by Jade West
I looked at her mates. A couple of alright girls amongst the rabble, one redhead, one with long dark braids. And another, facing away from me, giggling with a stocky little skank in pigtails.
“What are you here for then, Callum Jackson?” Gemma Davies smiled, hitched her skirt a bit. “Want a swig?”
I took the bottle. Tasted like paint stripper. “Who’s your mate?”
“Which one?” she smiled. I tipped my head and she rolled her eyes. “So pissing typical. Lozza, get over here. Got an admirer.”
The girl glanced back over her shoulder. Her blonde hair was just like Sophie Harding’s. Face not so much. She was piggier, with a fatter nose, and her eyes were dark. My dick didn’t fucking care.
“Hey,” she said. “I know you.”
“Most do,” I said, taking another swig.
“Look pretty wired.” She was smiling, twirling her hair. Drunk.
Gemma reached for the bottle. “How come she gets all the luck? How about it, Cal?” She pushed the bottle neck between her lips, eyes on me as she gave it fucking head. My fist clenched at my side, itching to ram it down her throat. I fixed my eyes back on blondie, on the way her hair curled under her chin.
“Wanna go for a walk?”
She smiled, feigned innocence. “A walk? Where you wanna walk to?”
“Around.”
She flicked her hair, giggled at her pig-tailed mate. “Sure, I could do with stretching my legs. Just for a minute though, yeah?”
“No fair,” Gemma laughed. “Come back after, eh? I don’t do sloppy seconds, but for you...”
Lozza tottered over, unsteady on vodka legs. She was taller than Sophie Harding, but that would be the heels. Stupid high stiletto things she could barely walk in. She swayed along with me, taking hold of my elbow as we crossed the road.
“Where we going?”
“Around.”
“We could go to mine, if you want. My mum’ll be out all night, probably got some beer in the fridge.”
I kept a pace, pulling her along until she stopped in the middle of the road, giggling like a retard. “Jesus, hold your horses, yeah? I can’t keep up.”
I stopped, turning to face her in the streetlights. Her hair glowed blonde, face dark in the shadow. “Not far now.”
“I’ve heard about you, Callum Jackson. They say you’re rough... maybe I should go back.”
“Go. If you want.”
She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, staring up at me with drunken eyes. “They say you have tats. Loads of them. I wanna see.”
I reached around her, slamming a hand onto her ass so hard it knocked her flat into me. “I wanna see you.”
“Uh huh, where?” Her breath stank of fags and drink.
“Over there.” I tipped my head towards tower one.
“You got a place?”
“Don’t need one.”
“Got a rubber in my bag... if you wanna...”
I grabbed hold of her arm. She didn’t argue this time, just bounced after me, her heels clacking on the tarmac all the fucking way. I led her through the alleyway, slowing down as we reached the garage block. They’d already cleaned up my work, only the slightest hint of my thank you remained. I felt a weird relief.
“Ok, so what do you wanna do now? Talk a minute or something? Should have brought the vodka.” She was more nervous off the main drag. The garages were dark, dim lights just enough to see by.
I didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to think. My cock was throbbing like a motherfucker, straining for cunt. I turned on her, walking her backwards to the same fucking doorway I’d pinned Sophie Harding. My cock leapt at the memory, jerking in my fucking jeans.
“Wait,” she said. “Just a second. I... I need to piss... and then we can talk... or whatever...”
She took a sidestep, squatting down beside me with all the grace of a fucking ape. Her knickers bunched around her knees, and she pissed like a horse. I could hear it splashing the tarmac under her, see it pooling in the half light, streaming its way across to my feet. Piss and fags and cheap fucking vodka. She was cheap, like me, cheap and fucking dirty, like everything else in this place. “Nearly done...”
I didn’t give her a fucking chance. Need boiled over, springing my hands to life. I’d grabbed her in a heartbeat, rough hands on scrawny shoulders, yanking her to standing so fast her heels clipped the floor and sent her reeling backwards.
She squealed, trying to regain her balance, but I’d already pinned her. Pinned her tight, so much tighter than I’d pinned Sophie Harding. Her cunt was still dripping, but I didn’t fucking care. I found the right spot, thumb tight against her filthy, piss-soaked clit. She moaned and spread her legs, wrapping her arms around my neck for balance. “Yes... fuck...”
She was warm and wet, and soft, real fucking soft. “You want it?” I grunted.
“Yes...”
“Ask nicely, you dirty fucking bitch.”
“Yes... please...” she moaned. “I know about you... they say you’re an animal...”
Two fingers went in easy, I spread them inside her. “Gonna open you up.”
“Fuck yeah...”
She came in for a kiss, but I ducked my head, moving my mouth to her neck. She grabbed my hair, held me to her while I tasted her skin. Cheap perfume tasted nasty on her throat. I moved lower, yanking down her tight little vest top. Soft tits spilled out for me. Nipples like dark bullets. I took one between my teeth, sucked her hard.
“Yeah... like that...” she groaned.
Her tit tasted better than her neck. I sucked her in, cock straining in my jeans as her breath tickled my scalp. She was breathing fast, shallow. I pulled away so I could look at her. Her tits were nice, from what I could see, perky and pale. I wondered if Sophie Harding’s would look like that. No, hers would be sweeter, smaller. Hers would fit in my mouth, her whole sweet tit in my filthy mouth. Yes. I wanted that. I wanted her.
“Feels so good...” Blondie’s voice broke my mood. Ruined it. Her cunt was noisy, slurping like a slack-jawed mouth around my fucking fingers. I shoved another in, working that dirty little clit with my thumb until her hand was on my wrist. “Gonna come... shit...”
“Take it,” I barked. That cunt’s words through the door... his fingers in Sophie’s sweet posh snatch... making her beg, making her take it.
“I’m gonna come...” Blondie hissed. “Yes...”
I let her, taking her weight around my neck as her legs juddered from under her. She moaned like the drunken skank she was, telling me how good it was, how fucking bad I was, such a fucking savage pounding her tight little pussy with my nasty fingers.
I didn’t give her time to catch her breath on the come down. Her eyes widened as I attacked, spinning her and slamming her hard, her cheek pressed against the garage door, my hand around her skinny neck holding her firm. “Stay fucking still.”
I reached down for her bag, fumbled around until I found a rubber. I freed my cock, finally, tearing the packet in my teeth and sheathing myself ready. She’d stayed in position, bare tits tight against the metal of the door, shoulders goose-pimpled from the cold. I wrapped my arm around her neck, pinned her in a choke hold. Her hands came up in panic, trying to prise me off her, but I held tight, her soft blonde hair under my chin as I plunged my cock right the way in her snatch. I breathed in her hair, grunting in relief. She gulped for breath, her hands pulling at my wrist.
“Don’t fucking fight me,” I growled.
I fucked her hard, using her like the cheap hole she was. It felt so fucking good. I closed my eyes, listening to her desperate breath, loving the way she moaned and wheezed in my grip. She forgot the pressure against her throat, snaking her hands back to reach for me, fists on my hoodie, pulling me harder into her.
My thighs tensed up, balls ready to fucking go. Her pussy clenched, milking me, and I was gone in her, shooting my load and swearing like a fucking lunatic, lost to everything but her sweet, hot cunt.
I dropped her wh
en it was over, and she rubbed at her neck as though I’d nearly fucking killed her, gulping in air and making a big fucking deal about it. Satisfied she could breathe, she turned to face me, piggy eyes glinting with excitement.
“They didn’t lie about you, did they?”
I didn’t say a word, tossing the rubber to the floor and shoving my cock back in my jeans.
“Fancy coming back to mine? We could get that beer, go another round.”
I pulled up my hood, hiding my eyes from her. The cold wave of reality hit hard, and I felt dirty. Spent.
I looked at her through fresh eyes. She looked nothing like Sophie Harding. She wasn’t even close.
“Gonna go now,” I said. “I’ll walk you back.”
She looked disappointed but didn’t grumble, holding out a hand that I avoided, gripping hold of her elbow instead. I slipped into the shadows the moment her friends were back in sight.
She didn’t even have chance to say goodbye.
***
Casey jolted me awake. Barking then whining, spinning around on the spot, her tail tickling my nose as she went. I sat up, rubbing my eyes to adjust to the light. My stomach grumbled on instinct, the smell of toast making my mouth water.
Vicki poked her head around the shed door. She gave Casey a fuss with one hand, handing me a plate with the other.
“Sorry, only enough bread for one slice.”
I took the plate, grateful. The toast was dry, with hardly any butter, but it went down a fucking treat. I threw the crust to Case. “Thanks, Vick.”
She pulled her dressing gown tighter, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. I could hear Slater through the back door, singing along to cartoons at full blast. She took out a pack of ten fags from her pocket, handed me one. I lit up, taking one hell of a drag. “What time is it?”
“Eight.”
I reached into my pocket, pulling out the wedge of notes. “One fifty, all there.”
“She was good for it, then.”
I nodded. “She was sound, yeah.”
Vicki counted it, then slid it inside the top of her nightdress, hooking it into her bra. “What did she want?”
I shrugged. “Nothing much.”
“Nothing much? For one fifty?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Just wanted some security, that’s all. Was going out.”
“Going out where?”
“Just a club.”
“Just a club? Wanted just a few favours, did she? She make you frig her off or some shit? Do a little gigolo?”
“Don’t be pissing daft, Vick.”
She puffed her way through her cigarette and sparked another straight up. She was scowling, as well, proper pissed off. “Thought you’d be smiling, got the Stoney brothers off your case for a while.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“What’s up? Is it Slay? Keep you up, did he?”
“I was up waiting for you.”
Guilt and anger brawled in my stomach, having a right old punch up. “Told you before, shouldn’t be waiting up for me.”
“Stayed up till three. You weren’t back.”
“Took a walk, after. Needed to unwind.”
“Just a walk?”
“Yeah, just a pissing walk.”
“Weren’t off shagging Lozza Price, then?”
Anger won. “Fucking hell, Vick. Facebook? I hate that fucking shit.”
“Gemma Davies put a status up last night. Said you were all over her apparently, snogging her face off, then fucked her by Al’s chip shop and went back to hers for afters.”
“Facebook’s full of fucking bollocks.”
“So, you didn’t shag her?”
“Weren’t by Al’s, and I didn’t go back to hers, neither.”
She looked over the wall, over towards tower one. “Didn’t think she was your type.”
“And what’s that, Vick?”
She shrugged. “Didn’t think you even liked blondes.”
“She was there, that’s all.” I got up, stepped out into the cold air. I took a deep breath, chasing off the sleep. Casey took a piss by the gate, then gambolled around the place, tail wagging. “Better take her out, wants a run.”
“Coming back?”
“Later,” I said. Only today I wasn’t so sure.
“That Lozza looks a bit like that Harding woman, don’t ya think?”
I felt my heart leap. I shrugged. “Hadn’t noticed.”
“You seeing her again?”
“Lozza? No.”
“Good. She’s a stuck up cow anyway, don’t like her.”
I opened the gate, smiling as Casey took off like a bullet. She waited at the end of the road, down on her front legs, tail going. “Gotta go, Vick. Thanks for the toast.”
“Don’t be late back, yeah? Can watch TV or summat.”
She best not hold her breath.
***
Sophie
“Are you listening to me?”
I put down my fork, turning my attention to Dad. He was bleating on again, and no, I hadn’t been listening. Roast dinner was surely never worth all this shit, and yet here I was, every bloody Sunday.
“Three months, I get it,” I sighed. “But I’ve got initiatives running, a new estate to manage, I can’t just up and leave. I guess the Hardings’ grand entrance into the glittering world of showbiz will just have to scrape by without me.”
“It’s not show business,” he snapped. “It’s theatre, and art, and culture. But of course your initiatives for the drug addicts and reprobates far outweigh anything we have to offer.”
“I like my job.”
“Leave it for now, George,” Mum said. “Not at the table.”
The beautiful soundtrack of cutlery. I stared out at my parents’ garden. You’d never believe this place was in London, not from the grounds. Money can buy just about anything, except decent family communication it seems.
“We don’t need you, anyway,” Alexandra chimed in. “The Southbank development is my baby now. Hang with the druggies all you like, I’ll be hobnobbing with class. Artists, you know... and critics, and art dealers, and people from Culture magazine. You can come along to opening night and weep with jealousy.”
Like that would ever happen. I’ve never been jealous of Alexandra once in my entire existence, despite her being the princess in the tower.
“Not the point,” Dad barked. “We’re a family business. Family. We should all be onboard.”
We weren’t a family business. A family business is like a twee family bakery, or having a family trade or some crap like that. Dad owns Hardings Property and Lettings, the largest but one agency in the country. He has over two thousand people working for him, including my snotty sister, so quite why it was so important that I, black-sheep Harding, should have to be on the payroll as well, mystified me. Principle, Mum said. He’s so principled. So bloody pig-headed, more like.
I resumed my meal, picking at my peas while I waited for it. I thought I’d made it, that maybe for once he’d defy history and let it go until dessert, but no. Of course he wouldn’t.
“Well, maybe it’s time we spoke about the rent on your apartment, then...”
Oh how I love Sundays.
***
The thrill of defiance. A cheap thrill, admittedly, but nonetheless, signing out of the office before Christine’s midday briefing was just the perk I needed on a Monday morning. Nothing like a super important, utterly routine estate walkabout to start the week.
I breathed in the dank, cold air of East Veil skate park, scribbling a note to call in maintenance. More syringes than usual. Must have been a real junkie smash up.
Some idiots had torn the benches apart, used one to smash the glass at the bus shelter across the street. A traffic cone covering a lamppost, and someone’s old trainer wedged in the top. Give me strength.
Al Brown was already outside his fish and chip shop. He waved as I walked on by, sweeping broken glass from the doorway. Dum Cunt in big black letters, daubed ov
er his windows — an irony if ever I saw one. Definitely not one of Callum Jackson’s masterpieces. I kept a beady eye out, surprisingly excited at the prospect of finding one before clean-up had their way with it.
My legs felt a little seasick as I stepped from the alleyway into the tower one garage block, but the place was empty this time, no sign of life. Faintly, ever so faintly, you could still make out the top of the T where Callum’s message had been. I skirted the edge of the garages for a better view, landing a heel straight into a used rubber. Fucking brilliant. My heel speared through, dragging it along the tarmac as I danced a jig, trying to shake the grotty thing off. Nothing says romance quite like a discarded condom.
Like I was in any position to pass judgement on romance. At least there was a rubber, a responsible choice about contraception if not about location. Can’t have it all, I suppose.
I kept going, tower one pulling me like a ruddy grey homing beacon.
I was not looking for him, definitely, definitely not looking. He hadn’t even crossed my mind, not once. Definitely not the first thing I’d thought of on arriving at the office. Certainly, absolutely not a factor when considering an estate walkabout. Callum Jackson could be anywhere for all I cared. Preferably on someone else’s estate, fighting with someone else’s tenants.
My heart leapt at the sight of a grey hoodie, but it was just a youngster, fourteen at most. Blonde, skinny.
Get back with the bloody plot, Sophie Harding.
I don’t know how I found myself knocking on Hannah Jackson’s front door, but it took her an age to answer, mumbling obscenities as she went.
“Not even ten o bloody clock yet.”
I checked my watch. “Twenty past, actually.”
She peered past me, to the lifts. “Ain’t s’posed to come on your own, are ya?”
“That’s discretionary on a case by case basis,” I lied. “I thought I’d drop by again, about the security.”
“Ain’t got me new letterbox yet.” She took the chain off the door, wandered back inside where I could follow her. I shut the door behind me, adjusting my nose to the stink. Stale tobacco and damp. She brushed a space on the sofa, dumping a load of fish and chip papers onto the carpet. “Nor the bars on the windows.”
