The Grayson Trilogy

by Georgia Rose

  The End

  Thank you for reading. If you are able to leave a few words as a review on Goodreads or Amazon, then you will feel the warmth of my thanks in the form of a virtual hug. It really does matter as it helps inform other readers as to whether they should pick up this book, or not.

  There follows a little added extra for you…

  The Joker.

  This is a short story, perfect with your morning coffee, afternoon tea or while enjoying your late night tipple.

  A tale of the morning after the night before, this story gives you a delicious glimpse into the background of a character who has proven to be a favourite for readers of the Grayson Trilogy.

  The Joker

  A Grayson Trilogy Short Story

  Georgia Rose

  Published by Three Shires Publishing

  www.threeshirespublishing.com

  The Joker copyright © 2016 Georgia Rose

  Georgia Rose asserts the right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without the express written permission of Georgia Rose.

  www.georgiarosebooks.com

  Edited by Mark Barry

  www.greenwizardpublishing.blogspot.co.uk

  Proofread by Julia Gibbs

  Julia Proofreader

  Cover design by The Cover Collection

  www.thecovercollection.com

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ‘Never trust a man who, when left alone in a room with a tea cosy, doesn't try it on.’

  Billy Connolly

  The Joker

  Last night amid the tumble of hair, limbs, alcohol and passion, he noticed a crack on the ceiling.

  Barely visible when he woke, his heart hammering in the dark, now it is clearer, a definite ridge casting a shadow that deepens as day arrives. The crack probably needs looking at and he’s thankful it’s not his problem.

  Unable to get back to sleep, his go-to remedies of booze and sex failing him, he can’t avoid what startled him awake. It had been a while since he had dreamt so vividly. He’d hoped that phase had passed and he wonders, why now?

  He can still hear Nick’s voice, echoing from his dream, and it unsettles him.

  All yer canna do is laugh in the face of madness, Nick would say.

  Entertainer. Leader. Morale booster.

  Nick was at the heart of any gathering as with wry humour he’d regale the troops with tales that his idol, and fellow Scot, The Big Yin, Billy Connolly himself would have been proud of.

  Wingman. Drinking partner. Friend.

  They’d got each other into, and out of, trouble.

  A hand stirs on his chest and he glances down. Unadorned fingers with natural, trimmed nails rest there, pale against his tanned skin. He turns his head to look at their owner. She’s pretty. Fair skin, a smattering of freckles across cheeks and nose, thick lashes that cover green eyes.

  Bewitching eyes.

  She looks wholesome, fresh and innocent. She proved last night she was anything but.

  They’d had fun. She was fun.

  What he looks for. What he needs. Nothing more.

  Meet, fuck, leave – his complete MO.

  But something feels different. He might revisit, he thinks, surprising himself.

  Immediately quashing that thought, he knows he won’t.

  His life has been a jumble of restless behaviour since…since… He doesn’t want to go there, and seeking instant distraction he looks across to the face on the other pillow again.

  Her hair, a tangle of dark curls that stretches out behind her, begs for fingers to be run through it, for it to be held in fistfuls like last night, when he’d held it tight as her body shuddered against his, buried deep inside her. In the early morning light, it looks a simple brown but he knows it’s so much more than that. The fiery flecks of red and gold had been highlighted under the subtle lighting of the bar as she’d served the night before. She had smiled easily, seemingly happy to pass a few words with the punters, her diplomatic skills in higher demand as the evening wore on, as more pints were sunk, as competition for her attention grew.

  He’d arrived mid evening, taken a seat at the bar, liked what he saw and stayed.

  Not seen you in here for a while, she’d said. He was surprised she’d recognised him.

  I’ve been working away, he’d lied, then wondered if she had really remembered the last time, and what had happened. He’d already scouted out the clientele to make sure there would be no repeat.

  I wanted to come back in, first chance I got, he’d told her and smiled.

  Oh yeah? she’d replied, sounding ever so slightly sceptical and giving him a look which made him think she could see right through him but then the smile was reciprocated and the game began. He loved that part, every time. The chase. The flirtation. The will she? Won’t she?

  He’d made her laugh. Women love a good sense of humour and last night he had been on fire. Quick, witty, cheeky, when the moment deserved it, and she had lapped it up. Her emerald eyes twinkled as she’d flashed them at him. Drawing him in. Always be wary of another man putting a smile on your woman’s face, Nick had said, and last night he’d made sure no one else got a chance to try.

  He’d paced himself on the beer, outlasted everyone else in the bar and as the last one had departed, a silence thick with anticipation had fallen between them and he’d wondered what was going through her mind. As she’d closed up he’d offered to walk her home.

  It’s only over the road, she’d said.

  Then we don’t have far to go, he’d replied, making his intentions clear and, meeting those beautiful eyes of hers, he’d known this was the moment. The moment when she would be in or out.

  They’d wandered slowly across to her cottage. He’d sensed she was nervous and, aware they hadn’t yet touched, he’d brushed his fingers against hers then took her hand in his. She’d glanced at him, appearing self-conscious, and he’d guessed this wasn’t something she made a habit of.

  He’d pulled her close as they’d reached her door, lifted his hand to her face and tilting it towards him they’d kissed. He’d detected the essence of lemon, a light, citrus scent, and felt her soften as she’d responded to his touch.

  Now, lying there, he doesn’t want to disturb her, it’s the only reason he’s lain there so long but now, desperate for a leak and the need to leave, he has to move. Sliding out from under her hand, he edges out of the bed, gathers his clothes from the floor and tries to exit the room quietly. It’s an old cottage, the floor an uneven mess of creaking floorboards beneath a carpet that’s seen better days; trying not to make a sound is futile. The latch style door is no less discreet and he lets out a breath when he succeeds in reaching the bathroom without waking her.

  He stands under the shower, letting the hot water wash away the excesses of the previous night, and wishes it was as effective at clearing his head.

  Three tours of Iraq. Blistering heat, periods of unadulterated boredom interrupted by intermittent bouts of terrifying danger.

  He’d looked up to Nick.

  Older. Wiser. Experienced.

  He could see him now, as clearly as he’d seen that crack in the ceiling, sitting opposite in the back of the vehicle they were travelling in. Sweating. The stifling heat sapping their souls as Nick told a filthy joke. Nick’s eyes crinkling at the corners as he’d grinned, enjoying his audience’s laughter. A momentary pause, no more than a breath then…

  The shower door slides open behind him and he turns to see her wearing nothing but a look of anticipation on her face. She’s game, I’ll give her that. She doesn’t say a word but moves closer and as her breasts touch his chest, nipples grazing his skin, he feels it, desire, hot-wired straight
to his groin. She’s asking a lot after the previous night’s performance but not one to turn down an opportunity, he’s sure he’ll rise to the occasion.

  He grins, reaches for the shower gel and pours some into his hand, the fresh lemony smell taking him straight back to the first time he held her. She holds out her cupped hand then begins to wash him. He loves the feel of her hands on his body. Palms flat, soothing against his skin as they spread the lather across his arms, his chest, his stomach. She works her way down, then glances up coyly, appreciating his obvious enthusiasm.

  He reciprocates, his hands slipping over soapy wet skin that feels like silk beneath his fingers as he enjoys exploring every inch of her body. He runs his fingers up and over her bottom, her hips and along the curve of her waist. On reaching her ribs he tickles her, and she giggles then looks up at him, water beading on her skin, glistening droplets like dew on her eyelashes and there’s a pause…

  Lips meet, tongues tentative, then he lifts her, feeling her legs wrapping around his waist but there’s soap and water to contend with and he braces himself, her back against the wall as he tries not to let his feet skid away from under him. It’s threatening to end in an undignified mess as he holds her tight and they laugh…

  …and she’s fun…

  He hopes she knows the score. What this was. He’s had enough encounters over the last year or so where it’s been…difficult after, where more was wanted, more than he’s capable of.

  Sex. One night. That’s it.

  She leaves the bathroom wearing nothing but a man’s shirt and he wonders who the man was…is? As he opens the door a few minutes later he smells coffee. He joins her in the kitchen and she’s still only wearing the shirt, collar up, sleeves rolled back, a look that’s turning him on again, and the thought comes back. Perhaps he’ll revisit, and even as he’s pushing it away he’s intrigued as to why this thought keeps resurfacing. He’s never had a problem moving on before.

  She pours him a coffee and pushes it across the table, indicating for him to sit, and she takes the seat opposite. Her mug is so big she cradles it in two hands.

  I wasn’t expecting you to be up this early, he says. She grins, and there’s a mischievous glint in her eye.

  I wanted to make the most of my turn, William, she replies.

  It’s the first time she’s used his name and he’s about to correct her, to say it’s just Will but he stops; he likes it, no one has called him that since he left home. Instead he raises a questioning eyebrow at her statement, on which she happily elaborates without him having to utter a word.

  You were here six, eight weeks ago, she says, then nonchalantly adds, you picked up my friend Marie.

  Oh. Shit.

  He closes his eyes briefly then opens them cautiously, waiting for the repercussions to hit.

  Marie.

  The one he had scouted the bar for so carefully before he entered the previous evening. The one who had not been quite so willing to accept the concept of the one-night stand.

  And she’s her friend? Terrific. He gets ready for a lecture as he responds.

  I don’t remember you being there that night.

  I wasn’t. Until later. Until Marie had already got her claws into you, she clarifies.

  And what talons they were, he remembers.

  She gave you quite the glowing testimonial, she continues, grinning. At least she did until you didn’t call and then, well, you can guess.

  Indeed he could.

  So I thought I’d seize the opportunity when it presented itself, she explains, finishing with a light laugh. He laughs too, mostly in relief, glad she seems okay about it, glad this isn’t some sort of revenge set up and that Marie isn’t about to leap through the door wielding an axe. He watches her for a moment and drinks from his mug. It’s good coffee. He likes her, he really does and there’s that nagging thought again, the one that’s been tempting him since he woke.

  Perhaps he can do this, perhaps he is ready?

  She interrupts his thought process.

  I’m intrigued, she says, you seem like a nice guy so why do you do this?

  Because I can. A thought he keeps to himself.

  Because, he says, and then pauses. None of the many women he had been with since his return from Iraq had ever asked. She’s watching him intently and he tries to formulate an answer under her gaze. He contemplates telling her about Nick, about his thoughts on commitment but it would complicate things and prolong his stay, which he can’t afford to do.

  Because I don’t want anyone to rely on me, he says. Honesty, the simplest answer.

  He wonders again about the owner of that shirt.

  She sees him off at the doorstep, kissing him chastely on the cheek. As he leans into the kiss his hand brushes her hip, the shirt, crisp cotton to his touch doing nothing to cool the attraction he feels towards her. He starts to walk away, then stops and turns back.

  I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could have your number? he asks, the question as much a surprise to him as it is to her.

  At another time, William, I would have said yes, she says, but, and she hesitates, glancing down at the shirt, I’m hoping the man who owns this will come back one day.

  He nods, ignores the irrational twist of jealousy at these words and tries not to notice the sadness that has come to her eyes.

  He’s a lucky guy, I hope he realises that, he replies.

  He’s a prick who doesn’t deserve her, otherwise he’d be here.

  I doubt he does, she says. Her smile is bittersweet; now he hates having to leave her like this. She turns, closes the door behind her and he crosses back over to where he left the pickup.

  He starts the engine, takes an electric shaver out of the glove compartment before pulling away and tackles his stubble as he drives.

  …air expelled from his lungs as Nick slammed into him, the truck lifting, somersaulting as it hit the IED. Dust clouds blocked out the sun and he landed hard, skidding through grit. Spitting out dirt, he gasped, desperate for air, for the breath that’s been knocked out of him, struggling to take it in through his scorched throat. Unable to move, he’s pinned down by the weight of Nick…by the dead weight of Nick, whose body shielded him from the worst. He heard the screams of those still dying, in his periphery saw bloodied bodies and carnage, and looked away. Flames licked the jagged pile of twisted metal, all that remained of the transport and as the fuel tank went up he’s blasted by a wall of heat, and the world burned around him.

  He’s ended up over an hour from home, his hunting ground taking him further and further from the estate, and he will only just make it back in time.

  He stops off at a garage for a couple of caffeine drinks to get him through the day and downs the first one as he’s driving. He’s tired and can’t remember exactly how long it’s been since he spent a night in his own bed and wonders, not for the first time if he shouldn’t try to move on from this nomadic behaviour.

  Nick.

  Husband. Father. Role model?

  He shakes his head. The question that’s never far away comes back to him.

  How can you commit to anything when you never know if you’re coming back?

  He’d seen Nick’s broken family. His beautiful wife veiled in sadness, his two little girls. He’s been unable to forget them staring at him, wide-eyed and silent, when he’d returned his friend’s personal things. He doesn’t know how others do it. It seems selfish to want what Nick had. To take on the responsibility of a wife and children. To potentially be the cause of such grief.

  But something has changed. He can feel the shift and whether it was hearing Nick’s laugh again or this woman, he doesn’t know but maybe he is ready for something more… permanent? Or, he could at least find someone closer to home - from the estate perhaps? He’s steered clear of the girls there. No good shitting on your own doorstep, is there? But there’s a new girl, Greene, been on the estate a couple of months now and he likes her, she interests him and they get on well.
No nonsense, in the same line of work so she knows what’s what. Seriously hot too. He’s kept away, not wanting to screw it up. But now? It might be time for a rethink.

  He turns off the main road and swings into the farmyard, raising a hand at Porter in passing. Like most mornings, he sees Porter look at his watch then shake his head and he grins. Porter is a family man now, settled with a great wife and kids. Until today he’d always assumed Porter was envious of his freedom to come home at all hours, but for the first time he wonders if that is it. Porter genuinely seems happy as he is.

  What must it be like to have that stability in your life?

  He drives straight through the farm and follows the road to the Manor, parking up in the courtyard behind. Leaping out of the truck, he jogs past Trent’s door and round to the side of the buildings before taking the steps two at a time up to the flat. Wade opens the door just as he is about to use his key.

  Good night? Wade’s only greeting.

  Very, his response as he carries on towards his room, stripping off his clothes as he goes. He quickly changes into his work jeans and a fresh shirt, and is on his way back out, pulling on his boots as he makes his way to the front door.

  Turner! Hayes! Two minutes, he calls back into the flat as he leaves. Wade follows him down the steps.

  Anyone I know? Wade asks.

  No, his reply.

  Will we get to meet her? Wade persists. Will suspects he knows the truth and ends the speculation with another firm, no.

  He goes out drinking with those from the estate locally but prefers to fly solo further afield. At least that way his private life is just that.

  As they return to the pickup, Mrs F intercepts. In one hand is a large mug of coffee, in the other a bacon roll. She offers both to him, smiling indulgently.

  Ahh, Mrs F, you’re an angel, he exclaims, if you weren’t already taken, and he leaves the statement unfinished as shaking his head in mock disappointment he wraps his arms around her, planting a kiss on her cheek.