by S. R. Jones
Not wanting to make her any more uncomfortable, I look away and try not to smile.
Call me a bighead, but her reaction says she’s attracted to me. At least a little. And even better, I don’t think she wants to be. A challenge.
Not had one of those in a while.
I realise with shock, I’ve enjoyed this. Enjoyed goading her, and sparring with her. Enjoyed seeing beneath her perfect, buttoned up surface. She pushes my buttons and irritates the hell out of me, but at least she makes me feel something beyond the crawling out of my own skin sensation.
The rest of the class passes without any incidence, but by the end, I’m itching to get out of there and go for a run. Or even go to a bar and pick up some random woman. Because as the time wore on, I found myself glancing at Ms. Toulson more and more, and by the end of the lesson, I’d been imagining her on her knees sucking my cock.
I either go to a bar and pick someone up, or I go home and scratch this itch she’s put under my skin. Alone, in my room, with only a porn mag.
The prison officers unlock the door, signalling the end of the session, and lead the men out. Cara turns to me.
“Good job today, Luka.” She rifles through the large black bag she carries with her and pulls out a dog-eared sheet. “Here’s a timetable. Have a look and see if the hours are going to fit for you. If not, no worries, we can always get someone else, and we’ll find you practical time elsewhere.”
She so wants me to say I can’t do this. That the timetable clashes with something important, and she’ll need to find someone else.
“Oh, I’m sure I can make it fit.” I flash her a full wattage smile.
She nods, and there it is again. The lovely wash of colour that tells me I’ve got to her.
I lean on the desk and watch her tidy her stuff away. Cara might not like me, but she wants me, which means it won’t be easy to crack her brittle outer shell.
In some ways, my feelings for her are the same. She’s hard work, and not easy to be around, but for some Godforsaken reason, I want to work for it. Maybe I’m weird, but I like the fact she’s not easy. After all, don’t they say the best things in life are those you work for? The hardest to get?
Suddenly, I’m thinking this gig might turn out to be fun after all.
Chapter Three
Cara
I watch Luka as he stuffs his papers and pen into the backpack he has with him. The man has me all on edge. On the one hand, he represents the sort of man I can’t stand. Military. Cocky. Hot. Knows it, too. Yep, not my type at all.
On the other hand, I’m weirdly attracted to him. Like a dark, forbidden fantasy that I didn’t like admitting to myself, he’s there, under my skin somehow. It’s more than simply his gorgeous looks. He’s got a confidence about him that I find horribly attractive at this moment in my life, when I feel as if everything is falling apart.
The temptation to let someone else take over is huge, not only sexually, but in every way. I’ve never experienced this before. I’ve always been someone who values my independence. Even when in relationships, I’ve kept myself independent, and in control. I think I’ve been in love before, maybe, with my shitty ex, Dane. I didn’t experience the falling into something so deep you lose yourself kind of stuff people write poems and songs about, though. Thank God, with how it turned out.
Laura did when she met Maggie. She says she fell hard and fast, and it overwhelmed her. I didn’t experience anything like it with him. The thought of Dane makes me want to puke, so I shove it away.
I see Luka watching me when I look up. His eyes are almost grey in this light. They’re fascinating. With long lashes that L’oreal would patent if they could. Women would kill for lashes like those.
He didn’t seem at all bothered by the prisoners, and while I hope I looked fine on the outside, inside I’ve been a wreck this whole lesson.
I’m done packing up, so I begin to head towards the door, and Luka falls in step with me.
“I noticed the guy you were worried about,” he says.
“Oh. And did you think anything of it?” It’s probably me being all paranoid due to the state of my mind.
“Yeah, I did. He’s got a look about him. Not saying he’s dangerous, might actually be the opposite. He’s not scared, and he’s calm. Calculating maybe. Something about him tells me he might even be military, or I should say ex-military, clearly, if he’s in here.”
“Really?” I turn to him genuinely interested. “You can tell?”
He shrugs. “Not always, but sometimes, yeah. It’s in the bearing, the stance. The way someone holds themselves. The way they look around them. I might be wrong. But I think he’s had some sort of proper training. Might be law enforcement, but if I had to bet on it, I’d say a military man.”
Great, a trained killer on the wrong side of the law. I shiver at the thought.
“But you’re safe here, right?” Luka looks at me and the mocking amusement is gone. There’s genuine concern in his gaze. “I mean, there’s the guards on the door, right outside. The panic button on the desk. You’re safe, yeah?”
I’ve always felt safe and secure here. Funnily enough, it never bothered me before…teaching prisoners. Maybe if I’d been having to walk into a room full of murderers and rapists, I’d feel differently, but these guys are petty crooks mostly. So, I’ve never been afraid. Now, though. I’m…not scared as such, but not comfortable either, not by a long shot. The incident is to blame for this, for making me ill at ease somewhere I used to feel comfortable. And I hate those men who attacked me, and Tristan, for doing this to me.
I nod. “Yes, it’s safe.” I don’t want to get into a deeper debate because then my insecurities might pop up. If I let them out, who knows how bad it will get. I keep on going by stuffing it all down. I stopped therapy, because talking about it seemed to make it worse. Now I ignore it. Refuse to think too much about the night violence, real horrible violence, came to visit me.
We head into the staffroom together after passing through security and I start to grab my stuff from my locker. Gina walks in, and I suppress a sigh. She’s a psychologist who works with the prisoners, but to my mind she’s a bit of a strange person. She wears as sexy an outfit as she can get away with, without outright breaking the rules. She always has on subtle make-up, and soft perfume. Me? I wear unsexy clothes, no make-up, and no perfume. I suppose I wear those sorts of clothes anyway, but I tone it down even more while here.
Gina doesn’t. She flirts with the guards, and though I don’t see her interact with the prisoners, I bet she’s subtly flirts with them, too. I’ve developed a theory about her. Which is that she gets off on making men who are locked up and can’t do anything about it all hot and bothered by her.
“Hey, Cara.” She waggles her fingers at me in hello. Then again, maybe she flirts naturally, because half the time I swear she’s doing it with me.
“And you are?” Her eyes land on Luka and widen comically.
He turns to look at her, and gives a cocky smirk. This is a new expression on him, and one I’ve not seen before. It’s the sort of thing I bet gets most women falling at his feet, and one that leaves me cold. It’s patented. Practiced. Almost fake. She smiles back, a little one-sided, and a whole lot sexy.
“Luka. Luka Anders. I’m working with Cara here for a few weeks.”
He’s technically working for me, as my student, but I don’t correct him.
“Ooooh. Well, welcome to prison life.”
She sashays over to her locker, on the other side of the room, and I expect Luka’s gaze to follow her swinging hips but when I glance at him, he’s already looked away, and busying himself with his own locker again.
I’m done and about to get out of there, when Gina walks back across the room and takes my arm. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask. How are you doing?” She says the whole question with great emphasis, and her pouty mouth turns down.
Oh, God. Not now. Not in front of a student. Particularly this student,
who gives me strange feelings, and somehow intimidates me at the same time he turns me on.
“I’m fine.” I hope the short answer will put her off, but for a psychologist she’s thick skinned.
“Has the therapy been helping? It takes time, you know, to get over something like that.” I can sense Luka’s attention on our conversation and I seethe at her lack of professionalism.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay.” She raises her eyebrows and backs away as if I’m a bomb about to go off.
I shove my bag over my shoulder and head for the door. I don’t bother to say goodbye, because I’m fuming with Gina, and I don’t want to get into any further conversation with Luka.
All the way home on the bus, I can feel the anxiety prickling at my skin, panic snapping at my neck, chasing me. Letting me know it’s there, right behind me, and liable to pounce at any moment. I hate this so much.
I close my eyes and the memories come hard and fast.
We’d been out for a few drinks when it happened. Me and my friend Tristan.
Tristan is a strange friend for me to have met. He’s handsome. Confident, gregarious, and fun, and a hit with the girls. I know a different side to him though. He’s a bit of a geek deep down, and we bonded over our love of obscure anime.
We met at university, when I was at my lowest ebb, after losing both my parents in close succession, and then my cousin to suicide. I’d hit rock bottom, as guilt at not being able to save my cousin collided with overwhelming grief.
Tristan was there one day, and then the next. He seemed to be where I was a lot of the time, and we clicked. He comforted me. A constant, solid presence. He never tried to make me talk if I didn’t want to, and he put up with my moods and depression. He also never tried to make a move on me, disproving the theory that men and women can’t be simple friends. I’m not his type. Tristan likes them flashy. He goes through girls like I go through hot dinners! He always gets bored and ends it, then moves on to the next one.
But as time went on and our friendship deepened, he got more controlling. He’d try to tell me to take certain modules. Or he’d want me to wear certain clothes. I also realised he had deep insecurities. He seemed to need constant validation, and it got exhausting. So, I distanced myself a little, which was easy once we’d finished university, as we both found jobs in different cities. But still, he’d come visit and it would start again. Pushing into my life a little too much. Asking me to move to live near him, or move in with him, saying we could share the rent.
It perplexed me because he would then go cold for days or weeks on end. It was as if he was playing some sort of game that I didn’t understand.
On the night of the attack, he’d come to visit for a few days. We’d been for a couple of glasses of wine and a bite to eat to drown my sorrows over Dane cheating on me, and trying to rip me off out of a ton of money. Tristan had been the height of charm. The same gregarious, entertaining man I’d met on campus.
We’d been walking home, chatting, when everything went to shit. We turned a corner and saw three drunk men. Big, rowdy, the sort of guys you give a bit of a wide berth to, but you don’t worry about them too much. They’re the sort of men you see regularly on a weekend night in English towns and cities.
We crossed over, and one of them shouted something at us, but we ignored him. I didn’t even hear what it was.
The next moment, thudding footsteps had my head whipping round to see one of the men pounding towards us across the road.
“Hey. I asked you a fucking question.” His face was twisted in anger.
I apologised, but he wouldn’t stop shouting at us. Spitting out words like stuck-up, snobs, faggot. The latter aimed at Tristan. I’d been terrified, but Tristan shocked me to bits. He moved in front of me, being the hero I didn’t ask him to be.
The man’s second friend soon joined us, although the third hung back, and at first there was a lot of shouting and a few shoves, and then Tristan sort of went berserk. He punched and kicked in a flurry, and one of them began to walk away, hands up…when it happened. One of the men pushed at Tristan who shoved him back and the guy stumbled and fell on me. He was huge and he took me down to the ground with him, his weight landing on my leg. All I remember is how the sharp, sickening pain made me think I was going to throw up.
I began screaming and the men ran off. Tristan looked like he’d seen a ghost, bless him, as he stared at my messed-up leg. I had to have a cast, and still limp, although it is getting better each day.
The men haven’t been caught. And that’s what terrifies me. Keeps me awake at night covered in a cold sweat. Do they know who I am? Where I live? Being alone now that Dane has gone doesn’t help. Not that I miss his skanky, cheating self.
Tristan offered to have me move in with him, again, but it would mean leaving everything here. He then wanted to come stay with me, take a sabbatical from his job and help me while I recovered, but I put my foot down on that suggestion, too. He got bent out of shape with me saying no, and things cooled off between us for a while, but recently he’s been back to his old friendly self. Trying to re-kindle our friendship it seems. He’s even stopped the controlling stuff, for now.
By the time I get home, I’m in a horrible mood, and decide to crack open a bottle of wine. My cat winds his way by me, purring and rubbing against my legs. I pick him up and give him a big hug, until he struggles and then I let him down. He loves me, but he doesn’t like being cuddled for too long.
Knowing it’s not good so early in the day, but not caring, I fill my glass almost to the brim with white wine, and head to the lounge, where I curl up on the sofa.
I need something to do, to take my mind off the whirring thoughts. I could go for a slow jog, try to build up the strength in my leg, but I had little sleep and frankly don’t have the energy. Anyway, even when exercising my mind can go on a constant loop of playing over the events of that night when I am in this mood.
Sighing, I take a sip and let the crisp, cool Chardonnay slip down my throat. I spy the student packs on the table so decide to look at them.
After flipping through about six, I come to one with Luka’s name on the front. I turn to the first page, which has his picture, probably taken in the photo booth on induction day. Even in this unflattering shot, he manages to look gorgeous.
I let myself study his face for a while, secure in the knowledge I won’t get caught. His features are almost pretty, but not quite. The set to his jaw and that blade of a nose are utterly masculine. His eyes and mouth softer, and somehow sad. It’s a jarring juxtaposition and probably the thing that takes him from merely handsome to somehow beautiful. I haven’t drawn anyone in ages, but I suddenly get the urge to go grab my paints and start a portrait. I won’t. It would be too weird.
I read through his bio. In the Royal Marines for a few years. Then he spent six years in the Special Boat Service. Even I know what the Special Boat Service is. The seafaring version of the SAS. The UK version of the Navy SEALs. Awarded the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross, whatever that is. Okay, so his military career is impressive, if you’re into that sort of thing.
Curious, I look up the medal he won and find out it’s the second highest honour a soldier can be given. I wonder what he did to win it? Probably killed an awful lot of people. I shudder.
He spent some time working as a personal trainer when he got back home, and now he’s working for a private security firm, and will be running a side programme where they train bouncers and other security types in how to do their job effectively and defuse violent situations.
I remember his alluding to the fact that he can kill a person with his bare hands during our talk at the prison. It goes against all my beliefs, but I can’t help the fact I like knowing that about him when we’re in the classroom. Before the attack, I would never have thought this way. Now, I see threats everywhere. And it might be all kinds of wrong, but knowing I have a highly trained machine at my side helps me be a little bit more secure.
&
nbsp; Still curious, I grab my phone and swipe to my Facebook app. Fingers hovering over the blue button. Knowing it’s wrong, I press it. My profile comes up. I don’t have much on there. Mostly it’s a few posts of my cat, and that’s it. I use it to keep in touch with a handful of close friends and for the knitting, painting, and political groups I’m in.
I bring up the search bar and type in ‘Luka Anders, Harrogate’. I hope there aren’t many Luka Anders in the area. Three names come up. One is totally private with no profile picture and I can’t see anything. One is an older guy. But the third is him. The picture is of him on a beach somewhere with another guy, who is massive, and looks like some sort of ancient god with his long blond hair. They’re both wearing wetsuits, but Luka’s is pulled down to his waist. I ignore the urge to click on the pic and enlarge, because it seems even this new stalker me has some principles.
Instead, I click onto his profile. I’m surprised to see it’s public. But then again, there’s little information on there. He clearly hasn’t used it in a while. There’s no recent activity at all. I see a few photos and click onto those. They are nearly all of a little girl and him. Wow, he’s got a kid.
In one of the pictures, there’s a pretty woman with him. They are grinning down at the little girl, who looks about two or so. I feel a strange hit to my gut. A sinking sensation, and one that makes no sense. I’m not interested in him, so why do I care if he’s got a girlfriend and a child? I know he’s not married as he’s filled in those details on the form. In fact, I wonder if he’s even with this woman anymore as he put his sister as next of kin on the relevant section.
There’s more pictures of him with the little girl. One of her and him building a sandcastle, and another of her eating an ice cream, with it all over her face and hands, and all over most of his t-shirt, too. He doesn’t seem to give a damn and is beaming at her. It makes me smile, until I remember that because he’s nice to his own family, doesn’t mean he’s a nice guy in general. The world is full of people who are nice to those close to them and horrible to others. He chose to go and fight in some of the poorest countries in the world. To go and kill people there, and for what? Oil? I can’t get my head around someone who does that.