Seeds of Tyrone Box Set

by Debbie McGowan

  His cheeks flushed. He hadn’t really thought about it like that. Wine was wine, right? And drunk was drunk? He was supposed to get drunk on it, that was the point. But her question brought back those strange memories in him of being very heavy and sluggish. He remembered that his mouth felt sort of numb, and it was hard to get the words out. And nothing was funny. The times he and Nadia had gotten tipsy together, they’d found everything funny. What did that matter, though? If Aidan really wanted to, he could have fended her off. Right?

  “Aidan?”

  “Yes,” he admitted slowly. “But I made the decision to go up there, I drank the wine, I should have—”

  “Did you tell her ‘no’ at any point during the encounter?”

  Why was she torturing him like this? Was this punishment for stealing the tickets? Because if it was, it was sick. He felt tears prick his eyes. She wouldn’t call their boss or the police, but she was making him relive one of the worst moments of his life. Had he said no? Not like that. Not how you’re supposed to say no, assertively, firmly. When she’d begun to kiss him, he’d tried to break away from her. He’d said something stupid. Something like, we shouldn’t… or I don’t think… When they were in bed, when she took off his pants, and she was standing there, staring at the cock he was trying to keep hard, he’d mumbled, “Can we stop?” It was the same with the condoms—he hadn’t been emphatic enough. He’d lost himself to the wine.

  “Why?” Ms. Ashmore had crooned, slinking onto the bed and sliding up his body. “Don’t you like women?”

  Aidan startled as the tissue box came into view. Jill had slid it to the edge of the desk. He hadn’t even realized the tears had broken and were now silently streaming down his cheeks.

  Don’t you like women, Aidan? Don’t you want to feel me?

  But he didn’t say ‘no’ firmly enough, which was like not saying no at all. Right? Right? It was his fault…everything was all his fault.

  “I should have said it more…” Words failed him. He didn’t like how this conversation made him feel.

  “This isn’t the first time, Aidan,” Jill said quietly. “This isn’t the first time she’s done this to one of The Grand Heights’ employees.”

  He looked up, startled, expecting to see disgust or ridicule on her features. Instead her jaw was set, a fierce light in her eyes. She inhaled deeply and said, “I’m so sorry, Aidan—”

  I’m going to have to let you go.

  “—that old bitch did that to you.”

  Aidan’s eyes went wide in surprise. He had never heard Jill speak ill of anyone at The Grand Heights, except for Bryan. And even that must be changing. When Aidan told her he needed to speak to her in private, no really, right now—it’s serious, she’d grabbed Bryan who was studying in the lounge and said she’d make it worth his while to watch the desk and take messages for her.

  “I think we should go to the police.”

  “About the tickets?”

  “What tickets?” Jill asked heavily. “About the rape.”

  Rape.

  No, that was wrong. It wasn’t rape. He’d just been stupid. He’d been the one who had gone upstairs with her, he’d drunk the wine, he’d not said no properly. She was a woman, he was a man, even if she’d put something in his drink, he’d still been conscious. He couldn’t have been raped.

  “It’s over four months ago, Jill. The police aren’t really going to believe that a skinny, rich older woman…did that? Not that it was rape,” he replied, feeling a little faint. He wished Patrick was in the office with him instead of out in the lobby. Patrick’s hand on his would have steadied him. Patrick could have told her. You’re mistaken, m’dear, Aidan wasn’t raped. “I was just being dumb and—”

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not a psychologist, and this job doesn’t let me be friendly with staff most of the time, so I’m a little out of practice. I can’t help with PTSD. But I’ll say this: no one in this building should ever lay their hands on you without your permission. Not Ms. Ashmore, not Mrs. Wright. I won’t tolerate it, you shouldn’t either.”

  He was trying to imagine what it would be like to go to the police. Even walking through the door into the station seemed impossible. And what would he say if they asked him what his complaint was? A little cougar may have drugged me and taken advantage of me? I want to press charges for…for sexual assault? Never mind the fact that it had taken place months ago—he had no evidence except for the fifty dollars that was still in his bedroom. It may have her prints on it, but it wasn’t as if she’d written “payment for services rendered” across Grant’s face.

  Aidan was desperate to get the attention away from him. “Who did she…? I mean, is the other guy still here?”

  “He’s not,” Jill said with a heavy sigh. She slowly rolled her neck, closing her eyes. He was sorry he’d put this stress on her and was still not convinced he hadn’t just made things worse. When she spoke, her tone was measured. “He no longer works for The Grand Heights.”

  “He quit?”

  “He no longer works for The Grand Heights.”

  “Oh.” Oh. They’d fired him. “Why?”

  “Because he didn’t listen to me, for one,” she said, opening her eyes again and slowly pushing Mr. Francis’s chair away from the desk. “I told him to go to the police and he threatened me bodily harm if I told anyone.”

  “He threatened you?”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she said with a grin. “I could have taken him. Besides, I knew it was just fear talking. He told me he wanted to forget it, wanted to get on with his job. Said a woman can’t rape a man. Idiot. Next thing I know, Ashmore has him cornered on the couch every evening.”

  That didn’t make any sense. “But, why would he let himself—?”

  “Because she threatened to tell Mr. Francis he’d assaulted her. I watched this go on for months, Aidan. He started avoiding me because he knew what I would say to him. He thought he could handle it. But she was using him, and when she got tired of her toy, do you know what she did?”

  He didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to know what Ms. Ashmore had done to the other poor soul who’d been caught in her web.

  “She told Mr. Francis anyway. Oh, no, she didn’t want to press charges, of course,” Jill mocked bitterly. “Just wanted the boy fired and blacklisted from ever working in the city again.”

  To think that Aidan had ever felt sorry for her, sitting all alone in the lobby, sipping her drink, staring at the fire. He slowly let out the pent-up breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  “And you think if I go to the police she won’t get me?”

  “I’ve seen the alternative, Aidan. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

  “But it’s been so long. If she was going to, I don’t know, try to blackmail me into some sort of sexual relationship, wouldn’t she have tried already?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. You said she just told Mrs. Wright about you a few weeks ago. Means it’s still on her mind. Maybe she’s just coming at it from a different angle. She can’t go to Mr. Francis for a second time and say another maintenance man has molested her. But…maybe Mrs. Wright can?”

  “Jill,” Aidan said quietly, not knowing what he would do with the information she’d given him. “Thank you.” He stood up, stretching his legs and trying to adjust to a world in which he’d been…molested. He couldn’t reconcile the other word—the R word—with his understanding of himself. But molested…maybe. He felt molested. He felt dirty. He felt wrong. And deep inside, he wanted to be punished for his part in it. Jill’s sympathetic expression told him he wasn’t going to get punishment from her, but he had to try. “About those tickets—”

  “Again,” she replied calmly. “What tickets? I looked in my box this morning and they were all accounted for, including my comps to the Midland Players’ performance of Annie. Nothing out of place.”

  Chapter Eighteen:

  Bleach

  It felt like an eternity, wai
ting in the lobby, watching the tenants coming and going, the doorman’s courteous greetings and farewells, the constant ding of the elevator arriving. Several had gone to the desk and asked for Jill—the young man standing in for her was called Bryan, it would seem, and the best he could offer was a repeat of what she’d told him to say: “I’m sorry. She’s dealing with an urgent matter,” followed by, “I don’t know how long she will be,” after which most residents went on their merry way, with just the one woman complaining that it wouldn’t do. She was in a hurry.

  Three women had passed through so far, all fitting the image in Patrick’s mind of what that Ashmore creature would look like. He had no way of knowing if any of them were her, of course, so he continued to wait, and watch, torturing himself with the thought of what Aidan was going through now, in the manager’s office.

  For a while the lobby was deserted. He got up and stretched his shoulders; the tension was something else. He walked across to read the information board next to the reception desk; it contained notices about increases in service charges, an apology for one of the elevators being out of action, something about Wi-Fi network passwords. Another tenant arrived at the desk. Patrick moved away, slowly heading back to the sofa across the lobby.

  “Bryan? I wasn’t aware you worked here, dear.”

  “There was an urgent matter that Jill had to deal with, Ms. Ashmore.”

  Patrick stopped in his tracks.

  “Oh, really?” Ms. Ashmore crooned. “Do tell me more.”

  “I don’t know any more than that to tell you,” Bryan said apologetically.

  “Oh come now, Bryan. How long have we lived here? Surely you can—”

  “Excuse me,” Patrick butted in, keeping his eyes on Bryan. “Can you tell me where the men’s room is, please?”

  “Sure. It’s just through those doors past the elevators.”

  “Thanks.” Patrick turned and started to walk away.

  “Well, how rude!” Ms. Ashmore said loudly.

  There was a pause in which Patrick fought the murderous urge he had to tell her he knew what she’d done while crushing her windpipe with his bare hands.

  “Could you ask Jill to call me when she returns?”

  “Of course,” Bryan confirmed.

  Patrick shoved open the door to the men’s room with such force it ricocheted off the wall and came back at him. He kicked it out of the way and slammed his fist into the tiled wall, and again, and again, no reasoning behind it, no conscious intent to purge his rage, though it was effective in quelling it, for on the fourth punch the pain registered and he stopped. With slow deep breaths, he braced himself, stretched his fingers…

  “Jesus wept!” Still fired up on adrenaline, Patrick leaned his undamaged hand against the wall, trying to focus his thoughts. This raging needed to stop. He was too old to be an angry young man and he was going to get into serious trouble if he didn’t rein it in somehow. A quick inspection revealed no damage done to the wall and no visible damage to his hand, which was fortunate, if surprising. Granted, working out with the punching bag had toughened up his knuckles, but there was a big difference between hitting a heavy leather bag designed to take the blows and smashing his fist against solid ceramic tile. At least the physical release was enough to stop him acting on his murderous thoughts. He could only hope Jill was as good at her job as Aidan’s belief in her suggested.

  Patrick leaned over the sink and splashed cold water onto his face. It always helped in the movies, though it did little more than make his eyes sting. He dried off on a paper towel and returned to the lobby, where there was still no sign of Aidan. Bryan gave him a nervous smile.

  “All right?” Patrick asked. Bryan nodded and glanced at the clock; he’d obviously expected Jill to be done sooner. Patrick went back to the sofa and flopped down heavily. He picked up a copy of an arts magazine left on the low table between the sofas, flicking through the pages, not a single word or image registering. He put the magazine back on the table and checked the clock. They’d been in there almost an hour. Surely that was a good sign? But what would be the best outcome? In Patrick’s mind, the best that could happen for Aidan was that Jill asked him to resign.

  It was another ten minutes before the manager’s office door finally opened and Jill came into view. She walked across the lobby to the desk and gave Bryan a warm smile.

  “Thanks so much for helping me out,” she said, relieving him of his unofficial duty.

  “That’s okay. I’ve left messages on the pad in the desk drawer.” Bryan stepped back to the public side of the desk and was halfway to the elevator when Jill called him back, taking something from her pocket, which she held out to him. He frowned in confusion.

  “VIP tickets for Rumour,” Jill said. “On me.”

  “No way!” Bryan took the tickets and studied them in wide-eyed disbelief. “Is that two thousand favors?”

  Jill laughed. “I’d say we’re square, Bryan. Go study or something.”

  Bryan turned and gave Aidan a quick nod and smile, a silent question: are you okay? Aidan nodded back and watched Bryan all the way to the elevator.

  Patrick waited and waited for Aidan to look his way, but he was avoiding eye contact, almost as if he’d forgotten while he was in the office that Patrick was still there. Jill coughed to draw Patrick’s attention, then used her eyes to signal that he should go to Aidan. Patrick did so, stepping in front of him, being careful not to get in his space.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” Aidan responded distantly.

  “Everything okay?”

  Aidan nodded.

  “Aidan,” Jill called. “You’re off duty. Why don’t you go and make your friend a coffee?”

  “Okay,” Aidan agreed.

  Still without looking at Patrick, he turned and led the way to his apartment. Patrick followed, keeping his distance. Aidan unlocked the door and went inside. Patrick waited in the doorway.

  “Sorry it’s so messy,” Aidan said. Patrick took that as his invitation and stepped inside the small, pristine apartment; the smell of bleach immediately assaulted his nostrils.

  “Have you got a window, Aidan?”

  “Hm? Oh. Yeah. A little one—over there.” He raised his hand a few inches to indicate.

  Patrick went over and opened it; the humid breeze barely moved the air at all but nonetheless offered some relief from the chemical stench pervading the apartment.

  “I was cleaning,” Aidan explained. “It was really dirty in here—the floors, the walls, the countertop—” Aidan slapped his palms against his face and kept them there.

  “Aidan?” Patrick moved closer, slowly, carefully putting his arms around Aidan. “What’s gone on?”

  “I told Jill. Everything. I told her everything, Paddy. She wants to report it to the police. She said it was… But how? I’m a guy, right? And she… Ms. Ash… she’s just a… But she did it before. Jill said that. She did it to somebody else who worked here. She’s a…a…”

  Patrick tightened his grip on Aidan, just holding him. His breathing was erratic, the panic rising, peaking, falling away. Patrick knew that word, that unspeakable word, and he would not be finishing what Aidan could not bring himself to finish.

  Aidan moved his hand away from his face and stared deep into Patrick’s eyes. “I want you to make love to me.”

  “I know. And I want it too. After Saturday—”

  “I need you to do it. Get her off me, because I can feel her crawling all over my skin, and I can’t stand it. I can’t. Please, Patrick. Paddy. Please…”

  “We discussed this, my love. And—” Patrick couldn’t say what he’d been about to say. It was selfish and too brutal a truth, but Aidan had already got there.

  “Who knows what kinds of people she’s been fucking? And she’ll have given me something, I just know it. Chlamydia, or worse, HIV. And what if I’ve got it? Then what, Patrick? You’re just going to walk away? I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

  “Oh no.�
�� Patrick grabbed Aidan’s shoulders and shook him, only gently, but enough to get his attention. “What did I say to you, Aidan Degas? What did I tell you? That I’ve got you now, and I’m not letting go that easily. Do you understand?” Aidan took a breath, and whether he was set to protest or not, Patrick wasn’t taking the chance. He pressed his lips against Aidan’s and held them there, until Aidan let the breath go.

  “I’m sorry. I’m scared.”

  “I know you are. And I’m here. And I think I understand what all the bleach is about, so here’s the deal. I’ll make love to you now, safely, carefully, if it’ll help you. God knows it’ll help me. And then when we get the all-clear—” Patrick kissed Aidan again, pre-empting further protest “—then we will make the most beautiful, satisfying love the world has ever experienced. Now, what do you say?”

  A whisper of breath passed through Aidan’s lips.

  “I can’t hear you, Aidan.”

  “Yes. I want that.”

  Patrick said no more. He took Aidan’s hand and led him across his apartment to the bed and kissed him, the lightest of touches, gently easing his tongue past Aidan’s lips, waiting until he responded. At the same time, Patrick unbuttoned his jeans and let them drop to the floor, stepping out of them, then breaking the kiss just long enough to take off his t-shirt. Reconvening the kiss, he unbuttoned Aidan’s shirt and pushed it back over his shoulders, their chests making contact. Aidan gasped into Patrick’s mouth.

  “You have such a beautiful body, Aidan Degas,” Patrick murmured as he dispensed kisses over Aidan’s cheek, down his neck and onto his chest, his hands now occupied with unfastening Aidan’s pants. As he pushed them down, he descended with them, kissing a trail down Aidan’s chest and belly until he reached his shorts. A small dark circle marked the point where Aidan’s dick strained against the pale blue fabric. Patrick pulled it to one side to avoid the wet spot and mouthed the cotton-sheathed head.

  “Oh…” Aidan groaned, his hips thrusting forward, pushing himself into Patrick’s mouth. Until then, Patrick had been struggling to get hard, for his thoughts kept returning to what Aidan had been through. Even now he was mindful of the potential risk, but he wanted Aidan so much. More than that, he wanted to help Aidan cleanse the physical memories, and the only way he could think to do that was by overwriting them. So they would make love as best they could, satisfy each other safely, here in this place that was maybe a little bit more spacious than a broom cupboard, but not by much.