by J. D. Chase
Why is it when I walk out the back door and get into my car, that I feel cheap?
Is it because I took the easy option instead of focusing on the long game? I start the car and gun the accelerator, wheels spinning as I shoot down the narrow alleyway.
No, it’s because I wasted twenty quid when I could have done a better job with my hand. I pull out onto the main road thinking that it’s true what they say, you get what you pay for. I put my foot down and crank up Green Day then I laugh . . . if that really was true, that little whore should have paid me.
I WAKE TO THE sound of my mother abusing the carpet with the vacuum cleaner. The landing, right outside my door, must be a complete dust trap because she’s been going at it for the last ten minutes. At least.
It’s my last day off before I have to start work tomorrow. Back to my job. No, scratch that. I start my new, demoted job. That reminds me, I need to call Belinda and find out what’s going on so I can walk in tomorrow with confidence. I’m not looking forward to facing Xander—I’ve not seen him since he found out that the inspection fuck up was down to me. But, unless Isla wants me to tell him about our little secret, she’d better keep him in line; she’s the only one he seems to listen to.
There’s one more problem too. Working from four o’clock until midnight, seven days a week, is going to make it more difficult to meet with La Veuve Noire . . . and I’ll have less time to spend at Vouloir. Yeah, it’s fewer hours than I used to do but I used to get paid well. I’ll be paid a pittance now. How the hell is that going to help me get out of here before my mother drives me completely insane?
At least the club will still be open when I finish work and, if I can get out of here, I’ll be able to take girls back to my flat. Yeah, it’s not all bad. Late nights will be easy with a later start. If I get laid plenty, I won’t even need time to fit in my daily run.
I stretch, feeling my morning wood shift slightly as I move. My hand reaches down and begins to stroke—completely on auto-pilot until I remember that I’m still banned from masturbating. Last night, all my therapist did was ignore me for ages, talk to me about my training . . . conditioning or something and then, she allowed me to make her come. Twice. I think it’s a reward, just as ignoring me was a punishment.
She makes me feel like a naughty puppy having obedience training. She bollocks me then ignores me—she may as well send me to my bed. But then, when I’m doing the right things (like making her come by sucking her clit as my fingers stroke her g-spot) she lavishes such praise on me that I feel like rolling over onto my back so she can rub my belly. Well, my bell end really . . . praise from her makes me hard. Yeah, it’s odd but it’s true. If I have my face pressed in her pussy, naturally my cock wants in on the action and stands to attention. But when she grabs me by the hair and pulls me in so that I can’t breathe, my cock feels like it’s going to burst. When she orders me around, barking instructions and then vocalising her enjoyment when I follow them, my cock feels like a weightlifter’s arm.
I’m still not sure about the D/s thing. I know my body responds to it. Sure, it makes me horny. But Veuve’s wrong when she says it could be because of my relationship with my mother . . . and if the woman in question doesn’t turn the damn vacuum off, I may be tempted to shove it up her arse! How fucked up would that be? Getting turned on by bossy, controlling women? Desiring criticism and humiliation as much as praise?
I can’t deny that those things turn me on but I can guarantee you that it’s fuck all to do with my mother!
She was still up last night when I got back from Vouloir. She was sitting in the kitchen, nursing a cold cup of tea. She said she couldn’t sleep and I could tell she’d been crying. Veuve might be wrong about my sexual preferences being linked to my mother but she’s right when she says my mother manipulates me. Having that knowledge helped me to remain more detached last night and, in doing so, I spotted her fake sobs and I caught her checking to see whether I was watching her performance.
The problem is that she’s still my mum. She still has nobody. Veuve’s argument is that it’s my mother’s choice not to mix with people her own age and to remain partially detached from the few family members we have out of envy. Veuve also made me question how ill my mother still is. She claims to be at death’s door half the time yet she cleans this house from top to bottom every day. More manipulation, no doubt. Last night it clicked. Veuve is right: my mother needs psychological support. She flew off the handle when I suggested she speak to the doctor about her black moods and how up and down she is.
Maybe she’s depressed and my leaving home could signal a new low for her. Maybe I should wait a while . . . try to get her to agree to talk to someone before I make any plans. She is all the family I have.
That doesn’t help with my plan to become a legendary fucker though does it? No flat equals no bringing girls home. I’ll just have to fuck them at the club . . . like him.
Jones.
I saw him, last night. I’d persuaded Veuve to let me have my second pint, after I’d purposely waited while she was ignoring me, since it would be my last pint of the evening. I’d walked back into the club room to see him approach a sexy blonde stripper. She was practically on his cock before he’d even reached her. I’d had to wait a couple of minutes to get served at the bar and when I walked back to Veuve’s room, I saw them. I always take a look when people leave the door open—partly because they obviously get off on that but mostly because . . . well, who wouldn’t?
There they were, fucking like animals. He had her face down on the bed with her arse in the air and he was fucking her like there was no tomorrow. They’d only been in there for a few minutes . . . she must barely have been wet. Yet, he was pressing her face into the mattress and he used her for what he could get. And here’s the weird thing . . . that was a selfish fucking—all about him and no thought for her, yet she was moaning and panting like she couldn’t get enough.
It was disgusting. I watched as he emptied his pathetic load inside her then pulled his cock out and discarded her, throwing money at her before zipping up his fly and fucking off. I ducked into the next room before he stepped into the corridor.
I told Veuve she needs to watch him because he’ll end up like that sadistic bitch, Elaine. Before they know it, he’ll be fucking all of them, whether they want to or not. Because he’s one of those men who thinks that every woman is dying to fuck them. Egotistical bastard.
I think she’ll have him out of here soon enough. She did not look happy when I told her about it. She did not look happy at all.
I STAND AND TRY to close my mouth before my shocked expression makes him change his mind.
‘You want me to get hold of Jones and ask him to come here while I’m at the club?’ I check, stalling for time to get my head around it.
Although I’m apprehensive, I know this is progress for him.
The Kid nods but I detect a smidge of uneasiness. He’s picking up on my over-protectiveness.
‘Sure.’ I shrug as though it’s no big deal, and his smile holds relief before he turns and returns to my laptop no doubt.
This is, after all, what I’d hoped for eventually. Jones being here while I’m at Vouloir so The Kid spends less time alone. Jones not being at Vouloir when I’m there. It’s just happening faster than I’d envisaged.
Although, not a moment too soon if Jones is going to work his way through all the club’s staff. Except me. Well, I’m not technically staff so I’m excluded anyway, but even so . . .
I’m dusting my office with a faux feather duster—the real one ended up in my bag of tricks some months ago. I realise I’m now jabbing at the coving and it irritates me. Why does it matter if he fucks all the staff? What does it matter if he fucks every member—male and female? As long as he doesn’t break the club rules, it’s none of my concern.
I dust the top of my desk and an unwelcome scenario sidles into my mind. Him. Fucking some faceless stripper as I walk past. The ragged breaths and moans filli
ng the air. His skin damp with sweat, making those tattoos glisten temptingly and the movement of his skin breathing life into the designs. The toned muscles of his arse flex and release with ease as he pounds into her. Not that I know what his arse looks like . . . but I can guess.
I shake my head and smash the image into tiny pieces as I dab at the cluttered surface in front of me. But the particles of that image reform almost instantly. This time, though, he’s in shadow as though the room is poorly lit. His hair has lost its blondness. And I can’t see those eyes. It’s just a body. The incredibly hot, fit, fuck you for hours without tiring kind of body.
Smash.
I jump at the sound but I barely register the fact that my inattention has knocked something off the desk. I’m too caught up in the scene in my head. It’s my body under his now. And he’s taking me from behind so he can penetrate more deeply . . . thrusting into me for all he’s worth . . . just the way I like it. I swallow at the intensity of his thrusts . . . and the arousal of the imagery in my head. I feel the muscle fibres of my nipples contract with the same ferocity as my pelvic floor. Even my heart’s contracting too quickly—as evidenced by my fluttering pulse.
I sit down and try to force the images in my head to flee. But the vision of his muscles rippling below the array of artwork, not to mention his uninked glutes, will not fade to black. Great. My body’s having a clench fest, my brain’s ignoring me and it’s all over a man who I couldn’t fuck if he were the last man on earth.
Couldn’t or wouldn’t?
Oh what does it matter?
The blinking of the answerphone light on my office phone catches my eye. Continuing my struggle to clear my mind of useless imagery, I press the playback button.
Bernie’s voice fills the air and clears my overactive mind.
By the end of the message, I’m gripping the sides of my chair. How dare she?
How dare she avoid calling me until the investigation into Dan’s death is over! And how dare she attempt to justify such action?
I snatch up the receiver and call her. It rings out twice before diverting to voicemail. I growl in frustration at her obvious reluctance to speak with me. I leave a message, demanding that she call me back as soon as she is able. I end with a threat to turn up at her office, should she force the issue by ignoring me. She’ll know I’m deadly serious—it was Bernie who named me the patron saint of troubled teens, declaring that I’d move hell and heaven to help such kids if I could.
I didn’t bother telling her that I didn’t believe in heaven. I do believe in hell though; I’ve been there. I know it exists.
My own personal hell with my own personal devil. Yeah, the devil exists in many forms.
Mine has blond hair and blue eyes.
Had, I correct hastily.
Had.
I PULL UP IN front of the block of flats and open the door, almost reeling back from the influx of heat into the cool interior. It makes me laugh. I’ve just passed countless convertibles in the centre of London. They have a convertible to look good—in this climate! Despite the fact that it rains so often and, even when it doesn’t, they’re standing still in traffic more often than not, leaving them at the mercy of the sun’s relentless rays. They look like chickens roasting on a spit whereas my climate control function keeps me cool. I never did condone form over function.
I press the intercom button and wait. It had been a surprise when Veuve had called to check whether it would be okay for me to call round to see The Kid earlier than planned, especially when she said she wouldn’t be home. I wondered whether he’d engineered it. It would give me chance to speak with him without him worrying about being overheard. Then tomorrow, I’ll find a way to speak to her without him listening in . . . depending upon what he has to say today, that is.
Pressing the button again, I’m glad I’m in the shade—there’s no reply.
I find myself wishing I had another way of contacting him. I took the precaution of getting Veuve’s number when she called. If she’s not going to be home, I want backup. But I don’t have a number for him . . . that’s if he even has a phone.
‘Come on, Kid,’ I mutter, eventually.
‘Okay,’ a disembodied voice says and I hear the door release click. I push it and wonder whether that was just coincidence or whether he was waiting until he was sure it was me pressing the buzzer. I know there are no cameras covering the door—not unusual in this part of the city—it’s a nice neighbourhood. But it’s at odds with how security conscious La Veuve Noire is inside the flat.
Climbing the stairs, I wonder whether that rubs off on The Kid in a negative way . . . her complete paranoia about locking windows and doors, even when she’s inside. I smile, knowing her paranoia doesn’t extend to the interior doors . . . the memory of walking in on her playing with herself in the bath is as surely imprinted in my memory as my tattoos are in my skin. No, her intention is to keep out unwanted visitors. Maybe that’s because of her job. Or maybe it’s something to do with The Kid.
He opens the door to let me in and it’s like stepping into a sauna. I’m not a fan of sweat baths. By the time he’s given me his glee-filled explanation for the change of plan, my tee-shirt’s getting damp and the leather sofa is sticking to my thighs. So my suspicion that he had masterminded a cunning plan was confirmed. I’m going to have to watch this Kid—he’s got a crafty streak. It’s further evidence that he’s not running on only three cylinders. Like I say, he’s an enigma.
I peel my legs off the sofa and stand. ‘Kid, before we get started, there’s no way I can stay in here. It’s hotter than yesterday. Has Veuve still not found the key to that window? You could grow marijuana in here, you know.’
He looks at me blankly. He clearly doesn’t know anything about weed—why aren’t I surprised? ‘The key isn’t lost. She keeps it safe, in case there’s a fire and we can’t get out the door.’
A wise precaution, I concede, but it would be wiser still to leave the key in the lock or hanging nearby, in my view. ‘So where is it?’
He shrugs. ‘With her. At work.’
‘We’re going to have to go and sit on the balcony again but the sun’s fierce. I hope you’ve got some sunglasses.’
That blank look again. Don’t tell me he’s not heard of sunglasses. Well, if he doesn’t go outside, he doesn’t need them, I suppose.
‘We can’t go on the balcony. She has the key. She has all the keys.’ His exasperated tone tells me he thinks I’m being slow.
‘So what if there’s a fire now?’ I ask.
His eyes grow huge. He clearly hasn’t thought of that.
I’m going to have to pick the lock. I’d rather not—because she’ll probably freak and I’m hardly her favourite person as it is. When she called me from the club, having found my number on my membership file, her tone was distinctly cool and distant. I detected the anxiety about leaving The Kid alone with me so I did my best to reassure her that I’d look out for him until she was home. I even said that I’d leave earlier if that’s what he wanted; I know he must be used to her leaving him alone. She said all the polite things but it was the way she delivered them. It bugs me that all I’ve done is be helpful and yet she still can’t bring herself to be anything more than civil towards me.
Yeah, picking the lock isn’t going to be such a great plan if she comes home and catches us. I’d much rather be sitting outside in the shade than in full sun on her balcony anyway. I could . . .
No, I couldn’t. That wouldn’t be fair.
Would it?
‘Grab the laptop, Kid. I’m going to get a couple of chairs. Oh, and fetch a few water bottles from the fridge if you can carry them.’
‘What for?’ he says.
‘The front of the building is in shade. We’re going to sit by the door, in the fresh air. And we’re going to have that talk about Ross and your sister. Ready?’
The look of sheer panic on his face tells me he’s anything but.
I hope I’m doing the rig
ht thing when I put the pressure on. ‘Kid, I can’t stay in here. And the weather forecast says it’s just getting hotter every day. If you want me to try to help you find your sister, you’re going to have to come outside or wait until the weather gets cooler. If she’s in danger, I hope it won’t be too late.’
He looks like he’s going to burst into tears and I feel like a complete bastard.
‘I’ll be right next to you, Kid. You saw the website—you’re far safer being anywhere with me than you are being by yourself. Once a Commando, always a Commando. I promise I’ll keep you safe. Although, can I tell you a secret?’
He nods, making a tear roll down his cheek. Hastily, he wipes his face with the back of a hand.
‘There’s nothing to be scared of down there. Anyone would be safe. An old granny . . . or a young child. Even a little girl would be safe down there.’
I mean it as a joke—a bit of banter, between two guys. But even before his face registers my tactless words, I want to grab them in the air and force them back down my throat.
‘Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t think. Oh fuck.’ I’m mortified.
‘S’okay,’ he says. ‘I know you didn’t.’
I give him a tight smile as I mentally throat-punch myself. Of all the careless, stupid things to say, given the circumstances.
There’s an awkward silence. I can’t bring myself to look at him. I’m supposed to be here to help, not make the poor kid cry.
He can’t bring himself to look at me either. I think he’s embarrassed by his tears.
I don’t quite know what to say. I feel like shit. Why do I always seem to put my size 12 right in it when I’m trying to do something nice?
‘Maybe this was a bad idea. I think I should go. I’ll rearrange with Veuve and make sure she sorts something out about those keys,’ I say, already heading for the door.
‘Wait!’ he says. ‘I’ll try. But what if I can’t do it? How do we get back inside the flat? I don’t have keys.’