim, bordering on skinny, and her gaze skitters about, the way it does with shy people. She’s not my type, though I can see the attraction. But today’s not about her. It’s about confronting Berwick and warning him away from Kayla.
I’m not adverse to using violence. This is the guy who beat on her, after all.
Berwick’s a Junior Analyst for a major Insurer. It’s an entry level job and the pay doesn’t exactly warrant his expensive clothes. There’s also a second Berwick working at the same company. Turns out his dad’s a Director. Tag showed me a photo from the company website. It’s Liam in thirty years’ time―less hair and a lot more paunch. I guess his dad’s making him work his way up the corporate ladder.
Tag’s scoping out Berwick’s colleagues tonight, in a city bar close to his office. I figured Tag could chat up the females, find out if there’s any dirt to be had. He wasn’t exactly keen on the idea. Actually, he cursed a fair bit and I thought he was going to refuse. He mentioned his girl, Dizzy, for the first time. Not by name, but he said there was someone who’d be mighty pissed if they ever found out he’d been chatting up women in a bar. I’d hoped for a little more information, but Tag was as tight-lipped as ever.
It’s early, just after six a.m. The shops are closed and there are cars on the road, but it’s too early for the nine a.m. workers and the school kids. I stroll to the Tube station and make my way toward Berwick’s apartment. I’ve tailed him twice already. His place is situated on a grim housing estate, one that’s filled with identical high rise apartments. They don’t look so bad from the outside. It’s what’s inside them that’s grim; addicts, drug dealers, pimps. You’ll find them all there, mixed in with ordinary folks trying to live a decent life. I want to find out which category Berwick fits into; is he a crook or, as he told Kayla, is he trying to live an ordinary life?
I find the perfect spot to make my approach. It’s beneath the underpass where the CCTV has been vandalised.
I wait just inside, where it’s damp and the light is dim because the Council can’t keep up with the vandals. They’re active little shits. The vandals, not the Council. Almost all the lights have been smashed, save for two in the very middle. A woman walks through with a pushchair. Her dark hair is greasy and her clothes look like they need a turn in the washing machine. She eyes me up and down as she approaches, her eyes widening, her gaze lingering as if she likes what she sees. My stomach rolls at the thought of anyone wanting to get intimate with her.
A few more people stroll through. An old guy with a can of lager in his hand and a teen who looks like he’s sneaking back home after an all-nighter.
It’s quiet for a while, but then I see Berwick approaching, his smart clothes looking out of place in comparison to his neighbours’. He doesn’t see me. He’s checking his phone when I step out in front of him and we collide. I’m braced and ready. Berwick isn’t. He stumbles and
rights himself. Already there’s fear in his eyes. He pockets his phone and I don’t hold back on my smirk. He thinks I’m a thief.
Guess again, dickhead.
He tries to skirt round me, but I block his way. He tries again and again, each time unsuccessful. We could keep doing this all day, but I run out of patience.
“Liam Berwick,” I say.
His fear morphs into something else, something more extreme. Kayla says I’m a scary-looking guy. I always take that with a pinch of salt, but maybe she’s right. Maybe I am a scary fucker.
“You know who I am, Berwick?”
He shakes his head, eyes darting around for help.
“Name’s Jack Boyd.”
He looks stares at me, face pale, eyes wide with fear.
“You might know my girlfriend. Her name’s Kayla Martinez.” He visibly shrinks into his suit and it seems almost loose for a few seconds. “I can see that means something to you.”
He backs up, about to make a run for safety.
I don’t give him a chance.
He’s pinned up against the graffitied walls, my fist wrapped tight around his shirt just below his collar. He doesn’t struggle. “What’s the matter, Berwick? You don’t want to fight?” His eyes are screwed up tight and he’s almost whimpering. I might feel something if I didn’t know what he did to Kayla. “Heard you waited for her a couple of times. Told her you needed to speak to her. You don’t ever fucking speak to her again, you hear?”
His eyes flicker open and he shakes his head. “No, you’ve got it wrong. I only―”
I pull him away from the wall and slam him back. Hard. I can go harder if I choose. “Shut the fuck up and listen. You don’t go near her. You don’t follow her, you don’t make contact with her. You do and you’ll wish you’d listened, because I’ll fucking kill you.”
“I won’t―”
My fist lands in his gut. It goes deep. I can feel his flab grab hold of my hand. My grip on his shirt is the only thing keeping him from falling to his knees. I hoist him higher, forcing him to choose between standing on his toes or being choked. His eyes are watering, trails of tears snaking their way down to his jawline.