by Donna Alam
Fucking great. Sex, drugs, and alcohol; the idiot trifecta.
‘Did he smell of weed?’ Paisley asks, her gaze sliding to mine. But I shake my head. I don’t think so.
‘We started kissing, and things got a little heated. And then you know . . . ’
‘And you let him film you.’ At this she blushes—this! That’s like, I don’t know. Charity work?
‘Afterwards, he got nasty,’ Sophia says, hurrying on quickly. ‘He told me he was dating you, that if you found out, you’d be angry. But not nearly angry as he would be.’
‘He threatened you?’ That doesn’t seem like the Flynn I know. But then again, the Flynn I know wouldn’t have done this. Do you ever really know someone, whispers my consciousness. Especially after such a short time?
‘I suppose. Maybe?’ Sophia says. ‘But I didn’t know what to do. So I took a cab home.’
‘Was this before or after the ambulance?’
‘There was an ambulance? What for?’
‘Never mind,’ I interject, thinking back to how I’d introduced Sophia to Flynn.
‘Sophia, just to be sure, he has dark hair and was wearing a black suit and a thin neck tie?’ She nods as it occurs to me I could be a little more specific. ‘The guy with the sausages?’
‘Yes, that’s him. You introduced me to him—to Tate.’
Chapter 32
CHASTITY
I don’t know how long it takes me to get to Tate’s restaurant, or if I get there by running a dozen traffic lights, by broomstick, or by ruby fucking slippers. But the one thing that consoles me as I pull up on double yellows is that this isn’t the first time I’ve driven on autopilot and lived to tell the tale. We’ve all been there at one point, I’m sure. One minute you’re turning the key in the ignition, and the next you’re pulling up outside your destination without any recollection of the journey. Difference is, I think, as I slam the door to my car, this time my mind was filled with discernible thoughts. Angry thoughts—no, rage filled thoughts. How the fuck—no, how about why the fuck would he do this?
I push open the door to the restaurant, assailed by the smell of garlic and rosemary, my eyes flicking around the light filled space. The lunch crowd have mostly departed though there are one on two tables with paying customers still seated. I feel sorry that I’m about to spoil their afternoon coffee, tapas, or whatever the hell they’re partaking in.
‘Table for one?’ A young waitress appears in front of me. Dark haired and pretty, she wears the bistro staple of white shirt, black skirt and wrap around apron. A menu is pressed between her folded arms and her chest, her eyebrows raised in expectancy. The girl next door type. I mentally kick myself for slotting her into a trope or a category—professional hazard, I suppose.
‘Actually, I’m here to see Tate,’ I reply. Maybe I should be in the movies. That devil-may-care answer was almost Oscar worthy. Meanwhile, something resembling lava swirls and builds deep inside my chest.
‘Oh.’ Her brow furrows but straightens almost immediately. ‘He’s just popped out to the bank. Would you like to take a seat while you wait?’
No, I would not. Righteous indignation won’t have the same effect if I’m sitting. I’m more likely to stand on a table and Lucha Libre his ass, though without the mask because I want him to be sure that it’s me that’s taking him down. You know, just in case he has a troop of irate women after him. Not that irate really covers how I feel. How did he do it? And more to the point, why? What kind of low-life scum does that sort of thing? The mentally ill kind?
‘Chastity! What a lovely surprise.’ I’m brought out of my musing with a snap at the sound of Tate’s cultured voice and his pleasant though measured smile. ‘Were you meeting someone or waiting for me?’
There’s just something about his tone; a certain smugness, an almost imperceptible something that provokes me immediately. As the waitress makes herself scarce, words begin tumbling from my mouth. Though not the kind of I would’ve anticipated. Less swear-y for one thing. My mother would be so proud.
Camilla not so much.
‘Why, Tate? Why would you do such a thing?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes—yes you do.’ This I know for sure. What I don’t know is, ‘What could you have possibly thought you’d would gain from it?’
His laughter is bitter. ‘Well, Chastity.’ There’s such venom in his delivery. ‘Your parents didn’t think your name through very well, did they? Perhaps they were duped by that pink mouth and peachy skin? I’m sure you must’ve been a beautiful baby. And your parent’s fooled into thinking their cherubic child would grow to be a woman of virtue and taste.’
Ah, so that’s where this is going. I have no taste because I didn’t choose him. And because I produce erotica, I have no virtue. What a colossal tit.
‘Do you think you’re the first person to ever remark on my name and my looks as some kind of antonym to my profession?’ I fold my arms across my chest defensively, my words reasonable, my expression probably anything but.
We’re standing almost at the front door, out of the way of the main restaurant, but I wonder how long we can keep up our exchange in spoken terms.
‘Profession,’ he spits. So not long, apparently. ‘I suppose even whores can lay claim to the nomenclature.’ His eyes roam over my body, full of distain. ‘At least, the ones that get paid, anyway.’
Big words and a superior attitude. Well, fuck this for a game of soldiers. This pathetic kind of boy’s club pisses me off no end.
‘Get over yourself, you complete fuck nut! I have no idea why you would do such a thing—why you would want to hurt me this way. And what gives you the right to use Sophia in such a despicable manner.’ Each word fuses the heat in my veins. Each reminder of the transgressions of this . . . person, because I refuse to call him a man, makes me feel sick.
‘The woman has sex for a living. Don’t expect me to feel anything for her.’
‘You’re fucked up.’ This is my official diagnosis. There is no remorse or feeling or guilt. There isn’t a flicker of anything decent in his expression. How could I have been so fooled?
‘She deserved it. What’s more, she probably liked it. Girls like her are so worthless, they’re familiar with being used. As for you?’ His gaze flicks over me again, the lazy distain turning to hate. ‘You brought this on yourself. You led me on—let me believe you were interested, then you fucked another man while I wandered around your kitchen serving food!’
I realise three things at this moment, as angry fricative-spittle hits my face.
1. He’s moved closer
2. He’s completely delusional
3. He’s possibly dangerous.
4. That was him outside my bedroom door, listening like a perv.
Okay, four things. I’m a little stressed; I can’t be held responsible for counting.
‘No one asked you to serve food,’ I answer calmly, reasonably. ‘I paid for waiter service, just as I paid for the food.’
‘And do you honestly think the paltry sum you paid covered even the raw costs of the produce?’
‘That’s on you, Tate. I didn’t flutter my eyelashes at you to get a better rate.’ It’s not my fault you’re a crappy business man.
‘I thought you’d be opening your fucking legs.’ Although quietly spoken, his words are rage filled as he reaches for my arm, his fingers pinching instantly.
Time to leave. There’s getting your point across to sane persons and there’s putting yourself at risk. These two things are not the same.
‘You insulted my manhood and my intelligence. You’re a cock-tease. Nothing but a filthy cock-tease’
‘Let go of my arm, Tate.’ I begin to feel a little sick. Not the ill kind, the anxious kind. Yes, there are people around, but they’re behind me. The floorspace is L shaped and the customers seated some distance away, probably out of Tate’s line of view. Can they see this happening? And if they can, will they just watch
if he gets physical? I’d like to think people stand up for others, but I know this isn’t always true. ‘I want to leave.’
‘Oh, she wants to leave now,’ he snarls, towering over me. ‘Now that she’s heard a few truths. What’ll you do now, Chastity? Will you go back to your cunt of a boyfriend and suck his little dick?’
I might laugh if I wasn’t so stunned. Or suggest we call Flynn over and get a tape measure out. Instead, I struggle, trying to pull my arm free but his just tightens. Fear swells in my throat, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing me call for help. It’s broad daylight—nothing can happen here, right? Even as I’m reassuring myself, I can see how my reaction fuels the fire in his gaze.
There are names for men like him. Men that get off on power over women. Rapists, my mind whispers. But no, not here.
I put my whole body weight into one shove, and yank on the door as he stumbles back. I can’t get my keys out of my purse quick enough before his shoes sound on the pavement behind. Cars whizz by; it’s the mad rush hour centred around school pick up time.
He won’t hurt me—not in broad daylight. Not with all the traffic rushing by. Pedestrians bustle past, their shopping bags almost brushing my back.
‘You’re a cunt,’ he growls, coming up behind me. ‘It’s women like you who give your gender a bad name.’
Ignore him. Get in the car, drive away.
Finally, my fingers grasp my key. I click the fob, put my fingers on the door handle and cry out as he grabs my hair.
Fear zips down my spine as he slides his other hand around my waist. We might look like lovers—my head pulled back and resting on his shoulder as he whispers in my ear, my whole being caught in his embrace.
‘Fucking slut.’ He elongates the insult as though it wasn’t already frightening enough. I’m no shrinking violet. I stand up for what I believe in. Stand up for those I love. I never once imagined that, should a man put his hands on me, I would react like this.
Tears prickle from the force of his hand, but my fear is debilitating and like a punch to my chest. I have no breath for breathing. I want to run but don’t have the freedom or the wherewithal to do so.
And then, I’m suddenly free. Slumped against the car, my heart beating as though I’ve just taken part in a marathon. And I don’t run. Not by choice, at any rate.
‘Chas!’ Paisley’s voice is like a balm as she throws her arms around me, pulling me back from the car. ‘What was that about? Did he hurt you?’
As I turn, her eyes flick over me as though to discern my state of wellbeing. But you can’t always tell what’s broken just by viewing the surface. All the same, I shake my head. He didn’t hurt me. At least, not physically. And at least, not this time.
It’s about then I notice the motorbike and the man. Two men, really. Keir stands off to the side, almost refereeing the fierce looks being exchanged between Flynn and Tate. Looks that speak of violence and hate.
I open my mouth, to what purpose, I’m not sure, but I’m pleased I don’t take that moment to look away, not as Tate pushes Flynn. Not as Flynn retaliates by bringing his fist to Tate’s stomach, hard and fast, making his body bow. I wished I could hear what Flynn says as he places his hand on Tate’s shoulder, lowering to whisper something in his ear.
And then it’s over.
And he’s walking over to me.
And he looks so pissed.
And I want to cry but I can’t let myself do it.
His hands on my upper arms, his jaw flexes under the stubble covering his skin, and his eyes are just so . . . unyielding and grim.
‘You look like shit,’ my mouth seems to say, though I’m almost certain my brain meant to ask him what he’s doing here.
His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and even in this state I can see that this is a delaying tactic . . . for a smile. A smile that is a precursor to laughter.
‘I wished I could say the same.’
‘You wished I looked like shit?’ I answer, bemused, though I’m sure I must look like someone who’s just had the piss frightened out of them. Try not to look down. If you had peed yourself, I’m sure you’d know by now. You’d be feeling a little cold down there, surely.
He inhales, and when he exhales, the merriment seems to drain out of him. ‘Yeah, I wished you looked like shit. It’d be easier to walk away.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I sound like a cartoon mouse—a blubbering, eye-watering, snot bubbling mouse. ‘I know it’s not enough, but I really am so, so very sorry.’
‘I know.’ He nods, his hands tightening. ‘Me, too.’
And then he turns away.
Chapter 33
FLYNN
Part of me wishes I could walk away. It would make life easier, for sure, but I’d be poorer for the experience. I know this—feel this—on so many levels. I know it intellectually; Chastity is a good person whose experiences led her to believe she couldn’t trust her own judgement. I know it viscerally; just being around her is enough for me to learn how her mind works. She believes in people. And she’s a good person with a generous heart. The place she falls short is trusting her own judgement. And that I know in my heart. We may not have known each other for very long but a litany of small incidences tells me all I need to know. The text check ins with friends, the way she holds an infant. The love and concern she has for her family, both blood and chosen, the way she cares for her own staff. In an industry dominated by men and rife with exploitation, she stands strong. She’s an advocate of the industry in her own right, standing up for the rights of people—to watch porn and be watched, ethically. Then there are the smaller things that endear her to me. Her love of romantic comedies and her abhorrence for anything glorifying horror or death. The way she smiles at me with a dozen variations, my favourite of which is when she’s not buying my bullshit and not calling me out on it, either. A smile that’s cute and exasperated and elevates my joy to ridiculous rates. The way she hums to herself as she works in her home office and the way her body seeks mine in her sleep.
The way she looked at me when I told her I loved her, and the delight in her voice as she’d said it back to me.
The woman has a hard shell and a tender centre, and I can’t help but want it all.
Besides, how could I miss out on a woman whose name includes my favourite part of her anatomy? Chas-tity. Well, almost.
Keir stands at the restaurant doorway, presumably where the food fucker slunk off to. He’s lucky to still have his own teeth after I saw the look on Chastity’s face. I’ve seen her smile a dozen ways, and loved them all, and I’ve watched her face wear a thousand expressions, yet until a few moments ago, I’d never seen her fearful.
‘Do you want me to sort Chas’s car?’ Keir asks, tipping his chin. ‘She’ll get clamped, or worse, left there.’
I nod, though Chastity’s car is the least of my concerns and I act on instinct rather than intellect as I swing on the toes of my oxfords and storm my way back to her. She looks worried, which is near enough to frightened, but I can’t think about that. Not as I take her head in my hands, my gaze fiercely demanding of hers.
I just stare at her because I know if I open my mouth, the words won’t make sense. So instead, I tilt my head and slant my mouth over hers.
She squeaks as I kiss her, kiss her hard, kiss her as though I could press my frustration into her. Or maybe some sense. This woman is going to be both the bane and the joy of my entire life, I can tell. The agony and the ecstasy. The person who drives me crazy, as well as driving me to be a better man. But so long as she wants and needs me like she does right now—her hands hooked under my suit jacket, one fisting my shirt at my back—I reckon I’m okay with that.
As I pull back, her eyes are a little hazy, her fingers finding her lips as though to contain the power of our kiss.
‘Do you trust me?’
‘I do, and I’m sorry,’ she begins, hazy turning to threatening tears. ‘I was wrong, but try to see it from my position—’
I shake my head because that’s not what I meant at all. I have thought. I have tried to see it from her side—the evidence and the weight of her experience balanced against a man she thinks she barely knows. But I’ve been honest with her. Mostly. What you see is what you get. Mostly there, too.
I take her hand in both of mine, looping the ring holding her keys around my fingers only to deposit them in Paisley’s hand, all without letting go of her hand. It looks so small and slender in mine, her fingers widening as I draw one of my own the length of her palm.
‘What are you doing. Why are you giving her my keys?’
When she called from the office, Paisley was in a bit of a state—all broken sentences and emotion as she’d dashed out to her own car to follow. Because Chastity, on learning the truth behind the video, had shot out of the carpark in her little car like a bat escaping hell.
‘Because you’re coming home with me. It’s time to let someone else look after you.’
Her gaze softens and she exhales a soft breath, the tension dropping out of her. For at least a beat, before her eyes widen then flit to the bike parked in front of her car, the wrong way in the road.
‘On the donor cycle?’ she sort of yelps. ‘No. No way. People die on those things!’
‘Do you trust me,’ I repeat, not just talking about our mode of transport. And though I can tell she has a million things to say, provisos and addendums and fuck knows what else, she bites her bottom lip to stem the flow and nods her head.
‘I do trust you. I trust you not to break me. But I’m not sure,’ she says, her gaze sliding fearfully to the bike again, ‘I trust whizzing through the streets on a hunk of metal with wheels not breaking me.’
‘Just think of all that power between your legs.’
Her next look my way borders on contemptuous. ‘Really? At a time like this, you want to talk about sex?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I reply with a sly half smile. ‘So why don’t you just get your arse on the bike and we can go do something about it.’
