by Billy London
Contents
Copyright © 2013 Billy London
Note about eBooks
CAVEAT
Playlist
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Billy’s Book List
About Billy London
Addicted to Witch
Billy London
Copyright © 2013 Billy London
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including but not limited to: printing, photocopying, faxing, recording, electronic transmission, or by any information storage or retrieval system without prior written permission from the authors or holders of the copyright.
This book is a work of fiction. References may be made to locations and historical events; however, names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the authors’ imaginations and/or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, events or locales is either used fictitiously or coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.
Cover Art: Bree Archer
Note about eBooks
eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving away eBooks is a copyright infringement. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without my written permission. If you like my writing, you won’t do it. Cheers.
CAVEAT
This is a work of erotica. Please don’t be shocked by a little cursing and a little bit of explicitly described nudity. This book is intended only for adults, as it is defined by the laws of the country in which the purchase is made. Keep this book out of the hands of under-aged readers. To paraphrase Dr. Franken-N-Furter; “I didn’t write it for you!”
Playlist
I really can’t explain my thought process behind this story. What I will do is blame B.O.B’s Ghost in the Machine for starting it all, and Kings of Leon’s Immortals for finishing it. They made me see things in my head, that ended up here. The music may make this comprehensive but I won’t make any promises!
http://sobillysaysshesays.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/the-witches-promise.html
Chapter One
If Pretty Woman ended the way it was supposed to, Julia Roberts would be a haggard forty-year-old still on the streets. Fairy tales do not exist. If he wants to fuck off, let him fuck right off, and then some.
Helena cleared Ophelia’s text from her phone as Josh placed his bag by the door and cleared his throat. Truthfully, she wanted him to go without saying another word, but the simple fact he called her attention meant she had to have some sort of exchange with him.
She forced herself to look up. “Have you got everything?”
He nodded. “I think so.”
The pause made Helena wince. She knew what was coming, and honestly she wanted to tell him to do one. Why did he want drama? “What?”
“You really want me to leave?” he asked in disbelief.
“It’s not like you ever moved in.” She offered with a shrug, and watched him grinding his teeth. Did he really need to see her cry? It wouldn’t happen. Obviously, he had no idea she just wasn’t that sort of person. Hence their current situation. He had no idea about her. Not the smallest clue.
“Look,” he began, hitching his fists on his hips. “You know why I can’t do this anymore. I can’t take it.”
“I know.”
“It’s not just about us, you’re affecting my job too.”
Oh God, here we go… “I know,” she said again, hoping to cut him off.
“I can’t meet my targets and get promoted to senior sales if I can’t fucking well sleep.”
And you just refuse to accept that anything’s wrong, Helena. The conversation they’d had so many times before had turned her into a prophet. Merely seconds later…
“And you just refuse to accept that anything’s wrong, Helena. For a doctor, that’s pretty messed up.”
“Okay, Josh. Point made.”
“I don’t think so. I spoke to Ophelia.”
That got her attention. No one spoke to her sister without repercussions. “You did what?”
“She agrees with me that you need to get help. Whatever your dad did with you isn’t helping.”
“Stop right there,” she said, steel in her tone. He closed his mouth. “How dare you? My family has nothing to do with you.”
“I’m worried about you.”
His face creased with concern as she took a long slow breath, needles of irritation prickling her skin. A clear warning she needed to calm down before things started to fly around the room. “You don’t have the right to talk to my family and certainly not to pass judgement on my dad.” She met his gaze, her voice softening. “Don’t ever talk about my dad.”
“You’re misunderstanding me on purpose,” he huffed. “You don’t want to sort things out at all, do you? You know what? Fine. I’ve put up with so much from you and you haven’t appreciated it one little bit.” He pushed his face so close to hers, she could feel his spittle on her face. “If you want to be alone for the rest of your life, congratulations, you selfish bitch, you’re already there.”
She calmly wiped her cheek. “Yes I am. With or without you. Out. Now. Keys. Please.”
In a childish gesture, he threw them onto the floor before walking out and slamming the front door. She waved her fingertips and the chain slid across the latch. Her keys lifted and landed neatly on their hook. The twisted sensation in her stomach refused to unwind. It had everything to do with defiantly using her abilities inside her home and nothing to do with how hard she’d fought to keep Josh at arm’s length.
Well, she had what she wanted. She now had all the distance in the world. Relationships had never been her strong point. Helena could emote more with the plant in her surgery than she ever could with people. But, having a boyfriend, someone to cuddle up to, had so much appeal she’d ignored all the other icky stuff that went with it. Josh tried, he had really tried. Who could blame him for getting fed up with her? What had he called her the other day? Oh yes, an emotional vacuum. Nice.
The belief was if she stopped using the “m” word, the guilt would stop too. Her fears would come to a crashing halt and what she so desperately wanted would come into being. Normalcy. How she envied that in her patients, moreover in her own family. Maybe speaking to one particular member would help.
She scrolled through her emails for her younger sister’s LA hotel number. It’d be nice to hear she wasn’t an emotional vacuum from someone as wonderfully shallow and materialistic as her sister. Sweet Desdemona, who lived an overtly party-centric life as a commercial model, would definitely make her feel better. When the number finally connected, Helena could hear a party in the background.
“Hells!” came the bellowing crow. “Hold on a minute!”
“Can you hear me, Des?”
“I’m here. What’s wrong?”
She hesitated before saying the two words out loud. “Josh left.”
Her sister sighed. “Well, we knew that was coming, didn’t we?”
“Doesn’t make it any less upsetting,” Helena admitted, pressing her toes against the rug. She supposed anyway.
If she was on her own, boyfriend-less, she’d have screaming fits in peace and quiet.
“Oh Hells. Why don’t you go out? Have fun. You don’t laugh anymore.”
Helena rubbed her eye, searching for patience. It’d be easy to get annoyed with her sister for trotting out a platitude, but it wasn’t Des’ fault really. She didn’t know everything. No one did. No one knew. “Easier said than—”
“Reid, leave my bum alone! Yes, I was in Elle Magazine! Listen, Hells, I’m back in London in a fortnight. I’ll call you. Go out!”
“Des…”
The line disconnected. She put the phone down and went to stare at the contents of her fridge. What would make her feel less like throwing her possessions around her home like a crazy woman? Maybe the salmon pâté. And that chocolate tart. With cream. But she’d have to use her hands. God only knew the last thing she needed was to slip into old habits and make inanimate objects move in front of patients. That would definitely wind up the General Medical Council.
***
The water’s surface rippled above her. She blinked, hoping it was just a bad dream. Any minute, she’d wake up and she’d be at home, with her mother. The heat of the African sun would be on her skin and she’d have kisses and cuddles…
Water filled her lungs and the distorted voice of her aunt made her begin to fight against the hands keeping her beneath the surface. She didn’t want to die. Bubbles captured her screams but lethargy began to seep into her muscles.
“Devil child! Witch!”
Opening her eyes, she saw the glint of sharp metal. Her anger came in a surge, swamping every other sensation until she realised the water was gone. She wasn’t drowning anymore. And her aunt was scared. The Bible her mother’s sister dared to hold against her bosom was not going to protect either of them...
Helena woke up alone, cold and shivering. When she had been younger, she had been comforted by her adoptive parents and their unconditional love, constantly reassuring of her safety. But it wasn’t working anymore. She didn’t feel safe. And there wasn’t much else she could do to change it.
Chapter Two
Auden traced the chords across the guitar again and again until his fingers ached. It sounded like shit, but he had to send something. Anything. To fail would mean the final nail in the coffin of his career. It would be so easy to slip into it, the dark, black pit where everything that had ever gone wrong was over his head. Concreted to the ocean floor with meters of water above him.
His answering machine clicked on. Obviously, I don’t want to talk to you. Beep. “Auden, it’s Terry. I need a song, I need a track. I need something that will make iTunes explode for this girl, man. Now! Just think how much blow you can afford with the advance I’ll pay you.”
Seven years ago, Auden would have thrown the answering machine into his swimming pool. Nah, that wasn’t true. He’d have made it fly over his gates at the nearest paparazzi with the wave of a hand. Fuck’s sake, he felt caged. Why he hadn’t given up years ago? Sheer stubbornness? A willingness to want to live, despite the times he believed he was little more than a walking corpse?
He scratched at his neck, feeling the dent in his skin where the tie had burned into him, cutting off his oxygen, hanging him until he stopped breathing…
“Stop it,” he said aloud.
Getting up, he stood in front of the medicine cabinet. What if he combined the lithium with the anti-depressants? Not that either had any effect on him, but it would waste a couple of minutes. He closed the cabinet and extracted his mobile instead. “Hi Charlie, look, I know I’m just moving one dependency to another but I… Can you talk?”
“It’ll take me at least an hour to get to you—I’m in London, son.”
“I can wait,” Auden said.
“I’m on my way then.”
What the foreskin would he do for an hour? The doorbell rang, taking the decision out of his hands. He checked the video monitor and was tempted to ignore the woman who grinned into the screen. “Hi, Auden. Just making a house call.”
Course you are. “I’m busy, Dr. D. Another time?”
“‘Fraid not, Auden. I need to send your notes to the trustees for the meeting.” One more meeting like the last one, and he’d be hospitalised. “Come in.”
“Hello!” she said again as she entered, making to kiss his cheek, but Auden stepped out of the way. Dr. Romely Deans was so overtly happy, he wondered what the hell she was taking to look so buoyant all the time. He supposed as a GP, she had access to whatever happy pills she chose to down. Xanax seemed like a good guess.
“Do you want to sit down?” he offered, waving a listless arm to the living room.
“That’d be good, we can talk better then.” Auden led the way, grimacing at the click clack of her heels on his tiled floors. Get out, get out, get out!
In one corner of the room, piles of old twelve-inch records were gathering dust. Ah, now there was something he could do. Alphabetise. He sat down on a sofa nearest to the door. Romely sat next to him.
“So, how are you finding the new drug? The anti-depressant?” she asked, tugging at the hem of her skirt, which rode up her thighs. She had a decent pair of legs on her. Shame her personality was so fucking abrasive.
“Fine.”
“Are you taking it regularly?”
Is she joking? “Yep.”
“Any reactions?”
“Why would there be?”
She pressed her lips together disapprovingly and asked the question again. Sighing, he answered no.
“Any extreme highs or lows?”
Auden held a hand out flat. “I’ve been like that.” He didn’t offer her a drink. He didn’t want to give her the excuse to linger. “Is that everything? I’ve got to talk to my producer.”
“Oh, so you are working?”
“Doing a bit here and there, yeah.”
Her face became serious, her dark brows drawing together. Oh here we go, the fake I’m-concerned spiel. “I hope you’re not letting yourself feel the emotions of what you write. I understand that song writing is about getting in touch with those sensations, but with your illness, you do need to take care that you’re not replicating that in order to…enjoy feeling dark again. We don’t want another relapse, do we?”
She really believed what she was saying was plain fact. What was wrong with her? Why did she want to control him so badly? Questions he asked himself a million times before and always came to the same conclusion. He put it down to Ugly Duckling syndrome, a girl who had never felt pretty as a child, who filled out when she became an adult and wanted to turn the screws on anyone who rejected her. Finally, he answered her, “Nothing about ‘my illness’ is enjoyable. I don’t feel anything.”
Romely leaned forward and grabbed his hand, her eyes feverishly bright. “You should feel something.”
He flicked at her knuckles with his thumb and forefinger, satisfied when she snatched her hand back. “What do you want? If I feel too much I’m having a manic episode. If I feel nothing at all then I’m what, a zombie? You should make up your medical mind, and then I’ll balance it out.”
She rubbed at her skin, piercing red from the flick. “You should feel normal.”
“A non-existent term created for people who want to feel less fucking boring,” he dismissed. “Every normal person is, in fact, only normal in the average. His ego approximates to that of the psychotic in some part or other, and to greater or lesser extent.”
Romely’s face lifted in admiration. “You’ve studied Freud?”
Auden simply looked at his hand. He had a gap he had deliberately left uninked. Maybe a noose? Away from the edge, Auden…
Romely still stared at him. “Anything else?” he asked.
Her mouth turned down at the pointed question, as if she finally realised she wasn’t going to have the epic conversation she hoped for. She made a note on a pad of paper and tucked it into her briefcase. “I’d like it if you came into the surgery soon. Have a proper chat? Submit
some blood tests?”
“I’ll see when I’m free. Thanks for coming around.” His gaze flicked to the door.
Romely took the hit-and-run-with-a-tank hint and picked up her bag. “I don’t think I’ve got enough for a full report. You’d like to be in a position where you don’t have to account to the trustees for every single pound you make or spend, wouldn’t you? Be in charge of your own credit cards again?”
“Wouldn’t that be a step up?” he quipped. “See you.”
Romely hesitated as she reached the door. She turned back toward him. “I’m just trying to help you. That’s all I want for you.”
Auden laughed without the slightest trace of amusement. “Yeah, thanks. Shut the gates behind you. And I need my key back.”
Her eyes flashed. “I’d like to keep them on hand. For your own good.”
He could break her neck. Snap it in two. But then he would be screwed in so many ways, and the bitch knew it back to front. She sent him a satisfied little smile then left. He took a long, slow breath before opening his eyes. She was still gone. The relief that followed was short-lived. Soon enough, she’d be back, reminding him of what little control he had over his life.
Answering machine again. “Oi, it’s Terry again. Look, I’ve just booked you an event to make up the tax deficit—company retreat down the road from you for a night’s entertainment. The director has a hard-on for you. I’ll email the details. You won’t be upset when you see how much for.”
He’d have to run it past Romely first, see if he’d be allowed out ahead of time. A thirty-five year old man with a curfew, kindly suggested by Romely to avoid “destructive behaviours” and agreed with by the trustees. If he couldn’t go out at night, then he couldn’t order champagne at two grand a bottle. If he couldn’t order champagne, then he would remain somewhat in control of his faculties. At least that was what Romely wanted the trustees to believe. And with their hands in millions of pounds worth of trust money, they’d take her suggestion and run with it.
