by Sabre, Mason
“Rosie,” he strained, his breaths coming in pants.
“I’m here William,” she gasped. “Do it. Feel good for me, feel so good for me.”
She waited breathless in the slowing aftermath of his breaths. “This isn’t helping,” he said, his breaths winded. “I-I can’t. I’m so sorry, I can’t. I fucking can’t.”
Rosie shot up when the phone clicked. Panic hit her just like that first night he’d hung up and never called for a month. “Shit! Shit, no!” She dialed him right back, her hand trembling. It went straight to voice mail like he’d turned it off. “Goddammit, William,” she hissed.
The phone vibrated a few seconds later, and she stared at the screen. Guilt slammed her at seeing Josh’s text. You okay? Thought I heard voices.
She stared at the burning crossroad on the screen. She didn’t want to lie to Josh. That would bite her in the ass. William called.
She waited with tears, debating on what to tell him. Is he okay?
He wasn’t, no, she typed.
I’m sure you made it all better?
She gushed a derisive laugh. I think I may have made everything worse.
I’m sure you didn’t.
Oh pretty sure I did.
You want me to come up?
Her fingers hovered on the keys. God she was a slut, wasn’t she? She did want him to come up. She wanted him to come up and come with her, make her forget everything. She pounded the heel of her palm on her forehead. Stupid horny American is all she was. I’m fine.
Yes. You are…..
Her heart hammered in her chest. Great. He chooses now to flirt when her heart was still beating between her legs from what she’d done with William. Medical Helpline Hussy, here to turn sexual stories, how can I help you? Oh God what was she doing?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Josh
Josh stood by his back door, coffee in hand. He leaned against the door frame listening to the peace and quiet of the morning. It was his favourite time of day. Not even the cockerels had awoken yet. They would soon enough. Across the garden, the long blades of grass bowed down with the weight of the morning dew. In an hour, this all would be gone. The road that ran along the back would soon be filled with cars—people heading to work, mother’s taking children to school, yelling at them in the backseat to give it a rest while she tried to manoeuvre around the idiot who had stopped at the side of the road to pick someone up. Men would be driving aimlessly to jobs they didn’t want, lives they hated, all so they could draw out enough money to keep the numbers black on the statement that came every month.
The dew would go, replaced by thick bounds of daytime smog—exhaust fumes and dirt. Pollution from the everyday consumption of the people all around.
Right now, though, silence spilled out into every facet, grasping on—except in his mind. That was alive. All night it had roamed into places he knew he shouldn’t go, thoughts that were wrong to have.
Her voice on the phone last night … and William. Fucking William. He was the plague that seeped into Josh’s mind. He found the opening door and barged through at the first fucking chance he got. But he’d paid … he so fucking paid. Josh winced in delight at the pain that lashed across his side where he had punished William.
Josh forced his eyes to stay open and focused on the new day rising. Not listening to poor beaten, pleading and pathetic William. He’d almost broken the phone when he snatched it from him and hung up on her.
How had William got in like that? If he hadn’t stopped her, she’d have gone on. Josh was sorry for swearing at her. He hadn’t meant to. She’d been so hot, though, hadn’t she? The way she had breathed when she spoke. The husky arousal in each word. But William needed to learn that her arousal belonged to Josh and Josh alone. William would learn this.
Josh touched his side where he had cut along his flesh … cutting William out. Punishing the bastard for his intrusion. Rosie … Josh tried to shake her from his mind, but she came back moments later … her breathing … the heat in her tone. Just the memory of it made him hard.
“Something smells yummy,” Rosie said from behind Josh, startling him.
“Shit,” he said, almost spilling his coffee. “I didn’t hear you come down.” The image of her in front of him slammed into the image of her in his mind, lying in her college dorm bed, legs spread, fingers touching, circling that place he wanted to own. It hadn’t been her college dorm bed he’d imagined her doing that, but his.
“Sorry. I…” she started to back out of the kitchen. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“No, no. you’re not.” She was still wearing his shirt–just his shirt, her bare legs right there for his eyes to travel along. Had she touched herself last night? While she wore his shirt?
“Was everything okay with your friend in the end?” he asked, sort of changing the topic to eradicate the weirdness and heat that was fast filling his veins.
Rosie’s face flushed … he was teasing her, though. Bad Josh.
“I think so. I … I’ll call him later to make sure he is okay.”
Josh nodded. “I warmed some croissants while you slept. Do you like them? I made coffee too.”
Relief washed over her face at his topic change and her shoulders relaxed. “Love them here. They always taste so great and b— “
“Buttery?”
“Yes.”
“I love the buttery bread here. The way it oozes out and I have to lick it from my mouth.”
And there it was again. Josh kept his smile inside to himself, the way her face gave everything away. The sweetness about her. But he knew now, under that, was a woman who just needed to come out. “I was in the states a few years ago. Your bread is a lot different to ours. Always firmer. Except bagels, you American’s get that right, hands down.” He sipped from his mug, the stream rising up his face as he watched her. It was mean to play with her this way but he found it irresistible. It was like a puzzle he wanted to put together and see the hidden picture. The hidden Rosie fully.
“Sit,” he said pulling a chair from the small table by the wall. It wasn’t such a great table. One of those folding things you pulled out when you had a party outside and were scraping the barrel at furniture. It would do until he fixed the place up more. Made it his own. Maybe he’d use a desk just to be different. William’s mother would hate it. He put a plate out for her then a mug, filling it with coffee. He slid a small jug of milk to her. “Jam or clotted cream?” he asked. “Ah, never mind, I’ll get both.”
“You really don’t have to go to all this trouble,” she said, while eyeing the food appreciatively in a way he’d become very familiar with as a child. She was always hungry, like she didn’t eat a lot but wanted to. Whatever reason had her this way made him want to feed her more.
“Call it practice. For when your mother arrives. The good boyfriend thing and all that.” He sat down at the seat opposite her. He offered her the plate of hot croissants and she took one, tearing it apart before putting it down on her plate. “The real dining table is in the back room. It’s full of crap in there. I need to clear it out today.”
“Do you want me to help you?”
Josh shrugged. “It’s my mother’s stuff. I put it there after she … I put it off a while. You could go and get your stuff while I do that?”
“I feel like I’m being a terrible pain.” She’d put her croissant down on her plate. He was screwing this up. William was, not Josh. Maybe after last night she’d hate him. William was, after all, the whore’s child. And even though Josh had stopped her from telling him what he’d very much wanted to hear, he’d let it get too far. Needy little shit.
“Josh?” Rosie was leaning closer; she had hold of his hand. He hadn’t even realised he had drifted off and she had been speaking.
“Sorry,” He snapped out of it.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said softly. “I can’t imagine losing my mother. Do you want to talk about her? Sometimes it helps to talk about all the
good things. Like not focusing on the gone part.” She gripped his hand a little tighter.
“But she is gone,” Josh said with the wrong kind of conviction, the happy kind. A kind she’d not understand.
“But there were good times?”
He wanted to snatch his hand away from her, darkness coming down over his mind … William pushing his way in, again. “Yes,” he murmured. “Some.”
“Tell me one.”
The need to pull his hand away won over. It was wrong to touch her when those vile memories came. He gently released her and made like he needed more coffee. “You need more?” he asked after he topped his.
“No, I’m still good.”
He had to get off this topic. He picked up his own croissant and sliced it in half, his mind focusing on the warm, wrinkled skin breaking with ease under his sharp blade. He cut deep into the flesh, pulling it apart.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to push.
Josh gave a light shake of his head as he bit into his food taking a moment to realign his mind. It needed to be on Rosie and Josh, not sad pathetic William and all his shitty ass moaning and groaning and woe is me, my mummy was a whore, and I’m nothing but the prodigy of her wicked ways. Made Josh sick. They both needed to be gone, him and his idiot mother. Everything needed to be gone.
He went for a table turn. “What does your mother do for a living?”
The way Rosie’s eyes widened said Josh hit a snake pit. Great, from one pile of shit to another. But he was far better off poking at her wounds than his.
“Nothing,” she said, confirming his suspicion.
“Nothing?”
“Well, I think it’s nothing, she thinks it’s everything.”
“She must do something with her time,” he urged gently, while thinking of another topic. Mothers were officially off limits in his home. He was fine with that.
“She used to once, I think. Now it’s all lunches and brunches and selling odd hair accessories to the elderly in old folk’s homes.” She lifted her coffee and paused. “Retirement homes I mean,” she corrected as though feeling the other was an incorrect or rude term.”
Josh laughed, happy to just watch her eat, drink and talk. All three in one go felt like a special event. “Hair accessories for old people, you say.”
“I know, right?” Rosie put her hands to her head. “Big fake flowers with glitter on a band right around here. Or here. Or here.” She moved her hand to various spots on her head, making Josh laugh.”
“Must be a sight to see.”
She shrugged. “I guess the old people love it,” she said, biting at her croissant merely for something to do with her mouth besides spew what she clearly didn’t like talking about. Like she wanted to let those things go but every time it showed up, she couldn’t help but stab it in the eyes.
Josh leaned back in his seat understanding exactly what that was like. He was constantly stabbing memories in the eyes all day long. Then he’d put them on a shelf only to take them back down and stab some more. He chewed on his own piece of bread, watching her in silent fascination.
“You must think I’m so mean,” she muttered, chancing a glance up at him.
“Well … I mostly just think you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he said.
Her eyes lit up with her smile. “I’ll show you cute when I smack you in the arm for being a tease, Mr.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” he winked, thrilled they were leaving their shitty memory lanes.
They finished up their breakfast, and Josh washed the dishes, while Rosie got changed upstairs. The officialised plans were, she would go home, pack, and fetch Mr. Buckles, Stitches future partner in feline crime. She also would call into work and see if she could get the time off. That was three whole days, just him and Rosie and his house. He could hardly wait for it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Josh
It was just a door—a plain white door. The dining room door, nothing more. Yet the mere sight of it made William’s heart race so loud that he could hear the blood pumping around in his temples, making them throb. He slid the key around between his fingers. He had to face this.
He could hardly get the key in the lock as he fumbled with it. He knew what was in there—heart ache, dread, and the dead remnants of a woman who had made his life hell. In here was prison, the binds that chained him and shackled his mind, breaking it in the middle so that he couldn’t function properly. In here was the whore. The woman he had destroyed, but she had destroyed him first. He turned the key and the sound of the lock disengaged, a deafening clonk in the silent hallway. He opened the door, holding his breath so not to not take in the blast of her stench.
Flies buzzed around the room along with creatures of the darkness. Mother nature had got busy devouring and taking back into the earth what didn’t belong in this world any longer. Josh wished she was a little faster at it. He stepped from the light of the hall into the room’s shadows. The warm stench of rot and decay lingered in the air, nightmares clinging. He put his hand to his mouth, not wanting any of it seeping into his body more than it already had through the years.
On the floor was the chair, still overturned from that night, still broken. He picked it up, standing it right again, but the back rest would need fixing. As he bent down, he saw the marks on the leg, the gouges from all those times he had fought. He fingered the white rings of struggle, gently at first, rubbing his thumb across the grooves. Then he wrapped his hand around the wood, covering them. The memories rushed in, bowing his head down. He would never kneel there again. He rubbed at his wrist where matching scars marred his skin. He’d tried to cut them away, but he only added new ones. At least hers weren’t on top. His were. His scars were the only ones showing, he’d put them there, he’d buried hers.
He stared at that spot on the floor. How many times had she chained him there? He couldn’t even remember when it had begun. What had caused her to do that? It would be something William had done. It was always his fault.
Josh stood up, putting both palms on the table, steadying himself. Her chair sat there … his mother’s at the head, the royal whore queen. It was all just like it had been that night. The plate, still there, still with the food on it, now rotten, mouldy and shrivelled. Her favourite TV dinner. Next to it, a tumbler, the whisky all gone.
Everything in this room was hers. The fireplace with her cheap plastic ornaments on it that she put there to try to look like she was someone. The Victorian chair in the corner, with the doily across the top. Hidden at the side was the slash on the cushion, where she would hide her pills from George. George. The idiot who had brought them here. The whore and her spawn.
His chair sat dusty and unused. Even the walls had been stripped of his portraits. Who was the biggest idiot? Josh wondered. Him or George. At least William’s love for his mother had not been something he had chosen. But George … he had chosen to love her and it had been his undoing.
The television—a twisted corpse in the corner sat destroyed by a simple whiskey bottle that lay on the tired and worn rug, its bottom smashed away, blood stains still on it. William hadn’t meant to throw it at her. He just couldn’t listen anymore to the things she said. So he did it. He shut her up.
Feeling the avalanche of darkness creeping thicker and heavier toward him, Josh strode to the tall doors at the back. Magnificent French doors. He unlocked them and wrenched them open, letting in the sun and light all in one go, forcing the past out.
He yanked down the dark heavy drapes, torn and dirty. Second hand ones his mother had picked up at the charity shop one afternoon. Trying to impress people–the lie of who she was with all her fakeness and pretentious acting.
Josh grabbed a roll of black bags from the kitchen and returned, unravelling one. He threw everything on the table. Her hair brush from when she has asked him to do her hair, her plate, her glass. He threw the long red nails she had snapped off in a temper tantrum at him. Nails he had known all of
his life. Once they were something he had marvelled at as a child. But as pretty and glamorous as they were, they were also vicious, sharp, and could dig into his skin.
He worked until the bag was full. Picking up papers and clothes from the floor. Shoes and empty bottles. This room had been her room. Now it was his. He threw it all into the bag, including the voices that accused him of trespassing in his own house.
He dropped the bag onto the floor suddenly, eyeing the base of the stairs that ran through the dining room. His mother had George put up shelves along the stair wall. More space to add cheap tat to make herself seem expensive. But Josh’s eye was locked on the last shelf. The shelf just above the small door. … The door.
He grabbed the broken chair he had righted just before and walked over. The door had a small key in the lock, a dark brown metal jailer. William wasn’t small anymore, she couldn’t push him in there ever again. He swung the chair, like a bat, slamming it against the door. Wood on wood battled under the pressure of his rapid swings. He swung until the chair broke into pieces under his rage.
Winded, Josh launched the crippled wood bits into the broken television, knocking it from its perch. He turned back to the chipped and dented door and unlocked it.
Pulling it wide open, wider than its hinges allowed, he kicked against it, slamming his heavy boot until the door snapped from its hinges, the nails pulling out, taking the plaster with it. He kicked and kicked, his growls echoing in the room, inhuman sounds as his blood bubbled under his skin, alive and burning with everything she had done to him.
This was her favourite place. All the times he had hit that door, kicked at it from the inside. Too small back then, too feeble to do anything but make the door rattle and his mother shout that if he didn’t stop it, he would pay.
He didn’t stop, and he had paid.
Five or six, he didn’t remember how old he was. He’d wanted a drink. It was just a drink. The summer had been hot that year, his throat so dry, like he couldn’t drink enough and he had asked for another. But he asked at the wrong time while she was working.
