Vouloir

by J. D. Chase

  ‘But what about finding a person?’

  I can see from his expression that it’s important to him. He looks anxious. ‘Are you worried about someone finding you?’ I ask, gently.

  He shakes his head and I know that wasn’t his rationale. But then he seems to rethink because he stills and then shrugs. I can see in his face that he hadn’t thought about that before, but now he is.

  I feel bad. But I’m sure his worries are unfounded. ‘Let’s give it a try. What’s your name, kid?’

  ‘The Kid,’ he replies. At first, I think he’s taking the piss because I’d called him that. I kick myself. He probably thinks I’m patronising him.

  ‘Sorry. What’s your real name?’

  He gives me an odd look. ‘The Kid, I told you. Or sometimes Kid.’

  Okay, so he doesn’t want to tell me his name. Fair enough. I don’t use my real name all the time, something that has helped to keep me on this mortal coil.

  ‘That’s okay. I’ll call you that then.’

  Again he looks at me like I’m losing the plot. ‘Okay, so let’s put your name in the search bar and see what happens.’

  He studies me for a second and then nods. He types ‘The Kid’ and pushes enter. A variety of suggestions pop up for businesses in London that contain the word ‘kid’ or ‘the kid.’ He scrolls through them all, keeping an eye on where they are in relation to the flat. He tries again with ‘Kid’ but the same thing happens.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asks, suddenly. ‘Is it just Jones?’

  I hesitate, out of sheer habit. I don’t want to lie to The Kid. For some reason, it feels wrong. But I don’t routinely give out my real name. I’ve had a succession of identities and I could fob him off with one of those but I rationalise that he’s just a kid. Who doesn’t go anywhere. Or see anyone. It’s as safe as can be.

  ‘I was born Jackson Harper. I grew up being called Jack until high school but then it became Jacks. When I became a Commando, it got shortened to Jax and it stuck.’ I spell out the names so he can understand but he’s screwing up his face.

  ‘What’s a Commando?’ he says.

  ‘A Commando is a Royal Navy Marine.’

  He still looks blank.

  ‘They are the best fighting force in the UK,’ I say, with a smile. But then I realise that he hasn’t a clue about the rivalry between the forces, because he hasn’t a clue about anything. I try to explain.

  ‘So you were a soldier, in the Army?’ he asks, mistaken comprehension dawning.

  I clench my teeth and try to let it go. ‘Not exactly. I was in the Navy. The Navy patrol the seas to keep our country and her allies . . . countries the UK is friends with . . . safe. We’re tougher than Army soldiers. Even their best ones. Much tougher. And cleverer. Do you know what A.R.M.Y. stands for? Ain’t Really a Marine Yet.’

  I give him a wink to let him know that I’m joking. Well, I’m almost joking but it’s lost on him.

  ‘And a Commando is the elite, the best, the Navy has. Not everyone in the Navy can be a Commando. Only the very best. Most fail their training. Only the finest few make it.’

  He doesn’t appear to comprehend what I’m saying and then he says. ‘You patrol the seas? So you drive ships? Is it hard to learn to drive a ship then?’

  Fifteen minutes later, we’ve searched for all forms of my name on the map and then I’ve shown him how to search Royal Marines in the search engine. He’s fascinated but struggling with so many technical or unfamiliar words. I show him how to quickly copy and paste a word or phrase into a new tab in order to find a definition or explanation.

  He’s in his element. I’m getting bored. Like I say, he’s a quick learner.

  She comes back in, fully clothed but all I can see is the X-rated version. I try to stay cool, despite the fact that I walked in on her frigging herself like mad. I kick myself, hard, for not taking the opportunity to find out her real name. I could easily have asked while we were searching.

  ‘How are you boys getting on?’ she asks, glaring at my chest when she emphasises that particular word.

  ‘It’s really good,’ The Kid says, smiling but not looking up from the screen. ‘What’s for dinner? I told you I was starving ages ago.’

  She glares at me again. ‘I assumed at least one of you was capable of sorting yourselves out. Do I have to do everything myself around here?’

  The first was clearly a dig at me. I’ve obviously overstayed my welcome. But I’m not one to back down from an assault. I can’t help but wonder if her question referred to more than just food.

  ‘I assumed that it would be good manners to wait until you were done so we could ask what you would like. It would have been rude to go it alone, when there was someone else around with an appetite for some.’

  She narrows her eyes at me but I keep my expression neutral. Innocent even . . . well, as close as I ever get.

  I can see the cogs turning in her brain. She’s pretty sure I’m keeping up with her on the double meanings.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure I could sort myself out quite adequately. And certainly as well as anything you could have provided.’

  Touché.

  I smile, letting her know that I’ve understood and that I’m not riled or rattled by her comments.

  ‘But you haven’t sampled it. Yet,’ I point out, unable to keep a smug smile off my face.

  Her eyebrows almost fly off her face.

  She sneers. ‘I have a very discerning palate. I can judge very quickly whether something would sate my appetite.’

  Ouch!

  My eyes pin hers and I see defiance and something else but, as usual, her eyes refuse to stay locked on mine. I can’t help but wonder whether she may be enjoying this verbal sparring. ‘I find those who are quick to judge are often afraid to try something new. They prefer to stick within the safe confines of the familiar.’

  I watch her eyes widen for a fraction of a second before she resumes her façade of indifference. ‘Some people have sampled from menus that others could only dream of. It’s not a question of enjoying something that’s safe, it’s a question of knowing what is capable of satisfying what I crave . . . and what is obviously not.’

  Her tone is condescending and, unless I’m mistaken, the temperature of the room falls a little. I think the gloves are off.

  ‘I remember you saying something when you met Isla, Dean’s boss . . . what was it? Oh yeah, that’s right. You said, and I quote, “You shouldn’t knock something unless you’ve tried it—at least three times.” The next time you’re ravenous and find that you’re faced with a meal for one, why don’t you eat your words?’

  I watch her jaw tense. Oh yes, strike! I’m waiting for the comeback that I know she won’t be able to refuse but I’m spared when The Kid pipes up, ‘All this talk of food just makes me hungrier. Are you going to order some food or what?’

  Silence.

  I think we can call that one a draw.

  I DRESS, FUMING THAT Jones had the nerve to stand there and watch me masturbate. I’m no prude. I have quite an exhibitionist streak. Looking up into those blue eyes as my pussy clamped around my fingers gave me one hell of a fright. But it was seeing the outline of his erect cock before he turned and left that has irritated me most.

  Why, when I make it clear that I don’t like him, does he feel like that?

  And why is he the one person that The Kid has taken a liking to?

  I could handle it if it were Dean . . . or any of my other clients. Hell, Gabe has been here countless times and The Kid merely tolerates him.

  But no. The Kid chooses now to want a buddy and he chooses the one person I can’t stand.

  That’s unfair. It’s the vision of him that I can’t stand. He might be a perfectly nice guy. He probably is . . . twice last night he showed his compassion. And tonight, coming around here at The Kid’s request. God knows, there must be so many places that he’d rather be than sitting playing Google Maps with a kid.

  That just makes
it worse. If he acted like a twat, this would be easy. But the way he looks and the way he acts clash so badly. At least for me.

  Although . . . it’s been over fifteen years. Perhaps it’s time I faced it. Look at today, at the club—I almost lost it. If Gabe hadn’t been there . . . I shudder. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

  Yes, for The Kid’s sake and perhaps for my own, I must try to accept that just because Jones reminds me so vividly of some else, he’s not him. He’s a decent guy who can help The Kid. He’s accepted that I won’t take him on as a client . . . oh fuck no, that would be pushing it; him learning to be a Dominant. Just the thought of it makes my skin crawl. He may be the one to persuade The Kid to set foot outside. I can’t deny him that opportunity.

  So, I’ll go in there and play nice. Hopefully, I’ll get used to seeing him around. And being around his dominant persona might help me acclimatise to him until I don’t feel anxious and edgy anymore. Then maybe, I can begin to see him as just another man. Maybe, I’ll be able to see him for who he really is . . . and not the monster he reminds me of.

  But as soon as I walk back in the living room, his eyes undress me and I see a smug smile on that face that could easily give me nightmares. And I find myself resorting to thinly veiled insults and piss-takes to gain the upper hand.

  Nobody could be more surprised than me to find that I begin to enjoy it. He can think on his feet and easily gives as good as he gets.

  The Kid brings an end to the verbal sparring, although I’m sure the whole thing has gone over his head. He’s just thinking of his stomach . . . like a typical teen.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘What would everybody like?’

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I expect some sort of double entendre from Jones, or at least a smirk but I think he knows the joke is over.

  ‘I really don’t mind,’ he says. ‘In any case, I wouldn’t want to be in danger of outstaying my welcome. It seems that my work here is done.’

  He nods his head at The Kid, who is searching for all manner of things, from the looks of it.

  ‘Oh okay,’ I say, feeling pleasantly surprised as I pull open the door. ‘Well, thanks for dropping by to help him out. We appreciate it. I’ll see you out.’

  ‘No,’ says The Kid forcefully. ‘I want Cantonese and I want him to stay.’ His sulky tone is reminiscent of the toddler tantrums I’ve seen in shops over the years.

  I look from The Kid to Jones and back to The Kid again. I’m at a loss as to how to respond to such a childish response. I should take him to task about it but then I don’t want to embarrass him in front of Jones. He’s obviously taken more of a liking to the former Commando than I’d realised.

  ‘I’m up for Cantonese,’ I say brightly. ‘But I think Jones should decide whether he stays and joins us.’

  I can see that Jones is thrown too. I wouldn’t blame him if he hightailed it out of here. I was surprised that he’d agreed so readily to help The Kid. There’s nothing in it for him. In his shoes, I’d rather be spending the evening getting laid.

  Fleetingly, I wonder whether there’s a woman in his life. And it would be a woman; he’s definitely straight. I know how many women would be throwing themselves at his feet if he were a member of Vouloir.

  I’m so glad he’s not.

  Shit, he’s spoken and I didn’t hear a word. I try to brazen it out—to wait to see if he makes a move for the door but he doesn’t. To make matters worse, I realise that both of them are looking at me expectantly.

  ‘So what’s it to be then?’ I say cheerfully, attempting to wing it.

  The Kid pipes up in a tone usually reserved for the hard of hearing or the very stupid, ‘He just said it’s up to you. You decide whether you want him to stay.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ I cover. ‘I was just thinking out loud.’

  They both give me an odd look. I can feel my cheeks begin to glow so I sidle off nonchalantly, or at least that’s how it’s intended to look, into the kitchen to get the Cantonese takeaway menu from a pile of them, stashed in a drawer.

  I grab the menu and place my hands on the worktop, just to take a minute to compose myself. Okay, so getting used to being around him is going to take some time. I know that it’s about time I faced up to my demons and tackled them into submission. I know that I’d be the first person to criticise others for the unhealthy behaviours that I’ve developed. The way I parcel everything up into little boxes . . . the fact that I only tackle men whom I know will submit to me.

  I don’t think I’m ready to tackle those yet. But I’m determined to conquer being around Jones. He’s good for The Kid and he could be good for me—I can’t keep avoiding dominant, blue-eyed, blond men. It’s so unprofessional to keep refusing to take them on as clients . . . and to avoid giving them membership at Vouloir.

  Hell, it took me years to stop avoiding men with those physical attributes. Oh, I remember the first time I had a blue-eyed blond under me, a couple of years or so ago. Okay so his hair was a completely different shade of blond and his eyes a different blue but still. The thrill. The victory. Just from looking down into those sapphire eyes and seeing respect and admiration looking back.

  I smile at the memory and then turn to re-join the others . . .

  . . . and look straight into another pair of blue eyes. I jump and drop the menu.

  ‘Jesus, you could have warned me that you have ninja skills,’ I mutter as I bend to pick it up.

  He crouches at the same time and I find our heads are merely centimetres apart. ‘I was a Commando,’ he says softly. ‘I don’t even realise, sorry.’

  He picks up the menu and holds it out to me. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he says, sounding less sure of himself than usual.

  ‘Uh huh. Of course.’ I sound far more relaxed than I’m feeling. He is way too close for comfort.

  ‘Why do I unnerve you? Why can’t you relax around me?’ he says, his tone so disarming that I’m almost tempted to tell him.

  Instead, I straighten abruptly and laugh it off. ‘It’s those ninja skills, I guess.’ I force a laugh.

  His look tells me I’m fooling nobody. Then he stands up and shrugs before heading back through to the living room.

  The food is ordered and arrives quickly. Jones keeps The Kid entertained with stories from his time in service. He and his troop of elite fighters had all seemingly had a sharp sense of humour as well as a daring sense of adventure. With the exception of secret and deadly missions in the field, it appears there was a lot of laughter and camaraderie. The Kid was guffawing at some of the tales, although Jones often had to simplify his language or provide some explanation.

  It’s a joy to see. It was something I wasn’t sure I would ever see. Every kid deserves to have something to smile about. My thoughts begin to turn to Dan but I refuse to spoil this moment with self-indulgent guilt.

  As a distraction, I take the plates back to the kitchen to load into the dishwasher. I’m surprised when Jones appears by my side and offers to help unload the clean crockery that is resting inside the machine.

  ‘You don’t know where anything goes,’ I smile, and though it’s true, it’s also a clear rejection.

  ‘Then show me,’ he says, simply.

  I open my mouth to argue that it would take as much time to show him as it would for me to just do it, but I remember my earlier pledge. And, though I’m loath to admit it, when I show him and he lends a hand, it isn’t actually that bad. At least we’re both occupied with something productive.

  Within no time at all, the dishwasher is loaded and is starting a rinse cycle. We’ve barely spoken but it’s been a companionable silence. And I’m feeling okay; maybe, being so close to him in a harmless situation, has helped me to begin to acclimatise to his presence. It’s so much better when I don’t have to look at him. But I can still feel his presence—I defy anybody not to; he’s an alpha and his calm, confident demeanour is ever-present. But there’s a subtle undertone. I know he doesn’t miss anything and, alt
hough he appears relaxed, his mind is always alert. I guess it’s a throwback to his time in the field but it doesn’t help me to relax around him.

  I have no idea how he feels about being here. He turns up with Dean, thinking God only knows what. Then I fall apart and he ends up comforting me after a mad dash to try to reach Dan. And then he gets volunteered to act as tutor to The Kid. And yet, the shutters are down. His reactions are so limited and his thoughts guarded. Even after walking in on me in the bath . . . I have no idea what he’s thinking.

  My gut tells me he’d make a fabulous Dom. Despite his harsh background and undeniable ability to act in a cold, calculated manner, he has a softer side. I’ve seen it with The Kid. I felt it, after Dan . . .

  But I can’t help him with that. Anyone else in his shoes, yes. But I couldn’t teach him the ins and outs of D/s because I’d have to put myself in a position that makes me too vulnerable. One glimpse of those eyes . . . or even his blond hair . . . No, I couldn’t do it and that’s final.

  I should do the decent thing and allow someone else at Vouloir to mentor him but I just couldn’t face seeing him in that role, with a submissive at his feet.

  And I hate that. I hate that I have any weaknesses where my past is concerned. Maybe I should give him membership and keep my distance . . . maybe I should begin to tackle what’s in my little boxes.

  I feel his eyes on me and I realise that I’m standing here, mulling it over and leaving him stranded like a spare part. And like I say, he doesn’t miss a trick.

  I turn away from him, not wanting to look at him while scratching at the scabs of my mental wounds.

  ‘You’re doing it again,’ he says. ‘And this time, you can’t blame my ninja moves because I haven’t moved.’

  I know he’s trying to lighten the moment with a sprinkling of humour but I don’t want to talk to him about it. Because it’s painfully private. And because I have a horrid feeling that he’d want to know more and, worse than anything, I fear that he’d pity me. And I can’t bear that.