Spirit

by Ashe Barker

  “Tea? What?” I peer at my cup, emptied for a second time. I doubt I could manage a third. Unless it’s to fling the contents at bloody Matt Logan, of course.

  The individual in question saunters through the door, Ned at his heels.

  “Hi there. Annie.” Matt greets the pair of us, nodding first at me, then at the lady of the house. His clothing is as casual as his attitude. Gone is the sharp business suit, in favour of black jeans, light brown Doc Marten’s, and a thick woollen sweater. He has a waxed jacket dangling from his hand, and he arranges this across the back of a chair before sitting down. The ancient sheepdog stirs himself sufficiently to stagger from his corner by the stove to greet the new arrivals. Matt tugs on the animal’s ears as it sways happily against his legs.

  He looks very much at home. Too much. Momentarily distracted, my temper soon simmers to the surface again.

  “What are you doing here? I thought you said my idea was a non-starter.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Yes you bloody did. But you thought you’d do something up there anyway. You wouldn’t have even known about High Whitley Scar if it hadn’t been for me.”

  “True. It’s an excellent location. You have a good eye.”

  “And you have a fu—a bloody cheek.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Matt looks faintly amused as he accepts the pot of tea offered by Annie. I itch to wipe that smug smile off his face.

  “You rubbished my idea, then just moved in with some scheme of your own. I should have known better than to trust you.”

  His expression is reproachful. “For what it’s worth at this late stage, I’d say you should have known better than not to trust me, but that’s a matter to deal with at another time. When we’re alone. For today, let me explain my modifications to your scheme.”

  “Your, your…?”

  “Modifications.” He takes a sip of his tea and turns to level a brilliant smile at Annie. “Perfect. Thank you. Do you mind if I take this outside? I’d like a chat with Beth.”

  “There’s no need fer that. There’s a fire laid in’t parlour. Go on through, both of thee.” Annie ushers us from her cosy kitchen and into the distinctly chilly front room, immaculately kept for the express purpose of impressing visitors with its pristine tidiness. This is not a room normally used by the Boothroyds, as evidenced by the stilted, un-lived-in look of the perfectly aligned porcelain ornaments and the hard, over-stuffed cushions. This is a room to look at, not relax in. And relaxing is the one thing I will not be doing as I perch on the old-fashioned two seater settee facing Matt who has selected the fireside chair opposite.

  “Should we light the fire?” He glances at me, perhaps hoping I might know how to deal with these homely little tasks.

  I don’t. “We won’t be here that long, hardly seems worth it.”

  He shrugs, but seems content to make do as we are. “Right, your mosaic then…”

  “Exactly. My mosaic.”

  His brow furrows as though he’s beginning to lose patience. Not that I care, the rat. “Yours, yes. But there was a problem with the concept though, I told you that.”

  “And I said I could do it, you wouldn’t let me even try.”

  He disregards my complaint. “I’ve been giving it some thought, and I have an alternative proposal to put to you.”

  “Alternative? What alternative?” I do not take kindly to anyone meddling with my art.

  “The concept is great, inspired in fact. I love it. I’m sure I told you that.”

  I gape at him, bemused. “No, you didn’t. I would have remembered.”

  “Oh. Well, I should have. It is. But it would never work as it was, not made of glass. Too many practical difficulties. I must have made that much clear to you.”

  I scowl at him, recalling something along those lines. He babbled on about transport and storage costs, and recycling plants and other such nonsense, completely failing to grasp the core essence of what I want to achieve.

  Matt pauses to allow me to respond, but I prefer not to encourage him. I’ve heard all this already. He continues.

  “So, after you left the other day I went over your designs again, homing in on what I most liked about the concept. That, Beth, is the location, which as you’ve pointed out is high profile and visible. Put that alongside the potential audience of millions, and the marketing opportunity is one not to be missed, as I think you may have mentioned. I would have missed it though, but for you. So, I got to thinking how we could construct your masterpiece, but using materials we could more readily source. I came up with solar panels.”

  If he’d told me we were to construct my artwork from spun gold I could not have been more incredulous.

  “Solar panels? What the hell are solar panels?”

  “Oh Beth, you must have seen them. On roofs usually? Sustainable energy production and all that.”

  “You mean, for making electricity? From the sun’s rays?”

  “Yes, those are the things. I want to help you build your artwork on my hillside, but from solar panels. It’ll be one huge, fully functional solar farm, beautiful, and useful too. What do you think?”

  “I think they’ll look awful. Those things are just grey, and dull. Drab, functional. My piece needs to be colourful, vibrant. I want people to love looking at it. People won’t want to look at a power station stuck on the side of a hill.

  “Not a power station. A solar farm. I can source panels in all sorts of colours and sizes, to blend, or contrast with any environment. They catch the light—literally—and absorb it. They’ll look stunning. Here, let me show you.”

  He pulls out his smart phone and taps the screen. He hands it to me. “This is my company website, and some graphics of sites of ours. See that one, the panels are in red to tone in with the surrounding brickwork. And here they’re blue and orange because those are the corporate colours of the company who bought them. We can produce all sorts of effects. Your sculpture will look anything but drab. Subtle perhaps, but that’s up to you. I’ll provide the palette, you do with it what you will.”

  I shake my head, completely bemused. “Look, even if I could recreate my design using these materials I can’t build it from solar panels, at least, not if they’re supposed to work. Fully functioning you said. I know nothing about solar energy.”

  “No, I get that. But I do. And so do the people who work for me. I propose a joint venture—your design, my site. I’ll provide the materials and technical know-how as well. In return, I get a bloody great advertisement for my company and my products, that’ll be plastered over television screens across the world. Now that’s an idea I do like. How about you?”

  I can only stare at him as the idea sinks in. My design, but turned into something functional. Sustainable. Even if people viewing it from miles away don’t know what it actually is, it will still look wonderful. As long as…

  “My design? Exactly the same as I sketched it out for you? My image, the same scale and dimensions? No meddling with that, right?”

  He chuckles. “Right. Wouldn’t dream of it. There might be aspects we’d need to think through again to accommodate the difference in the material, but MLR can produce bespoke panels to your specifications, and locate them exactly where you want then to go, so I don’t think we’ll need to change much once you’ve provided us with the revised design. And it’d all be with your agreement. A joint venture, remember? Shared.”

  I eye him with a degree of suspicion still, but the awesome implications are beginning to sink in. I wanted to establish a reputation for myself and this artwork is my route to that. Matt’s interpretation is far more attention-grabbing than mine would have been, the combination of aesthetics and functionality a seductive one. It will appeal to sports enthusiasts, art lovers and scientists alike—not that those groups are mutually exclusive in my experience—and the sustainability aspect is nothing short of inspired.

  But still, there could be problems. M
att mentioned several of them when we met at his office. “What about the planners? We’d still need planning permission. And the Bronte conservation lobby?”

  “I have a specialist planning consultant on my team and he’s on this already. There’s a presumption in favour of development for renewable energy projects so that should smooth the way for us. I plan to conceal all cabling underground so within a few weeks of the installation the surrounding landscape will be back to normal. The energy management facility will be concealed in one of Ned’s under used barns, so no external disturbance there either. There’s nothing for them to object to.”

  “I see, but what about Ned? And Annie?”

  “Like you said, they’re up for it. The promise of free electricity may have smoothed the path a bit, but I think you sold it to them anyway.”

  “Not me,” I mutter.

  “What was that?”

  “I think it was you who sold it. Annie thinks you’re a nice young man. Polite, she said.”

  “Good judge of character, Mrs Boothroyd. I am nice. I seem to recall you once told me I was the nicest person you knew.”

  I flush, remembering that Christmas morning and Matt’s insightful gifts. Who would have imagined that within days I’d be on my own again, running like a scared rabbit? I scramble to my feet and pace over to the window. I stare out, my back to Matt as I hope to conceal my embarrassment. And my confusion. It had all seemed so clear back then, the need to escape. Now it just seems trivial, a waste of—of what? A good relationship? Decent sex? Actually, it was amazing sex.

  “…nice too.” Matt’s voice is low, that timbre which seems to be perfectly modulated to set my pussy drooling. Where did he learn that? I tip my face forward to rest my forehead on the cool window pane and will my body to settle down, to relax. To not betray me.

  “Beth, are you listening to me?” The words come from close by. Matt has left his chair and is standing right behind me, his breath on the back of my neck. I wish I’d left my hair down, or kept my jacket on, the collar turned up. Anything to create a barrier between his soft, warm breath and my skin.

  Too many memories.

  “Beth?” His tone has sharpened. Not much, barely perceptible, but enough to catch my attention.

  I turn to find my nose just inches from his chest. I tilt back my head to meet his gaze. His eyes are warm, hot even, and the suggestion of a smile plays around that sensual mouth.

  “I want to kiss you.” Did I say that? Out loud?

  “For old times’ sake? Or to seal our new partnership perhaps?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Thank God for that.” He dips his face towards mine as I reach up on tiptoe to close the remaining distance. I slide my lips across his, the sensation so familiar despite the years between us, the anger and the disappointment. I let all that fall away as I reach to tangle my fingers in his hair.

  It’s a little shorter now than it was before, but every bit as soft, the waves springy under my fingertips. His arms close around me, pulling me close and lifting me up so he can deepen the kiss. Or I can. Whichever, it happens, and in moments we’re on the small settee, me curled in his lap, my lips locked on his. My tongue is dancing in his mouth, tangling with his, exploring, tasting. I swallow my sigh, or perhaps it is his. My fingers are curled in the soft wool of his sweater as I cling on. His palms are on my back, circling my shoulder blades, soothing, reassuring, just as before.

  I break the kiss to rest my cheek against the solid strength of his chest, and this time it is he who tunnels his fingers through my hair. He dislodges the claw fastener holding it in place and the waves tumble free, the dark blonde strands toning delicately with the hue of his sweater. We match. Perfectly.

  “Christ, Beth, why did you leave?”

  I wince, desolate in the knowledge that I let him down. I let us both down.

  “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

  “I’m sorry too, for not doing enough to make you trust me.”

  “It wasn’t you. It was—all too much. I couldn’t cope, had no idea what to do.”

  “I realise that now. I should have taken better care of you. I knew you were young, scared, unsure of yourself.”

  “It was me. My fault. I was naive. Too innocent.” All true, up to a point.

  “I know. I should have known better, should have sent you back to bed that night. To your bed.”

  “Oh, no. Not that. I don’t mean that. I loved it that you, that we…” My voice trails off. The phrase ‘fucked like rabbits’ springs to mind, but doesn’t seem entirely appropriate. Not for Annie Boothroyd’s front room.

  “Ah, well that’s a relief I suppose. Especially as we seem to be headed down the same path again. Or at least, I am. What about you, Beth?”

  I should refuse. This is the point where I should scramble out of his lap, straighten my clothes, fix my hair back in place and tell him I’ve moved on.

  I nod my head and snuggle closer to him. “I missed you. I missed you so much. There were days when I just wanted to come back but I was scared. I thought you’d be angry, about the money, about me just going without a word. I was sure you’d tell me to get lost again. I couldn’t bear that.”

  “I was angry, and I’d have had a lot to say to you about what you did. But I’d never have told you to get lost. I’d have been too busy begging you to stay.”

  I open my mouth, intending to say something. Anything. But not the thing that actually comes out.

  “Would you have spanked me?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Shit! Where did that come from? My words hover in the air and the temperature feels to me to drop a degree or ten.

  Matt stiffens, his start of surprise palpable. “Spank you? Of course I fucking wouldn’t. Why the hell would you think that?”

  “Why not? That’s what you like to do? Isn’t it?” Even as I voice the words I wish I could just bury it all again, never have to confront what I learned, what I saw that last day in Matt’s flat. What it hinted to me about myself. Even after everything.

  “You know I do. But not with you. Our relationship was nothing like that.”

  “But it was with Megan?”

  His glare is angry, tinged with bewilderment. “Yes, but we’ve been through all this. I explained how it was with you. Megan was an experienced submissive. You were just a kid back then. You were only eighteen. I would never…” He pauses, shaking his head. He drags his fingers through his hair. “Christ, Beth, is that what you thought? That if you came back I’d tie you to my bed and flog the living daylights out of you?”

  “No, of course not.” Yes, pretty much that is what I thought, or something along those lines. Though his putting it into words makes it sound all the more ridiculous.

  “No?” He tips my chin up with his fingers, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Are you sure?”

  My lower lip trembles as he blurs before my eyes. I continue to gaze at him through my tears as he shakes his head slowly.

  “Ah, baby, I would never do that. Not to anyone, and definitely not you.”

  “Why? Why not me? Why Megan and not me?” I’d been terrified back then, but now this feels more like rejection.

  “I wouldn’t do anything like that to Megan either. I like my kink, I haven’t denied that, but it’s all about consent for me. Megan shared my particular tastes, she wanted what I did to her. For her. She loved all of it. I don’t want a partner who’s not willing, or one who’s too young to know what she wants.”

  “I’m not eighteen any more.”

  “No, I noticed that. But back then, legally you were an adult, and sexually too as I was delighted to discover. But emotionally? I don’t think so. I fucked you, but there was no way I’d have introduced you to my kink. Not then. Not for a long time.”

  “So, if I’d stayed, you would have?”

  “I might have. If you wanted it. Eventually.”

  “And now? Do you still do that stuff?”


  He grins. “Oh yes.”

  “But not with Megan, as she moved to New Zealand.”

  “That’s right. Though we do keep in touch.”

  “I see. But there must be someone else. I mean, if you’re still a dom.”

  “Once a dom, always a dom I reckon. I know a lot of submissives, and I’m never short of play partners. But to answer your question, there’s no one special, not at the moment. You?”

  I shake my head emphatically. I’ve had one or two flings since I knew Matt, casual relationships with guys on my course, but nothing that meant much.

  Matt wipes the tears from beneath my eyes with the pad of his thumb. “This was meant to be a business discussion, but it sort of got away from me on to more personal areas. I do want to continue this conversation, but not here.”

  “I see. So, where—”

  “Come home with me—again. We’ll finish up here, settle things with Ned and Annie, or at least as far as we can at this stage, then we’ll make ourselves scarce. Okay?”

  I nod. “Do you still live in Leeds? In the same flat?” I reckon I could find it easily enough.

  “No. That place was just leased for a year. I left not too long after you went, lived in a new-build in the city centre for a while. Then I moved to Hebden Bridge. A converted school. Very nice, if you like that sort of thing.”

  It certainly sounds nice to me, but his tone suggest otherwise. “You sound as though you don’t like it much. Why did you buy it then?”

  “Megan fancied the place.”

  “Oh. Oh, right…”

  Matt chuckles. “And then she left. There are no ghosts there, Beth. And just to be sure we’re on the same wavelength, if you agree to come home with me, and I do most sincerely hope you will, I would like to fuck you. Will you object?”

  “I never objected.”

  “True. And as you’ve been at pains to point out, neither are you eighteen any more. My intentions toward you are far less honourable now. Without doubt, and if you’re up for it, I will be tempted to deliver that spanking you mentioned.”