Absorbing White

by Charlotte E Hart

  I chuck some wood into the fire and stare at the flames licking their way up the chimney. They’re beautiful in their intensity as they climb and crawl around the stack, full of heat and passion, intertwining with each other and creating one flawed mass of energy. Is that what we are together? A flawed mass of energy, combustible, with me trying to endlessly rein him back into normality and morality?

  “Sit,” he says as he rounds the corner with a tray perfectly balanced on one hand, waiter style. I wish I’d known him back then. Maybe I could have stopped his criminal life before it even happened. Maybe I could have helped him to accept that family in Rome and be a normal person. Normal? How bloody ridiculous. As if Alexander White even suits the word. I giggle at the thought and move over to the sofa, kicking my heels off on the way. Whatever’s about to happen, I certainly don’t need them. He places the tray on the table and turns to face me. His mouth opens and then closes again as if he’s searching for the right words. I gaze up at him and try to appear open to anything, not that I know what the hell he’s about to ask for.

  “I want to talk about my father, about my life,” he says. My mouth gapes stupidly, because that’s the last thing I expected to leave his lips. ‘Let me string you up and make you come until you can hardly breathe’ would have been my best guess at what was going to happen. Or perhaps, ‘I want to fuck you until this anger goes away’. Anything other than what he just said, to be honest.

  “Okay,” I slowly reply as he sits down next to me and makes a spinning motion with his finger. I assume that means I should turn, so I do and he pulls me back to his chest, then hands me a coffee.

  “Comfortable?” he asks as he kisses the top of my head, and I feel a sigh leave his ribcage.

  “Very.” He squeezes me a little closer and rests his hand on my stomach. Okay, this is slightly weird now, although I suppose him talking about his father is very odd for him so I link my fingers over his and take a sip of my coffee. All I can do is wait and let him find whatever he needs to say.

  Eventually, after what feels like hours, he starts to tell me things – vile things, things a child should never have to bear. There’s hundreds of stories, days of beatings and cruelty. Every single word that’s uttered from his beautiful lips sounds fragile, as if it’s taking him immense amounts of strain to just keep the words flowing freely and remain calm. Words like broken, bruising, urine, pain, darkness, filthy, crying, torture, and hungry, thirsty even. Who does that to a child? Who? Why?

  His hand tightens on my stomach every single time something really hurts him. I can feel it in every truly disturbing thing he says. It’s the terms of sadness that do it to him, though, not the physical acts. Words like broken and bruising don’t cause the pain in his voice or the tension in his body. It’s the ones like crying or scared that causes the panic in him every time he tells me about another day of nightmares. Every single day and night, every moment of his life was consumed by a man who made him into the hell that he became. He survived constant bullying, belittling and beating. I can see him shivering in the snow – the same snow that’s outside now – snow that reminds him of being locked in a coal shed in the depths of winter, freezing, in nothing but his underwear as his father callously watched him and waited for him to try and escape just so he could beat him again. He didn’t even have a bed to sleep in, just a urine soaked mattress on a hard wooden floor. I can see him there, too, that little boy. I can feel hear him shaking and crying into the night to try and keep warm, to try and find reasons why his father, his daddy, the man who was supposed to love him, would do any of this to him. I can even smell that bedroom as he explains it to me and tells me why he’s so scared of the dark, why he sits in his safe room and meditates in the hope of chasing away the memories, why he learnt to fight in the dark so that he could destroy anything that ever tried to hurt him again. I can feel my eyes welling up with tears, no matter how hard I try to stop them, as he tells me about killing for the first time, about how it made him feel like a God, and how it made him feel alive for the first time, gave him a new lease of life. My body tries to move away from him as he describes, in detail, the first man he killed, but he tightens his hold and makes me listen to every single word until I have no power to try and break away from him. Hours seem to roll by as I listen to more stories of murders and of pain, interlinked somehow as if he finds a sense of solace in the acts, some way of ridding himself of the haunting of his past. In reality, they’re just stories of a lost little boy managing to find his way through his nightmares. It’s criminal, yes, but it’s a way out nonetheless, his way out. A fighter’s way out.

  “They were all bad people,” he says quietly over my shoulder as I sniff back another tear and try to stay focused on the positives. He’s talking openly, letting me know all there is to know without me badgering him about it. He’s just being honest so that I have everything I’ve asked of him. He promised, didn’t he? Promised me he’d tell me the truth. Suddenly, I’m not so sure I wanted to know. Because, bad people? He is the bad people, isn’t he? He is the threat lurking in the darkness. He has been the menace your parents and friends warn you about. The man who sits behind me, Alexander White, the man I love, is a killer. It sinks in with acute clarity as I watch his hand twiddling with the ring on my finger, the very same ring that was offered with a proposition of sorts. “I never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it, Elizabeth.”

  “What’s your definition of deserving it, Alex?” He smiles behind me. I can sense him doing it somehow, or maybe feel his amusement at my question.

  “They had all acted as badly as I did.”

  That’s it, his definition of what deserves killing.

  “It doesn’t make it alright. It’s wrong to kill someone, for any reason.” The moment the words are out of my mouth, I can’t help but imagine what I’d do if his father was in front of me. The perverse type of anger that consumes my thoughts when I think about what that monster did very nearly tips me in favour of believing that it’s fine to take the life of someone. “Do you think that message is from your father?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have someone trace the number. I could always go and ask him.” What?

  “I thought you had no contact with him,” I reply as I spin around to look at him. He tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear and rubs his thumb across my cheek. It’s a sweet moment really, considering what we’ve been talking about. I smile at him wearily and decide that I need a drink or six, preferably something strong. It is Boxing Day, after all. “Do you want a drink?” I ask as I make my way to the bar for something stiff. He nods, so I collect a couple of glasses and the cognac, and return to the other end of the sofa. He drags my feet up to his chest and begins to rub them, soothing me, showing me the other side to him again. The same one I first met, right here on this sofa. He takes a full glass from me and watches me with a smile.

  “I know where he lives, although why he’d try to contact me I don’t know.”

  “Maybe he wants to make amends.” He laughs, full-on laughs.

  “He is not the type of man to make amends, baby. You think the best of people far too easily.”

  “If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be sitting here now, would we?” I reply instantly.

  “Touché,” he says with another chuckle. I swirl the drink around the glass and wonder if there’s any more to deal with.

  “Is that it?” I ask, sipping at my cognac and trying to manage all the information into some sort of appropriate layer in my completely frazzled brain. “Nothing else I need to know?”

  “I’m sure there’s plenty more but that’s most of it, the general gist anyway.”

  “Do I need to worry? Is anyone after you because of your past?” He continues with his foot rubbing but suddenly looks overly serious again, every trace of humour seemingly gone as he stares at my feet and then stills his hands on me.

  “Someone is always after me, past or not. That’s the position I’ve put myself in, and now you. It’s why I like
my games, why I’ve tried to teach them to you. It’s why I need you to be able to fight, and why I don’t want you to trust anyone. I love you, but you’re part of this now. You asked for the truth, and so you need to understand what you’re up against.”

  “I don’t want to be like that, though. It’s not me. You know it’s not. I can’t be a part of that type of world and be comfortable in it. Okay, I can play a game and have fun with it, but I’m not a killer, Alex. I don’t manipulate, lie and cheat for fun or kicks on a Saturday night. It’s just not me.”

  “All very true, but I’m afraid you’re in it whether you like it or not, because if they want to hurt me, if they want to destroy everything precious to me, it won’t be me they come for anymore. It will be you.”

  Oh, fuck.

  Chapter 22

  Elizabeth

  W e talked and talked and talked. All night we talked. I learnt more about him last night than in the entire time I’ve known him. It’s like he opened the floodgates and finally let me all the way in, like he trusted me with every emotion he’d ever had, and gave them to me freely. Having scared the shit out of me with his little speech about me being the one they’d come for, I rattled him for every answer to every question I’d ever had. And he answered, just like he said he would, because he told me he’d tell me the truth. Okay, he threw some misdirection in there as often as he could, and he obviously tried to flirt his way out of the difficult questions. Of course I ended up being slammed, quite violently actually, and banged up against any object that got in his way. But that was just his way of finishing it off, of finishing me off, maybe. Every time I came, he pushed me for another one, asked me if there were any more questions, and then he’d shove me into a new position to make me come again.

  When I finally had a chance to answer by asking another question, he simply turned over and asked me to read out the dates on his back. He told me about every single date, the good ones and the bad ones, apart from our lunch date, and then he fucked me again. Apparently, his bitten cock wasn’t that offended that I bit it, or maybe it was and that’s why I got such a hammering. Who knows? Who cares, frankly? My inner slut certainly doesn’t. Whatever it was, it was his way of showing me that he loved me, his own special brand of love just for me, his only brand of love, it seems. So now I sit here about thirty minutes out from Berlin, watching the ground fly by beneath us, hoping to god that nothing is going to happen with Pascal tonight because, frankly, I’m far too sore. I’m sure I’ll still say that when his damned intoxicating eyes sparkle at me with some undisclosed innuendo directed at my crotch.

  Alex is wandering about, looking highly fuckable, as he growls at whoever is on the end of the phone. The Christmas break has finished as far as his work is concerned, it seems. His long legs stride about in a tailored, three-piece grey suit, no tie obviously. I’m not sure he’ll ever wear one again after Jingle Bells tainted the thought yet more. Not that I give a damn. I’d rather he never wore one again if it makes him feel anything close to the pain he talked about last night. Although, considering the issue, wearing it for my family was possibly one of the sweetest things anyone’s ever done for me.

  “That’s not fucking good enough, Mark,” he snarls into the phone as he pours a drink and tips the bottle at me with a smirk. Not a really angry Alex at all, well, maybe he is with the person on the other end of the phone, but certainly not with me. I beam at him in response with a nod and ponder the consequences of giving him a blowjob. That went quite well last time he was angry on the phone. He winks at me, licks his lips and waves his hand at the front of his trousers. How the hell does he do that reading me thing? I really need to work on that with him. I wouldn’t want to become too readable, dull even. I giggle at him and look back out of the window again.

  “Fifteen minutes out, Sir. Buckle in please,” the pilot says over the speakers. We don’t have a flight attendant today, and as Alex is still chatting, I push the button on the black console to acknowledge that someone’s actually heard Phillip, and then start to buckle my belt up, although I can’t really understand why anyone bothers. I mean, what is a seatbelt going to do at however high we are as we crash into a mountain or something? Sodding ridiculous design, really. He sits opposite me and continues with his unfriendly chat, now discussing a file and photos of some description. I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about but it does remind me of that letter that Michael never let me see, which quickly leads me onto nearly being raped. What happened to that man after we left the club? Honesty, we might as well get that bit of information out there in the open, too.

  He eventually finishes his call and looks at me expectantly. Apparently he knows something is coming.

  “What was in the envelope that was in my shop? And when that bastard attacked me, and you beat him nearly to death, what happened next?”

  “I would rather have the blowjob you were thinking about,” he replies. Cute. My eyes flick to his cock again. I’m so in control. Not. My feisty Beth sits me up straighter and stares him down until the smirk disappears from his face. I’m getting quite good at that shit. He picks up his drink and hands me mine.

  “I suppose it makes little difference now anyway. There was a picture in the envelope of me doing what I used to do, holding a knife. Quite incriminating, obviously. I’m having Andrews and a colleague look into it for me. Someone was obviously trying to warn you off me,” he says with little emotion involved, completely businesslike, as if it’s just another work problem to be organised and dealt with. “You look incredible today, by the way. That just fucked look suits you, especially when you’re in pain. Keep squirming in that seat. Are you very sore? I have a balm.”

  “And?” No way is he distracting me with sex, no matter how much I’m now thinking about his mouth and teeth. Yes, my inner slut is leaping out of her seat again but I grip onto the armrest to stop myself and gulp some alcohol down.

  “What do you think happened to him, Elizabeth?”

  “I don’t know. I’m asking you.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  That’s all he needs to say, isn’t it? I do know. I’ve probably known since the moment he told me about his past. There’s no way he would have let that man live, not after he attacked something so precious to him. Why, I’m still not sure. What makes me so special I’ll never know. But to him, the very thought of someone hurting me, scaring me, let alone trying to get inside me, must have been like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. Do I hate him for making me the reason he killed someone? Yes. I’m disgusted that another human has died because of me. In fact, I hate it and can feel it making me sick inside, churning my guts and screaming at my sense of justice. But am I bothered that he did it? That he took a piece of scum off this planet that may have raped other women? Absolutely not. People like that, and people that hurt children don’t deserve another chance, do they? Why should they live? But what right do we have to make that judgment? What right does he have?

  “I’m not comfortable with that thought,” I reply quietly as I gaze out of the window in confusion. I’m really not sure what else I can say. Would thank you be appropriate? Well done? You shouldn’t have? Not for me. Mafia queen of the world I am not. None of this sits comfortably with me, no matter how much I love him or accept his preferences.

  “I know, and I’d still do it again tomorrow, regardless of your thoughts,” he says with conviction etched into every word. My eyes find his again as he stares me down. There’s a slight lift of his brow as he conveys his certainty. Nothing will ever change his opinion of being right on this. No amount of me telling him it’s wrong to kill will make him believe that taking the life of this man was immoral. He may be right.

  “You said you stopped a long time ago, said you hadn’t done anything like that for years. You lied to me.” He crosses his legs, smirks again and unbuttons his jacket as I feel the descent of the plane becoming more rapid. The brakes start to engage as the pitch of the engine changes around us, and I realise th
at I’ve only got until the end of this flight to gain whatever I need from him. He’s about to see Pascal again, and I can feel his mood changing around that thought. His body is tensing slightly, his mind beginning to close down and change to that man that only wants his kind of fun, and me being part of it. He’s excited, dominant, and full of ideas and manipulations as he keeps running his gaze over my body and seems to be losing the will to discuss this with me.

  “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t see the need to drag that particular incident up again. He hurt you and tried to take something that wasn’t his to take. The end result would have always been him in pain. It was therapeutic, quite liberating really.” I’ve suddenly got all sorts of disturbing images flooding my brain – blood and bones, guns, knives, screaming and shouting. More of those gurgling noises he made the last time I saw him on the floor. Who was there? Where was it? Where is his body now?

  “How? Where?”

  “Elizabeth, don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to. Your morals will confuse you, and subsequently us. And I quite like you liking my butchering hands, as you call them.”

  Very intelligent I’m sure, butchering arrogant arse. The wheels hit the runway beneath us and I feel my stomach lurch back to life at the thought.

  “I still don’t like that you did it.”

  “Of course you don’t,” he replies dismissively, nodding out of the window at something, which is apparently more interesting. I crane my head around to see what he’s looking at and find two motorbikes and a car zooming towards the plane. I have no idea why the motorbikes are here so look back at him for some kind of clarification.

  “There’s been an accident. Take your clothes off.” Umm... Okay. We unbuckle our belts and he speaks to Phillip through the console about something as I wonder why exactly I’ve got to take my clothes off. Funnily enough, it’s not stopping me from doing it, though.