by Jade West
Friday afternoon hit hard. My paints were in dregs after my latest mural, black clean out and red not far behind. No money to get more, no fucking hope in sight. I stashed my paints in Vicki’s shed when she was out at her mam’s, then broke my twenty on a cheap bottle of vodka and a tin of food for Case. Sophie Harding was a fucking nightmare, charging helter-skelter round my brain. Her soft blonde hair, her pretty eyes. The way she smelt so fucking clean. Her sweet little pussy so wet for me. She’d cried my name like I meant something. Like I was someone. She was wrong. So fucking wrong. I’d put paid to that by taking that cash off her. My last tenner bought me an underground day pass, and I headed down Islington way, over to Baker Road. I knew the housing office was based down there. Mam had dragged me enough times when I was little, harping on about rent and benefits and the poxy fucking neighbours. I found it easy enough, pressing myself into the shadow of the shoe shop opposite to keep an eye out. I just wanted to see her, that’s all. Watch her for a little while.
Case settled down, resting at my feet as I drank my way through the vodka. I’d almost finished by the time the housing shut up for the day, staying out of sight as they spilled out the place, suited up so fucking smart. Sophie was amongst them, laughing and smiling as she went. A group of them stopped at the pub down the road, Bay Leaf Inn. I watched her through the window; watched her talk, watched her smile.
She looked happy. Pretty. Just a normal woman on a Friday night, oblivious to the freak outside waiting for her. I picked about in the ashtrays, smoking a load of scabby leftovers. My tobacco was down to the crumbs, papers almost out too. I stuffed a couple of skanky fag ends in my pocket for later and left before she did, heading back across the street to watch her leave. It was dark by the time she came out, tottering on down to the tube station. I kept my distance, shushing Casey to stop fucking whining, while I followed her all the way. She got off at Canary Wharf. I’d heard about this place. The buildings were fucking crazy, tall glass space towers of fucking money. So, she was from here. Richer than I’d fucking thought, made of fucking money. The thought made me bitter and I closed the gap in a rage. She heard Casey before she heard me, spinning at the sound of her whining, only to find herself up against me as I grappled for her arms. She recoiled, shocked, squeaking as I yanked her down the side of the nearest building, dog jumping all around us as I smashed her into the wall.
She looked angry, angry and scared.
“What the hell are you doing here?!”
“Followed you,” I grunted.
“Followed me? Why?”
I shrugged. “Dunno.”
“Could have just answered your phone, or, I dunno, stopped fucking avoiding me.” Her mouth was so pretty when she was angry.
I gripped her cheeks in my fingers, squeezing her beautiful lips into a pout. “You should be careful, out on your own.”
“I don’t usually get followed. This isn’t East Veil, Callum.”
“This where you come from, rich girl?”
“I rent my apartment from my parents. Only lived here a couple of years.”
“Nice rich mammy and daddy looking out for their princess.”
Her eyes narrowed. “It’s not like that.”
“What’s a little rich girl like you doing round East Veil? Like a bit of rough, do ya? Need dirty rough cock in ya to feel good?”
She tried to shove me away but I didn’t budge. “You’re drunk.”
“So?”
“So, don’t be such an arsehole. I’m from money, big fucking deal. I have a nice apartment, whoopy fucking do, Callum.”
“Liked paying me for it?” I sneered. “Hope my cock was worth the money.”
She shoved me again, harder this time. “Is that what it was to you? A fucking job?”
“That’s what it was to you,” I snarled.
“Of course it fucking wasn’t. I was paying you for the shit with Roger, for your time.”
“Didn’t want it!” I thundered.
She stared at me in shock. “Why take it, then?” she snapped. “I was trying to be nice. If you were so fucking offended, why not say so?”
“Needed it,” I spat. “Needed your filthy money! Fuck you, rich girl!”
I walked away, scrabbling for one of those scabby fag ends and ignoring her attempts to call after me. I hadn’t gone far before I realised Case weren’t coming along. She was still with Sophie, getting her ears scratched. I stomped back to grab her, but Sophie wouldn’t send her away.
“You’re being a prick,” she said. “I’m not going to cower away from you, handling you with kid gloves. If something’s up then fucking say it, don’t just sulk off like a big fucking jerk.”
“Don’t like being bought.”
“I don’t like being ignored.”
“Both fucked then, ain’t we?”
She sighed. “Fucking looks that way.” She rolled her eyes. “I live over there. Why don’t we go inside, talk it out properly.”
“Talk?”
“Talk, fuck, whatever. Don’t worry, I won’t even offer you a coffee this time.”
I pressed up against her. “This ain’t no place for me, I don’t belong here.”
“Neither do I,” she said.
“Where do you belong, then?”
“Do you actually want to know? Seriously?”
I nodded. “Not taking no money again, though. Don’t want it.”
“This place doesn’t mean shit to me, it’s just a nice apartment, handy for work.” She reached for my hoodie, cold hands burying inside. “Meet me tomorrow, if you’re serious. No money this time, just because you want to.”
I weighed it up, drink slowing my brain. “Where?”
“Soho. I’ll meet you at Tottenham Court Road Station. Eleven PM.”
“Got nowt to wear.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” she smirked. “You won’t need it.”
***
Chapter Eight
Sophie
I’d missed Explicit much more than I realised, underestimating its importance in my emotional equilibrium. Friday night work drinks had only reinforced that point. Laughing with my vanilla colleagues had taken effort, far too much concentration. I’d tried my best to be one of the crowd, but they cared about too much shit that meant nothing to me; gossip, and fashion and what’s on TV. I was all out of fucks to give, craving instead the embrace of my freak show friends, my people. Excitement ran through me, reinvigorated anticipation.
Only this time would be different.
I’d gone all out. Satin underwear under a sheer lace mini dress. Elbow-length gloves in black velvet. No stockings this time, only boots. Stiletto heeled leather to the knee, so tall I felt precarious. I liked the feeling.
I’d hidden it all under a long cardigan. My choker was the only giveaway, the unmistakable O-ring a tell-tale sign for anyone in the know.
Callum Jackson didn’t appear to be in the know. He was waiting when I stepped from the tube, trademark hoodie paired with black jeans I’d never seen him in. I checked him out, nodding my approval.
“Best I could do,” he grunted. “Ain’t got nothing else.”
“You look great.”
He didn’t respond to the compliment. “Where you taking me? Some swingers place or summat? Ain’t getting it on with no old cougars if that’s your thing.”
“You’ll see.”
He followed me across to Soho, shoulders hunched as his eyes scoped out every shadow. Explicit’s double wooden doors were unmarked from the street, no hint at the crazy awaiting inside. I put a hand on Callum’s arm as they swung open, smiling my usual welcome at the security guys. They eyeballed my guest, but let us pass with nothing more than a ‘good evening’. Callum kept his eyes on them until we were out of sight, muscles tense enough that I could feel them under his clothes.
“I’m Missy in this place,” I said. “We all use a club name.”
Dark eyes pierced. “Why?”
“Privacy... atmosp
here... some people like the allure of a separate persona.” I handed my cardigan to the metal-studded girl at reception, and watched the savage take a step back. Outfit success. “Pick a name, Callum, any name...”
He swallowed, eyes on the line of my panties. “Am who I am. Fancy name makes no odds.”
“I quite fancied you as a Blake, or a Wraith, or a Steel…”
“Fancy you as you are. Don’t give a fuck about stupid names.”
That put me in my place, I only hoped he’d continue the momentum upstairs.
The Explicit crowd were out in force. I eyed Rebecca—Mistress Raven—in an instant, perched on a high stool at the bar with a possessive hand on Cara’s backside. They were laughing with Tyson and Trixie, Sergeant, Lilith and Devon, too.
“Know these people, yeah?” Callum grunted.
I nodded. “I’ve been coming for two years, I know pretty much everyone.”
“What shit goes on here?”
“It’s a BDSM club. This here is the main floor, where most of the hanging out happens. Main stage gets a bit of action, if couples want to play for the crowd. There’s a chill-out room behind, but, really, it’s not so chilled out.” I pointed to the far corner. “Toilets are over that way, men’s, women’s and anybody’s. Oh, but be careful... there’s a wet room there too, but I, um, wouldn’t recommend you venture in there.”
“Why not? People all nude, like?”
“People are nude pretty much everywhere in this place,” I laughed. “But the wet room is something else altogether. It’s, um, popular for piss play.”
“Piss play? Like actual piss? For real?”
“For real.” Memories of Masque flooded my senses, his filthy fucking tastes dancing through my mind. “It’s not really my bag. Some people here are into it, though.”
“What is your bag?” he asked, eyes still fixed in the direction of the wet room.
“I like to play in scenes, general pain play, stuff like that. Down to the left are the play rooms. They’re full of equipment; racks, and benches and suspension hooks, that kind of thing. People use them in couples or groups, whatever they fancy. Most rooms are open for public viewing. They have windows, so you can play or watch, join in sometimes too if people are up for company. Playroom four is private, the only private space in the club. We can start there if you like? Later, I mean.”
I had his attention. “You want us to fuck? In here?”
“I was hoping you would too.”
“Shit.” He brushed his hands through his hair. “I dunno. Never been nowhere like this before.”
I risked stepping closer, wrapping an arm around his waist. “I want you to fuck me here, Callum, this is my place. I belong here.”
He was weighing it up, I could feel it. His arm landed on my shoulder, fingers trailing down my skin. “See how we go, yeah? I wanna fuck you, just ain’t sure about here.”
I smiled. “No rush. Let’s get you acquainted.”
I led the way through the club, soaking in the familiar ambience. No sign of Masque. No sign of Cain or Diva, either, but the night was still young in Explicit terms. I took a breath before leading us up to the bar. The neon lights lent everyone an electric blue glow, making them appear even more striking in their fetish ensembles. Cara nudged Rebecca and she spun on her stool, smile wide. She looked fucking awesome, as usual, a crazy mane of red-black curls tumbling down her back, cat-flick liner full and dark around her eyes.
“Baby!” she pulled me in for a kiss, full on the mouth. “I’m so fucking glad you came.”
“This is Callum,” I smiled, stepping aside for introductions.
Her smile was warm, without reservation. “I’m Raven, heard so much about you.” She pulled Cara close. “And this little minx is my girlfriend, Cara. Glad you could make it. Missy’s been away too bloody long.”
She held out a hand, bright red fingernails poised in mid-air. Callum took it reluctantly, giving her a solid shake before stuffing his hands back in his pockets. I saw his eyes hover on Raven’s arms. She was inked from wrist to shoulder, swirls of birds and flowers and brightly coloured stars vying for attention.
“Nice tats,” he said.
“Thanks. Work at a studio in Camden, Black Hearts. My ex Jaz runs the place.”
“You an artist?” I watched his eyes light up in a way I’d never seen before. It made my stomach flutter.
“Ever since I was big enough to hold a crayon in my fingers. Canvas before skin, mainly skin now, though.”
“I paint. Street.”
“Reputation precedes you,” she grinned. “I’m involved in the scene, a little. Run some of the street art tours round Camden in the summer. Ain’t a lot of it that’s a patch on your work, though. ”
He stared at her like she’d grown wings in front of him. “You seen my stuff?”
She nodded in my direction. “Missy showed me. You got skills, kid. Fucking loved the blades with the sun, seriously fucking awesome.”
He looked at the floor, scuffing his battered trainers. “Ain’t nobody usually says much about it.”
“Then you’ve been hanging with the wrong people, baby.” Raven’s eyes were so warm, so genuine. I died a bit at the way she handled the man at my side, the way she gripped his wrist without hesitation or concern. “You’re an artist, kid, if ever there was one. Believe it.”
“Just paint what I feel.”
“Your work’s got soul, baby. Beautiful soul.”
I made to offer him a drink, but he was a million miles away. “Designed my own ink.” He pulled up his top, just a few inches, showing her a hollow-eyed face on his hips. “Don’t know if it’s any good or not. Just drew it, like.”
She raised her eyebrows, reaching out a hand. “May I?” He nodded, staring at his shoes as she uncovered his stomach. “Fucking hell, kid. You should be in the studio. It’s a fucking travesty if you’re not.” I considered whether Raven was being polite, putting him at ease on my behalf, but the set of her mouth was deadly serious. She reached into her bag, pulled out her cigarettes. “You smoke?”
He nodded. “Aye.”
“Then I’ll show you the balcony. Missy can get the drinks in.” She winked at me on her way past, leaving just a trail of vintage Poison in the air. I watched the savage follow her, hot on her heel, as though she were Moses leading him to salvation itself. Jealousy nipped, but I choked it dead. It was fucking Raven, Raven, my friend Raven, who’s awesome to everyone in the universe.
Cara sidled up to me, chocolate brown eyes smiling. “She says his art’s the real deal. Been gushing about it for days, even in bed.”
“About Callum?” I ordered four vodka and Cokes, doubles.
“Yeah. Spitting fumes, about them covering up his work. You know what she’s like about censorship.”
I smiled. “Suppression of art by the establishment. I know. I’ll rue the day she ever meets my parents, she’ll want to tear my dad a new asshole. His approach to the Southbank Art Village isn’t going to impress her much.”
Cara’s eyes twinkled. “I rued the day she met mine. She did want to tear my dad a new asshole, and it was quite mutual.”
“Your parents are part of the establishment, I take it?”
“Super well off, yeah. Contract lawyers, got their own firm.” She pouted. “Wanted me to be one too.”
“And you didn’t?”
She grinned. “Hell no. Wanted to be a dancer. Teach kids ballet now, so I guess their investment in my extra-curricular activities paid off, just not how they’d like.”
“They not so happy with your career choice?”
She took her vodka, stirring it with a neon pink straw. She was cute, really bloody cute, tapping her foot against her stool as she smiled at my question. “A lot happier than they’d be if they knew what other dance I specialise in.”
I smiled. “My parents hate what I do. They think it’s a pointless shitty job with no prospects.”
She patted my shoulder in sisterly solidarity
. “Nothing like being the family disappointment, hey? Wouldn’t change it, though. Life’s about following the heart, right? Even if it does tempt us freaks to the dirty bad wrong side.”
I raised my glass, heart already calling loud and clear. Calling after the dirty bad savage on the balcony outside.
“I’ll fucking drink to that.”
***
Callum
I’d never seen a woman like Raven before. She walked like she knew she belonged in this world, like she had a place, a purpose. Never seen much of that round East Veil. Everyone round there’s always scraping in the dirt, head low, looking for the next deal to scam. Not Raven, she was different.
She led us out to the balcony. It was empty; just a glorified roof terrace with a view over nothing but an empty yard. Outside wasn’t nearly so posh as the inside, with its fancy lights, and its fancy seats and its fancy strange people. Raven gave me a cigarette, it was black, out of a bright gold box, nothing like you get down the off-license. I said my thanks and lit up with her, staring at the way her mouth moved. Her eyes were on me, taking me all in, but there wasn’t anything judgey about it, no challenge.
“How long you been painting, kid?”
My mouth was moving before I even noticed. “Long time. Met this guy, Jimmy, when I was a littlun. He used to paint, on the street. Loved his stuff, would follow him everywhere, watching. Was probably a pain in the pissing arse.” I grinned. “Let me have a go once and that was it, like. Fucking hooked.”
“Nothing like the zone, is there? Finding your groove and letting the muse steal you away.”
“Only thing that makes me feel right.” I looked away, feeling stupid. Like I’d said too much.
She took a step closer. “I get it, kid. Art was my only thing too, for a long time. Only thing that felt like it had soul. World was so bloody dark, but it didn’t matter, not with a paintbrush in my hand. It was like bleeding my pain onto the canvas, you know? A purge.”
My heart started pumping, mouth clammy. “Yeah. Just like that.”
“You have a gift. You see what other people don’t, the rhythm behind the grey, the colour in the dark. You take what’s in here.” She put her finger on my heart. “And you put it out there, for the world. Your mark in time. The stamp of your soul. That’s why you’re here.”
