The Fix (Nightlong Series Book 2)

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  I’d escaped.

  I was free.

  I was no longer a prisoner.

  No longer his.

  I was myself, again.

  My own person.

  But…

  I no longer had him.

  A sharp pain scissored through my gut, travelling up into my chest, and for a moment I almost believed I was dying of a breaking heart. I took some deep breaths, then rushed to the liquor tray for a dram of brandy, looking out over the spires and turrets and hilly landscape outside. The city I found myself hiding in called for me to explore it but I didn’t dare go out – didn’t dare show my face.

  Would he have spies, even here?

  Would he find me via some sort of homing beacon?

  I knew nothing for certain except each new day I woke alone, I grew a little more confident of having escaped scot-free.

  The pain increased daily, but my freedom stretched on.

  Still breathless, I pressed myself back into the cool cotton of the bed and lay sprawled, trying to forget the feelings of happiness I’d enjoyed in the dream. An impossible dream.

  Two weeks ago when I left London, I’d been a mess as I made the choice to finally leave him. Crying like a madwoman as I drove the Porsche away, I’d almost turned back many times. The pain of leaving him was bad enough, but the thought of his pain as he realised I’d left him almost slew me. I couldn’t hurt him… but then I did… I left.

  His revelation that he wasn’t kinky was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I realised if he could lie about that, what else might he lie about? I’d been in a state of confusion ever since he confessed about his time with Shay – and about why he needed to be spanked – for numbness. For therapy? Had my purpose as his dominatrix been to keep him focused, keep him up and running? It all just made me feel like I came second to Dante’s needs and because we’d started out as employee and employer, I felt like that dynamic was never going to change. The ball of confusion inside my head made me realise whatever was going on, I had to get away for some time to think.

  So I’d begun to climb up the M1 when I realised a Range Rover was following me. I tried a few things, like breaking the speed limit or slowing to fifty-five in the slow lane, and the vehicle still followed.

  I was being followed.

  I stopped at a services and the car pulled in after me there, too – although he or she kept a safe distance, parking some way over the other side of the car park.

  Sat in the driving seat, I had a few choices.

  Confront the driver?

  Try to outrun the driver?

  Try to outwit the driver?

  I chose the latter.

  On the backseat I pinned up a couple of towels to cover the windows. Parked in a fairly unpopulated part of the car park, I guessed people weren’t unused to seeing women change in their cars at motorway services. It was probably more done than I realised.

  I pulled on some darker clothes and pinned my hair back, using the hood on my sweatshirt to cover my head. Taking only what I really needed in a holdall, I slid out of the car and kept below the heights of parked cars nearby, keeping low so the driver of the Range Rover wouldn’t see me leave behind the Porsche.

  I knew it wasn’t Dante following me because he’d told me he had a lead to follow on catching whoever killed his staff.

  So it had to be someone bad following me.

  Or the law.

  Deep in my gut, I knew that staying with Dante meant staying in trouble.

  Because he was trouble.

  I snaked my way around to where the lorries were all parked up and looked over my shoulder – seeing nobody following me on foot. Weaving in and out of the lorries, I spotted one with a Scotland badge on it.

  Knocking on the door, a large female opened up.

  Thank god.

  “I need a lift. Don’t think you could help me, do you?”

  “Am goin’ all th’wy te Glasgee,” she said, smiling, “way out of your way am betting! Ann anyway, not supposed to take passengers.”

  “Please, I’m trying to escape a dangerous ex boyfriend. He’s in the car park now, waiting in a black Range Rover. He followed me up the feckin’ M1.”

  Shaking her head slightly, her cheeks bruised an even deeper red before she shrugged. “Ack, hop in then lass!”

  “Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

  I didn’t understand much of her chatter as we got on the way but as we travelled, the black Range Rover was nowhere to be seen and every black Range Rover that did come into sight sped past us after just a few moments of me eyeing them in the wing mirror.

  I was free.

  Moreover, my lorry driver found herself £200 better off when she dropped me near Glasgow city centre, where I promptly caught a train to somewhere else, changing my outfit onboard the train.

  A couple of days later I loaded a payphone card and went to a phone in a public place, my hood up again.

  “Hello?” a voice answered, croaky.

  “Bethan, it’s me.”

  “Lord, Jaysus, Mary, Mother o’Gawd…” It went on.

  “Sorry.”

  “Where are you?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “For so long, we’ve all thought you were dead.”

  She said dead like dayed. Her accent was much stronger than mine, making me feel so disparate to my sister.

  “I’m alive. I’m fine. But there’s something–”

  “Yeah, there’s something gone on here, too.”

  “Okay, you first.”

  “No, you go first.”

  “God, Bethan. Okay. A man might come looking for me. A man I was involved with. I told him I was coming back home, but I’m not. So… yeah, I’m calling to warn you. Now, you.”

  “Ma’s dead.” Again, dayed.

  “What?”

  “Couple years back. The bus to Dublin skidded off the road in terrible conditions. She and a couple of others got squashed to death.”

  “Fucking hell.”

  “Good riddance if you ask me.”

  “Oh.”

  “Soon as I grew up, I knew kiddo. I knew.”

  “Bethan, listen–”

  “When the man comes, I’ll deny you’re even me sister if you want me to.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, when can we see ya?”

  “Don’t know. Kinda got myself involved in something.”

  “So he’s a bad man?”

  “No, he’s not actually.”

  “Right.”

  The phone started telling me my card was low on credit. “I gotta go. I’m glad you’re well Bethan. I’ll try to call again.”

  “You should visit, Ciara. Dad was forced to stop work, he’s too old now. We turned this place into holiday rentals which are keeping us going, but… times are hard. I keep hoping I can get on top of the bills, but… anyway, I just started seeing a lad called Kellan, he’s amazing. Maybe my fortunes are turning. It feels like he could be the one.”

  The one? How did she know? She was only seventeen and a half by my reckoning.

  “I’m glad, but you know–”

  The call was cut short and with a heavy heart, I put the phone back in its cradle, trudging back to my hideout.

  Twenty-Four

  Dante

  AFTER TOUCHING DOWN AT CORK Airport, I hired a car using one of my fake IDs. No longer caring whether I anguished the authorities or not, it was also a long shot that anyone in Ireland would recognise me – the notoriously banned millionaire who got caught speeding down the M1 several years before – clocked at 153mph. The judge had wanted to make an example of me and said I was banned for ten years. Hence why I employed Sexton as my chauffeur – hence why he’d stayed with me for so long. I employed him a couple of years after Daltrey died and he’d been there for me when nobody else was. My mother wasn’t a very good listener and was always too busy to realise I needed help. Losing Sexton was a sore loss for me because unlike my father, he’d neve
r treated me badly. Even when he knew I was in the shit, he’d just shrug and say, “We’ll figure it out somehow,” and we always had. Until now.

  As I tried to appreciate the unspoilt landscape outside the car window, I struggled with my feelings. My heart and mind warred. Was it better to let Ciara get on with her life? Maybe. At the very least, I wanted to make sure she was okay.

  Instead of worrying, I thought about facts I’d learnt on the plane ride over. Ciara was from a place called Youghal, pronounced Yaal. I remembered a conversation from years back, a rare moment in fact, when she mentioned her parents and said they had lived there their whole lives – and she couldn’t imagine them leaving. Parts of the film, Moby Dick were apparently filmed there… something about a lighthouse… I wasn’t sure.

  As I drove the fairly straight road from the airport to the seaside town of Youghal, it occurred to me that Ciara must have really wanted to leave her homeland behind when she swapped this beautiful place for London at just the tender age of eighteen. With the car window slightly ajar, the smell of fresh, clean air slightly tinged with salt awakened my senses in a way London’s polluted atmosphere never could. There was only one way to describe this place – pretty. It was green and scattered and delicate and subdued. It was peaceful and I decided Ciara left this country because she didn’t really feel like she belonged here. To leave everything she’d ever known behind at the tender age of eighteen – either she was braver than all the other boys and girls, or she really didn’t feel like her life was here and the alternative – living poor in London – had still seemed better.

  AFTER parking up in the town, I wandered around on foot, taking in the place. Looking down over the arcing beaches packed with people on a warm summer’s day, I felt sure I would blend in here – that I wouldn’t grab attention at such a busy time of year. All I wanted to do was get in – and get out – preferably with Ciara in my arms.

  As I stood by a small line of seafront shops, I looked behind me, up the hill. There, against the glittering midday sun, shone the outline of a former stables turned B&B. Ciara’s familial home. According to reports her mother had died a few years back in a car crash. I dwelled guiltily on that – knowing that if I hadn’t been so territorial about Ciara, maybe she might have kept in touch with her family and then been able to attend the funeral.

  Watching as boatloads of people left harbour for dolphin and whale watching expeditions, I wondered, who am I kidding? She left Youghal because she was deeply unhappy – and then I’d made her even more unhappy, hadn’t I?

  She’d turned her back on the ancient ruins of Youghal and the crumbling town wall – in exchange for the ancient, crumbling millionaire Dante Sinclair, more creaky than any artefact round here. I felt a million years old – and I knew that one day, when death came, I’d welcome it. Finally, a chance to slumber. A chance to dream. All my mind conjured – even when asleep – was pictures of death and my brother, shouting for justice, pleading even. He wanted me to hear him, all the time, and as his cries got louder my anxiety got sharper and I shut him off. I’d almost forgotten him, but the damage inside me was too great. Too black a spot – constantly spreading.

  Passing pastel-painted houses as I made my way upland on foot, I carried a small rucksack over my shoulder, just in case this did turn into a long stay. I hoped it wouldn’t – but I wasn’t sure.

  Arriving at my destination, I found myself at the threshold of a sort of cobbled courtyard – no doubt a leftover of the former stables. Google maps had told me that beyond the main house and stables, there were a fair few acres of land that were no longer used for training and riding horses. Maybe Ciara’s father could sell the land – or maybe land wasn’t a big deal here. It didn’t seem to be. There seemed to be plenty of space for all.

  I peeked around the archway entrance of the courtyard and almost dropped my bag when I spotted a dark-haired girl, the same size and shape as Ciara, with her arms around a strapping twenty year old boy. When she pulled away from him, laughing, that’s when I knew it wasn’t Ciara – but her sister.

  It was now or never.

  I entered the courtyard and she noticed me pretty much the moment I stepped foot on her property. Walking towards me to meet me halfway, she smiled. “What can we do for you, then?” Looking me up and down, she folded her arms, swaggering almost. She looked like Ciara but definitely wasn’t Ciara. This creature was so much different. Haughtier perhaps.

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  Suddenly her eyebrow arced, maybe at hearing my accent, maybe at my words.

  “Who would that be, then?”

  “Your sister, Ciara. Is she here?”

  She smiled, a savage, wicked smile. She’d known I was coming.

  She was going to pretend she knew nothing.

  “Haven’t seen her in years, swear t’gawd. Years.”

  She didn’t seem to be lying.

  “Has she been in touch? Does she know her mother’s dead?”

  Her young face wrinkled slightly. “Like I said, haven’t seen or heard from her in years. If she came home, my da would probably have another stroke. He’s going that way, you know?”

  “So you run this place?”

  “With a little help from some friends.” She winked, gesturing at the lumbering young man she no doubt had doing all the heavy lifting.

  “So you don’t know where she is?”

  “She could be anywhere. Ciara wasn’t meant for this place. Too clever. Really could be anywhere.”

  “Okay, thanks…?”

  “Bethan,” she replied.

  “Bethan. Can I give you my number to call in case she does show?”

  “Not really,” she said, and promptly turned on her heel, going back to her boyfriend’s side.

  They exchanged words and the boyfriend gave me a suspicious glare over Bethan’s shoulder.

  “Have you at least got a room?” I shouted over.

  “We’re all booked up!” she yelled back, even though all her chalets looked empty to me.

  I turned on my heel, knowing I wasn’t wanted.

  I went to a guesthouse next door and virtually got handed a key without so much as putting my name in the guest book. I could have been anybody, or an axe murderer, for all they knew. What trusting sorts of people they were.

  In the pleasant if quaint room, I pulled out my phone and tried to dial Ciara’s number again. Once more, I found her number was out of service… which meant she’d likely rang the service provider to cancel it. I bought her that phone. I gave her it. I sorted out the contract. So she’d purposefully rang up to cancel her contract… or perhaps she’d had them change her number?

  Either way, I got the message. She’d cut herself off from me on purpose.

  Tempted to throw my own phone at the wall, the crippling realisation sank in.

  She’d finally escaped.

  ***

  I didn’t sleep all night, thinking through different scenarios of where she might have gone. Was she okay? Would she call her sister, Bethan? I lay on the bed, fully clothed, curtains open – watching all the stars and the ocean down below. I still didn’t quite understand why Ciara left such a beautiful place like Youghal. It didn’t make sense.

  Ciara’s father and sister were situated in just the building next door! Perhaps I could have scared them into giving me answers, but I already knew what was going on here.

  She’d finally run and Bethan had been right when she said Ciara could be anywhere.

  She could have gotten anywhere by now.

  At sunrise, I called the only person who could potentially help.

  “Sinclair?” he answered, in a tired voice.

  “She’s not here.”

  “What?” he sort of moaned.

  “Phone’s off, too. She’s gone. I didn’t think she would do this. But she’s gone.”

  I heard him roll out of bed, the floorboards creaking under his feet as he moved. Then he held the phone to his ear as he pissed in the
loo.

  After he flushed, he sounded more awake. “How much money does she have?”

  “Maybe a few grand. Not a lot. Not really enough to hide, if that’s what she’s trying to do.”

  “What could she sell?”

  “Some jewellery I suppose.” I’d already thought through these same things. “I could put out a hit list with some of the bigger pawnbrokers, but she really could be anywhere. I asked the sister where she was and it was like she’d been told by Ciara not to say a word.”

  “So, she did contact the sister?”

  “I think so. It seemed so… as though she’d been pre-warned.”

  “It’s probable she could contact her again. Ciara’s probably worried you’re going to show up there and cause trouble, start throwing your weight around. She might call again.”

  “A phone tap and a tracer.”

  “Might be your only bet.”

  “Sorry for waking you.”

  “Not like I’ve got anything else going on in my life right now. Pernox is closed and my wife called me yesterday to say she wants a divorce. I’m back in the bachelor pad. Thankfully there are no tenants right now.”

  “Oh. What happened?”

  He sighed unhappily. “She said we could continue to live a lie or we could admit we’d both got what we wanted out of the arrangement and move on.”

  I supposed he got his inheritance and she got a couple of kids. Seemed reasonable they’d both squeezed the marriage for all it was worth.

  “I argued my case for sticking around to be there for the kids but then she finally admitted she met someone else. She wanted to let me down gently but I should’ve seen it coming.”

  “Fuck, that’s sad. I’m sorry.” Even if he didn’t love his wife, he must have still felt like he was losing his family.

  “I don’t blame her. There’s love and respect there but any passion we engineered in the early days quickly fizzled out. I would be just fighting the divorce for the sake of the kids, you know?”

  “I’m sorry, mate.”

  “So am I, so am I.”