Grace: A Disgrace Trilogy Novel

by Dee Palmer

  I crash through the door. How did I miss this? She’s been here all along. The train ticket and Paris hotel were all a hoax, she never took the train to Barcelona. She stayed here and got someone else to trade places. Damn she’s smart.

  The steam distorts her image. She’s dyed her hair to a fiery red, and shit, she’s cut it short, just below her neckline. I love her hair long. Oh fuck, it doesn’t matter. She’s here now. That’s all that… What the fuck?

  “You going to stare or join me, big boy?” The sweet, sexy voice has a West Country lilt, and the steam dissolves to reveal a not-so-shy and very naked Charlie. Sam’s friend and replacement Dominatrix for Leon. Fuck.

  “Neither.” My reply is a little curt, shit, I so wanted her to be Sam. My mind is playing tricks. Even with the steam, I should’ve known it wasn’t her. I did know, yet I still chased the dream all the same, and now, I’m even more pissed. I spin on my heel and out of the doorway, a cloud of steam swirls to escape the closing door. Leon, nursing his broken nose, is slumped in the only armchair, a small bag of frozen peas and more kitchen paper on his nose. He has three fingers of whiskey in the glass in his other hand. I doubt that’s his first glass, judging by the near half-empty bottle on the counter. I take my drink and walk over to the window. It’s getting dark. I drain my drink and turn to face Leon.

  “Where is she?” I ask quietly, calm considering I’m still a riotous ball of anger and devastation.

  “She’s safe.” He tilts his head this way and that to try and stem the bleeding.

  “That’s not what I asked.” I force the words out through a jaw clenched so tight, I swear I will break a tooth any second.

  “That’s the only answer I can give you.” He shrugs but doesn’t sound remotely apologetic.

  “Only answer you can give me or only answer you want to give me?” I hate that he has this hold over me, that he will always have a connection. On a good day, it’s tolerable; on a bad day, it drives me fucking insane. Today is a very bad day.

  “Both.” He draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. I do the same as I feel my anger rise in parallel to my frustration. “Look man…I honestly don’t know where she is, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.” Blunt and honest I can at least respect that.

  “I didn’t leave her, Leon…I would never leave her. Fuck!” I drag my hand down my face feeling every second of tiredness from the last week of sleepless nights. “Richard’s business partner had recordings. That screen shot was just a snippet of the shit he’s been sending me for the last few months. He was a sneaky fucker though, and at first, I had no idea who was sending me this shit, and they seriously got off on fucking with me. Sending me all over the fucking country on a wild goose chase trying to get my hands on this. If Sam knew… I couldn’t let her see this, Leon, it would destroy her.” Leon looks over, and I catch a glimpse of empathy in his almost black eyes. “Anyway, with the last exchange, my tech guy found an IP address that wasn’t a dead end. He found out who it was. I got vital information on my wedding day—his actual address—and I wasn’t going to let that fucker get away.” The timbre in my voice drops to deadly serious,

  “You could’ve told someone where you were going.” He purses his lips with all the smugness of hindsight.

  “I didn’t think okay. A red mist descended, and I just wanted to finally get that fucker.” The accusatory expression fades for now, and he briefly nods with understanding.

  “You got all the files?” His concern is still in line with mine for the time being.

  “I did…he was at an isolated private address. He didn’t know what hit him. Well, he did, but yeah, I got everything he had. I made sure of it.”

  “Where is he now?” Leon drops his voice to a whisper and leans forward, though his attempt at secrecy is moot.

  “Where is Sam?” I ignore the question he really doesn’t want answered. He pauses for a moment, and when he understands I have finished with that topic, he sits back with a sigh.

  “She called me from Barcelona but I haven’t heard from her for a few days. She can take care of herself, Jason.” His tone is snide, which I also don’t have time for.

  “She’s pregnant and should be my wife by now, so she shouldn’t have to take care of herself.” My retort sounds more like a snarl. “I just got back from Barcelona, and there’s no trace of her. How can you be so calm? What makes you think she is safe after what happened last time?”

  “This is nothing like last time. She left, she wasn’t taken,” he snaps.

  “Fuck!” I walk over to the sofa and sit, slumping back heavily, and stare at the ceiling. I believe he’s telling the truth, which makes this bad situation worse. It means with no phone, none of my gadgets on her person, and no further credit card trail, I’m fucked. I will only find her when she wants to be found. “Tell me what happened.” I let out a resigned breath. I’m getting nothing useful that will help find her, so maybe getting the other side of this tale will shed some light on why she thought she had no choice other than to leave.

  “You saw the letter. You do the math.”

  “The letter?” I’m still very much in the dark.

  “The letter from the clinic… The one that means the baby might be any one of ours…that letter!” I flinch at his judgmental tone. He’s not judging our actions but mine. Or at least what he perceived were my actions at the time. “Sam only opened it that morning and wanted to talk to you before the ceremony. She still had to get her hair and shit done or she would have to start explaining why she wasn’t preparing for her big day. I think she probably felt she was safe to carry on getting ready…She probably thought you two were solid.”

  “Fuck off with the attitude, Leon. We are solid, and you know why I wasn’t there. Why the fuck would she think that letter would make a—”

  “Difference?” he butts in, his demeanour has switched from attitude to venomous. “Was that what you were going to say, because I’m pretty sure it was you who told Sam you would not want a baby if it wasn’t yours.”

  “No, I said it wouldn’t be my first choice at starting a family, but I wouldn’t fucking give up on us on the strength of that. I can’t believe she thought I would.” I drop my head in my hands as all these imperfect pieces fall horrendously into place.

  “When it came to it on the day, you weren’t there, Jason. All evidence was to the contrary.” He states this as a matter of plain, irrefutable fact.

  “Shit.” I shake my head at this almighty fuck-up and look over to him, for the first time this evening there is not anger or hatred in his eyes, there is something else I’m not sure is any better though: pity. “I really don’t care who the father is, I just want her back.”

  “Really?” He scoffs and his voice is thick with judgment.

  “Really. I mean, yes, I want to know if it’s mine but not at the risk of not getting Sam back. If that’s the proof she needs, I won’t ever ask for a test. That’s fucking irrelevant anyway. If I don’t have her, none of this matters. And regardless of which of our swimmers got there first, I’m the motherfucking father, if she’ll let me.”

  The silence stretches, and Leon breaks it by walking to the kitchen and bringing the bottle of whiskey back, refilling his glass and handing me the bottle. Not a good sign.

  “Your brother just stood there, you know. I stepped forward to say something, only Sam gave me the death glare and your brother didn’t say one word.” He slumps back in the armchair.

  “What are you talking about? He bloody did…he told mum everything. I walked into the fucking Sinclair apocalypse.” I press two fingers against the pulsing headache that is shooting from my temple to deep inside my skull.

  “Well, his timing was a little off, because he was a fucking mute when Sam told your mum she cheated on you. Why would he bother to say something, anything at all after…I mean, the damage was done, and he and you got away scot-free. I don’t understand why he would do that.”

  “He loves her.” I say this quie
tly, and Leon huffs out with clear derision. “No, he really loves her. He felt like shit for not stepping up when he had the chance, but he wouldn’t let mum say a bad word against her, so he spilt the truth the moment Sam left. When I returned a few hours later, that war was still raging. I walked back in and didn’t know what the fuck was going on. Will was like a fucking ghost, my mum had been taken to the hospital with a suspected heart attack, and my reason to fucking breathe was gone!” I keep my voice level. Still, I have to swallow the thick lump in my throat when I stop to draw breath.

  “Does Sam know? That he loves her, I mean?”

  I nod. “Yeah, she told me when she got back from Florida. She said she thought we might have to take Will off our plus one list too.” I don’t feel I need to elaborate.

  “Too? You mean as well as me?” he quips, but there’s an undertone of hurt, which is exactly why he is spot on.

  “No offense, man, but love complicates things.” I shrug, and he twists his lip into a half smile of understanding.

  “It sure does. So your brother confessed to loving your ‘wife’ on your ‘wedding’ day. How did that go down exactly?” His air quotes are entirely unnecessary. I’m painfully aware that Sam isn’t my wife because we had no wedding.

  “Not well. Look, it doesn’t matter. I can’t blame him for falling in love with the best woman in the fucking world, and he did come clean eventually. But he’s my brother, so I’m stuck with him. If he ever makes another play for her, though, I will cut his fucking bollocks off.” I take a long slug straight from the bottle. “She shouldn’t have run. We always promised to talk this shit through.”

  “You keep saying she ran like she had a choice,” Leon snaps, his volume much louder than where our conversation had settled. “You weren’t there, and Will left her hanging…literally. Two men who were supposed to love her hurt her more than Richard ever did. I’m not surprised she ran, though I will be fucking astonished if she ever comes back.” His statement is like a blade, his words slicing my chest wide open. My agonized heart pumps and bleeds and will continue to do so until I’m empty or dead. Without her I’m both.

  “I’ve heard they are debauched, but I don’t think anyone’s ever died.” Charlie breezes into the room and goes straight to the fridge, grabbing a cold beer before jumping onto the sofa. She tucks her bare legs up and pulls her oversized sweater over her knees, so just her head is peeking out. Her hair is still damp from the shower and slicked back. Her pale face shimmers with moisture, and her deep blue eyes sparkle with mischief. She looks nothing like the fierce Dominatrix that replaced Sam as number one at the Club. I look between Leon and her for some clarification as to why she’s here. I know he hasn’t had time for a session. I was at the door the moment he got back…at least I thought I was.

  “Sam told Charlie she could stay in her old room while her flat is being refurbished.” Leon answers my unasked question, although that isn’t really what I want clarified.

  “What are debauched?” I ask Charlie.

  “The Gathering…Sorry, I assumed you were talking about the Gathering in Venice?” She sucks on her beer, and I wait for the bottle to pop free.

  “Why would we be?”

  “You said something about not coming back. You meant Sam, right?” She scrunches her face like she suddenly remembers something bad and looks between Leon and me warily.

  “Right…Go on.” I reply. She hesitates for a moment, I narrow my eyes, and she notices my fist clench on the cushion beside her.

  “Hmm…” She ponders a moment more. I think she’s enjoying this. But then I have heard she’s exceptional at torture. “I thought so. After your disappearing act at the altar, I wouldn’t blame her for not coming back. Nevertheless, I’m sure she won’t die.” Her eyes narrow and she throws me a filthy look. I don’t give a shit what look she levels at me if she knows where Sam is.

  “Wait! What makes you think Sam is going to the Gathering?” I fight to retain any semblance of calm; this new information is not quite a ‘gift horse’, still, it’s pretty damn close.

  “She called me and asked for Gabriel’s number. I just assumed—”

  “That just makes you an ass.” Leon is clearly unhappy with Charlie’s disclosure. I get a cautious twist in my gut.

  “Oh you are going to pay for that later, my love.” Her voice drops, and I notice Leon catch his breath. So not the time for this.

  “Charlie!” I snap, and she scowls some more. I can see the indecision flit across her face, what she knows against what she’s prepared to tell me. I’m pretty confident if she didn’t hold the esteemed position of Prima Domme at my club, it would be fuck all. But I have leverage, and she can see in my own determined expression, I’m not above using it.

  “I gave her Gabriel’s number a week ago. I don’t know if she called him, but I do know that, if she did, he would do everything in his power to get her there. He’s been trying for years. I’m also pretty sure that what Gabriel wants…Gabriel gets.” She leaves that hanging in the air like a pungent door. My chest constricts painfully for Sam. Gabriel Wexler isn’t a bad man. In fact, he’s a very good man. Shit.

  I could get used to this, solitude and five…ten…no, more like 100-star service from the crew. Apart from one night of storms when my morning sickness was eclipsed by violent seasickness, the voyage from Barcelona across the Mediterranean Sea was wonderful. Waking every morning to endless blue skies and crystal clear azure waters, eating the most exquisite food prepared by Gabe’s favourite chef and a daily massage. Oh yes, part of Gabriel’s skeleton crew on this luxury yacht is a personal masseuse. If my heart wasn’t broken into a million pieces, I would definitely be in heaven.

  After a week cruising around the coast of Italy we are tugged in through the narrow channel of the Venice lagoon to dock just west of the main square, Piazza San Marco. I forgo the evening meal and decide to have a wander. It’s been a while since I visited this very special city, and it’ll be nice to walk on solid ground for a change. Ironic, considering Venice is hundreds of small islands, which make it seem like the stunning, crumbling buildings of the Renaissance rise directly from the sea bed and most of the roads are waterways.

  Gabriel has a gorgeous Aquariva speedboat, which transports me not only from the main yacht to the shore but back in time to a decade of classic sophistication and elegance more befitting the continental 1950’s and film stars of the silver screen. I feel I should be wearing a head scarf and dark glasses as I sit back in the semicircular, soft leather seating, surrounded by exquisite inlays of highly polished maple wood and chrome. Dressed in his crisp white uniform, Oliver, the first hand, navigates the busy waterway, cruising up the Canal Grande and depositing me safety and in style at Piazza San Marco.

  “Call the Ambrosia bridge when you need picking up, madam.” Oliver offers his hand as I step from the boat to the jetty, an easy task given my choice of flat footwear though I still appreciate the assistance.

  “I don’t have a phone,” I reply with a wide smile. And I haven’t missed that one bit.

  “Oh really? Um, right, madam. In that case…” He frowns and I speak before he can think of a solution.

  “Don’t worry, I will get a taxi back to the boat.” I turn to walk away.

  “No, madam, I will return in an hour or so and just wait here.” He flashes a worried smile, and I look at the queue of boats waiting to take his spot. I doubt that’s really an option.

  “It’s no bother, Oliver. I will be fine.” I offer and wave my hand in a limp wristed brush off.

  “Please, madam, I must insist.” His manner is pleading, so his words don’t irritate me like they would otherwise.

  “Fine, but give me at least two hours. I might want to eat, and I will definitely want to drink.” Even if I won’t, my desire for the numbing capabilities of alcohol, is battling with a daily dose of my very pregnant reality.

  “Very good, madam.” He steps back onto the Riva and starts to untie the ropes. “Hope yo
u have a good evening.”

  “I will do my best.” That is more than I can hope for. I wave him off. He doesn’t return my gesture, he only gives a slight smile and a professional, curt nod.

  There are hundreds of canals in Venice but there are also hundreds of streets, narrow and interconnected by many bridges. I wander with the crowds. The labyrinth of paved streets is spread out in a sort of grid pattern, and every so often, the narrow path I walk opens onto a square with some stunning basilica, palace, or grand hotel. Historical buildings cling to the majesty of the era in which they were built, many are worn and weathered in the fading light of the day. They are utterly charming, and on any other occasion, I’d have been completely awestruck. This evening, on the other hand, I’m in a daze, numb and barely aware of which direction I’m heading. I hope it’s a circle.

  I’m only vaguely glancing in the shop windows of the expensive boutiques I pass. I look at the stylish shoes that would normally have me drooling, with their sky high heels, encrusted with gems and shining in the spotlights, but tonight they leave me cold. I find myself staring at a display of masks. Most tourist shops hold a selection, but there are several specialist shops that actually deserve more than a cursory glance, and this is one of them.

  The whole window is crammed with all different types of masks and historical costumes. Grotesque distortions of the faces draw me in, repulsed and fascinated. I guess that is the point. Some have pointed, oversized hooked noses, a mix of ugly and vulgar, and then there are those with devil horns and evil grins, hand-painted in burnt reds and black which look overtly sinister and wicked.

  There is nothing sinister yet everything wicked about the feature mask displayed in the centre of the window. Absolutely beautiful, dark red, with ruby-encrusted filigree extensions and an elaborate red and black feather headpiece that is easily two feet high. The mannequin has a cloak that hangs from a structured shoulder piece and collar, embellished with hundreds of jewels and gold embroidery, exquisitely intricate. The cloak matches the mask in colour and hangs too long to see the end in the display, it’s a thick looking, rich velvet. I’m not sure if the collar and cloak are one piece. It is absolutely gorgeous. I find myself absently stroking my own bare neck. Never wanted a collar, but damn, I miss it now that it’s gone.