Dirty Whispers: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  I’ll leave, I tell myself. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I’ll just get away for a while. I know this is futile. Sooner or later, Patrick will find me. But I want to feel as though I have a say in my own life—even if that say is temporary.

  The apartment is quiet. I’m sure Jude is not in. But when I open the door to the living room, I see him, sat on the couch, a bottle of whisky in his hand. The lights are off and he sits in moonlight; it glints off the rim of the bottle. In his other hand he holds a folded-up photograph.

  I creep into the room. He’s asleep, snoring softly. I drop the bag and creep across the room to him. I know I should respect his privacy, but the temptation is too great. I lean down and look at the photograph. It’s a family portrait, a man who looks like an older, cleaner version of Jude, a beautiful red-haired woman, and two little kids. Softly, I take the photo from his hand, turn it over. The back reads: Family portrait, Jude, Moira, Mom and Dad. Gently, I place the photo back into his hand.

  I look at his face, wondering. His lips twitch, his cheeks are red, and his eyes are only half-lidded. They’re watery. He’s not crying—I don’t think a man like Jude cries often, if ever—but the pain is clear on his face. They were his family. What happened to them? I think. How do you know something happened? Well, why would he just stare at a photograph all night if everything was fine?

  I return to my bag. It would be easy now to walk out. Walk out onto the street and take my chances in the night alone. I’d be free, if only for a few hours. Eventually, Patrick would pull me back. The steady march of my life would go on.

  I look again at Jude. He mutters in his sleep. I lean closer, listening. “Mom, Dad, Mom, Dad,” he whispers, his chest heaving. “I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry. I’ll save you. Moira . . . I’ll save them. Forgive me. Forgive . . .”

  His head snaps up, eyelids opening. He looks around in confusion and then his gaze settles on me. “Oh,” he says, quickly folding up the photo. He stuffs it into his pocket. Setting the bottle of whisky on the table, he glances at my bag. “Are you leaving?”

  “What happened?” I ask, voice soft. A strong instinct rises inside of me, the urge to protect this man, to soothe him, growing stronger by the moment.

  “Nothing.” He sniffs, wipes his eyes. “Just got shit-faced and fell asleep, is all.”

  “The photo . . .”

  “Maybe I’ll tell you all about it, but not now.” He gestures again at the bag. “Are you leaving?”

  “I was going to,” I admit.

  “Was? You’re not anymore?”

  “No,” I say.

  There’s more to this man than I first thought. Much more.

  I surprise myself by walking across the living room and sitting next to him, so close our legs touch. “I think I’ll stay here for a while.”

  Chapter Nine

  Jude

  We sit together for a long time, pretending to watch TV but really watching each other.

  Her legs touch mine. An animal hunger rises in me, but I keep thinking about that prick in the bakery, pulling her around like she was a piece of meat. And I remember when she compared me to her asshole brother. I’m aware, for the first time in a hell of a long time, of how I behave around a woman. Strange, women and me usually agree to fuck and then never see each other again, a mutually beneficial arrangement as far as I can tell. But there’s something different about Emily. She’s so fragile-looking, so vulnerable-looking, and yet there’s iron in her, I’m sure of it.

  Did she look at the photo? I wonder. Even if she didn’t, I was having a nightmare, and when I have a nightmare, I tend to talk in my sleep. Did I give anything away?

  Emily smiles across at me, and all at once I don’t give a damn if I gave something away. It’s enough to just be here with her. For now, at least.

  “Do you mind if I switch over?”

  It takes me a moment to realize what she means; I’m so absorbed in watching her instead of the TV. “Sure.”

  She changes the station to a nature documentary about whales. “I love nature documentaries,” she tells me. “But Patrick never lets me watch them. We only have one TV and he won’t even subscribe to internet service.” She flinches, as though hearing her voice for the first time. “Never mind that. What’s this one about? Ah, whales. Whales are so interesting. Did you know that bowhead whales can live for up to two-hundred years?” Her face lights up. It’s like I’m seeing the woman she really is underneath the fear and the self-doubt. “Two-hundred years.” She makes an O with her mouth. It’s the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen, no doubt.

  “I’m glad you stayed,” I mutter. It’s weird for me to say a thing like that to a woman, but it just comes out. It’s the truth.

  “Huh?” Her eyes are fixed on the TV.

  I chuckle. Feels good to laugh. “Nothing,” I say. “Tell me more about whales, Emily.”

  She grins girlishly and talks at length about different types of whales.

  “Where did you learn all this?”

  “Library.” She brings her finger to her lips and makes a shh noise. “Don’t tell Patrick. Sometimes I go there after work and read some of the nature books. Patrick says that book-learning is a waste of time. That’s actually what he calls it. Book-learning. Like we’re in medieval times or something.”

  I laugh again. “Do you want a drink?”

  “Just a soda, if you’ve got one.”

  I go to the kitchen and get a couple of sodas. This is something else I’d never normally do for a woman. I guess I’m a bit of an asshole when it comes down to stuff like that, but usually, I’d make her get her own drink. But Emily is different. She’s peeping out of her shell and I like what I see. A bright, smiling, happy woman. A good woman. A smart woman. A woman beaten and abused, sure, but give her the chance to be something different, and I bet she’d pounce on it.

  I return to the living room and hand her a soda. She’s so absorbed in the documentary I have to thrust it into her hand. She mutters a thank you, cracks it open, and watches the TV with her large saucer-like green eyes.

  When the knock sounds from the door, I jump to my feet at once. Nobody knocks on my door, ever. I go to the bar to get the details of my next job, fight, whatever. Never here. This is my no-work zone. Emily looks up at me, startled.

  “Is everything alright?” she asks.

  No idea. “Yes. Wait here.”

  I go to the kitchen, take my pistol from under the sink, and stuff it into my waistband. Then I go to the door.

  When I see him, the huge vending-machine fuck I 1eveled a couple of weeks ago, my blood turns to ice. He rears up like a drunken bear, looking over my shoulder. “Emily!” her brother barks. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get out here. Right now! Don’t make me—”

  I launch myself at him with all the power, practice, and ferocity of a man who does this for a living. I grab him by the front of his shirt and slam him against the wall. He might be a big bastard, but he’s a damn sloppy one, too. He paws at my hands. I head-butt him. Blood sprays down his shirt.

  “She’s not going anywhere,” I growl, and head-butt him again. “And if you ever come to my fucking apartment again, I’ll bring the entire fucking mob down on you. You won’t be able to run. You won’t be able to hide. That girl in there is worth more than your goddamn fist, you piece of shit.” I’m losing my cool. I never lose my cool. But this piece of piss thought he was going to take Emily back, hurt her, abuse her.

  Patrick starts whimpering through puffy, bleeding lips. I take a deep breath, calming myself. “Leave,” I say, digging my hands into his chest. He squirms. “If you ever come back here, it’ll be the last thing you fucking do. I should kill you right now—”

  “Don’t,” Emily whispers from the doorway. “Don’t kill him, Jude. Just . . . just let him go.”

  I bring my face close to his. “You’re lucky your sister is so damned compassionate.” Then I throw him down the hallway. He stumbles, trips, and then climbs
to his feet with a gasp.

  “She’s mine!” he cries, and then runs down the hallway.

  I return to the apartment. Emily sits on the couch, knees drawn to her chin. She looks tiny, breakable, like something that could shatter at any moment.

  I want to make her feel better, but the truth is I’m good at killing, not soothing.

  “He’s gone now,” I say.

  Emily stares empty-eyed at the TV. Her guard is up again. That bastard has strengthened her shell. Worst of all, her girlish enthusiasm is gone. She’s cold and dead-faced.

  Just like me, I think, as I drop onto the couch next to her.

  Chapter Ten

  Jude

  Every night when I return to the apartment, I expect Emily to be gone. But every night, she’s there, waiting for me. Sitting on the couch watching nature documentaries; lying in bed after work; in the shower. It’s strange to have a woman living with me. I’ve never experienced it before. But what’s stranger is that we don’t fuck, or kiss, or anything even close to fucking or kissing.

  Most nights over these two weeks, I come back with some kind of injury. It’s not unusual in my business. In fact, it’s run-of-the-mill. If I got a bonus for every new scar I received, I’d be getting bonuses every night of my life.

  The first time I walk through the door with a fresh gash down my eye, Emily gasps and jumps to her feet. She turns away from what has to be her sixth viewing of Planet Earth, which is how I know she’s taking it seriously; she loves this one documentary more than anything else.

  “What happened?” she demands. There’s iron in her voice, the iron of a protector, and it makes me smile. “There’s nothing to grin about.” She points at the cut, a line which starts above my eyebrow, skips my eye, and ends halfway down my cheek. “Does it hurt? Here, sit down.”

  I normally take care of my injuries myself with a slug of whisky and some self-stitching I learnt back when I started in the life. But when Emily leads me to the couch, sits me down, and starts fussing over me, I’ve got to admit part of me enjoys it. A pretty big part, too. She retrieves the first-aid kit from the kitchen and tends to me with skilled hands.

  “Have you done this before?”

  She winces. “Often,” she admits. “Though usually I’m doing it in a mirror.”

  “Ah.” My blood freezes in my veins every time she mentions her asshole brother, but I fight back the rage. Rage is a tool, to be aimed, to be used with skill. Getting angry at a phantom doesn’t do anybody any good.

  She patches me up quickly, skillfully, and then forces me to sit down with her and watch TV. Perhaps forces is a bit of an overstatement. It’s not like I put up much of a fight. In truth, it’s nice to sit down with her, relax, let the madness of the day sink away.

  The second time I return with a fresh wound—this time badly grazed knuckles—she doesn’t as much as bat an eyelid. She just walks into the kitchen, gets the kit, and goes about her work. I come to savor the feeling of her hands, even if they are probing painful cuts and scabs. Her fingers are small, thin, but always warm and capable. She never wavers, never flinches. She’s stronger than she realizes, I think, over and over.

  As the nights move on—and one of us sleeps on the couch—I begin to wonder why the hell I’m not making a move. It’s not like me to hesitate when it comes to women. I’m usually quick to act and slow to think, but with Emily it’s the other way around. It seems all I can do is think. Most of all, I think about the comparison she made between me and her asshole brother. It whirls around and around in my head until it echoes all over my skull. Neither of you take my feelings into account. Normally, I’d laugh something like that off. Who cares if I take a woman’s feelings into account? But with Emily, I can’t help but care. Whether it’s how breakable she looks, how cute and enthusiastic she is, how caring, how kind, how genuinely good, I don’t know.

  All I know is that nights pass and nothing happens.

  Maybe, I think one night when she’s bandaging my arm, I should just take her. I went down on her and she didn’t stop me. Maybe if I just took her, right now, she wouldn’t put up a fight, either. And she came, hard. I felt it. Felt the vibrations in her body. She moaned. Damn, she moaned loudly. I’m sure if I took her, she’d enjoy it.

  When the bandaging is done and she’s placing the things back in the first-aid box, I tell myself to lean forward, grab her, kiss her. But I don’t. Something stops me, something I’ve never felt before, never dreamed a man like me could feel. Self-doubt, I realize with a shock. Me, Jude Kelly, killer, doubting myself.

  We don’t fuck that night. We watch TV instead.

  She improves my apartment, too, turning it from a place where I crash and watch TV to an actual home. She’s like a goddamn house fairy. Over the weeks, she buys pictures, beautiful landscapes of faraway valleys and groves, and hangs them on the wall. She buys a glittering purple vase and fills it with fresh flowers. Rugs begin to appear all over the place, soft on the feet and appealing to the eye. New utensils appear in my kitchen.

  Seeing her every day is driving me crazy. I need her. That’s the truth. Need her bad. But I don’t want to be like Patrick in her eyes. I couldn’t stand that. I don’t want her to think of me as a monster. I want something else, instead, something I’ve never wanted with a woman before.

  I want her to see me as a person.

  Chapter Eleven

  Emily

  Every day, I think about leaving.

  I’m at work at the bakery and I think to myself: Tonight, I’ll go to his place, pick up my things, and check into a motel. From there, I’ll find my own way. I’ll make a new start. But no matter how many times I think that, my feet lead me back to his place. Sometimes, they lead me somewhere else first: home decoration stores. I don’t know what fit of madness prompts me to start outfitting his place as though it’s mine, but he doesn’t complain and so I carry on. I turn the place from a series of cell-like rooms into an actual apartment, a place to which we can return with a smile.

  I’m shocked by how often he injures himself. But I suppose that comes with the territory when you spend your days and half the evening working as a hitman or beating the hell out of men in the fighting pit. I know a little first aid from my time with Patrick and I help him out. It feels good to help him, make something better.

  He doesn’t make a move on me. I don’t know how to feel about that. It’s a two-sided coin with relief on one side and longing on the other. There’s my religion to consider, but that takes a backseat over other thoughts, like my own freewill. Part of me wants him to just grab me, pick me up, take me; another part wants him to wait, be patient. I can never decide which way I want the coin to land.

  He comes home after just over two weeks with a nasty cut down his neck, as if somebody tried to slit his throat. He’s wearing a torn shirt and muddy jeans with dirt-crusted workman’s boots. His tattoos are on full display and he looks dangerous as hell, exactly the sort of man a woman like me should stay away from.

  I get the kit and we sit at the couch.

  He takes a bottle of whisky from the coffee table and sips. He offers me some. I take a sip. It burns my throat but it warms my belly.

  “This place looks nice,” he says, voice tight. It’s the first time he’s mentioned it.

  “Thank you.”

  I dab the wound, clean it, and then dress it.

  “What made you do it?” he asks.

  I finish the wound and pack away the kit, and then sit next to him on the couch. Our legs are touching and tiny sensations skitter over my skin, up my thigh, up higher to that sweet place that makes my whole body warm. With the whisky to prop it up, I feel like I’m on fire.

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I guess I wanted this place to look nice.”

  “But why?”

  We face each other. He’s let his stubble grow out a little, a close-cropped red beard, and his eyes are hard. But beneath the hardness, I think I see something else. A glint of humanity
, maybe.

  I search my mind in earnest. “Oh.” I giggle when it hits me.

  “What?”

  “Maybe it’s because Patrick never lets me decorate. We end up moving every couple of years and he always says there’s no point. Why bother when we’ll be moving? When I point out to him that just because we’ll be moving, it doesn’t mean we have to live like prisoners for two years, well . . . He doesn’t like it when I say that.”

  “He hits you.” He winces, as though aware he might’ve crossed a line. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “No.” I place my hand on his leg without thinking. “It’s fine. I’ll tell you a little about all that, if you want.”