Dirty Whispers: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Emily

  Moira marches into the apartment like she owns the place. She’s a short woman, about my height, but she’s thick where I’m thin, sturdy where I’m fragile. Her hair is jet-black, which makes me double take when I step back and let her in. She looks me up and down, a stern expression on her face, a face devoid of freckles, just like Jude’s.

  “We’re not all redheads,” she says, and then walks into the living room. She doesn’t acknowledge my bruises, which is refreshing. She’s holding a big pile of books and she’s dressed in nurse’s scrubs. “I came straight from a nightshift, so you ought to thank me, really.” She sets the books on the coffee able and drops onto the couch. “Jude has told me a lot about you,” she goes on, without waiting for my response. “He’s told me you have a natural talent for caring. Well, I told him right back, it takes more than a natural talent to make a nurse. But he was adamant. Says you fixed him up every night for the past two weeks. Said you were brilliant at stitching and patching and soothing. Said you had great bedside manner.”

  “Oh.” It’s the first thing I’ve said since she walked in, and even that seems too much for her.

  She twists in her sitting position. “Oh?” she echoes. “What do you mean, oh? I’m telling you what Jude’s told me.”

  I join her at the couch. She follows me with Jude’s hard eyes.

  I sit next to her.

  “I didn’t realize Jude had spoken about me at all,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah.” Moira nods. “We talk on the phone often, usually about run-of-the-mill stuff. He doesn’t mention his work and I don’t ask. That’s one thing I’ll ask of you, too. I don’t want to know. I know what he does. I don’t agree with it. But he’s my brother and I’d stand by that man no matter what. You know he saved my life?”

  Her speech is like the firing of a machine-gun, constant tat-tat-tat. She doesn’t even seem out of breath.

  “Well,” she says, staring at me plainly.

  “Well . . . what?”

  She gestures at the textbooks, piled high. “Aren’t you going to take a look?”

  “I’ve never had any desire to be a nurse,” I say.

  “Have you ever even thought about it?”

  “Before right now? No.”

  “Well, then, how do you know? Eh?” She smiles for the first time. It makes her seem less jarring. “Seems to me you need some direction in life.”

  I blink at her. “You don’t even know me.”

  “Of course I do!” she explodes. “Jude has told me all about you! Not all the details, of course. He wouldn’t betray your trust like that. That’s what he said to me, anyway, and I was damn surprised to hear him talk like that. He doesn’t talk about women like that, my brother. More of the . . .” She winces, realizing she’s saying too much. “More of the cold type, if you get my meaning.”

  “I do,” I say. “But he’s not cold anymore.” There’s a hint of pride in my voice.

  “No,” Moira says, “he’s not. You must have magic powers. So, you don’t want to look at the books?”

  I glance at them out of the corner of my eye. They call to me. I can’t deny that. After being denied education for so long—after Patrick ranting at me for countless hours about how learning is useless for a woman like me—I can’t deny that the books are appealing. And nursing, helping people . . . maybe there’s something in that. But there’s another response inside of me, too, a life-long response which causes me to recoil at the idea. You can’t do it, a voice whispers. After a moment, I realize it’s Patrick’s voice. You could never do it. In my mind, he’s standing over me, eyes burning with drugs and anger. What do you think you are? Some prissy smart bitch? Just keep your head down and get on with your goddamn work, bitch!

  I realize I’m shaking. With an effort, I stop myself.

  “Are you okay?” Moira asks, her voice suddenly softer. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I lie. “No, I’m fine. Just . . . thinking.”

  “Don’t do that,” Moira snaps. “Never waste time on that. All it does it rot your brain.”

  I tilt my head at her. “You just said that thinking rots your brain.”

  The corners of her lips twitch. “Oh, yes, I did.” They twitch again, and then she breaks into a full smile. Her face transforms. “What am I talking about!” She giggles, clutching her sides.

  The laughter is infectious. I can’t help but laugh along with her. Whatever atmosphere was in the room turns to vapor at once.

  When the laughter passes, Moira leans across and pats me on the knee. “It’s good to laugh now and then,” she says.

  All at once, I feel an outpouring of gratitude to this woman. Perhaps it’s because she’s related to Jude or perhaps it’s because she’s taken the time out of her life—when she’s tired after a night shift, when she should be sleeping—to come and make me laugh.

  “Do you want a drink?” I ask.

  “And something to eat, if you’ve got it.”

  I go to the kitchen. “What do you want?” I call. “A sandwich?”

  “Sure.”

  I check the refrigerator, which luckily escaped Jude’s anger. “Ham okay?”

  “Yes.”

  I make the sandwich and pour a glass of orange juice. I’m about to take it into the living room when Moira appears in the kitchen. She looks over the broken cupboards and ruined oven and sucks in breath through her teeth. “Jude, Jude, Jude.” She sighs. “He must’ve been really angry.” She sees me flinch and holds her hands up. “Don’t worry. I won’t pry. Not my business, I know. But I know Jude and I know he wouldn’t have done something like this unless he cared. Jude doesn’t get angry, not usually. That part of him died a long time ago. I think only giving a shit would make him angry now. He doesn’t even get angry with his work, as far as I know . . .” She shakes her head. “But I don’t talk about that. What I’m saying is, he must care about you, Emily. Care about you a whole lot.”

  “I know.” It’s like I hear the words instead of speak them. The confidence is unlike me. But I do know. Jude and I have reached a place I never thought a woman like me could reach. A close place. An intimate place. A place where we can tear open our chests and reveal the soft places inside. A place where we fuck like animals and love every minute of it.

  Moira takes a step back. “Well, excuse me.” She grins. “I didn’t know you were so in love.”

  I hand her the plate and the glass and we return to the living room. The TV’s still on, but the documentary has changed. Now the camera follows a pack of wolves as they run across an icy wasteland, hunting, mating. I get so absorbed in it I don’t realize that, when it ends, an hour and a half has passed. Moira stirs next to me, yawning and stretching.

  “You can take a nap if you like,” I offer.

  “No, not yet.”

  “Not yet?”

  She gestures at the textbooks. “My mission today is to get those books in your hands. And I will not sleep until my mission is complete!” She waves her hand dramatically. Suddenly, she’s not a sleepy nurse on a couch; she’s a vibrant actress on the stage. She yawns again, deflating.

  “You need sleep,” I press gently. “How long was your shift?”

  “Ten hours.”

  “Ten hours, and here you are still awake. Do you want to take a nap in the bed?”

  “Yes, of course I do.” She looks at me flatly. “But not until you have picked up those books. And not just picked them up, missy, but really lost yourself in them. Put your all in. Really try.”

  “Has anybody ever told you, Moira, that you’re an extremely annoying person?” I wink at her, shocked at my own playfulness.

  “Too many people.” She nods meaningfully at the books. “Now, are you going to take a look—or not?”

  I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling, can’t help but smile. I pick up the first book, which is titled, A General Introduction to Nursing. I sort through them. All but one is a textbook; t
he final one is a guide on how to apply to nursing courses.

  “I’ll take a look,” I say, but already my curiosity is piqued. Learning. Expanding my mind. Actually getting a chance to apply myself.

  “Good.” Moira heaves herself up, walks across the room, and stands at the bedroom door. “I’m going to question you after my nap, so study hard.”

  I bury my face in the book, reading the introduction. By page two, I’ve already learnt two new things. It feels good.

  “Thanks, Moira,” I mutter, but she’s already snoring.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jude

  The van stops outside a tall apartment building in a rundown neighborhood. I peek out of the window and see a gang of kids at the far end of the street, one man handing out little baggies of weed. The leader, a tall black man with cornrows and a tear-drop tattoo beneath his eye, is packing. I can see the outline of his pistol beneath his trousers. The rest are just kids, can’t be older than fifteen.

  Of course we’d find that prick Barry in a place like this, I think.

  Tool holds a shut-up finger and takes out his cellphone. The van goes quiet as Tool speaks. “Hey, baby doll,” he says, grinning like a madman. I can see the other guys are as nervous as I must’ve been a long, long time ago. The kid with freckles and the mop-hair swallows, his Adam’s apple a solid ball of shifting anxiety. “Is he up there now? Ah, you’re pretending I’m one of your girlfriends. Very clever. There’s a bonus in it for you; your acting is so damn good.”

  He grins at the rest of us and then hangs up.

  “Right, he’s up there. Let’s go.”

  We pile out of the van like men ready to do murder, ’cause that’s exactly what we are.

  Tool leads us to the apartment’s main door. He presses a buzzer. The door beeps and opens.

  “Told him I was another girl.” Tool smiles as we walk into the building. “Stupid bastard thinks he’s about to have a threesome.”

  Normally, I’d laugh, just to help the day along. But I can’t get Emily’s face out of my head, the fear in her features when the sleazy bastard pulled her into his lap. I know he’s done worse things—much worse things—but seeing him handle Emily like that burns into my mind. I clench and unclench my fists, bloody intent making my muscles hard, my senses honed. I’m not Jude anymore. I’m more than Jude. I’m a killer, stalking. The other guys, even Tool, keep their distance from me; I must look mad, scary, mad and scary.

  “Which apartment is it?” I ask.

  Tool tells me.

  I run up the stairs, past graffiti-covered walls and over discarded needles. All around us, the sounds of drunk and high people smash through the walls. Somebody stumbles; somebody cackles; a plate shatters; a woman screams. I run faster, mind going into overdrive: Pull my woman into your lap, eh? Make my woman scared for her life? Fucking use my woman like she’s a toy? Try and hurt my woman? He’s a fucking dead man. No question. He’s dead. Fucking dead!

  “Jude,” Tool mutters, at my shoulder. “You okay, man?”

  “Fine,” I say, voice distorted because I’m growling like a beast.

  We gather outside the door.

  “Who’s doing the honors?” Tool asks.

  I kick the door so hard all the hinges snap loose. It flies through the air like a tiny piece of fluttering paper and lands with a pathetic thump. The apartment is even more of a mess than mine was before Emily got her hands on it. The couch is not so much a couch as a threadbare collection of fabric and plywood. The walls are bare and black with damp. The floor is uncarpeted and reeks of alcohol and drugs. Needles are scattered everywhere like deformed flower stems.

  The woman stands near the door, just to the side, and Barry sits on the couch, facing the door. The small, beady-eyed man is shirtless, displaying his twisted muscles. He’s small, but some men have a violent aura around them no matter their size, and Barry is one of them. I get the sense looking at this piece of piss that he wouldn’t flinch at hurting a child, a woman, anybody. A killer, like me, sure—but so much fucking worse ’cause at least I leave innocents out of it.

  His beady eyes do something impossible when he sees us; they go wide.

  He leaps to his feet, reaching into the waistband of his jeans. He fumbles. Reaches again. But it’s too late. I’m across the room like a torpedo. The world seems to slow as my heartbeat speeds up. I see individual beads of sweat dripping down the man’s naked upper body. I see his teeth, biting down on his lower lip. I see the way his hands shake and I see the light dusting of white powder around his nose. I hear him yelp. I hear the hooker run from the apartment.

  Then time speeds up and my fist crunches into his stomach.

  He keels over, collapsing onto the couch in a bundle.

  I smack him in the face. I feel his cheekbone crunch. I smack him again.

  “No! Please! No! Please!” he wails, bringing his hands to his head.

  “No?” I spit. “No? You’re going to beg me? That’s your fucking plan? We know all about you, you fucking pedophile. We know about all the shit you’ve done.” I kneel down, grab him by the neck, and bring my face so close to his I can smell the coke. “And do you think I’ve forgotten about the way you grabbed Emily, like she was a piece of fucking meat for you to enjoy? Do you really think I’d let you get away with that, you fucking moron?”

  I head-butt him. His nose caves and blood, powdered white, gushes down his front.

  “P-p-please,” he whispers. “Just . . . please.”

  “Have some goddamn self-respect,” I snarl.

  I lift him by the neck so he’s on his feet. He tries to fall backward, but I hold him up. His arms hang limply at his sides.

  “Not so nice, is it, having a big mean bastard in your face when there’s nothing you can do about it? Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you fucking raped children!” I explode on the last words, crushing my hand around his windpipe.

  He splutters and dribbles, spit dripping down his chin in big phlegmy globules. I see Emily’s face, running continuously like a stuck DVD in my mind. I imagine this piece of shit tailing kids in his car, grabbing them . . . using them. My blood has turned to ice, lava, fire; my blood has run with hatred and killer’s intent more times than I can count. Now, it runs with a strong protective urge. I’m no longer in some hooker’s rundown crack house. I’m standing on the shore of a lake watching the bubbles of my dying parents rise to the surface. I have to do something.

  “P-p-p—”

  “Prick!” I let go of him and take a step back. I feel the others at my shoulders, ranged either side of me, but all of them know better than to get in my way right now, just as any smart man knows to get the hell out of the way when a bull comes charging at him.

  A hush falls over the apartment, as though everybody knows what’s about to happen. The Judas Kiss has become a sort of joke around the bar at this point, but just because Tool has a laugh over it, that doesn’t mean it isn’t feared. I take another step back, aiming. Barry totters from side to side, a drunken man struggling to stay on his feet.

  “You’ll never hurt anybody again.”

  My voice is iron.

  I jump, spin—and give him a Judas Kiss which sends him hurtling over the back of the couch, flipping head over toe, and landing in a crumpled pile on the floor. I jump through the air, throwing my entire weight behind my right fist, an MMA-style move that earns me a gasp from everybody, even Tool. I never know exactly what I look like when I give anyone a Judas Kiss, but Tool once told me it was like a giant mousetrap flinging shut.

  I walk to the edge of the room. Barry moans softly from behind the couch. He coughs; he gurgles.

  “Finish him off.” I wave a hand at the men. None of them argue.

  They walk around the back of the couch and lay into him. His gurgling and coughing is replaced with whelping.

  I turn my back on the scene and inspect my knuckles. They’re cut and grazed, but that doesn’t bother me much. It’s tough to think of
a time in my life when my knuckles haven’t been cut and grazed.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, calming myself.

  The prick who pulled Emily into his lap will never hurt anybody else.

  A scream—a shout—and finally a gargling, choking noise.

  “It’s done,” Tool says.

  “Good,” I reply.

  It’s only when we leave the apartment and a few pedestrians look at me sideways, I realize I’m coated top to bottom in a misty layer of blood.

  Chapter Twenty-Four