Head On (Strength And Love)

by S. R. Jones

  There’s someone in the room.

  My heart is pounding out of my ribcage and I’m aware there’s something very wrong before I’m even fully awake. Dread settles in my stomach, a cold hard ball making it hard to breathe. Sadie is nowhere to be seen. A shadow to the right of me moves and my throat spasms closed. Shit. There’s a man looming over the foot of my bed, lit by the light shining in from the crack in the door.

  Oh, fuck. I think I‘m going to be sick. I open my mouth to scream, but who will hear me? He walks the length of the bed in super-quick time, and a hand is clamped over my mouth.

  “Now, now, Isla. Screaming isn’t nice.”

  How does he know my name? My mind is scrambling, trying to figure out if I know him. I can’t see him well, only that he’s tall and broad with a sharply defined face. His voice is rough and deep, with a mild Yorkshire accent. Maybe he’s a colleague of my father’s? I dismiss the comforting but deeply stupid idea immediately. This person means me harm. He’s in my bedroom, at night, with his hand over my mouth.

  Suddenly some primitive instinct kicks in and I bite his hand as I kick up off the bed with all my strength.

  “Fuck!” He explodes. “What the hell? I know you like rough, but biting’s right out, sweetheart. You do that again, and I’ll show you fucking rough.”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about. I open my mouth and begin to scream, but he puts his hand over it once again, but so tight this time I can’t breathe easy, never mind bite him. His other hand grabs both of my wrists in his, pulling them up over my head.

  Something hits me then, and it terrifies me. His moves are smooth, choreographed. Practiced!

  Oh, my God. He’s either some sort of serial rapist…or worse. He doesn’t seem to be breathing hard, or panicking at all. I can’t make him out clearly but his whole-body language screams calm and in control, and now I’m terrified.

  Fear like I’ve never known hits me. I think once more that I’m going to puke, and then I’ll die because of his hand over my mouth. I can’t breathe and my heart is beating a zillion miles an hour. This can’t be happening to me. It just can’t. First time left all alone in my life and this happens. The irony is astonishing.

  I’ve been babied all my life, because of the accident, and then getting sick, and the first time I’m left to fend for myself as a grown up this happens. I wanted adventure, and to start living, and now I’m going to die before my time.

  “Now, Isla. I’m going to fuck you. And I’m going to do it hard.”

  I twist my head from side to side, and tears begin to fall out of my eyes, blurring my vision and making my nose stream too.

  I’m going to die tonight. I just know it.

  Chapter Three

  Ethan

  The bitch has hurt my hand and now she’s struggling like crazy. I wonder if I should tie her up and gag her. She likes it rough, so why not? My dick likes the idea. Hell, my dick likes everything about this. She’s a fucking wet dream, and a total break from my usual clientele. Long, soft hair. Cotton white nightie. Seriously, cotton white nightie. I can see her breasts through it though, where the hallway light falls on her chest, making the cotton as insubstantial as gauze. Nice tits. Full, natural. My mouth nearly waters.

  They jiggle as she struggles and I decide I am going to tie and gag her, then I can have my hands free to roam that gorgeous body, when something wet runs over my fingers at her mouth. I look up at her face, focus, and freeze.

  There’s something seriously wrong. Her eyes are wide and full of terror. Real terror. The kind I know because I’ve seen it far too many times in my life. She’s crying, too. Genuine tears, and tons of them. This isn’t acting. What the fuck is this?

  I pull my hand from her mouth. “Don’t fucking scream, okay?” I instruct her, my heart pounding like crazy. Shit, shit, shit.

  Something has gone horribly wrong. I’m all about listening to my instincts. If you don’t in a war zone you’ll get yourself killed. Now those old, weird senses all humans carry deep within are screaming on red alert.

  The girl’s shaking now, some serious tremors wracking her body and she nods, her teeth clacking. I reach over her and she flinches. I click the bedside lamp on and my breath stalls in my lungs. The light is dim, more like a night light than a proper lamp, but it lets me see enough of her to panic. Twenty-five? No fucking way. She’s, maybe, nineteen, if I’m lucky. Christ, just what I need. Some stupid little girl booking me wanting to play all dirty and then freaking out at the first move I make.

  “Why the hell are you crying when you requested this?”

  Stupid bitch! We went back and forth a lot last night. I made sure she wanted it this way. Hard and rough. I always go overboard with new clients to protect myself. Not only do they sign a form waiving them of any right to privately sue me, but I know that form will stand up in court, too. An e-signature is binding these days. I get their FB profiles, their bank details, and the emails. And save them all. She even paid me upfront. A lot. So, she regrets it. Fair enough. All she needed to do was safe word out when I first came into the room. She’d picked Sadie as her safe word, the name of her dog, no way would she forget it.

  “Why didn’t you use your safe word?”

  She just stares at me, but at least the tears are drying up now.

  “Shit. You’ve mauled my fucking hand. I’ll probably need a tetanus shot, and you’re the one shaking and crying. You contacted me. You asked for this.” I’m fuming, but at myself more than her. This is a special service, and one I normally only offer regular clients. But I’d been drawn in by how turned on her picture got me, and I let my usual guard down. Normally, I wouldn’t do something like this until I’ve seen a client a few times. Shit, I didn’t even ask Selina about her, not having the opportunity to before the date Isla requested me. I should have said no, should have told her to wait until I’d talked to Selina. I grit my teeth and swallow my anger.

  To be honest, I don’t even like this gig that much. I always get a cut up back, and sore eardrums from the fake screams. I much prefer a good old fashioned hard vanilla fuck, but the client’s the one that’s paying. They’ve never reacted like this though.

  She shakes her head and for the first time she speaks, her voice shaky and weak. “I dddiddn’t ask for anything. Please, I’m begging you don’t hurt me. I won’t call the police or anything, but just leave. Pppplease. Go.”

  She starts crying again, big wracking sobs, and I feel fucking awful. Which makes me angry because I rarely feel bad, and this is her fault.

  “I ask you again. Why no safe word?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know any safe word.” She screams at me and I see a flash of spirit then. Some anger, and I think she’s going to be okay. But my mind is whirring.

  “You’re Isla Rose, correct?”

  She nods. “And is this your email?” I pull up her details on my phone and she looks at them and frowns.

  “Yes, that’s my email.”

  “Your Facebook profile?” I show her the screen shot and those divots between her eyes deepen.

  “No, that’s not my profile picture.” She studies it some more and points a slim finger with natural short nails at the picture. “I’m not twenty-five either.”

  My heart sinks. Please, God, make her over eighteen. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  Frankly, I’m relieved. She looks younger. I swipe over my phone. “Are these your bank details?”

  She looks and nods, blinking up at me through long, blonde lashes, wet with her tears. Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

  “Well, last night, sweetheart, you transferred over £2,000 into my bank account and sent me an email requesting one of my special services. You told me where to find the key, bad hiding place by the way, any burglar worth his salt will know to check the stone by the door. Then you asked me to creep up the stairs and give you a rough, non-consensual fantasy.”

  “Special services?” S
he wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of her nightdress. “Two thousand pounds!” Her voice rises. “Oh, God. That’s the last of my savings. What the hell do you do for two thousand pounds?”

  “I erm…I service women. You know?” For the first time ever, I feel a flash of shame for what I do. For a moment, I hate her for making me feel it.

  “No. I don’t know.”

  “I have sex with women for money,” I bite out.

  “You’re a prostitute?” Her eyes go like saucers.

  “No. Not a prostitute. I’m an escort.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Oh, fuck her. I’m fuming now. “I sent you an email back.” I jab and swipe at my phone and pull it up. “Look, it’s here. And here’s where we agreed the safe word for if you don’t want to continue. Say it and everything stops. Christ.”

  “Look.” She sits up in bed and I wait as she composes herself. “I didn’t send you that email, and I haven’t checked my mail for a few days. I don’t know if you sent me one or not. When I tried to get in yesterday, I couldn’t. I meant to look into it, but forgot because I was busy. My dad left for a business trip. I didn’t request your services. And I couldn’t use the ‘safe word’ as you keep saying, because you put your blooming hand over my mouth.”

  The way she spits out blooming as if it is an angry curse word makes me smile. But my smile falters as I think what this means. The implications are horrible. My mind does the math, working out all the permutations, and how and why this has happened. None of them are good.

  “You’re not very good at it, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  Her words take me completely by surprise and I stare at her. “Excuse me.”

  “This male gigolo thing. You’re not good at it. If I had booked you, I’d want my money back. It’s not how I’d imagine being pleasured by a gigolo would be.”

  “How would you imagine it would be?” I can’t believe this conversation.

  “You know…” She blushes and she’s fucking adorable. “Being seduced and all that.”

  I snort. “Yeah, funnily enough, I do get requests for the heart and flowers shit, but not all women want that. Some of my clients like it rough and ready. And some of them like to pretend it’s against their will. Not all women want romance and seduction. Some of them want a good, hard fuck.”

  “Not for their first time.” She snaps her mouth shut, and her eyes widen as her blush deepens.

  The air freezes in my lungs. Did she just say first time? No fucking way.

  “Are you telling me you’ve never had sex before?”

  She looks away and stares at the floor, and it’s all the answer I need. I think I’m going to be sick. I nearly had sex with…no assaulted, a fucking virgin, who looks like she’s stuck in the nineteen hundreds. Fuck me, what the ever-loving shit is happening here?

  “So, you didn’t request me?” I ask one last time.

  “For the millionth time, no!”

  “Then someone is setting one of us up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  And suddenly something else occurs to me. She’d said the lights would be off, but the landing light was on. If it had been turned off as she’d said…My God, if I’d been in the total dark, I’d never have seen the terror in her eyes and realised how wrong things were. I’d have picked up on it eventually, I’m sure. But this whole situation could have been way worse. The nausea intensifies. “Do you sleep with the light on usually?” I point to the landing.

  She frowns, a tiny crease marring her otherwise smooth skin. “No. But I’m not usually alone, Dad’s always here, or my gran, or sometimes Uncle Dave, but he doesn’t stay anymore. If Dad goes away then a friend will stay if Gran doesn’t. Oh, and Dad hooked up with a girlfriend for a while, but that’s over now.”

  There’s a tiny shudder she gives, when she mentions this uncle. She doesn’t like the ex-girlfriend either. Her dislike shows in the miniscule tightening of her mouth. It’s a tell, and I pick it up.

  It might be nothing, but I can’t help shake the niggling feeling that someone knew the lights are normally off. Maybe the father’s ex booked me? Fucked up shit if so, but jealous, pissed off women can do worse. Maybe the kid had something to do with their break up.

  “Please. Can you please just leave? I swear I won’t call the police. I swear it.” Her voice is shaky as she twists her hands over and over.

  I should leave…but then. She’d be alone here, and someone possibly means her harm. It could be a nasty stupid prank played by some bitchy girls, but it could be way worse.

  Or the target might not be her. It might be me.

  Shit. The possibilities are all nasty.

  “You could be in danger,” I tell her. “Who do you live with?” She’s mentioned her father, but maybe there’s someone else.

  “It’s just me and dad.”

  It figures. My luck isn’t holding out tonight at all. He’s most likely going to try and kill me, but I can look after myself and she needs someone here.

  I pick her phone off the nightstand and hand it to her. “Call him and tell him to come home. This is serious, honey. Someone hired me tonight to pretend rape you, which clearly if you didn’t request it is not pretend, and is not remotely okay. Someone is either setting me up for a fall, or trying to hurt you. Badly. Call your dad. We can talk to him together and explain. He’ll likely try to kill me, but I want to know you’re going to be okay before I leave.”

  “I can’t call him.”

  I sigh. “Why not? He won’t be angry. You didn’t do anything.”

  “He’s in New York right now. Even if I get through, he’ll freak out and it will take ages for him to get home.”

  Double shit. “Is there anyone else who can come over?”

  She shakes her head. “My gran’s sick. Flu. My best friend is in Tenerife, and my other friend is in Norfolk.”

  “You don’t have a boyfriend?”

  She shakes her head.

  “No other friends?”

  Another swing of her long hair side to side. “Not around here. Look. I’ll be okay, I have Sadie. Please, can you go? Sorry, but after what happened, you scare me.”

  I do scare people. It’s that air of danger that some women pay good money for. But for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to. I don’t want to scare her. And the thought flat out terrifies me.

  Chapter Four

  Isla

  “I’m not leaving.” He frowns. “And I’m sorry I scare you, I don’t want to. This is a horrible, fucked up situation. It’s not even a misunderstanding. Clearly one of us has been set up. But there’s no way I’d hurt you.”

  I snort, and wish I hadn’t when his eyes narrow. “Sorry. No offense, but you attack women for a living, and I’m supposed to trust you?”

  For a moment something crosses his face, something I can’t decipher. “What I do for a living is completely consensual. It didn’t start out about the rough stuff either. It started out as vanilla sex for money, and then a couple of clients came up with special requests. That’s how it became kind of my thing. It’s a fantasy. Played out between consenting adults, with clear rules, and a safe word. And I’d like to add, it’s not my fantasy, it’s theirs.”

  I nod. I don’t trust him though. Can’t trust him. He has sex for money, for God’s sake. He’s big, and broad, and too much…and I want him out of my room. Out of this house.

  “Have you got any enemies?” he asks, and I laugh.

  “No. I mean…just no. I’m so boring… I’ve got a couple of friends, and very few people in my social circle. I rarely go out.”

  “What about at work?”

  I shrug. “I worked in an independent bookstore, but it closed. I lost my job a few months back. I’ve been looking for something else, but so far nothing’s turned up.”

  He watches me for a moment, considering. Then he blows out a breath, and sits down on the bed. I scoot back and pull the duvet up to my chin.

  �
�Someone is trying to hurt you. Or trying to set me up. Now if it’s me they’re after, and you’re the innocent party in this, then fine. I can handle myself. But if they’re after you, you’re in danger. You’ve told me there’s no one to come stay with you. I’m not happy to leave you here alone.”

  “With all due respect, Mr?”

  “Ethan.”

  “Mr. Ethan.”

  “Just Ethan.”

  I don’t like using his first name, but I want him gone. “With all due respect, Ethan. You’re no one to me, and vice versa. I’d rather you leave.”

  “Are you even listening to me? What if they hire someone else? Someone who doesn’t do this consensually for a living? They realise this has gone wrong, so they hire a thug to do the job right? Or get someone to beat you up? Who knows. You’re here alone. What if someone comes for you tomorrow night? And this time they really mean business?”

  I swallow, hard. “I can go to the police. Tomorrow.”

  He shakes his head, impatient. “One, they won’t do anything. They might, maybe, look into whether someone hacked your computer. Two, even if they did do something, they aren’t going to post someone on your house. This isn’t the movies. The police are overstretched, and they aren’t going to do anything about a possible future crime. Not with the scant evidence we have about this. Three, I go with you, I incriminate myself, and this sort of shit is the kind of thing some cop will sell to the papers. I don’t want to be in the media telling the world what I do, and I doubt you want this made public either?”

  I bite my lip and his gaze lands there for a moment. Despite the dim light of the room and not being able to see his eyes too clearly, for a moment, I fancy I can feel a hunger in him. It should terrify me, but it gives me a dark thrill. A stupid, dangerous, dark thrill. I must be crazy to have any feelings towards this man, other than disgust and anger. He has sex for a living. Ugh, imagine how many women he’s been with. The thought makes me shudder. It also makes be a bit excited. Yep. I’m definitely stupid. And possibly sex starved. Being a twenty-one-year-old virgin will do that for you.