Vouloir

by J. D. Chase

I almost laugh out loud at his expression. He doesn’t seem to know whether to be pleased or insulted.

  They’re on their way out of the door. The Kid personifies trepidation. I play the visit to the shop down, like it’s no big deal but inside my stomach is churning. I just hope Jones knows what he’s doing. He’s played a blinder up to now where The Kid’s concerned but I hope he isn’t pushing him too far now.

  I needn’t have worried; they return a short time later and all is well. I think I’ve worn a threadbare path in the hall carpet, pacing up and down. I can’t help but grin when The Kid insists on high fiving us both several times—his elation is contagious. He’s had one of his newfound favourite treats, a strawberry Cornetto, on the way back. I can see traces of it in the corners of his mouth. He takes his hand from his pocket and announces that he’s bought me a present.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ Jones says, playing up to tradition.

  I snicker when I see The Kid close his eyes. He’s so naïve and innocent, bless him. Jones just about manages not to piss himself laughing when he explains what he meant.

  I close my eyes and try to keep my face straight. Honestly, a comedian would kill for some of The Kid’s unfortunate bloopers. They could make a whole tour out of them.

  ‘Hold your hands out,’ Jones says and, before I’ve chance to comply he can’t resist saying, ‘Come on, do as you’re told.’

  ‘Careful,’ I advise. It’s okay. I’ll take it out on his cock later.

  I hold my hands out and feel The Kid place something in them. It feels stringy but there’s a cold, solid part too.

  ‘You can look now,’ says The Kid.

  There, in my hands is a cord necklace with a little pendant. It’s like a miniature US dog tag in style and engraved on it is the word Hope.

  It’s the type of thing that hangs on those rickety little stands on the counter of souvenir shops and corner stores. A tacky, cheap little thing but it means the world to me. Not just because it’s a gift from The Kid but because that little word ‘hope’ has seen me through some dark, dark times. It’s what saves all the waifs and strays. And it’s what I’m relying on with the Thierri situation. After all, there’s a lot at stake.

  ‘Thank you. I love it,’ I gush, wrapping him in a hug that he doesn’t really seem to want. I release him awkwardly but cover it by insisting that he puts the necklace on me.

  Eventually, it’s on. I go off to admire it in the mirror and when I come back, I find them both waiting for me.

  ‘We’re off to get some security supplies. We won’t be long,’ Jones announces. His tone is light enough but his eyes convey his surprise at the first person plural.

  I say goodbye and stand staring at the back of the front door for a while. Well, I never.

  As the morning wears on it becomes clear that The Kid, who already admired the former Commando for his service, is now pretty damned convinced that he’s akin to a superhero or something.

  I hear him asking Jones whether breaking into a building is as easy as breaking out and, when Jones tells him it’s often easier to break out, I can understand why. The Kid lived for years and years with several others who were desperate to break out. Being able to do that would elevate Jones to hero status in his eyes. I blink back the tears that threaten to come from nowhere.

  He’s safe now.

  He’s safe and he’s happy. He doesn’t need anything more than what I can give him . . . with a little help from an ex-Commando.

  There’s no need for tears. Every day, The Kid leaves his past further behind and for that, I’m truly thankful.

  My hand goes to the pendant around my neck. I rub my fingertips over the engraved metal. Maybe Helene is wrong. Maybe my past will stay in my past. I rub the pendant a little faster; it’s quickly become a good luck charm.

  I MUST BE GETTING soft in my old age. When The Kid saw the pendant in the shop, I realised that he had no money but wanted to buy it for her. It was only a few quid, but of course he had no money. You’d think I’d given him the world when I bought it for him. I had to tell him not to be embarrassing—he was gushing like a girl.

  He explained to me that in the depths of his despair, that’s all that he’d had. Hope. Pure and simple. Some days it felt like all hope was lost. When Veuve found him, she’d told him that hope is never lost. Not while we have a heart that’s beating in our chest, she’d told him.

  Then he hinted that Veuve had, many years ago, been in a similar situation to his. And that hope was what kept her fighting. He said little about it and downplayed what he did say. It reminded me of genuine veteran Green Lids . . . they were humble and said little. That’s one of the ways you can tell a fake Special Forces’ veteran—if they brag about their exploits or talk in detail about their tours, they’re faking it.

  Maybe victims of unimaginable abuse and suffering share some of the same characteristics as veterans. After all, they’ve experienced things that nobody should . . . a living hell.

  They don’t need to glorify anything. They just want to forget.

  I have my own share of memories that I’d rather forget. I’ve lived through the nightmares and flashbacks but, like I suspect Veuve of doing, I pushed all of mine to the back of my consciousness and built a reinforced wall in front of it. To talk about it would mean taking down that wall. And I’m in no hurry to do that. Some things are best left buried in the past.

  We’ve been to the hardware store. I’ve got everything that I need from there, except for the cameras, so now we’re in the electronics store . . . and The Kid is walking around like he’s in a toy shop. If it wasn’t for the need to get back—we’ve left Veuve alone—I’d let him spend all day in here. I can’t believe that it was his suggestion to join me. I think it’s because he feels safe when I’m around.

  I want Veuve to feel like that. I want her to feel safe wherever she is, whoever she’s with, of course I do. But I want her to feel safe with me. Even if confronted by the devil himself, if she were with me, I’d want her to feel safe. To turn to me and know beyond any doubt that everything will be okay. That I’ve got it covered.

  It’s a strange feeling for me. One that I’ve not experienced since I was a kid. I’d been very protective of my sister. Yet I hadn’t been able to keep her safe. I picture my passing out parade, many years ago. I’d joined out of desperation to halt my spiralling descent into juvenile delinquency but, once my training was complete, I’d wished more than ever to have my sister back so that I could protect her. I felt that I’d be able to protect her now. If she’d walked back through the door, I’d have walked out on my troop, no matter the shitfest it caused, and I’d have given my life to keep her safe.

  Over time, during active duty, I’d fantasised how I’d find a woman, settle down and keep her safe. By the time I left the Corps behind, that notion took a backseat to settling back down into civilian life. It’s not as easy as everyone thinks. Sex is suddenly on tap. You have a buff body. You ooze masculinity. Women’s legs fall open as easily as your flies. You begin to see them as objects. You lose respect for them because they don’t respect themselves.

  The urge to find one to settle down with and protect becomes a joke. You find plenty, settle for the ones that don’t appear to have an STI and protect your cock with a condom, just to make sure.

  I’d taken my immediate pension as soon as I got out but it wasn’t enough to live on. I had most of my wages from the previous sixteen years—what had I needed to spend money on when I was in active service? I’d lived for the Royal Marines. At first, I missed the order, the discipline . . . the challenge. But then, when spirits and sex were becoming my whole life, I was bundled into the back of an unmarked black sedan and whisked off to begin my second career of deniable operations. Thankfully, they’re few and far between now and most are mercifully short. I can command a king’s ransom, thanks to my particular skillset, so I pick and choose.

  I haven’t had the nod for a while now. Maybe they think I’m getting too old. Or m
aybe budget cuts mean they can’t afford me. I’ve no idea. I don’t concern myself with it unless there’s a strange, black sedan waiting outside my home. Anyone who knows these pen-pushers’ M.O. would know who they were a mile off. They are nothing if not creatures of habit . . . very reassuring in today’s fast moving society where radicals think their aims are best achieved by terror.

  I’ve seen the shit they teach these kids in organised training camps in Syria and Afghanistan. The public think it’s all about disaffected, brainwashed youths fumbling about with suicide bombs in disorganised chaos. It’s a far cry from that. Although disaffected youths are being brainwashed but it’s way more organised than people believe. One day, the powers that be will wake up and become more proactive in catching the kids before disaffection takes hold of them.

  I look over at The Kid, peering at a plasma globe in utter fascination. Well, almost—he’s very aware of the people around him and looks very uncomfortable if anyone goes anywhere near him. I’m keeping an eye out—he’s doing incredibly well. Helped, of course, by the array of tempting distractions in the store.

  But take The Kid, he’s been let down by the system—hell, the fucking system isn’t even aware of his existence. That’s how much kids are being let down. How will his experiences affect his future? Would he be an ideal candidate for a radical organisation?

  I shake the dark thoughts from my mind. Today isn’t the day to worry about The Kid. He’s safe and making sound progress. It’s Veuve who’s the worry. She’s still tight-lipped about her security concerns. It would help me to keep her safe if I knew what we were dealing with. With her profession and personal interests, she is more at risk than most women anyway. She was speaking with Helene before her funny turn, as far as I know anyway. Maybe it is to do with the club. I’ll find out, one way or another.

  This afternoon, once she’s finished with Dean—and I don’t even want to think about that—and I’ve finished installing updated security measures, we’re going to stake out Thierri’s house. With her larger than life personality, long black hair and scarlet lips, I think being discreet is going to be a challenge. Thank fuck it’s only some old bint that we’ve got to evade. I can imagine that Veuve would be a liability on any other reconnaissance job.

  But I’m looking forward to it. I get to spend time with her. Alone. In a confined space. Maybe it will help her to relax around me. And we’re going to talk sex . . . or at least that’s my interpretation of it. However long we’re stuck there, staking out Thierri’s house, I’m going to have one long, in-depth therapy session. For anyone else, I’d run a mile. For her, I’m game.

  PATIO DOOR BOLTS FITTED, front door lock changed and heavy-duty chain and spyhole fitted. Window locks upgraded and cameras installed. I’ve enjoyed doing a rare bit of DIY and I’ve had my willing, if not exactly able, assistant asking questions at every turn. But it’s been good. I’ve left him playing with the IP cameras. Thank God I purchased cameras with unlimited cloud storage because he’s setting off the cameras constantly and then dashing back to watch the recorded footage. It’s cute, it’s childlike . . . frankly, it’s a complete pain in the arse from a security standpoint. The intention was to have a live notification sent to Veuve and myself every time they were triggered. My inbox went into meltdown so for now, and until the novelty wears off, I’ve disabled them.

  I’m not leaving her alone if I can help it, not until I get to the bottom of what’s on her mind so I don’t mind that so much. She’s given me an assurance that her security panic has nothing to do with The Kid so presumably, he’s safe. We’re done in the club. She went off to see to Dean . . . fuck no, talk to Dean and I pumped Gabe for information. He was guarded, understandably so, but I think I’ve got him on side. I told him to speak to Helene—he went and called her and came back with a slightly more helpful attitude.

  He’s got a thing for the sex therapist, of that I’m sure, although he says he’s promised to another. I worked out where his preferences lie the night he called me to help with Dean. I thought he didn’t look the type . . . excuse my ignorance, I now know better. A little googling soon sorted out my misconceptions. Male submissives come in many forms, I found. I only really considered it when Dean was going on about how aggressive his boss had been.

  I’ve not experienced that—but then I’ve probably never given a woman a chance. I know what I want and as long as they’re legal, clean and willing, I’ll take it. If one of those airheaded sluts had tried to take the lead, I’d have gladly overcome her—just because it’s how I thought it should be. And, if she’d fought, it might have spiced it up a little but I’d still have overpowered her. I don’t have that urge with Veuve . . . okay, so it’s early days. To be honest, I don’t know whether it’s something I can do . . . but it’s a challenge.

  Mostly though, it’s a challenge that brings me skin to skin with the only woman for whom I’ve ever modified my behaviour. The only woman I’ve wanked off to . . . well, if you exclude Cindy Crawford when I was a teenager. Man, she was hot . . . I could have re-wallpapered my whole bedroom from the proceeds of wanking to pictures of her. That’s probably the last time I jerked off to images of a woman in my head until now.

  When I got back from dropping her home last night, I went straight to bed. Ordinarily, I’d have stayed up and had a couple of beers—it was early. But I didn’t want to eradicate the taste of her on my lips and my tongue. I lay in bed and wanked, bringing myself close and then backing off like I’d read about, over and over until my balls felt like they were going to explode. When I finally blew my load, all I could picture was her, naked in the bath, rubbing one out for all she was worth and thinking of me.

  I cleaned myself up and prepared for sleep but thoughts of her, perhaps triggered by the taste of her in my mouth, kept me awake for ages. And, I can honestly say that’s a first. Never before have I tossed and turned, thinking about a woman. Wondering what I’ll do to please her. Wondering how I can keep her safe. And from what, exactly?

  And now, I see her walking towards me. A million miles away from the panic attack or whatever it was that she had at mine last night. So confident and capable. Anyone looking at her would think she was scared of nothing and no one. I know better. And I’ve appointed myself as the person who will change that. I’ll be the man who allows her to sleep soundly in her bed at night. I’ll be the one who teaches her to let go of the past so it can never overtake her again.

  Because there’s a man out there who fucked her up badly. When I find him, I’m going to make sure he can never strike fear into her heart again. Whatever Thierri’s protection entailed, mine will exceed.

  What if it doesn’t work out with her? What about her protection then?

  She’s the only woman I’ve truly desired and remotely cared about. It has to work out with her; I’ll make it work out.

  It’s taken me thirty eight years to find a woman who’s not only got my interest but holds and stimulates it . . . I’ll be damned if I’m letting her slip through my fingers.

  She reaches me, an air of disinterest and untouchability about her. I briefly question whether it’s for my benefit or for those around us. And that’s what I love about her . . . her abstruse nature and the challenges it brings. One minute she’s an open book, the next she’s written in some mysterious, arcane language.

  I can feel Dean’s eyes on me before I see him. I can feel the animosity from across the room. Which tells me two things: he’s getting too possessive of her and that she’s not just fucked him—he wouldn’t be so hostile if he’d just been inside her. The pleasure I take from the latter tells me that I too am in danger of the first. I know that will be a greater challenge for me than giving her servitude. I’m an alpha at heart: I don’t share.

  ‘Shall we?’ I say. The sooner I get her all to myself, the better.

  She nods. Miss Cool, Calm and Collected. I place my hand on her lower back and prepare to escort her to my car.

  From the corner of my eye, I s
ee Gabe look from her to me and back again, his eyebrow raised. Clearly his interest is piqued. But I don’t detect the animosity I expect . . . just intrigue.

  She’s quiet in the drive over to Stratford. I was surprised that the guy who owns Vouloir lives there. He must have money, I’d thought, but when I raised it with Veuve she said he grew up in the East End and was comfortable there. He made money but never felt the need to move into the fancy suburbs where he’d stick out like a sore thumb. She explained that he had no airs or graces and, when he was well, was not a man to pick a fight with unless you were sure you could win. He could be ruthless she said.

  Her description got my attention. She gave me his address last night so I could do some research before turning up to stake the place out. It’s a big house . . . like four average sized houses strapped together. She said he built it on a purchased plot of land. Yeah, a plot of land they could have built the Olympic Park on, if he hadn’t got there first. Okay so I’m exaggerating but on Google Maps, it sticks out like a sore thumb.

  He has a huge garage to house his car collection—Veuve says that’s his one weakness when it comes to parting with cash. Helene was his weakness when it came to everything else.

  I leave Veuve with her thoughts. I know this man is important to her and that he’s dying. His sister must be a particular brand of evil to manipulate him like this, taking away all he cares about in the interests of her own greed. I pull into the place I’d earmarked. There isn’t much of a choice because of the size of his plot. His place is in a little hollow so we’re parked further up the hill by a little precinct of shops.

  We can look down on it from here and I’ve brought binoculars for me to study the inside of his compound. Yes, compound. From the six-foot electric gates that adjoin six-foot walls that have an electric fence inside, to the cameras and the guard dogs . . . it resembles an MC’s clubhouse, not a pensioner’s retirement pad.

  Getting inside is going to be hellishly difficult. I’m pinning my hopes on legitimate visitors getting us in. For almost an hour, we sit in silence as nothing happens. Then a small red van pulls up to the gates. I pick up the binoculars and watch carefully. A hand appears from the open driver’s window and presses the intercom. Thirty seven seconds later, the gates begin to swing open. The dogs—three Rottweilers—stand stock still until the front door opens and a woman appears. I note the name of the company emblazoned on side of the van.