Hard

by S. R. Jones

  “Anyone else got anything they want to say?” Luka strolls out amongst the men. “What about you, David?” He stops by one of the loudest students, who often causes disruption.

  David snorts and shrugs. He stares belligerently at Luka’s chest, not meeting his gaze.

  “You like my shirt? You’re staring at it like you do.”

  “No.” David huffs.

  “Oh, so you don’t like my shirt. What’s wrong with this shirt?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Luka’s voice holds an easy, conversational tone, but it won’t fool anyone. Cold, hard steel lies under his words.

  “Nothing’s wrong with it.”

  “Then why are you staring at it? My eyes are up here, pal.” Luka clicks his fingers, and David obediently raises his gaze. I watch this whole exchange, rapt despite myself.

  “Thank you.” Luka says the words sincerely and nods once at David who nods back, respect lighting up his icy blue gaze.

  “Anyone else?” Luka wanders up and down each aisle, slow and steady, looking at each man he passes. They either shake their heads or avert their gaze when their turn comes.

  Mike smiles, and it’s not horrible or calculating. It looks genuine. Almost as if he’s happy to see Luka give the class a bit of a bollocking. Maybe he thinks I’m too soft?

  Finally returning to the front of the class, Luka stands with his hands crossed behind his back. “Good. We seem to have put the topic of my clothing and appearance to bed, which suits me, because it’s as boring as fuck. I was under the impression you were here to learn, not jerk me around like idiots.”

  Holy shit. I nearly choke. I watch the students for any signs of impending violence, my fingers curled over the panic button under the desk. Instead of the anger I’m braced for, the room erupts into laughter.

  “You’s alright, sir.” One of the youngest students laughs.

  “Yeah, you’re okay.” Another chuckles.

  Mike continues to watch Luka, and there’s a smile in his eyes. A positive emotion shining there. Something like recognition, or…warmth? I shake my head. I must be losing it.

  For the rest of the class, Luka and I work well together. I’m amazed at how well. It’s as if we’re ultra aware of one another on some level as we seamlessly move around the room and play off each other when talking to the group. I relax into my role, like I used to do. It’s a great feeling, but it scares me. I’m only experiencing it because of Luka. I can’t spend the rest of my life only doing things with him by my side. Normally, I stay behind after class to complete some paperwork, but I want to get home today. My body still aches from this strange hangover, and I need a hot meal and bed.

  I leave as Luka is still messing around in his locker, tossing a thanks his way as I head out. But once outside the gates of the prison, I hear footsteps behind me, and turn to see Luka walking the same way as me.

  “You taking the bus?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Me too.”

  I look at him, surprised.

  “Let my sis use the car,” he grumbles. “Still not got around to sorting a second.”

  I smile at that. He’s obviously not all bad if he lets his sister borrow his car.

  The prison lies three miles outside of Harrogate, on the outskirts of another small market town, and the buses only run every thirty minutes. Seems we’re stuck with one another for a while.

  Luka turns to me, a smile playing about his beautiful mouth. “I’m planning to buy another car at the weekend…but of course, it will enlarge our family’s carbon footprint.”

  “I bet you think I’m a real pain in the butt?” I smile, genuinely amused at how I imagined Luka must view me.

  “No.” Luka’s face grows serious. “I think you’re…interesting. You remind me of a few people I used to know, back in the day, on the dance scene. Earnest and enthusiastic, little bit idealistic.”

  “You used to be into dance music?” I can’t keep the shock out of my voice.

  “Oh yeah.” Luka nods, grinning. “Big time. Right proper raver back in the day. Still got my decks at home.”

  “You used to DJ?” I can’t help but be intrigued by this. I mean, he’s a Special Forces soldier, but he used to be a raver! Doesn’t fit somehow.

  “Yeah. Even got a gig out in Ibiza for a week one summer. The rest of the time I worked on construction sites with my uncle.”

  “How did a raving builder end up a Commando?” I hope my tone doesn’t hold any censure about the military because I genuinely want to know, and don’t want him to clam up on me.

  “I lost my job, couldn’t find any work after the construction business dried up, and didn’t know what to do with myself. My dad had been in the military. He died in service. Mum slowly drank herself to death after that. Being at home was shit. I wanted to get out of there, and I got offered a place on the Royal Marine’s training course.”

  “I’m sorry.” Oh, God, that’s awful. My heart goes out to him. I’m someone who knows what it’s like to lose both parents young, but I know he’s not the type of man who will want me to be pitying.

  “It’s fine.” His brusque tone shows my assessment is spot on. He smiles at something, eyes forward. “Joining the Marines was a real shock to the system, I can tell you. No more going out dancing ‘til four and getting up at lunchtime. Christ, it was hard. But I knew if I passed, I could send money back to Mum each month. It also meant I wouldn’t end up like my friends, signing on, or taking some shitty, dead end job in a call center.”

  I swallow my discomfort about him being less worried about having to take another life, than the idea of a call center job, and instead ask another question. Wanting to know more for some reason. “Weren’t you scared? I mean, after your dad lost his life in the military?”

  “God, yeah. But…it’s hard to explain.” He slows his pace. “When you’re training, you know what’s at the end of it intellectually, but you’ve no real grasp of what it truly entails. And I loved the physical side of it. I mastered some amazing skills. I suppose it made me who I am today.”

  “It obviously gave you incredible confidence. You didn’t seem intimidated by the men today. You put them in their place. Not even Mike seems to throw you.” I realize I’ve given my own hand away as soon as the words leave my mouth.

  Thankfully he doesn’t pick up on it and say anything about me being nervous and clearly out of my depth in my job right now.

  We lapse into silence until we reach the bus station. The bus is already idling in the bay, so we pay and clamber aboard.

  “Might as well sit at the back, more legroom.” Luka speaks behind me, and he’s so close his breath whispers over the hairs at the nape of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

  He’s not even touched me, but suddenly every nerve ending is alive. I tell myself it’s a natural reaction. Since Dane left me, I’ve been alone, no one night stands. Nothing. And it means I’ve been somewhat starved of touch for long months now.

  “Okay.” My voice comes out high, and I hope he doesn’t notice.

  We reach the last seats and I sit on the long bench running the across the back of the bus, facing forward. I can’t ride backwards, it makes me sick. Luka sits opposite me. Long legs relaxed and slightly parted, but not doing that man-spreading thing I can’t stand.

  As we sit there, I become acutely aware of him. Of his size, his presence. There’s something extremely charismatic about him. I saw it today with the students and now all that personality is opposite me, wrapped up in the big, hard body that houses it.

  I’m starting to get anxious. My stupid over-analytical mind starts to wonder if he’s noticed my reaction to him. Then I start to worry what it means about me that I’m finding myself attracted to the sort of man I supposedly can’t stand. Since his somewhat forceful kiss, my little fantasy has sprung back to life. But now, instead of a nameless, faceless man dominating me, it’s Luka.

  The bus is hot, and airless, idling with
the engine running. I want us to move. How long is this damn thing going to sit here? My anxiety levels are climbing, and I’m starting to think I might have a full-blown panic attack.

  “So, Ms. Toulson, what do you do to relax?” Luka’s words are full of meaning, only I can’t decipher what. Is he flirting with me? Or laughing at me? Either way, he’s pulled me out of my impending panic attack with his question.

  “Erm…lots of things. I run. Do yoga. I love old movies, but my favorite thing is reading.”

  “Me too.”

  I gawp at him. His words couldn’t have surprised me more.

  “Really? What do you like to read?”

  He shrugs. “Everything. I like the classics. Dickens is a favorite. I like thrillers, and history. Anything about the Third Reich.” His face has become animated as he talks. “But the political side of it, you know. Not so much the military side. It fascinates me how it happened. How a whole nation effectively suffered from Stockholm Syndrome and supported a mad man. It’s terrifying.”

  Wow. I’m shocked, and my shock tells me something unpleasant about myself. That I judge people too quickly on appearances.

  “What do you like to read?” he asks me.

  “Like you, a bit of everything. I love the classics too, although Austen is my personal fave. I love literary books. But I have a secret weak spot for Chick Lit.” I confess my shame and he laughs.

  “I have a weak spot for pulp fiction.”

  We smile at one another and it feels as if something’s shifted between us.

  I want to apologize again for the other night, but I daren’t, so I shut my mouth. Then I open it again, only to snap it shut once more.

  As the bus pulls in to Harrogate and we disembark, I realize Luka will have to walk past my house on his way out of the town center. On impulse I turn to him. “Would you like to come for a bite to eat at mine? I’ve got a good bottle of wine it would be nice to share, and we could discuss next week’s lesson plan?”

  And I can maybe find the courage to make my apology, because until I do it will niggle away at me. I’ll also tell him in no uncertain terms we can’t do the kissing thing again.

  He walks along for a couple of steps not saying anything, the tick in his jaw telling me the invite is unexpected, and perhaps, unwanted. A horrible thought hits me. What if he thinks my invite means something else?

  What if he thinks I want a repeat of the other night? Do I want a repeat of the other night?

  It’s irrelevant what I want. We can’t. I’m his tutor and it’s ethically all kinds of wrong. Although, the power balance truthfully doesn’t seem to lie in my favor. He’s older than me. More confident than me. He’s experienced a wealth of adventures, where I went straight from college to teaching.

  I decide firmly that I’m not hitting on him, because he’s frankly way out of my league even if I went for his type. Which I don’t.

  “Okay. That’d be nice, thanks.” Luka glances at me, and his lips curl up in a small smile. As we walk through the gate to the house, I try to remember if I’ve left it in a total state.

  It turns out the house is fine, but I’ve nothing in to make a meal from. In the end, we crack open the wine, and take it through to the lounge with some hummus and tortillas. I’m mortified.

  “You’ll be ravenous tonight. I can’t believe I invited you in for tea without remembering I needed to go shopping!”

  “I’ll be fine, I’ll grab a Kebab on the way home.”

  I shudder at the thought but don’t say anything. How anyone can eat cheap meat is beyond me.

  I’m a pescatarian, so don’t eat meat at all. A kebab sounds utterly vile.

  We sit in the lounge, Luka on the sofa, me curled up on the huge, oversize chair I treated myself to last year. Wine in hand as I sip away.

  We talk for a while about nothing much. The prison, the students. I tell him how the course will unfold, and during this we manage to polish off a big glass of wine each, and are now halfway down our second. It’s gone right to my head, tired and hungry as I am.

  “This is a nice place you’ve got.” Luka looks around, eyes lingering on the coffee table and my Green party booklet, and then on the anti-war poster on my wall. Shit. It brings up the other night in my mind. And the apology is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t say it.

  A folder is on the table, too. The one that holds all the pictures and basic information for the prisoners I’m teaching literature to this year.

  Luka drops his head back and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he looks at me with an almost gentle expression. “Do they intimidate you?”

  I don’t have to ask who. I weigh up simply lying, shrugging off my earlier comment and saying, no, of course my students don’t intimidate me. But it seems suddenly way too easy to talk to Luka, what with the wine rushing through my veins, and those changeable eyes of his soft in this dim light.

  “They never did before. This year though, yeah, some days they…don’t intimidate me, I’m not scared of them, but I get the weirdest feeling. It’s as if…I’m outside of my comfort zone, but I can’t put my finger on it. Like…I want to walk out of the class or something, so I can stop being so…uncomfortable. So I can breathe. You won’t know what I mean, though. Forget it. I sound crazy.”

  Luka starts to laugh. I bristle as anger surges through me. How dare he when I’ve bared my soul?

  But then he stops laughing and his smile drips from his face. “Yeah. I do know the feeling. You’ve described how I feel every single fucking day.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t have been more amazed if he’d announced he’d booked a trip to Mars. The only time I’ve seen any hint of Luka struggling with any sort of emotion came during our brief conversation in the pub.

  “Yeah. I don’t know how to fit back in. I mean, I do. I’m playing the part, doing all the stuff society expects of me. But it’s as if…it’s an act. I’m play acting living a normal life, whereas in reality…” He glances down at the floor. “I’m not sure I know how anymore.”

  I don’t know what to say to such a weighty confession. Could we become friends maybe? This isn’t the same irritation mixed with lust simmering between us I normally sense. I choose my next words carefully. “It must be hard, after the things you’ve seen.”

  “I miss it.” He snorts and shakes his head. “It was hell at times, a living hell, but I knew how to do it, you know? This. The after part? I’m not too good at it.”

  “I suppose they don’t train you for that.”

  He sits forward, gaze intense. “You know? I think you’ve hit the nail on the head there. Everything else you’re trained for. Not being back home though.” He laughs again, but this time it’s a real laugh. Not bitter or jaded, but glorious and free.

  “Christ, Cara. Did you slip something into this wine? I’ve told you more tonight than I’ve told my therapist in months.”

  “You see a therapist?” Okay, now I’m truly seeing him in a different light. He reads the classics. He doesn’t feel he fits in, and he’s seeing a therapist. And that alone makes him a damn sight braver than me, who fled my therapist’s office after one particularly grueling session and never went back.

  “Yep. I knew I needed to. Think I’d started to display some signs of impending PTSD. You know…. anger, rage… anger, rage.” He laughs again, only this time it’s got the bitter tone back. He looks uncomfortable suddenly, and I know our caring and sharing session is over. He glances at his watch.

  “I better get going.”

  He stands abruptly, almost knocking the wine glass over on the table in front of him. “I don’t drink wine often, it’s gone straight to my head without food.”

  “Sorry.” I’m such a shit hostess. “You’ve not got an early start have you?”

  “Luckily for me, I have the morning off but my niece is a real live-wire. I need more sleep to deal with her than I do to face a full day at the office, or training clients.”

  His face lights up though at
the mention of his niece, and his beauty when he lets go takes my breath away.

  His niece! It clicks into place then. The girl on Facebook, and the woman with him in the pictures, they must be his sister and his niece. I nearly say something, and bite my tongue at the last minute. He’ll think I’m a totally unhinged stalker if he knows I’ve been searching him out on Facebook. And he’ll have a good point.

  Still, the whole niece thing has my heart beating faster at the knowledge he doesn’t have a significant other in his life. Or at least not significant enough to put on Facebook. Then I tell myself I’m being epically dumb.

  This is a guy who is strikingly gorgeous. And I’m a plain little duckling. Not ugly, but not pretty, either. I bet he goes for tall, leggy brunettes with gorgeous, fashionable clothes. Not ginger girls with too many freckles like me.

  For once, not happy in my own skin, when normally I don’t even think about it, I follow him into the hallway.

  We get to the door and Luka is so close I can feel the heat radiating from him.

  “It’s been interesting. Thanks for the talk.”

  “You t-too.” Since when did I stutter? Heat rushes through my face and I curse myself. This man messes with my equilibrium like no other.

  Luka’s eyes darken as he watches me squirm. “You look good all flushed like that. I like the way everything you’re feeling shows on your skin.”

  What? My heart beats double time as I digest the possible meaning of his words. I’ve no response. What can I say to such a blatant line? Maybe he does like freckly types. Or maybe he’s playing with me? Enjoying making the geeky girl blush.

  “Christ, Cara, stop thinking so much.” He shakes his head.

  His face comes closer to mine and his gaze flickers all over my face as if he’s trying to read me. “I’m going to kiss you again, but I don’t want to get into trouble for sexually harassing my teacher, so if I’m a million miles off target here, tell me now.”

  Unable to speak, or even think clearly, I shake my head. He’s not a million miles off. I’d sell a kidney to have him kiss me right now. Despite being unnerved by him on so many levels, despite disagreeing with his views on many things, I want him to kiss me more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.