by Jaye Peaches
“What?” exclaimed Emily with surprise. “No. I mean…. Let me explain from the beginning.”
Half an hour later, Gemma entered the White House alone. Behind her, Gibson reversed the car out of the drive, taking Emily with her into the darkness. Temporary accommodation had been found for Emily, and there she would start a new life. Emily’s revelations addled Gemma’s mind. A medley of confused emotions swirled about as she tried to comprehend how such a complex relationship had grown from innocuous beginnings. Amongst the blackmail, a murky bizarre life had been lived by Emily and Delia Rothesay. Gemma found it difficult to judge Emily. Rothesay. Yes, she was an easy target to hate and despise, but Emily confused Gemma’s sense of justice.
Jason texted not long after she entered the house, announcing his imminent return. With Clara sent home, she waited on the bottom step of the stairs for him with a mug of coffee in her hands. When the door opened, she leapt up to greet him, almost spilling the liquid.
In his arms was a shoebox.
“The photos?” she asked.
“Yes.” He placed the box on the small table in the hallway then faced her. She explored his face and spied his tired eyes and shoulders, not as square as usual. She reached up to kiss his cheek.
“I burnt yours and most of the others in the kitchen sink. There were many of Emily. Some self-portraits, and other people, too.” Jason didn’t embellish the facts.
She showed her impatience. “She told me in the car—”
His finger stopped her mouth, his features hardening. “Another time. Things can wait. Let’s to bed.”
Gemma wanted to know more. What Rothesay had said. What they had found in the house. Jason had warned; she mustn’t push him. She curled up in the bed while he deposited the shoebox in his office. As he slipped into bed, the envelope under his pillow peeped out. Her essay. She had completely forgotten all about her daytime labours.
“Oh. You don’t have to read it now,” she spluttered. She went to retrieve it, but he gently slapped her hand away.
“I asked you to do it today, so I should read it, shouldn’t I?” he rebuked.
Propped up on pillows he read, and she snuggled into his side. Occasionally he smiled and, at one point, he murmured with raised eyebrows. “Hint?”
Putting the sheets on the bedside table, he flipped onto his side to face her.
“Babe, reading that is perfect medicine after this shitty evening. Reading these words reminds me what makes you and I work well together.”
His body enveloped hers. The lights went out, and they entwined themselves about each other in the darkness.
“Delia isn’t a Dominant, Jason. A total fake. She liked the thrill of being in control without the responsibilities. She used Emily, took advantage of her. Delia is an arrogant fraud. I don’t mean an arrogance born out of confidence, but one based on her ego and pride. You’re nothing like her.”
“How do you know? You haven’t even spoken to her, Gem.”
“Emily’s account, you’ll see, and the blackmail notes are pompous and over confident. Delia doesn’t care about Emily, and yet Emily fails to see it. She told me she loves Delia. How can somebody be in love with a person who doesn’t reciprocate?”
She shut her eyes, trying to stem the tears welling up. Jason kissed the back of her neck.
“No more, Gemma. Sleep. You’re safe with me. I love you. You are my beautiful wife.”
Chapter 28. Moving On
The idea of telling Jason verbatim what she’d teased out of Emily during the car journey home didn’t appeal to Gemma. She scribbled the significant parts down and left the narrative on his desk for him to read. For a brief moment, she was tempted to open the shoebox and look at the pictures inside. However, she couldn’t face them. Emily hadn’t asked who Jason was, or what he did for a living. Perhaps Emily thought she’d married a gangster or some other insalubrious kind of man. After all, Jason had demolished Delia Rothesay in a relatively short timeframe.
Gemma imagined Emily trying to work out how she had managed to stay with the Rothesay for so long, as if the crimes Emily had been involved in had only just sunk into her brain. Emily’s mental anguish was one for a trained counsellor. Gemma had her own traumas to haunt her, and she wasn’t taking on another’s as well.
Johnson drove her to the beauty salon for her regular massage, wax, and manicure.
She could hear him humming. She suspected the previous evening’s events had buoyed his spirits in some fashion. Would he be talkative, too?
“You’re chirpy this morning,” she noted, smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt and adjusting the seat belt.
His eyes appeared in the rearview mirror. He cleared his throat. “To be honest, Mrs Lucas, you know driving is not what I signed up to spend my career doing. Last night was a chance to do something…um…exciting. Not pleasant to witness, but I’ve come away feeling we made a difference.”
She sat up straighter. Yes, talkative. Go on, Dave, spill the beans. “What happened after I left with Emily?”
Johnson went quiet, focussing on the heavy traffic. About them, cyclists weaved and pedestrians scurried. Behind the privacy glass, Gemma sat invisible.
She would have to fib to get him to open up. “He hasn’t told me anything yet. We were tired last night, and he left early for work. He will tell me. So, this conversation doesn’t break any secrets.” She keenly sought another’s perspective on Jason’s handling of Rothesay. A part of her wondered if he had been honest with her about his temper and managing his self-control. He’d looked particularly vicious when she left Rothesay’s house.
For a few seconds, Johnson drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “All right. You left and things needed to be hurried up. We found plenty of evidence. She’d deleted e-mails from her account, but foolishly left draft copies of her blackmail template plus scans of some of the photos. She wasn’t that bright—at least, she would never make a criminal mastermind.” Johnson chuckled.
Gemma shuffled forward in her seat. Her hand pressed against the back of the driver’s seat. She couldn’t see his face.
“Then we put her in the cellar. Left her gagged and handcuffed with the door locked. Your husband slammed the front door shut, and we stood there, deadly silent, and waited. It didn’t take long for her to freak out. Seriously, she kicked the door and threw herself against it. She gave us the location the moment we opened the door and took the gag off. They were under a floorboard in her bedroom, along with the cash. Your husband burnt most of the photos. He reimbursed himself with the money and said the rest would go to a charity of his choosing.”
She’d forgotten about the money. Jason hadn’t. “I’m glad the money came back. Didn’t seem right to leave it with her. How did my husband convince Rothesay to keep her mouth shut?” She caught a glimpse of his pensive face in the rearview mirror. Another pause while he thought about answering.
“Please, Dave.” She resorted to utilising his first name.
The car picked up speed. Johnson sighed. “At first, Rothesay tried to, you know, get back in control. Rather futile effort because, as soon as your husband mentioned custody of her daughter, she went white as a sheet. Then, Mr Lucas tore a few strips off her. Several strips. About using Emily, making her an accomplice in her blackmailing. Basically, your husband sat in a chair and reduced her practically to tears with threats about, well, nasty stuff. Quite a performance. He totally and utterly annihilated her, Mrs Lucas. I don’t want to give details. It wasn’t pleasant to witness, though the bitch deserved every moment of it.”
Gemma’s heart thumped in her chest. “Did my husband touch Rothesay?”
“Touch Rothesay?” Johnson shook his head. “You mean hit, don’t you, ma’am? No, other than to undo the handcuffs, your husband didn’t lay finger on her.”
She blew out a lungful of held breath and settled back in her seat. “Good. What happened to all the evidence, on her computer?”
“We took anything that might s
tore digital data—mobile, CDs. Everything. It will be checked, wiped of anything inflammatory, and given back to her. We’re not nicking her things. Your husband took some prints. I suspect he’ll keep them as evidence in case she does try to blackmail or threaten again. I don’t think she will. Something of a coward when it came to the crunch. Blackmailers often are wimps. The amateur ones, that is. Pros, the criminally minded, they are harder to break.”
She stared out the window at the passing vehicles and their passengers, all going about their daily life. “I hope I never have to deal with one, Johnson.”
The car pulled up outside the salon and he held the door open for her.
Swinging her legs out, she smiled up at him. “Thank you. I know it made your job a little less tedious, but, from my point of view, I’d rather not have a repeat.”
Later in the day, after she’d spoken to Johnson, Gemma almost tore the account up, fearful of Jason’s response to Rothesay’s engineering of Emily into an accomplice.
She doubted she would ever find out more about Emily. Her future lay in the hands of other people—those Jason would appoint to take care of her and see her put back on the right path.
***
Emily is a freelance photographer. She often works as a photographer’s assistant when needed, a kind of locum. She does weddings, bar mitzvahs, birthday parties, and other special occasions. Rothesay didn’t like her ad hoc work, but she needed Emily’s rent and income for mortgage repayments, contributions to school fees and debts. Emily didn’t complain about Delia’s extravagance.
In her spare time, Emily does freelance photography. She hadn’t done anything kinky or sexual in content in over six years, until she met Delia Rothesay. When mobile phones came with cameras, people weren’t interested in her snapshots any longer. She likes to photograph people in their day-to-day activities. Observation studies. Newspapers and magazines have bought a few of her pictures. She is proud of her skills behind the lens.
She met Delia through a newspaper advertisement for a lodger. Delia seemed nice, friendly, and made Emily welcome. They went to pop concerts, the local pubs, and Emily believed she had made a good friend. The money from her tenancy was important, but not enough for Delia. She didn’t declare Emily’s rent as income and saved money on her taxes. Emily is a lesbian, Delia is not. Emily simply fell in love, and Delia never acknowledged it and kept the relationship platonic. She did take advantage, though, of Emily’s besotted obsession.
Emily’s role morphed into a housekeeper. Doing the laundry, cooking, and cleaning. Delia gave her space to work and store her photographic collection and equipment. In amongst this, when Emily was out, Delia found her photographs, the old prints she took at the fetish clubs and parties.
The custody of Delia’s daughter is tenuous. Her ex-husband doesn’t want her anywhere near their daughter—probably suspects she has “loose morals” and frequent affairs. He caught her in bed with another man, which was why they divorced. Any excuse, and they will be back in the courts. Delia’s worries about being exposed had made her realise the power of blackmail. Seeing the photos gave her the idea. Emily hadn’t intended them for viewing by anyone. She considers them artworks, photographic artistry, and for her eyes only. She hadn’t disposed of them, and that has made her feel guilty and angry with herself, especially when Delia used them against her. Emily’s photos included her own, the self-portraits in fetish clothes or erotic poses.
Delia’s first blackmail victim was Emily. At the time, she worked for a reputable photographer, and Delia threatened to expose her, to ruin her credibility and say that she took pornographic photographs for publishing on websites. Total lies, but that was what she would tell Emily’s employer, her parents, and her sister, who is happily married with children.
From then on, Emily was embroiled. She didn’t see threats, she saw a woman who was going to protect her from being exposed. As I listened to her story in the car, I could see she had twisted it all around in her head. To see Delia as manipulative and exploitative was beyond her romantically deprived mind. Emily was told to go through her kinky-photo collection and identify anyone she knew was still about, either online or could be contacted in person. Her friendly nature meant she had stayed in contact with many and, at Delia’s insistence, she contacted the ones considered to be easy targets.
She identified a few people, and the blackmailing took shape. Emily knows it is wrong, but she feared being exposed herself and somehow going along with Delia was easier than leaving. The victims paid up until Delia would grow bored of them and move to her next victim.
The list dried up. Emily couldn’t identify many and others had moved on, like me, to new lives. The longer Emily stayed with Delia, the harder it became for her to function on her own and to think for herself. Blinkered by Delia’s charming words about how she would help set up a proper studio, they built the studio in the cellar, where Emily developed her old films and negatives.
Things seemed to be better. Then she spotted me.
Delia did need the money. Mr Rothesay nagged her, bullied her (which she hated), and made her pay more and more towards costs of childcare. She had debts: too many expensive clothes, an enormous car loan, and other credit cards. But Delia also missed manipulating others, humiliating them.
Emily spotted me at the dance academy. Purely a chance encounter. She waved to me, trying to catch my attention. I didn’t see her, but Delia did, and demanded Emily tell her who I was and how she knew me. My photos were some of the earliest Emily ever took. She was made to dig them out. She remembered my name but nothing else. (Emily couldn’t stop apologising that she kept them.). Delia scanned the originals.
Delia grew overconfident and took risks with my blackmail. She gambled on not knowing all the facts. The Facebook scam in particular.
Emily didn’t go with Gibson because she was convinced Delia would change, stop again, and make good on her promises to set up that proper studio. A pipe dream. Delia strung Emily out too far. I think seeing us there, in the house, and knowing what they had done was illegal, ended the illusion. Like an addiction, Emily’s obsession with a fruitless love for Delia had been broken. She told me all this in the car and then wept bitter tears of regret and self-hatred. Please don’t blame her. She is quite pathetic and broken under her outer shell. So much potential wasted by another’s indifference and manipulation.
Rothesay didn’t always bluff with her victims. One girl she blackmailed had pushed back, annoying her. Foolishly, the victim used her work e-mail, so she turned up at her workplace one day with copies of photos to leave about her place. The unfortunate victim quickly backed down and paid up.
***
Gemma left the account of her husband’s desk. After they had eaten, he read it while Gemma dealt with domestic issues in the background. As she brushed past the kitchen table, he encased her hand in his and he led her out of the room, into the drawing room.
“I’m sorry,” he said abruptly.
His statement surprised her. “Why?”
“I hadn’t taken into account how upsetting Emily’s story might have been for you. I should have been there when she told you.” He drew her onto his lap, allowing her head to rest on his shoulder.
She loved his spontaneous cuddles. “I was fine. Well, no, I was angry. With Rothesay for corrupting Emily, and Emily for doing what I ironically despise in women: being a doormat and letting go of common sense. Then, I remembered me, how I lost my way and let things go wrong.”
Writing the account down hadn’t been easy, as her mind had constantly drifted back to darker times.
“I should have guessed you would go too far with your thoughts.” He kissed the top of her head.
Gemma traced a finger down the line of shift buttons. “Not just that. I was worried that you would go charging back to the house and beat the horrible woman up. I almost tore it up.”
“Tempting. I had my fun with her last night. She crumbled. Pathetic to watch. No backbone, and, Gemm
a, remember she bears no relation to what we do. You didn’t tear it up, though.”
“A passing impulse, but, no, I didn’t. I trust you. You have better self-control than me.” She snuck a glance at his face.
“I do.”
His blue eyes targeted her libido with absolute accuracy. In rapid succession, his handsome features activated all of her sensual switches. Gemma wanted him, her Master. She suffered from an addiction. In a matter of seconds, he’d provoked a confusing soup of emotions. The man was a paradox.
“At this moment, I think my self-control is about to walk away, and you will have to deal with the consequences,” he warned with a smile.
“I can deal with your loss of control, Sir. I won’t mind in the slightest if you take me now.” She fiddled with the shirt buttons.
“Are you asking me?” His voice husky.
She undid a button. “Just cooling you down, Sir. You feel a tad hot to me. Hard, too. I might have to wriggle my bum a little.” She rocked her hips, grinding into his erection.
“Indeed.” He pursed his lips.
“I’m responding to the change in circumstances, Sir.”
“What change in circumstances?” Another twitch beneath her bottom.
“That you want me, Sir. That something outside of me, namely your cock, should be inside me.” Gemma undid another button.
“Should. Are you telling me, subbie?”
“I don’t remember a rule saying I couldn’t ask. I suppose it’s implied, secretly embedded somewhere. Rules, shmules,” she said with little thought.
His shoulders stiffened, and the voice changed, morphed into a different one. Not sultry or seductive, but stern. “I sense a case of topping here, subbie. Are you correcting my rules? If you need it to be explicit, I shall make it. No unsolicited requests for any kind of sexual pleasure will be permitted. How about that?”
She removed her hands from his shirt buttons.
He continued. “These rules are a year old. I think they should be revisited, don’t you? According to your essay, you’re quite happy for me to add new ones.”