Hard

by S. R. Jones

  “Okay, maybe so. But when you join up, you know you’re going to be an agent of those politicians. You know you’re going to have to kill in their name, right?”

  She’s fired up now, and I’m starting to get the distinct impression this is her thing. Politics. Debating. Shit, my life. I need to end the conversation. I don’t do deep and meaningful talks about bullshit. I don’t even vote. And I haven’t eaten all day and am a big way down my third pint of strong lager, so I can’t count on holding my tongue. I sigh and decide to change the conversation.

  “I find it hard to respect that.” She purses her pouty lips into a thin line.

  Whoa! Did she outright say she doesn’t respect me? In a weird way, I find myself liking the balls on her. But I want to tell her to get down off her high fucking horse at the same time. I thought she’d be hard work, but this is going beyond that.

  “Fine by me. I don’t need or want your respect. Just for us to be able to work together.” I study her as I speak. She’s pissing me off and managing to turn me on at the same time.

  God knows, I don’t need the hassle of getting involved with some bleeding-heart idealist.

  God knows, I don’t need to get into some messed up hate-fuck scenario.

  God knows, I’m probably going to do it anyway, if she’s onboard because nothing beats a good, hard, angry fuck.

  Something about her pushes my buttons. For someone so fucking prim, she makes me think about sex.

  Hot, dirty, sweaty sex.

  “You can justify what you chose to do for a living all you like, but it won’t wash with me. I’m sorry, I will always be firmly against war.” She stands. “Excuse me.”

  She walks away as I stare at her, so fucking livid I’m surprised I haven’t smashed the table to pieces. Justify? I don’t need to justify anything to her.

  Not even thinking, I stand and follow her, not sure where she’s going. She turns right and down a dingy corridor before hanging left and into the ladies. I follow her in there.

  It’s carpeted, with two sinks, a mirror and a tattered chair. There’s a bowl of potpourri by the sinks, and then two stalls.

  “Excuse me! You can’t be in here.” Cara turns to me, her eyes flashing.

  She makes a small sound in the back of her throat and tries to move around me, but I put my arms out stopping her.

  “We need to get something straight, right now. I don’t have to fucking justify myself, to you or anyone.”

  Her eyes widen, and I think she’s scared, which is about right because I’m scaring myself right now. The monster inside is awake and breathing fire.

  I jab my finger at her as I speak. “The only reason you are free to spout all the pretentious, holier than thou bollocks you talk is because people like me fight for those freedoms.”

  To her credit, she doesn’t back down. “No. No, you don’t. At least, not in my name.” She’s scared, but she’s standing her ground, and despite not wanting to, I find myself feeling a grudging respect for her. But it is obliterated right now by my rage, and something else, something animalistic and hungry. Ravenous.

  I stalk forward, and she backs up, one hand gripping the vanity unit to her left.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” I hold my hands up because I’d never hit a woman, and she’s acting like I might.

  “You’re staring at me like you might want to hit me.” Cara smiles and gives a small laugh, but her fingers curl around the edge of the vanity unit.

  “No…I don’t want to hit you.” Hitting her isn’t the thing on my mind right now. Suddenly, in this small space, only us two, I’m so turned on I could explode. “I don’t hit women,” I add for good measure.

  She makes this little noise, and I can’t figure out what it means.

  What I want is her on her knees, that smug mouth of hers wrapped around my cock. I’d like to fuck the self-righteousness out of her. I’d love to make her so sated and incoherent she doesn’t have the time to overthink shit every minute of her day. Because I can tell she does. She probably agonizes over which fair trade bananas to buy for fuck’s sake.

  “What do you want to do then? You won’t persuade me you’re right.”

  “I don’t want to persuade you.”

  “What do you want?”

  And there’s something there. Something in her eyes, the way she asks the question. She’s scared, but she’s feeling the crazy attraction I am too, and she’s as turned on as I am. Her chest is rising and falling, and her pupils are crazy big.

  “I want to shut you up.”

  “How would you shut me up?”

  Is this happening? I came in here to tell her to back off and we’d be fine working together, and suddenly, it’s as if we’re in this other world. Just me, her, and the simmering attraction that’s been there from the moment I saw her in that damned lift.

  “I’d give that mouth of yours other things to do.”

  “Like?”

  And then I’m not thinking anymore. I’m acting on instinct. I’m on her in a flash, pushing her against the wall and tilting her chin to give me the access I want. I kiss her hard and deep. My tongue swipes the crease of her mouth, demanding access, and she gives it to me.

  Her taste bursts inside me. Fresh, a bit minty, but with a heady tinge of wine. She’s delicious. I could get drunk on her.

  She moans and presses herself against me, and I push right back, letting her feel how hard she has me.

  Then something shifts in her. I sense her tense a moment before she places both hands on my chest and pushes me back. Her lips are swollen, her eyes heavy.

  It takes all my restraint not to push her into one of those stalls and lock the door.

  “You’ve got to get out of here,” she gasps. “Anyone could come in.”

  She’s right, and I don’t want her to lose her job over this. I step back and regard her.

  I’m still seething, and horny as hell, but I swallow down the monster and make a heroic effort for calm.

  “I’m going. I’ll see you at the prison.”

  She’s still breathing like a steam train, and her face is flushed, but she smooths her skirt down and nods.

  She attempts to lighten things up, and smiles at me. It even reaches her eyes. “Yes. I’ll see you then. I think I’m a bit drunk. Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize.” And suddenly it’s awkward as hell between us. “So…you think we can get on well enough to work together in your classroom?” I smile at her. I can make nice, see?

  “I think we can play nice, if we try,” she says. Then seems to realize how it sounds, and her flush deepens.

  Oh, I can play nice sweetheart. Very nice if given the chance.

  I wonder what happens if you fuck your tutor? Liam will kill me if I get thrown off the course for sexual shenanigans.

  Cara wipes a hand over her face. “Look, what happened tonight. The conversation, what we’ve just done…it isn’t…we should put this behind us. I’m going to head on home. I’m sorry.” She watches me and her face falls. “Truly, I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean to. I suppose I carry deeply held beliefs, and I’m not used to holding back. Most of my friends are the political type. Debating team alums and all of that.”

  I need to go before I say something I’ll regret and take us back to the angry nastiness of moments ago. I shove the door open and step out into the dark hallway.

  “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to push. I’ve had a fair bit to drink and don’t handle it well. I’ve always been an opinionated person. I guess sometimes, I don’t know when to let things lie.” She touches my forearm, a soft flutter of her fingers against my skin. “I don’t know what you’ve seen. The things you’ve gone through. I can’t begin to imagine so I shouldn’t run my opinionated mouth off. Sorry. Again.”

  “It’s fine. No worries. I’ll see you soon, yeah.” I’ve got to fucking leave.

  Her apology is my undoing.

  My adrenalin has spiked and subsided, and now I’m
no longer angry or horny. I don’t know what I am. Hollow.

  Her words, along with Sue’s story about her son, have triggered something in me, and I can’t be in this space any longer.

  I push through the pub and out the double doors, chasing the fresh air. As soon as I’m out into the night, I take a few deep breaths. I shove my hands into my pockets and put my head down as I start to walk.

  I hardly ever talk about my experiences fighting. I don’t discuss it with anyone but the blokes from my unit. And then it’s mostly reminiscing about the good stuff, and gallows humor, not deep and serious shit.

  I don’t know why I shared about my migraines with Sue. I hate them. They make me feel weak, because I avoid stuff I used to take for granted. The fact I got them from some terrorist fuckers, holed up in a cave complex, doesn’t help my reaction to Cara’s words of wisdom any. If she’d seen some of the things I have, I doubt she’d go around waving her placards and being so certain of herself.

  But the head injury isn’t the thing giving me the weird sensation in my gut right now. It’s the other incident. The one from the Marines that haunts my nightmares.

  When I saw a group of young girls innocently playing outside get slaughtered.

  I couldn’t save them, and yet I’m treated like a hero, given medals.

  I lived with that memory for years, and I was fine. Since getting my head bashed in though, it’s resurfaced, and drives me crazy. I dream about it. Repeatedly. And it scares me because I know I’m more than capable of hurting someone if my head gets too screwed up.

  So, I go to therapy. I work out religiously. I eat like some clean-eating guru. I don’t drink more than a couple of pints in one go. I take my migraine meds if there’s even a hint of one coming. And I spend my life terrified that at some point the doors are going to blow off my self-control, and I’m going to hurt someone.

  I think of all the good men I’ve known who have died. I think of the terrible irony of Sue’s son’s death. And then I think of those girls. Their eyes as the life drained out of them.

  Something wet on my cheek has me looking up to see if it’s raining as I brush it away. But the night sky is clear.

  Fuck me. Am I crying? I never cry. I suppose this should be a good sign. My therapist is always telling me crying is a good form of release. A healthy way of processing some of the memories. I’ve not been able to though. Not at all. So why now?

  A gust of wind blows a paper bag past me, and I startle as it crosses my line of vision. Three girls stagger right at me, merrily tottering on too high heels. One gives me a saucy wolf whistle as they pass.

  The large expanse of grass known as The Stray lies empty before me. I find myself walking to the edge and onto it, towards the other end, where there are no lights. As I walk, I come across a bench, and I sit down heavily on its cold iron surface.

  For a long while, I stay there, looking out at nothing but darkness.

  I put my head in my hands and think about the friends I’ve lost, the children I’ve seen so horribly injured…and the man I used to be.

  Chapter Five

  Cara

  Mouth dry as sandpaper, I can hardly swallow. I moan and lick my lips. Great, a hangover from hell. I lick my lips again, and stagger out of bed and down into the kitchen. The hangover doesn’t help my sour mood. Guilt nips at the edges of me, sharp and raw. I’m not a nasty person. I try to be a good person, and yet last night I let my political views hurt someone.

  Oh, shit! The memory of what else I did last night slams into me. Hard and hot. Making me tremble a little where I stand.

  Crap! I could lose my fucking job.

  Then I think of the look on Luka’s face. Something changed after the heated argument, and the even more heated kiss. When he left the pub, he looked…hollowed out. And I did that to him. I’d no right. My views are my views, and I won’t be changing them any time soon, but I should have shut up instead of going on and on. Something about Luka pushes my buttons. He doesn’t hold back either, and maybe he hurt my feelings a little with the way he clearly derides what I do at the prison. I’m touchy about it since what happened to my cousin.

  I got onto a topic I’m passionate about anyway. Add in too much alcohol, and I messed up. Big time.

  What if he complains about me? Somehow, I don’t think he will. He doesn’t strike me as the sort of person to do that. No, he’d be much more likely to confront me openly about it.

  Maybe I should apologize? Again. But that might make things worse by dragging the whole thing up again. I swear to myself I won’t air my personal views in front of students again. And I’ll keep the professional distance with Luka I seem to have lost along the way somehow.

  The thought of that kiss though. It makes my head spin more than it already is. He didn’t hesitate, or start off slow and tentative. No, Luka took what he wanted, and I gave it gladly. It lasted seconds, but it was the best kiss of my life. My stomach flutters, and so do other parts of me. I sigh and tell myself to get a grip. Nothing like it will happen again. It can’t.

  I head to the fridge and pour myself a large glass of orange juice. The bliss as it coats my dry throat is epic.

  Thank God, I’ve got a free period this morning. My heart sinks though, as I think about the class at the prison tomorrow. And not for the usual reason it does these days with my anxiety issues, but because I’ll have to face Luka. Then my traitorous lady bits do their little happy flutter again, and I roll my eyes at myself. Disgusted.

  *****

  “So, she says, yeah, but last night you didn’t sit in it.” The class guffaws as Bobby finishes his off-color joke.

  I spent most of yesterday being useless, and this morning wasn’t much better. Maybe it’s because I’m coming up to my mid-twenties, but it seems I’m now cursed to suffer two-day hangovers. Seems a bit young for that to be happening, but I’ve always been old before my time in many ways. I finished university a year early. Then I did my Post-Graduate Certificate of Education with the intention of going into schools to teach, but hit it off with Laura, and she kind of took me under her wing. I got offered the job on the teaching course, and I’d already been doing volunteer hours at the prison.

  A year later, some more permanent hours came up, and at the grand age of twenty-four I find myself with two teaching jobs, and the outright owner of a valuable house in the old town area of Harrogate. Although, I’d much rather not have the house, considering it took losing my parents for me to be in this position.

  Still, owning it outright, and Dad’s generous life insurance policy, mean I don’t have to worry about money, and can afford to work two low paying, part-time jobs in our increasingly under-funded public sector.

  I shuffle my papers and give Bobby a pointed look as he begins to tell another joke. He shuts up and looks back down to the book he’s meant to be reading.

  I hope Luka doesn’t bring the events of the other night up, although he’s not here yet, so maybe he’s decided not to work with me anymore.

  Going forward, we need to stop letting our views get in the way of things. I may have upset him with my views on the military, but he hasn’t exactly kept his views of prisoners to himself. The reason I do this job is highly personal. I lost my cousin after he got in with the wrong crowd, got into a mess, and ended up stealing a few cars. He was arrested and served what I thought was the ridiculously long sentence of a year. It broke something in him, and while inside, he killed himself. I always believed something happened to him in prison, but I don’t know what.

  When I found out I could volunteer to teach in a prison unit as part of my teaching course, I did so. I bonded with Pete who runs the prison education program here, and he offered me a part-time job, which I snapped up. The stars aligned for me when Laura offered me the work on the teacher training course.

  I loved it all, until the attack…and now I don’t know if I’m as cut out for this as I’d thought. My belief in these men deserving another chance is still rock solid, but now
there’s a fear there, too. And it’s hard to do your job effectively when you are spending half your work life in a daze of anxiety.

  Someone’s telling another rude joke, and I sigh. Luka still isn’t here, and I’m convinced he’s not going to turn up at all, and worse, he’ll have complained about me to Laura. Will I get in trouble for sexual harassment? Although, he’s the one who made the move on me, I didn’t stop him. Not at first.

  Sat here, alone in this room, in front of these rowdy men, where I used to feel so comfortable, I’m achingly vulnerable. Mike’s right at the front of the class again, and his heavy gaze sits oily and thick on my skin.

  The door to the classroom bangs open and Luka stalks in. I try not to dwell on the rush of relief, because since when did I become some damsel in distress? He’s wearing black trousers, and a white shirt. Same get up as last time, and I’ll have to tell him he can wear more casual stuff in future if he wishes to.

  I stand up, and when Luka reaches my side, I clear my throat and face the group.

  “Guys, you remember Luka from the other day? He’s going to help teach you from now on. Give him the same respect you do me, and one another, and there won’t be any problems.”

  “We won’t pick on the student teacher, Miss. We promise,” one of the B-Wing prisoners quips. “Not with his nice shiny shoes and his nice shiny hair.”

  I glance at the register to check the kid’s name, and see he’s called Paul Heron. I’m about to give Mr. Heron a piece of my mind when Luka speaks up.

  “Pick on me all you like, Paul.” His voice comes out low and easy – and how the hell does he know the student’s name off the top of his head? “But if you ask me, someone with hair like yours shouldn’t be saying anything to others. People in glass houses and all that. Did you do it yourself, or your mother get the bowl out before you came in here?”

  A rumble of laughter sweeps the room and Paul flushes a deep shade of red. Great! All my arduous work to get the men to treat one another with respect seems about to go down the drain.