by Esme Devlin
I didn’t even know what I’d say, but probably something to set her off again.
I like it when she bites me.
Does that make me a masochist? I always thought myself more of the sadist sort. I’m the one pulling hair and slapping the rear end, absorbing the screams and moans of someone else’s pain into my bloodstream like fucking heroin.
But spending time with Delete has taught me something else about myself.
I like it when her tongue cuts me down.
I think at some point I gave up caring about the sick things people said about me and started to enjoy the pain. Can you be a sadist and a masochist at the same time? Fuck knows. But I’m gonna google the shit out of that for sure.
My phone vibrates and I slide it unlocked to see Delete’s name pop up on the screen.
Thanks. I appreciate it.
Well, at least her shit attempts at manners are improving.
It’s 45 minutes til I need to leave the house, not enough time to get any work done, but too long to spend sitting around on my arse doing nothing. So I google what I said I’d google, which naturally leads to some heavy P. Then I beat one out, have a quick shower, and go downstairs to make a coffee.
Lucia is still in bed, but my old man’s home. He’s sat at the table with a newspaper open and a cigar in his hand.
“Mornin’,” I tell him as I fetch the milk from the fridge.
He grunts in reply and goes back to his paper, which isn’t unusual.
My dad’s another one who doesn’t like me very much. I think he used to, before we lost my mum. He liked me, but he didn’t love me. I don’t think he loved my mum either, but she worshipped the ground he walked on.
Lucia did too, at first, when he was still keeping up pretenses.
She would go everywhere with him. I was fourteen, old enough to look after myself in his eyes — plus, we had Maggie. But unlike my mum, Lucia wasn’t happy to sit in the spa waiting on him while he did whatever he had to do. She wanted to be involved. And like me, my dad’s not a team player.
By my fifteenth birthday Lucia had a ring on her finger and was as permanent a fixture in this house as the kitchen sink. He comes and goes as he pleases, and while Lucia hates it, I prefer it that way.
He’ll be gone again tomorrow.
“Business good?” I ask him. I like to let him know from time to time that I’m taking an interest, so he thinks I’m still intending to work for him in a couple of years.
“Usual.” He shrugs, not even bothering to put his paper down. I turn my back to him while I wait for the kettle to boil, but he must see an opportunity because it’s not long before he clears his throat. “Business good?” The taunt in his voice is unmistakable.
“Usual,” I tell him.
He smirks and nods his head, turning the page of his paper. My dad owns race courses up and down the country, and a few golf courses, and if it was up to him he’d own the fucking college courses too just so he could kick me out of them.
He doesn't own me though.
I’ve thought about leaving a hundred times. There’s nothing physically stopping me, I have the means to support myself and I have the money.
But I won't let him have this house. This was my mum’s house, it's been in her family for years. I shouldn't have to leave, and since he’s never here — I don't.
I have a plan to get it back, but that’s a wee while away yet.
With him in the kitchen a flask starts to look more appealing than a mug, so I make the coffee to take with me and duck out of the room without a parting goodbye.
There's one thing I need to do before I leave, but luckily — like some sick as fuck cooking show — I prepared it earlier.
I make a quick pit stop at Grace’s car. It’s fine now, well, as fine as it was before I set Josh loose on it. When I got home, I switched the power back on for the outdoor lights and since he was only away ten minutes, I assume he just connected a switch or something.
The door screeches when I open it and I shiver, like nails on a fucking chalkboard. Folding the note in half, I slide it inside the sun visor. She won't notice it in the courtyard with the building and the trees but the second she’s out on the road and she pulls it down, it’ll fall on her face.
And then she’ll know.
I’d like to have one of those dash-cam things so I could see the look in her eyes when she reads it… but maybe it’s one of those times where the thinking about it is half the fucking pleasure.
Chapter 9
Grace
He holds the car keys out in front of me as soon as we get out and my feet hit the crunchy gravel of his courtyard.
I wonder if he’s going to make me suffer for them.
I eye him up from the other side of his car. He has on dark blue jeans and a white polo, no jacket but it’s not really needed. The weather has calmed down this morning; the wind gone, and the courtyard is almost quiet in the morning autumn sun. I can deal with the forest much better when I’m not having to listen to it.
“Thanks for your help.”
“There’s my good girl,” he says as I walk over and unhook the keys from his finger. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Wasn’t so hard being nice to me, was it?”
Amusement flickers in his eyes but he lets the question go. I let him, it wasn’t even a question anyway, more of a taunt.
With nothing else to say, I cross the courtyard and get in the car. It starts the first time and relief washes over me. I rely mostly on Scott to take me to and from college, and on the nights he has football, I get a ride home or to the shop from Jamie. If anything happens to my mum’s car then I’m pretty much already using up my quota of favors when it comes to free taxis.
But luckily, today is not the day to worry about that.
I shift the car into gear and pull away, not taking a second glance at the man still standing next to his car, even though I can feel his eyes on me. The trees fly by as I floor it passed them. Learning the curves in the road now that I’ve done it a couple of times, I know exactly how long it is until I’m out.
The sun almost blinds me as the car emerges from the gloom of the forest, and I blink the water out of them while I flick down the sun visor.
A folded up piece of paper flutters down to my lap.
Shit.
I pick it up and put it on the seat next to me.
Of course his friend doesn’t work for free.
How the fuck am I going to pay him?
I think about this for the rest of the drive home, too much of a fucking pussy to look at it.
It’s only been light for a couple of hours, so it can’t have taken him that long. And since he didn’t need to get parts, clearly, it should be just labour.
I have money coming from Lucia’s dress, if I can get it finished today.
That’s what I’ll do, I’ll finish the dress and then I’ll look at the shitting bill, and see how much of the dress money is actually going to end up in my pocket.
The final adjustments only take a few hours, so I text her as promised to let her know I can deliver it now as long as she’s home.
She’s out having afternoon tea, but told me Maggie should be home and I can leave it with her.
I load the car up and sink down into the passenger seat, my back sore from being on my hands and knees all morning. I’m feeling more than a little sorry for myself.
Pulling the bill over, I unfold it to see what the damage is but no sooner have I glanced at it and I’m realizing this is not a bill.
Not even close.
K I S S F U C K O R T O R T U R E ?
Maybe I’d have thought it was a joke if it had been handwritten in scratchy marker pen. A sick joke, but a joke nonetheless.
This isn’t written in marker pen though. Someone has taken the time to cut each letter out of a newspaper and paste them onto the paper. Like a note from a stalker. Or a death threat. They do that, don’t they? When they don’t want the police to match
their handwriting as evidence.
I wouldn’t have needed to match his handwriting for evidence.
It’s so fucking obvious he did it that a chill runs down my spine. He sat in the car with me this morning, he stood in that courtyard with me this morning, and he acted normal.
Well, not normal. But normal enough in comparison to how he usually is around me.
He doesn’t like me, but I didn’t think he wanted me dead.
My eyes drift over the note again and I realize, it’s not a death threat. He doesn’t want me dead. It’s a taunt.
What the fuck is he thinking? That we have some sort of twisted unfinished business?
I throw the note back down on the passenger seat and pull my phone out, finding his number and hitting call. If I go over there with the dress there is a high chance I’ll see him, and I want to know how the fuck I’m supposed to react when I do.
Is this just a big game to him?
He answers on the first ring. “You wanted me to delete this number and yet you can’t give me the same courtesy?”
“I found the note,” I tell him.
“You’ve left me hanging for hours, darlin.”
“Cut the bullshit,” I snap. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“You.”
“You keep saying that, and yet you refuse to tell me why. I think you’re playing a game.”
He chuckles, the phone line making it even raspier than normal. “Well done, Nancy Drew. But I think I was the one who just told you that?”
I shake my head at him, even though he can’t see me.
“I’ll be seeing you, Grace.”
Then the line goes dead. I stare at the phone for long seconds, wondering what the fuck just happened. This guy has issues. Serious fucking issues. But to be fair, he’s been telling me that since the day I met him.
And like a naïve little idiot I’ve been trying to make things right.
When he took me home and picked me up, I thought maybe he was just prickly. You know the type… coconuts. Hard exterior, but deep down inside they’re actually alright once you can break the shell.
Malachy Hunter isn’t a coconut.
In fact, I’d say there was a good chance Malachy Hunter is a fucking psychopath. They’re always good looking aren’t they? Or did I make that up? Fuck knows.
Either way, I don’t want to be around him anymore.
Which means I need to tell Lucia that this personalized shopper service I’ve been delivering needs to stop. She can either come into the shop like my mum’s customers, or I can’t work for her anymore.
I eye up the dress from across the car. £300 just sitting there.
I’ll deliver this one first, and then I’ll tell her. I don’t want to risk her just cancelling everything on me.
With that decided, I put the car in gear and head home. I’ll visit fucking Castle Hunter later when Lucia’s there, and hand her the dress back myself.
I ring the doorbell, expecting to see Maggie or Lucia.
It’s not Maggie. Or Lucia.
He swings it open and steps to the side like he did last night, but I shake my head at him.
“I’m not staying. I just came to hand this over.”
Holding out the dress, I take the couple of steps up and look at him expectantly.
He raises his eyebrow at me. “It’s not my dress, darlin.”
Why is everything so fucking difficult? I hold back my exasperation and smile at him. “I’m aware of that. Can you give it to Lucia for me? Please.”
He shakes his head. “Come in, leave it in the living room for her.”
“No,” I tell him firmly.
“You’re scared,” he says through a smile.
“I’m not scared,” I argue. “I’m just done with this shit.”
He laughs at that. “You look scared?”
“Are you going to take the dress or will I phone Lucia?”
“Your phone magically gets a signal now? You’re going to put it in the living room for her, else I’m going to tell my old man to start buying his suits from elsewhere.”
He’s bluffing. He has to be. No one would be that callous — we rely on that money every month for bills.
His dad is our bread and butter.
What if he’s not bluffing?
I’m not going to cower before him.
He turned me into a scared child and I’m not about to let him turn me into a scared grown woman. I barge passed him, heading down the hall and going into the living room.
I don’t even switch the lights on, the light from the hall is enough.
The dress goes on the empty sofa and I spin around quickly to make for the door.
I’ll worry about the money later.
But I don’t make it back to the door in time.
He’s already standing in it, blocking the light from the outside.
I freeze.
He takes a step into the room and the door closes behind him.
It’s dark.
Pitch dark.
I never noticed how much you can hear when you can’t see.
And I can hear him breathing.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
The sound of his breath gets closer and I take a step back, feeling the hard edge of the sofa at my side.
“I don’t want to play anymore.”
He chuckles. He’s close. “You said those same words the last time we played this game.”
“I remember,” I tell him.
“Oh, now you remember?”
“I’ve always remembered.” I try to push away the scenes, like images, flashing through my head. His face peering down at me when he turned me over. The trees above me as I fell down. The explosion of light behind my eyes when I cracked my head.
And different scenes. The ones that I never saw, except in my nightmares.
The ones with him lying on top of me, covered in blood.
I never wanted to believe it.
But refusing to believe something that’s staring you in the face is stupidity of the highest sort.
“You always remembered? Convenient that you kept it to yourself for all these years.”
“What are you talking about?”
I feel his breath on me now and I back away, around the edge of the sofa, trying to put some space between us.
My heart rate speeds up.
My mouth feels dry.
Am I going to have a panic attack? Please fuck no.
“I’m talking about the rumors, Grace. The things I did to you.”
I shake my head at him, even though I doubt he can see me. “I never once backed those up.”
“Really? You didn’t come out and say they were false either. Your brother and his boyfriend started that, and what did you do?”
How the fuck can he blame me for that? We were children. I was scared. I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. Scott and Jamie, they spoke to the police first.
I was an afterthought.
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Oh I dunno, maybe you could have started by saying it wasn’t true?” His tone changes and now it’s sarcastically light. I think this could be worse.
“It was years ago.”
He laughs and I feel it on my cheeks. I keep stepping back and he keeps matching them. Stalking me across the room.
I feel the mantle of the fireplace dig into my back and I know there’s no where else to go.
He doesn’t hesitate.
His hand circles my neck. The pressure isn’t hard, he’s not squeezing. But he could, if he wanted to.
He could probably snap it if he wanted, too.
“Malachy, it was years ago,” I repeat. “If what happened hurt you, then I’m sorry. But this isn’t right. You need to let me go.”
That’s when it hits me.
It hit me before, but now it feels like jumping in front of a truck.
This isn’t right.
Nothing about Malachy Hunter is
right.
What the fuck is he going to do to me?
Chapter 10
Malachy
She’s sorry.
About fucking time, too.
Except I don’t believe a word of it.
I’m sorry if I hurt you, but.
If she hurt me? If. There are no ifs about it, darlin.
And my mum once told me never to believe a single thing that came before the word but.
She’s not sorry.
She doesn’t know the fucking meaning of the word.
But she will.
Soon.
“I’m not letting you go. I’m keeping you until you understand what you did. In fact, might even keep you after that point too. We’ll see how I feel when we cross that bridge.”
I feel her swallow under my hand, and then the pulsing of a vein as it tries to get enough blood around her system.
Her skin is so fucking soft, like polished teakwood. I wonder if every part of her is just as smooth?
“I didn’t do anything,” she says, her tone determined.
“And that, little princess, is exactly why I’m keeping you.”
She shakes her head and the muscles in her neck contract with each movement.
I could squeeze now, to the point when she’s just about to pass out. I could wait for her to come around and then do it again as soon as I’ve allowed her a few breaths.
I’ve done that to a lass before — she fucking loved it.
Would Grace love it?
Probably not.
She’s too soft.
I bet she’s never even been fucked before.
“This is insane. You’ve lost your fucking mind.”
I chuckle at her.
“Never lost it, darlin. You trampled on it. Let’s go for a walk.”
Chapter 11
Grace
He spins me around and now he has the back of my neck in his hand, the other one clutched around my shoulder.
I don’t want to go anywhere with him.
I want to go home.
My body jerks forwards as he jolts me into motion.