by JD Nixon
Heller's Regret
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Heller’s Regret
by JD Nixon
Copyright JD Nixon 2014
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters and locations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real locations, is purely coincidental.
JD Nixon is an Australian author and Australian English and spelling have been used in this book.
Discover other titles by JD Nixon available at many ebook retailers:
Heller series
Heller (free ebook!)
Heller’s Revenge
Heller’s Girlfriend
Heller’s Punishment
Heller’s Decision
Heller’s Regret
Little Town series
Blood Ties (free ebook!)
Blood Sport
Blood Feud
Blood Tears (to be published)
Cover design by Infinity Rain
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Chapter 1
“Psst.”
I wondered if I’d only imagined the low hissing sound from the person standing next to me, until I heard it again.
“Psst. How long are you in here for?” she whispered.
I slid my eyes to the left, careful not to incline or shift my head even a fraction from facing directly forward. There were consequences for doing that.
A woman, wearing the same ill-fitting, dull grey tracksuit that we were all forced to wear and which made us as washed out and frumpy as each other, stood dead level with me, in perfect alignment with the rest of the row. There were consequences for being out of position too.
I couldn’t see much of her from the corner of my eye; only that she was shorter than me. But at six feet tall, I had to admit that not many women in the world matched my height. I thought I recognised her voice as the older, small, plump woman I’d met briefly when we’d arrived.
What was her name? I’d heard her say it to a few people on that first day. Glenda? Freda? Hilda?
We hadn’t had a chance to talk before, but during joint events such as this parade, I hadn’t missed the sparkle in her bright, interested blue eyes that I’d caught more than once canvassing me. Nor that her obviously vibrant nature was as stifled and constrained every bit as much as her sunburst of curly red hair was tightly pulled back into a neat bun, as was mine and every other female’s here. There were consequences for untidy, unrestrained hair. In fact, there were consequences for pretty much any infraction you could ever imagine, including some that would only occur to the imagination of the most twisted sadist ever born.
“Four weeks,” I whispered back, trying out my best ventriloquist impersonation to keep my lips from moving.
It failed.
Assistant One, who’d safely walked past us after giving us both a sneering appraisal with her soul-less eyes, stopped in her tracks. Glenda-Freda-Hilda and I froze, each resolutely staring ahead, as mute and detached from each other as commuters on a packed morning train.
The Assistant stood stock-still in her place for the briefest of moments. I willed her to continue walking past the other unfortunates lined up with me on this cold, bleak morning. I held my breath as she took another step forward, giving every indication she was moving on.
I should have known better.
Like magic, the next thing I knew she loomed in front of me, her nose only several centimetres from mine, close enough for me to count every one of the dark hairs poking out of her nostrils, close enough to smell her sour breath.
“Something to say?” she asked me in a deceptively quiet tone.
I usually don’t like to judge people on their looks, but by anyone’s measure, the Assistant was an ugly woman. At least I think she was a woman – it was hard to tell. Her solid square frame, shoulders as wide as her hips, harsh buzzcut, deep voice, and relentlessly androgynous fashion made me suspect more than once that we had a cuckoo in the nest. It wasn’t so much any individual facial feature contributing to her ugliness, but a combination of all, resulting in a permanently mean and gloating expression. She seemed the type who’d enjoy pinching a baby to make her cry just for giggles.
She waited an excruciating thirty seconds for me to answer. But I knew better than to do that. I continued to stare at her, stonily silent.
“I don’t think you heard me,” said the Assistant with the twisted grimace that passed as a ‘smile’ for her. “Perhaps I’d better repeat myself. Do you have something to say?”
I remained quiet. I wouldn’t let her goad me into answering. There were Consequences for doing that, as I’d learnt to my detriment on my first day here.
The Assistant considered me for another thirty seconds. Sick of looking at her face – an unavoidable horror as she blocked my view with it – I stared over her shoulder, wishing once again that I was back home, even if Heller was currently away on one of his secret assignments. A strong wave of homesickness threatened to engulf me, almost forcing a groan from my lips. I caught it in time because – you guessed it – there were consequences for even thinking of home.
Disappointed at not getting any reaction from me, which would immediately allow her to evoke a Punishment, she looked down at the clipboard she carried with her everywhere.
“Hmm, let’s see,” she said, pretending to scan the document, though she read it so many times each day that she must be able to recite it in her sleep. “Ah, here we are. Chunky Chalmers.”
She peered over the clipboard to judge my reaction to the nickname she’d given me after our first encounter.
She continued. “So, Chunky Chalmers, why are you here again?” She raised her voice loud enough to be heard by the other nineteen people who almost trembled with audible relief that someone else was her current target. She knew perfectly well why I was here – she taunted me about it every day. “Oh yes. Chunky Chalmers was sent here by her boss –”
Supervisor, not boss, I protested in my mind.
“– because her uniform didn’t fit. Is that right?”
I didn’t respond.
“Chunky Chalmers couldn’t squeeze her enormous arse and fat stomach into her work pants. Is that true?”
In a perverse way, I wanted her to continue to humiliate me. Every derogatory comment she made, every Punishment she doled out, only served to feed my burning rage towards the man responsib
le for sending me here to this hellhole – Clive.
I’d been so excited waking up on the day I was due to return to work at Heller’s as a security officer. Heller had been called up for a last minute assignment, leaving for parts unknown at breakfast the previous day. He hadn’t given me even the slightest hint of what he’d be doing, where he’d be going, or when he’d return. I only hoped that he did return. Nothing he’d said about this second job assuaged my fears for him. And to be honest, I still carried a level of hurt about him not discussing it with me before he made the decision to start doing those extra jobs. In my mind, that wasn’t the way a relationship should work.
All that was far from my mind that morning, however. I’d wished he’d been at the Warehouse so he could see me back in uniform. I think that secretly he would have been pleased, though he’d probably never show it.
But when I’d dressed in my uniform, I was suddenly glad he was far, far away in parts unknown.
Oh geez, I’d thought to myself in despair as I’d viewed my reflection in the mirror. No matter which way I’d angled my body, or how much I’d held in my stomach, the stubborn fact remained that my cargo pants wouldn’t zip up. And as they formed a rather essential part of the Heller’s uniform, I knew I was in trouble. I had no choice but to abandon them and don a pair of black jeans that I’d bought more recently and which were a little roomier.
Dreading the forthcoming encounter, I’d strolled with fake nonchalance through the door of the security section. As I’d entered, I’d breathed in the terrible, but familiar, odour of a place where multitudes of big men congregated regularly.
“Hey, Tilly,” called a few of the men in a friendly way, while I’d greeted others with the traditional Heller’s palm slap.
Simultaneously eager and nervous, it had excited me to be back there again, surrounded by well-muscled man mountains. I’d only hoped none of them noticed I wasn’t in full uniform.
What a hope.
My supervisor, Clive, the hardarse from hell, had barged out of his office, his meaty fist closed over a stack of papers. He’d pulled up sharply when he’d spotted me.
“What the hell are you wearing?” he’d demanded, his voice more gravelly than normal, but his eyes their usual cold flatness. Obviously he didn’t have an eye for fashion.
“My uniform,” I’d replied with a winning smile. “I’m starting work here again today, remember? I’m really looking forward to it. I hope you have a great assignment lined up for me.”
His expression had indicated he didn’t share my enthusiasm for the recommencement of my security career.
“That’s not the Heller’s uniform. Where are your cargo pants?”
“Well . . .” I’d equivocated, glancing around me at the surrounding men. Flames of embarrassment had crept up my neck to my cheeks. I’d appealed to him. “Can we talk about this in private? In your office?”
I might as well have saved my breath. Trying to coax a concession from Clive about anything was like attempting to mop up the Pacific Ocean with a roll of paper towels.
“They don’t fit you anymore, do they?” he’d interrogated, not without some triumph as my blush deepened. Didn’t he know how rude it was to comment on a lady’s weight? Especially in public.
“I wouldn’t exactly say they don’t fit. It’s more that they’re a little snug at the moment. I’m sure a couple of sessions in the gym will fix it.”
“When was the last time you did a workout?”
Oh man, why’d he have to ask that?
“Um . . .” I’d prevaricated while I’d desperately tried to think back to the last time I’d set foot in the gym.
Without another word, he’d spun around and lumbered back to his corner office. A couple of sympathetic pats on the shoulder later, the men had filed out to collect a fleet vehicle and head out to their assignments, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the empty section, unsure of what I was supposed to do.
Clive had pounded on his keyboard, staring intently at the screen. He’d picked up the phone, punished the keypad with his jabbing, and waited a few ticks before speaking into the receiver. As a man who spoke only when necessary, all I’d heard of his side of the conversation was a series of what sounded like inarticulate grunts, but which I’d assumed was an intelligent conversation.
He’d hung up and forcefully pushed back his seat, stomping out of his office. He’d thrust a piece of paper at me.
“You’re lucky. They’re able to take you for their next course at the last minute. Report there today, ready to start tomorrow,” was all he’d deigned to say before returning to his office, slamming the door, returning to his computer and ignoring me.
I’d looked down at the piece of paper. In Clive’s virtually illegible scrawl was written the address for the Lake Tranquillity Boot Camp. My flush of embarrassment had morphed into one of fury. I’d marched to his office and entered without asking permission.
“I’m not going to any stinking boot camp,” I’d insisted hotly, throwing the piece of paper on his desk. “You can’t make me.”
“You’ll do what you’re told.”
“I’m not going there.”
“Then you’re not working here,” he’d said flatly, summarily dismissing me by turning back to his screen.
“You can’t do this.”
“Yes, I can. I’m your supervisor. Heller left you in my care when he isn’t here.” His expression had suggested he considered that a thankless task.
“I’m going to tell Heller.”
I’d known it was a mistake as soon as I’d said it. He’d stopped typing and finally gave me his undivided attention. A smile had tugged at one corner of his mouth. I had to look twice to confirm that, it was such a rare event.
“Good. You tell him. What do you think he’s going to say about one of his employees turning up unfit for work?”
I’d known very well what Heller would say about anyone daring to do that in his business, his bed buddy or not.
“I’m not unfit. I’m just . . . a little less fit than I used to be,” I’d tried with deflating defiance. Sometimes you just had to give up when you were beaten, reserving your energy to fight another day.
Clive had stared at me with grim satisfaction. I’d snatched the piece of paper back off his desk and stormed out.
“If you think you’re getting rid of me, I’ll show you. I’ll be back sooner than you think,” I’d threatened angrily on my way out.
“Have fun,” he’d called after me, stoking my anger, an anger that only grew stronger every second I’d spent so far at boot camp.
I hated everything about Lake Tranquillity from the second I turned off a minor road to its pitted dirt approach road. After about eight more kilometres of driving, the compound came into view. I hated it even more once I set eyes on it.
What was wrong with Lake Tranquillity Boot Camp? It would be far easier to begin by listing what was right with it – and in one word, nothing.
The camp was located in a dry, desolate place, such a mere blip on my car’s GPS that I almost drove past the entrance. In reality, it wasn’t terribly far from the city – it just felt like it. The so-called ‘lake’ turned out to be a sewerage reclamation dam, and the machinery processing it ensured it was most definitely not tranquil by anyone’s definition of the word, not to mention nauseatingly noxious whenever a westerly wind wafted the smell in our general direction.
On arrival, I was directed to leave my car in a dusty carpark behind the compound, which consisted of two bleak cement blocks and a couple of equally bleak, utilitarian amenity buildings. They were grouped in a semi-circle around a large dirt bowl misleadingly called the Field.
A straggle of poor, miserable souls mustered nervously at the Field as instructed in orderly rows. On a rough headcount, there were about forty of us enduring the torture and not one of us looked happy about it. I checked my phone while we waited for something to happen, hoping that Clive had changed his mind and ordered me b
ack home. No messages.
“Hand over all phones,” snapped a fearsome man in his late-forties, striding up and down in front of us, periodically slapping a riding crop against his thigh. I never worked out why he carried it, because the only sign of a horse I saw around was a sad-looking donkey on a far-distant property that brayed gloomily through the night. I knew how it felt – I wanted to join in.
We all grumbled, pulling out our various phones.
“There is to be no talking back when you’re given an order!” he roared, making us all jump in fright. “Everybody drop and give me ten. There are Consequences for disobedience.”
A bit shocked, we all found our way down to the ground, some with more difficulty than others. I hadn’t done a pushup for ages, and by the fifth one, I was struggling. Some of the others were struggling with their first.
“I can see this is a pathetic group of weaklings,” he spat in the dirt in contempt. “Stand up when you’re finished, if any of you ever finish.”
I wasn’t the first one up, but I wasn’t anywhere near the last. It was an agonising, embarrassing wait in the sun until the last poor, red-faced, gasping person staggered to their feet.
“Pa-thet-ic,” the man spat again onto the dirt. If he kept that up, I’d have to say something – it was a very unhygienic habit.
“I’m the Director of this facility. You will refer to me at all times as the Director. These three people,” he nodded to his left and right where one man and two women flanked him, “are my assistants. You will refer to them at all times as the Assistants.”
A sweating, overweight man raised his hand. “Excuse me, Director. I have a question. Are we able to . . .”
He spluttered to a halt, receiving a death stare from all four staff in return. The Director pointed at him.
“You stay standing. The rest of you drop and give me ten.”
With resentful glances thrown at the inquisitive man, now turning a nice shade of beetroot, the rest of us quietly groaned our way down to the ground again. The man stood there, clearly wishing he could disappear, while the rest of us were forced to do more pushups.
