Blackmailed by the beast

by Georgia Le Carre

  There should be sadness in my heart. Instead there is nothing. I think of her as she was. Beautiful and cold. No, cold is the wrong word. I guess she was bitter. She always viewed me as the competition, but when Dad died and left the house to me with the provision that she could live her life out in it, I became the enemy. How she hated me, silently, coldly, viciously.

  While I lived with her I hated her back with an equal intensity, but after I left with a broken heart, I understood her bitterness. My father shouldn’t have left the house to me. It was a betrayal. He should have left it to her. She was his wife. I sent her money every month even though she neither acknowledged it, or thanked me.

  I look down at my black Louboutins. I should have known better than to wear them. The heels are too high, and if don’t hold them with the spikes hovering slightly above the ground, they sink into the soft earth.

  The priest stops speaking and turns his head to look at me.

  I drop the red rose in my hand on the white casket and I turn around to leave. People I have not seen or heard for ten years mill around me. They wear concerned expressions, well-meaning faces filled with genuine kindness and regret. They are good people. I grew up with them. Almost family. But I can’t let them unravel me.

  Smiling vaguely at no one in particular I quickly start walking towards my car. Marco, my driver rushes to open the door of the hired car. I slip in smoothly. He closes the door and I exhale. I’ve done my duty. I’ve given her a good burial.

  Marco gets in and winds the partition down. “Hotel?”

  “Yes,” I confirm quietly.

  “Right,” He nods and actives the remote partition upwards.

  “Wait,” I blurt out. “No. Not the hotel. Take me to my mother’s house first.”

  “Got it,” he says smartly.

  The car goes through the streets. It is like being in a time warp.

  Nothing has changed, Dairy Queen, Tucker’s Diner, the plastic dog outside the hardware shop. There’s old Jenkins sitting outside his tattoo shop sunning himself with a beer can in his hand. His face is pure leather, but he is still alive and well. We used to pop firecrackers into his mailbox and he would run out of his house his face purple with rage, screaming blue murder.

  Marco drives up to the house.

  The shutters are drawn. There is a sad air of stillness and neglect around it.

  “You can go back to the hotel, Marco. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I nod and get out of the car. It is strange not be mobbed by paparazzi and fans. Actually, it’s rather wonderful not to have to run like a criminal from the car to the door all the time. For years, I believed I wanted fame. I wanted to be recognized everywhere I went. I wanted to be a big star, but now I know I don’t.

  Marco drives away and I go up the wooden steps to the wide porch. I glance at the rocking chair at one corner and feel an odd twinge. A feeling. How strange. I haven’t felt anything for years. My cell rings, the sound muted, but oddly jarring. As if my other busy life has already come to intrude. I take it out of my purse and look at the screen. It’s Nick, my manager. I walk to the rocking chair. Sitting in it I click accept.

  “Where are you now?” he asks.

  “At the house.”

  “You mean the funeral is already over?”

  “Yeah,” I reply distantly. I don’t want to talk to him. The sound of the chair creaking against the wood is soothing. My mother used to sit here a lot with me in her lap after she fell ill. I close my eyes. Memories swarm back. Memories of Mom, memories of Dad, memories of Cole. My stomach clenches into a painful knot. I push the images away and open my eyes.

  “Are you all right?” Nick sounds concerned, whether for me or my career is hard to tell, but he is definitely genuinely concerned.

  “Yes.” My voice is clipped and hard.

  “You sure you don’t want me to come?”

  “Absolutely. I’m not hanging around long, anyway. I’ll be leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That’s good. There’s nothing left for you in that godforsaken town.”

  “No,” I agree, but an ache deep inside me starts to throb. I left something here, Nick. I left my heart.

  “All right, then. Call me if you need anything, or if you just want to talk, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Love you,” he says.

  “Call you later.”

  I end the call, close my eyes and try to think of Nick’s warm brown eyes. He cares about me. I have a good life in LA.

  My eyes are drawn to the magnolia tree. The swing is gone, but the treehouse is still there. I bite my lip. Maybe later I will go and explore it. I slip my shoes off, take the key from under the flower pot, and open the front door. Inside it is dim and full of still shadows.

  I close the door and lean against it. I breathe in the stale and musty. Underneath it there is a strong chemical odor of medicine. My step-mother lived here alone for the last six years.

  For a moment, I have an overwhelming desire to walk out of the house, and call Marco to come back and take me to the hotel, then I decide that I don’t want to see anyone at the hotel. I’m tired and I just want to sleep.

  The doorbell rings and the sound startles me. I look through the peephole and see Mrs. Tucker from next door standing outside. She is in her Sunday best. Suppressing a sigh, I open the door.

  “Hello Taylor. I’ve brought you some casserole. I thought maybe we could have lunch together.”

  I hang on to the doorknob and plaster a smile on my face. “Thank you, Mrs. Tucker. That is so kind of you, but honestly, I’m just not in the mood to eat anything right now.”

  Her face fall which kinda makes me feel guilty, but I just can’t face having to make small talk with anyone right now. She holds the container out to me. “Well then, honey, you eat it when you feel like it. I’ll be at home if you need me.”

  Reluctantly, I take the casserole that I know I will never eat. “Thank you.”

  She turns to go then spins back. “I’ve followed your career, you know. You’ve done our little town proud, my girl. Both Mr. Tucker and I are very proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tucker.”

  “Well, I just though you should know.”

  “It’s very kind of you to say that. Thank you.” I smile again.

  “Well, all right. I’ll be going, then.”

  “Good bye, Mrs. Tucker.”

  I put the casserole on the kitchen table and the doorbell goes again. With a frown, I go to answer it. It’ll probably be another neighbor bearing more food I can’t eat. I don’t even bother to look through the peephole this time. I open the door and smile at Betty Crankshaw. She is wearing a blue hat and carrying a cake tin.

  “I’ve brought some muffins for you, love. I know you love blueberry muffins.”

  Cole

  I rush through a red traffic light and turn into Mullholland drive. God, I’ve not been here ever since she left. I park the car outside her mother’s house. I walk up to the door and ring the bell. It goes unanswered for a long time and I’m about to ring it again when she opens the door.

  The moment I see her face I regret ever letting her go. My heart aches with need. God, how stupid I was. What a fucking kid I must have been to have let her go.

  And for what?

  Look at her.

  She’s not happy.

  She used to glow with happiness. I should have chained her to me instead of letting her go to carve her name in lights. It was a mistake. I have to make her fall back in love with me again.

  Her full lips part. “Cole,” she breathes and for a second it is as if no time has passed. The other kids are singing Cole and Casey K-i-s-s-i-n-g in the Tree to us. She’s my girl and I’ve come around to take her to the movies. I stare at her mouth. I’m dying for a taste. She used to taste like honey.

  Then the past disappears like smoke, and her eyes become hard. “What do you want, Finlay?”

 
; “You,” I say.

  Something flashes in her eyes. “You’re a bastard, you know.”

  “I shouldn’t have let you go, Taylor.”

  “Get out of my house,” she growls.

  “I’m not leaving without you.”

  “What? she sneers. “Did you fall somewhere and hit your little head? Because we were finished ten years ago.”

  “We’re not finished until I say so.”

  She moves suddenly to slam the door and I put my palm on it completely arresting its movement.

  “Do I need to call the police?” she huffs, her eyes stormy.

  “All I want to do is talk to you.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” Her voice is bitter.

  “Then it’ll be a very short conversation, won’t it?”

  She sighs and moves away from the door. “Say what you need to say and get out.”

  I go into the house and close the door. She leads the way into her mother’s sitting room.

  ‘Talk,” she says, folding her arms in front of her body.

  I walk up to her. “Did you achieve everything you wanted to? Was it worth it?”

  “Yes,” she snarls, her voice trembling defiantly. “I grabbed the opportunity when it presented itself and I left this god-forsaken town.”

  I stare down at her glittering eyes. “No regrets?”

  “None.” The word is clipped like a bullet.

  I look at her face and feel as if I cannot go another minute without making her mine. “Well, I have. I should have done it differently. I want you, Taylor. I’ve been wanting you for the last ten years. I’ve waited all this time, but no more. I won’t be denied for another second. I’m going to have you right now.”

  Her eyes widen. “No,” she gasps, but I notice she doesn’t move away. I wrap my hands around her too thin body, and my mouth descends down on hers, crushing, hungry, fierce.

  She whimpers with the force of my kiss.

  I lean in and lift her up into my arms. Her hands go around my neck. Her round eyes stare up at me, helpless, vulnerable…mine. I lift her into my arms. Fuck, it’s like picking up a child. Doesn’t she ever eat anything in LA?

  I carry her up the stairs. She burrows her face in my chest, but I can feel her trembling in my arms. I kick the door open to her old room. Her stepmother has kept it almost exactly how it was when she was living there.

  I lay her on the single bed and look down at her.

  She is about to find out that she belongs to me and only me.

  To be continued…

  Untitled

  You Don’t Own Me

  Author’s Note

  This book is steamy. :)

  Appreciations

  I wish to extend my deepest and most profound gratitude to:

  Caryl Milton

  Elizabeth Burns

  Nicola Rhead

  Tracy Gray

  Brittany Urbaniak

  Russian Terms

  Russian terms of endearment are different from English ones. Here are the translations for the ones that are used in this series.

  lyubov moya” (my love), “kotik” (pussycat), “kotyonok” (kitten), “zaika/zaichik” (bunny), “malysh” (baby), “lapochka” (sweetie pie), “zvezda moya” (my star), “zolotse” (my gold). “rybka” (little fish), “myshka” (little mouse),

  Zane

  ‘YOU DON’T OWN ME’

  ‘Yes, I fucking do”

  Quote

  - I’ll tell you just how much a dollar costs

  it is the price of having a spot in Heaven -

  Dahlia Fury

  ‘Oh, my God, Dahlia, you have to help me,’ Stella, my best friend and roomie cries. She has burst open my bedroom door and is standing at the threshold theatrically wringing her hands.

  Stella is a well-known drama queen so I don’t panic. I mute my video and turn towards her. ‘Calm down and tell me what’s wrong.’

  ‘I have a massage client in less than an hour and I’ve just realized that I’ve also got another client coming here.’

  See what I mean about drama. ‘Just cancel one of them,’ I suggest reasonably.

  ‘I can’t do that. The one who is coming here is that crazy rich bitch from Richmond who told me she is going to recommend me to all her crazy assed rich friends in Richmond. She’s probably already on the train. And the other is a Russian Mafia boss.’

  I frown. First of all, I didn’t know she had a Russian mafia boss as one of her clients. Must address that one later, but not yet. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Can you stand in for me?’

  I shake my head resolutely. ‘Nope. Absolutely not. You’ll just have to tell the Mafia boss that you can’t make it.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ she wails. ‘One of the clauses in the confidentiality agreement I signed was that I would never miss any of my appointments once I agreed it unless it was a life or death situation.’

  ‘Huh?’ I cock an eyebrow. ‘He made you sign a confidentiality agreement?’

  She makes an exasperated sound. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What kind of person puts an unreasonable clause like that into an agreement with their masseuse?’ I ask, genuinely surprised.

  ‘Dahlia,’ she screams in frustration. ‘Can you focus, please. I’m running out of time here.’

  ‘It’s simple. Go on to the Mafia boss, and I’ll tell your other client when she arrives that she can have a free massage next week.’

  ‘No, she can’t come next week. She is away, and anyway, she’s in pain and really needs me.’

  ‘So tell the Mafia boss that you can’t make it because you have a life and death scenario.’

  ‘You want me to lie to Zane?’ she asks incredulously.

  ‘If that’s what his name is,’ I reply coolly.

  She comes into the room and starts pacing the small space like a caged animal. ‘I’m not going to lie to him. He’ll know.’ She stops and stares at me. ‘He’s got like the coldest most piercing eyes you ever saw. It’s like they can see right through you.’

  I laugh. ‘I can’t believe you said that.’

  ‘I’m serious, Dahlia. Lying to him is out of the question.’

  ‘Well, then you’ll have to let the rich bitch down.’

  ‘Did you not hear me? She’s in pain. Oh, please, please, can you help me this time. You can have my fee and I’ll owe you big time.’

  ‘No,’ I say clearly. The solution to her problem seems obvious to me —she should cancel the Russian guy.

  ‘I’ll do the dishes for a whole month,’ she declares suddenly.

  I pause. Hmmm. Then I shake my head.

  ‘I’ll do the dishes and clean the apartment for a whole month.’

  I hesitate. ‘Even the bathroom?’

  ‘Yes, even the bathroom,’ she confirms immediately.

  ‘I’d love to help but—’

  ‘Two months,’ she says with a determined glint in her eyes.

  My eyebrows fly upwards. I open my mouth and she shouts out, ‘Three fucking months.’

  To say that I am not tempted would be a lie. I HATE cleaning the bathroom. I am very tempted, but I can’t actually take her up on her offer even if she offered me a year’s worth of bathroom cleaning.

  ‘Jesus, Stella. Just stop. You know I’d love to take you up on your offer, but I simply can’t massage like you. I just about know the basics and rich bitch’s problem sounds complicated. For all I know, I’ll just end up making her back worse and instead of giving you a glowing recommendation to all her rich friends she will do the opposite.’

  Stella fixes her hazel eyes on me. ‘I wasn’t thinking of her.’

  I look at her, astonished ‘What?’

  ‘He just needs a simple basic Swedish. Just exactly what I’ve already taught you. You just need to put a bit more effort into it. He likes it really hard.’

  ‘Like hell, I’m massaging your Mafia boss.’

  She falls to her knees. ‘Oh please, p
lease, please.’

  ‘If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, it’s not working,’ I say.

  She looks at me pleadingly. ‘Pleeeeeeease. I promise you he’s really easy to do.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Is that why you’re so terrified of him?’

  She turns her mouth downwards. ‘I’m not terrified of him.’

  ‘Could have fooled me.’

  She sighs. ‘Actually, I’m a bit … in lust with him,’ she confesses with a wry smile.

  ‘A bit? You?’ I explode in disbelief. This is Stella, the woman who turns a spider sighting in her bedroom into a shrieking Victorian melodrama.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says softly.

  ‘In lust?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I shake my head in wonder. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since,’ she shrugs, ‘forever. I’ve always had a thing for him, but of course, he’s way out of my league. The women he dates are all at least ten feet tall and totally perfect. I only register on his radar as a pair of strong hands.’

  I stare at her suspiciously. ‘Are you just making all this up so I’ll go and massage him?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Why haven’t you told me about this man crush before?’

  She looks down at her right shoe. ‘There seemed to be no point. I’ve come to terms with it. The truth is it is way stronger than a crush, and it could even be love, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’

  Suddenly I realize why every time we go out she freezes out every man, even the ones that look like serious contenders, who come up to her. ‘Oh, Stella!’ I breathe. I had no idea she was suffering in silence.

  She looks at me sadly. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’ll pass, but right now I just need your help. I don’t want to let him down or give him cause to fire me. Until I’m ready to let go of him I want to keep this job going.’