by Emmy Ellis
Good Girl Gone Bad - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis 2018
Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2018
All Rights Reserved
Good Girl Gone Bad is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
The author respectfully recognises the use of any and all trademarks.
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GOOD
GIRL
GONE
BAD
EMMY ELLIS
PROLOGUE
She’s a good girl is Charlotte. Or she was until recently. She’s changed, more’s the pity, and I’m not sure if I want to do anything about it. I think for now I’ll let her be. You know, get on with things, live life.
Life. That’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Here one minute, gone the next.
Especially if I have anything to do with it.
See, look at her there, that old woman, my neighbour, who’s annoyed me for ages. She has a habit of setting things on fire in her garden, no matter the weather. Tonight, there’s a bloody gale going on, yet there she is, burning things.
The bonfire is a big one—too big for a residential area. Sparks fly in all directions, orange and hot and tongue-like, ready to scorch if they had a mind.
I wish they’d scorch the silly bitch tending to it.
She’s prodding the base where she’s stacked up wood and all sorts—blimey, might even be a chest of drawers down there if I’m seeing it right. The amount of flames dancing about are enough to boil a body alive.
Now there’s a thought.
Would she smell like the old lady she is if she caught alight? Would her flesh sizzle? Would her hair give off that aroma, same as when you singe your moustache with a match while sparking up a fag?
I expect so. Yeah, I expect so.
And I’m about to find out.
ONE
She’d fucked him, plain and simple. Hadn’t expected him to ask for a repeat performance, though, now or at any other time in the future. Christ, she’d got herself into a bit of a mess, hadn’t she?
How the hell do I get out of this?
“Look,” she said, while he ogled her from the rumpled bed, “you agreed to a one-night stand. I told you in the pub I couldn’t do more than that. You said you understood.” She felt a right wally standing there in just her knickers, so she shoved her legs into her navy-blue jeans.
He rammed his fingers through his hair as though he verged on pulling it out. “What I understand is, your boyfriend is a prick.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
“Yes, well, that’s neither here nor there, is it? I told you about him so you’d get the gist of why this can’t be anything more.” She fancied pulling her own hair out. Couldn’t lose her composure, though. She had to leave without her fuck buddy creating a scene. If any of the staff here saw her, if he decided to go off on one, they might remember her, and who knew how many people Jez was friends with?
Jez was the aforementioned prick. Good name, that. Suited him.
This bloke here had snuck her in the back exit of the hotel earlier, and she hadn’t seen a soul. Might not be the same on the way out.
God…
“Just agree to meet me again, see how it goes. Can’t do any harm, can it?” He smiled—rakish-looking sod.
“It could do a lot of harm. If Jez finds out…” Her heart beat too damn fast for her liking. She was out of her depth. Stupid of her to have done this, to come out tonight while Jez was busy doing God knew what, her ending up here having had the best shag of her life and unsure how to handle the fallout.
“Who’s going to tell him?” he asked. “I’m not. Fuck that.”
His last two words set bells off in her head. Did he know Jez more than he’d let on earlier when she’d whinged about him? Granted, there weren’t any other men around here with that name, so it stood out among the Michaels and Peters, but…
Bollocks.
“Don’t tell me you know him,” she said, doing up her jeans then reaching for her sparkly black jumper.
“Might do.” He smirked. “Might also know your name’s Charlotte. Charlotte Rothers with the long black hair she likes having wrapped around my fist.”
She paused with her top halfway over her face. It struck her that she didn’t even know his name.
What was I thinking?
Her pulse pounded in her ears, and she yanked her sweater on, cursing—she’d forgotten to put her bra on first. It dangled off a dingy light-blue lampshade on the cabinet next to the bed, empty hills of cerise fabric that mocked her.
You’ve been a bad girl, Charlotte.
Oh God, I’m so in the shit.
If she lost it now, she’d never get home before Jez. She’d have to hole up somewhere—couldn’t be her mum’s place, she wasn’t allowed there, or with Felicity, either, her mate from years back who she hadn’t seen since…too long ago—but then if she did leave Jez, where would she be? Still on Jez’s radar, that’s where, a bloody bright flashing light letting him know she’d had enough of their relationship and was up to no good.
“Listen, what about giving me some time to think?” She should buy a few days, get some space, work out what to do between now and whenever she contacted this fella again.
“I know where you live, Rothers.”
Somehow, that didn’t sound sinister coming from him. He was a right sexy bugger. Problem was, he seemed to know it. So why was he interested in her? Jez had told her recently she was washed out—‘A shell of your former self,’ he’d said, and she’d thought: Looked at yourself recently, have you? He’d swanned out, hadn’t he, all bluster and bullshit, and she’d gone to the mirror to have an honest-to-goodness gander at herself to see if he was right. Of course he was. Her hair had been faded, lifeless, and she’d stopped wearing makeup ages ago. What was the point anyway, when Jez didn’t seem bothered with her? All he was concerned about was going to the pub or meeting elsewhere with his mates, while she sat at home bored off her tits.
So she’d dyed her hair—freshened it up, that had—and bought some new foundation, the kind that didn’t sit in your wrinkles like clogged sand.
“Then it’s better that you stay away,” she said. “If you know Jez, you know it isn’t the best thing to do, coming to our place.” She stepped over to the bed to collect her bra then stuffed it into her bag. She hoped Jez wouldn’t be back when she returned. If he found out she’d left the house, if he looked inside her bag… “I can probably get out again tomorrow night. He’s off drinking in some new club or other, so he said.”
Probably picking up some new tart and all.
“What about seven o’clock at The Orange Pebble?” he asked, scratching his dark stubble.
The sound did funny things to her.
“It’s out of the way.” He sat up, the sheet falling to concertina at his waist. “Jez never goes there.”
“How do you know?” She slipped her red high-heeled shoes on then tottered over to the mirror to sort her hair.
“Because he’s a person of interest,” he said.
Jesus fuck. Only the police spoke like that. “You what?” She would have spun from the mirror to face him, but he grinned at her in the reflection. “It isn’t funny. Are you a damn copper?”
>
He swung his legs out of bed, sat on the edge, dangling his hands between them. His hair stuck up every which way, reminding her of a kid who’d tossed and turned during a nightmare.
Was he her new nightmare? One to add to all the others? Waking nightmares, she had. Every damn day saw her crossing a minefield, hoping the bombs didn’t go off. And him, that man right there, was a massive bomb.
He sighed. “All right, I’m a copper, but don’t let that bother you. I’m the same as any other bloke, just got a job that puts the shits up people, that’s all. Besides—” His phone rang, and he answered it without saying hello.
Rude git.
Someone on the other end spoke for what seemed an age, and Charlotte reckoned she should leg it now while he was occupied. She crept over to the door, glancing back to check he wasn’t watching, but he was in front of her in an instant, one had raised, finger pointing.
He shook his head at her and said to whoever was on the line, “Um, right. I’ll be there in a minute.” He ended the call, gripped her arm, and led her back to the bed. “Sit there for a second, all right? I need to be somewhere, and it just happens to be your street.”
God, what’s Jez gone and done now?
“My street?” Parrot much? “Erm, why?”
“Death in your road, apparently.” He shrugged into his shirt. “Shouldn’t be telling you that, but you’d have heard soon enough anyway.”
“Who?” she asked, hoping it was Jez. All her problems would be gone then.
“Neighbour of yours.”
Her heart sank.
Bloody wicked, you are, wishing your old man had karked it.
He pulled on his suit trousers—black, faint pinstripe—then sat to roll on his socks—burgundy, a moss-green diamond pattern up the sides—and finally his jacket. He sliced his fingers through his hair, dipped his head to look in the mirror, then swiped up his phone and keys. “Come on, let’s be having you.”
He laughed at that, but Charlotte didn’t find it remotely funny. Anything copper-related set her teeth on edge—cost a fortune they had, those screw-in types that gave you a brilliant-white smile. Jez had escorted her to the dentist. She wasn’t allowed out much on her own.
“I shouldn’t turn up with you,” she said. “What if Jez sees me?” Her stomach somersaulted, and she told herself off for being such a whiny prat.
“He won’t. I’ll drop you at the end of the road, then you can walk home.” He moved to the door, resting his fingers on the handle. “Bear in mind, though, there’ll probably be a cordon up, and you’ll have to prove who you are to get past it. Got any ID on you?”
She envisaged inside her purse—all she had in it was a ramp-up-the-interest-charges credit card and her bank debit card—the secret one Jez didn’t know about, and she hid it deep down in the slot behind her National Insurance card so he wouldn’t see it. “Nothing that will prove I live there, no.”
“Well, it’s a good job I’ll be the one letting you through then, isn’t it?” He opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. “All clear.”
She followed him down the hallway, and wasn’t it just fucking peachy that the thud of the door shutting had her thinking it was ominous, like she was locked out of the safety of that room—her life—forced to move ahead into the unknown?
If Jez ever got a whiff of what she’d done, she’d be dead.
Her feet hurt. What had possessed her to wear these toe-pinchers she’d never know. She usually put slippers on, what with being at home virtually twenty-four seven, there for whenever Jez wanted a meal—meals he didn’t bother eating half the time. He’d told her, when they’d first got together, he didn’t want any queen of his working.
Queen, my arse. Treats me more like a maid.
As she trailed the copper out of the building and into the car park towards his metallic-grey Fiat, she admitted why she’d gone out tonight. She’d fancied a bit of love—sex was love, wasn’t it?—and someone to care about her for a while. She’d got that, all right, and now he wanted more.
So did she.
I can’t get away from Jez. He’ll find me. Said I belong to him and no one else.
And the perverse side of her had wanted to go out, maybe to get caught. Perhaps this was the kick up the arse she needed. She’d seen another side of love with this bloke here, and it had been nothing like it was with Jez. Not that they shagged much these days. Last time they’d done it had been months ago.
Got a new queen, have you, you dirty fucker?
“Get in,” the copper said, unlocking the doors with a press of his key fob.
She did, buckling up and sinking down so only her eyes and the top of her head would be visible through the windows.
He sat in the driver’s seat and started the engine.
The journey didn’t take long—minutes—but it might as well have been hours. Paranoid someone would spot her, Charlotte steadied her nerves, then exited the car at the end of her street. She sensed the copper’s gaze on her, so she bent to look in at him.
“Give me two minutes, then I’ll be at the cordon,” he said.
She nodded, legs going weak, and wedged herself partway inside a hedge outside number three, her stupid jumper getting caught on grasping branches. He drove off, and she asked herself if she wanted to be with a man like him—one on the right side of the law instead of the wrong. She couldn’t risk it. Jez was a nasty bastard. He’d kill a copper, no problem.
She studied the street. People were out on the kerb, nosing at the comings and goings. What she wouldn’t give to not live here. It had been sixteen years—sixteen God-awful years, if she were honest—except if she left, she’d miss Henry Cobbings at number fourteen. He’d saved her sanity more times than she could remember. She enjoyed listening to his stories, his voice, even if he bordered on being a bit boring sometimes.
Her house had stood in darkness when she’d left. Now it was blacked out save for the living room light blaring. Why Jez didn’t just switch on a lamp… Reckoned he liked the outrageously expensive bronze chandelier hanging from the ceiling, with its eighteen candle bulbs that gave off enough brightness to blind you.
Shit, he’s back early.
Anxiety kicked in. Where could she tell him she’d been? Why hadn’t she concocted a cover story beforehand? He’d know she’d been out on the piss by smelling her breath. And her get-up wasn’t her usual outfit these days. Normally, unless she was visiting Henry or the shops, she camped out on the sofa in lounge pants and an old T-shirt. Last time she’d gone out with Felicity, so long ago now it was almost forgotten, Jez hadn’t just smelt her breath. He’d checked between her legs, saying it was his right to sniff out some other dirty bloke who’d shagged his bit of stuff.
She hadn’t been with anyone that night—but tonight?
What if he smells me again?
She wrenched her attention away from her house to where the copper had parked. He stood by the cordon, and she waved—stupid, stupid cow!—then dropped her hand to her side, praying Jez wasn’t looking out of the window and had seen what she’d done.
She walked up the street, head held high, as if she had nothing to hide and hadn’t been doing the dirty tonight. She reached the copper.
“ID please,” he said.
She showed him her credit card, and he nodded, lifting the cordon.
“Don’t forget to act surprised when you get in,” he said, winking.
She ducked under. “Right. Yes. Um…Officer…what?” She’d get his bloody name out of him if it was the last thing she did. “You know, just in case another policeman asks me who let me through.”
He smiled—that rakish one again—and her knees jolted like they had when she’d first met Jez. That wasn’t good. Dangerous, all of this…this…whatever the hell it was.
“DI Kane Barnett.” He shook her hand.
You shouldn’t have done that. Now I remember what it was like when we—
He let her hand go. “At least you have an
alibi for tonight, eh?”
Christ, she hadn’t thought about that side of things. Her stomach plummeted. “What? I can’t tell anyone I was with you. You sound about as sharp as a marble suggesting that.”
“Don’t worry.” He sniffed. “Say you were at the pub. I’ll vouch for you. Say you saw me there and recognised me again just now, all right?”
“Okay, if you think that’ll work.” She smiled a bit tightly, lips closed, but she was hardly in the mood to give him a gimpy, teeth-baring grin, was she.
“We’ll make it work.” He swallowed. “Seven tomorrow. The Orange Pebble.”
She nodded. “If I can get out. It depends…” She bit her lip. “Well, he’s home already, and I—”
“Here’s my card.” He handed it to her.
She took it, white with some form of gloss on it, the words embossed, bobbly beneath her thumb.
“If you need me—for giving me information about the investigation, for Jez purposes—then call.” He messed about with his hair again—a habit?—then shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.
Charlotte walked away, her legs heavy, as though they didn’t want to take her home. Funny how your body knew the best thing to do before your brain and heart.
At her gate, she looked back, but Kane Barnett wasn’t there. Maybe he’d gone into the house of the dead person. She didn’t know who it was. Still, Jez would be sure to tell her. He loved giving her information, almost as though he gloated that she’d never know anything because she was virtually caged up at home.
Bastard.
Bastard he might be, but she had to gather the courage to lie about her evening.
But he’d spot the lies, no doubt about it.
He always did.
TWO
Charlotte slid her key in the lock, but the door swung open on silent hinges—Jez had a thing about using WD40. He’d squirted it in her mouth once when she’d given him some lip; he hadn’t had any soap close by at the time.
She squealed, whipping her hand up to her mouth, heart thundering.
