Vouloir

by J. D. Chase

‘There was nothing in the oven or in the toaster. When I went to walk back into the hall, there was fire by the front door. I closed the door. The smoke was getting bad and it smelled horrible. That’s when I called you. But I couldn’t go outside. When I tried, there was too much fire so I went back in the kitchen and got a glass of water.’

  ‘You’d need more than a glass,’ Jones points out and I nod.

  The Kid nods. ‘Yes, it was all in my mouth. I could taste it. But I only had a bit then I poured orange juice. Much better.’

  Jones bursts out laughing when he realises that The Kid had gone to get water to drink. I can’t help but chuckle. I don’t think The Kid need bother applying to the local fire and rescue service anytime soon.

  My chuckle sets Jones off again and I can’t help but join in. We’re laughing like crazy things and then The Kid joins in. I suspect our laughter’s infectious . . . since he’s no idea why we’re laughing. It’s good to see him starting to relax though.

  Half an hour or so passes before we’re allowed inside with the chief firefighter. The Kid opts to remain in the car; I think he’s seen enough for today.

  My fire damaged door’s completely off its hinges. The fireman mentions how difficult it was to gain access. That was what I wanted . . . but I hadn’t bargained on The Kid needing to be rescued. I see Jones grimace—he’s thinking the same thing. It’s clear that the fire started in the hall near the door—the smoke damage is worse there and this backs up what The Kid said he saw.

  The rest of the flat isn’t too bad but a complete deep clean and redecoration is needed. It can’t have been a very big fire—from the looks of the melted carpet, The Kid could easily have doused it with a bowl of water if he’d known what to do. Thankfully, the fireman’s under the impression that The Kid had been asleep and had only awoken when they were trying to kick the door in. He’d asked him as much and The Kid had nodded. He was probably so terrified that he’d have agreed to anything.

  My office door had been closed so damage in there is minimal, thank goodness. Both bedrooms aren’t so fortunate. And the kitchen isn’t too bad but the living room is awful. We talk about insurance and I find the policy and make a call to get my claim started. He tells me they’ll make it safe before they leave, but I catch Jones’ eye. Wordlessly, he tells me that he’ll make it safe after they’ve made it safe.

  The cause of the fire is, as yet, unknown. It could have been something pushed through the letterbox but there’s no obvious evidence of an accelerant, nor any remains of something to constitute a small scale fire bomb, except for some remnants of tin foil. His opinion is that it was a smoke bomb that went wrong. He tells me to take anything that’s valuable to me that I don’t want to leave in an obviously empty flat.

  I feel so pissed off at Jones. He’s standing there fiddling with his phone as I’m bagging up client files, jewellery, my laptop, The Kid’s tablet and some clothes for each of us—even if they do need washing now. I’m not sure The Kid’s ready to go clothes shopping just yet. He was doing so well but he’s had a shock today. I pack a few outfits to keep him going. Mind you, I did all his shopping before so I guess I can do it again.

  Jones calls me over. He’s holding his phone sideways. He might have turned the notifications off but each time the cameras have been triggered since he installed them, the footage has been recorded and stored in cloud based storage. I can see the close up view of the door. I can see there’s a few envelopes on the door, presumably today’s post. But then I notice something else . . . wisps of smoke before the clip cuts.

  ‘Did you see the smoke?’ he says.

  I nod then he shows me another clip. The Kid triggers the camera. It’s not even five minutes after the other clip. The smoke is much worse now. But the clip ends.

  It’s horrible to watch and I think Jones picks up on my discomfort because he says, ‘The next clip shows the flames, that’s all. I’ll watch the first clip again on a large screen later—it’s hard to see properly on a five inch screen.’

  I nod but I’m in no rush to watch it again. Instead, I gather the bags and suitcases before I realise that I forgot to check with the insurance company about temporary accommodation.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Jones asks, holding out his hands to take the cases.

  I shake my head. ‘I need to call the insurance company. I forgot to ask what I need to do about alternative accommodation. You know what they’re like. I’ll go forking out for hotel rooms and then find that I didn’t follow procedure so I can’t claim.

  He takes the cases from me. ‘No need. You’re staying with me. End of.’

  I gasp. ‘I can’t. We can’t. I’ll give them a quick call and—’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. You’re under my protection. Just think how much easier that will be if you’re under my roof. It will do The Kid good to stay with someone he knows, not in a busy hotel.’

  I narrow my eyes. Is he using The Kid’s issues to get what he wants?

  I’m not sure but either way, there’s no denying it would probably be a better option for The Kid after the day’s trauma. He’s clearly closer to Jones that I’d thought—letting him in on his secrets. That’s big. No, that’s mahoosive.

  ‘Just for tonight and we’ll see how it goes,’ I mutter, letting him know I’m not happy about it.

  He grins. ‘Come on then. I’ll get you two settled and then I’ll pop back here to make sure it’s as safe as can be. Then tomorrow we’ll get a new door on. I’ll sort it, just as the insurance company said, don’t worry.’

  ‘You’re a regular Bob the Builder, aren’t you?’ I grin, shaking my head. ‘Is there anything you can’t do?’

  I mean it as a joke but he looks at me and says, ‘Be the sub you need me to be. Not yet.’

  Before I can reply, he’s halfway out of the door, the heavy suitcases balanced on his shoulder as though they’re weightless.

  I sit in the back with The Kid and break the news to him that we’re going to be staying with Jones. He lights up like a Christmas tree. No problem there then.

  We’re soon inside his flat. Then I find it only has two bedrooms.

  The Kid will have to share with Jones unless one of them is willing to crash on the sofa.

  Well, I think that until The Kid views both rooms and declares the spare room as his. It looks like I’ll be the one crashing on the sofa. Oh well, hopefully it will only be for a few days.

  I drag my suitcase into the living room. Jones is standing in front of the large screen TV. Within moments, the first clip of my front door that he’d shown to me in my flat, is filling the screen.

  He pauses it and replays the very start.

  ‘There!’ he shouts, making me jump.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Watch,’ he instructs before replaying the start of the clip again.

  I see something dark fall onto the envelopes. It’s already halfway from the letterbox to the floor before the recording begins. I guess the movement of the mysterious object triggers it.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he says. ‘That object is too small to trigger the camera. Yet something must have, a moment before. Something larger. Unless The Kid triggered it and it’s sheer coincidence that it recorded just at that moment.’

  ‘Wouldn’t The Kid have seen it coming through the letterbox though?’

  He pulls a face. ‘Possibly. It depends upon whether he was doing his running past the camera trick. He’d be running away from the camera when that was posted through the door. He was so pleased to be able to trigger the camera and not get caught.’ He grins at the memory.

  I nod, grinning back. ‘Unless the postman had just pushed the post through the letterbox, moments before. Would they be enough to trigger it?’

  He shrugs. ‘Doubtful but it can’t be ruled out. One thing’s for certain though. That smoke bomb or, at least that’s what it looks like to me, is the cause of the fire. Nobody else has been targeted in your block, today or recently—you’d have heard ab
out it. Look at the drama from your small fire. We have to think, why you? Who would want to do that? Maybe it’s random but we can’t afford to assume that.

  I shake my head and shrug uselessly. I have no idea. Unless . . . No. This isn’t Paul’s style. This is more than likely some local tearaway who’s bored during his summer holiday. Maybe I’ve given him a mouthful recently for loitering or littering or something. Or maybe he chose my flat at random. My little boxes are rattling but I’m not having any of it. It’s mind over matter. I shouldn’t mind because I won’t matter to Paul any more. It’s been fifteen years since I last saw him. I’m not some gullible teen now and Paul always said that ‘big girls’ did nothing for him. He likes his women young, gullible and skinny . . . not to mention restrained.

  The arrival of The Kid distracts me and, within no time at all, he’s mesmerised by how it’s possible to transfer photos and videos from a compatible phone or tablet onto the TV. I had no idea such things were possible. Now Jones is showing him that it’s an Internet TV and sets about demonstrating the wonders of the YouTube channel. I leave them to it to explore Jones’ kitchen but quickly determine that it’s going to be a takeaway for dinner.

  Heading back into the living room to ask what it will be tonight, I pause to watch them playing a game of tennis on Jones’ Xbox. When Jones pulls his tee-shirt off on the pretext of being too hot—I’m not fooled—I force myself to watch The Kid getting active and enjoying every minute. I ignore the tattoos that dance before my eyes, brought to life by the flexing of muscles. Well, I try to.

  Soon, I’ve forgotten why I went in there and just sit back and watch. The Kid. Mostly. Well, sometimes. I know that Jones could win easily, but he’s allowing The Kid to give him a run for his money. The Kid’s fitness is non-existent. He’s puffing and panting like he smokes sixty a day—and only has one lung. Jones is leaping around enthusiastically and hasn’t broken a sweat . . . more’s the pity. I vow to get an Xbox and a large TV but I know that it’s exercise outdoors that The Kid needs most.

  It’s match point. The Kid snatches victory. He cheers and does a victory dance. Surely that must be a male thing because he’s not learned that from me. He could give any Premiership footballer a few lessons. He turns to me and bestows the largest grin I’ve ever seen upon me. I hold up my hand for a high five.

  ‘High five!’ he cries in excitement before turning back to Jones. He does a double take towards the window.

  I see all the jubilation drain from him in an instant. He walks closer, his movements stiff.

  He picks up the framed photograph that I’d examined the day before. Jones’ daughter, I presume.

  He turns around, the frame in his hand and glares at Jones. I’m a little taken aback until he says, ‘Why do you have an image of my sister?’

  I wonder what on earth he’s going on about. He doesn’t have a sister. At least not one that I know about.

  ‘Hmm? What? That’s my sister?’ says Jones, with a frown. He clearly thinks that The Kid has lost the plot. ‘I told you about her, remember? She went missing when she was just a kid.’

  The Kid shakes his head. His jaw is clenched and he’s frowning in frustration. ‘No. This is my sister that I told you about. You’ve found her. You must have done. Where is she?’

  Jones stands there looking bewildered. Then he walks over and takes the photograph from The Kid’s hands.

  ‘I only have this copy, please leave it on the sill,’ he says, setting it back in its place. I can hear the clipped edge of his tone, although he’s trying to hold it in. He can’t hold back the pain, it’s evident in his voice.

  It falls quiet as the two men regard each other suspiciously.

  ‘Can somebody please tell me what’s going on?’ I ask eventually, unable to bear the awkward silence. We’re guests in Jones’ home and within half an hour, there’s a standoff. Not a good start.

  ‘What’s your sister’s name, Kid?’ Jones asks softly.

  The Kid shrugs. ‘She was called “Your Sister” by my mum. Others called her “The Girl.”’

  Jones considers this for a few minutes. I see the muscles tensing in his jaw.

  He speaks, his voice even thicker with emotion now. ‘What’s your mum’s name, Kid?’

  A shiver travels all the way down my spine.

  ‘Sandy,’ he says, with a slight shrug.

  I hear an odd noise from Jones, like a strangled sob. ‘The same as my sister,’ he says simply as a fat tear rolls down his face.

  ‘No,’ said The Kid, firmly. I wonder how he could dispute such a thing until he elaborates. ‘You said her name was Alexandra.’

  Jones nods as another tear manages to escape. ‘It is. But Sandy was what I called her. Look—’ He nods to the photograph. ‘Her hair is the colour of sand on the beach.’

  I look from him to The Kid and back again as the pieces of the jigsaw suddenly slot into place.

  Fuck. Me. Backwards.

  There are so many people to thank for their part in making my life easier and my writing better. First and foremost, Karen Perkins of LionheART Galleries and Publishing House. Why? Because she’s bloody brilliant, that’s why. My deadline for this book was brought forward because of signing commitments and Karen dropped everything to assist. Thank you so much Karen.

  As an Indie author, the backing I receive from book bloggers is both incredible unexpected. How bloggers juggle their real life responsibilities with maintaining such fabulous blogs is beyond me. Yet again, I’ve been assisted by two undeniably wonderful ladies—this time performing alpha reader roles, a first for me: both are gorgeousness personified—my darling Jojo (Four Brits and a Book) and the awesome Sharon (Kindle Friends Forever). Thank you both. For everything.

  I’ve entrusted my book to Stacey at Champagne Formats because I just had to have her work her magic on Vouloir. Her pretties are so beautiful, aren’t they? Thank you so very much.

  Thank you to Kiki Chatfield at The Next Step PR. It’s a new venture for her and a new avenue for me. We’re negotiating uncharted waters together and so far, it’s a blast! For me anyway . . . I know I’m a PR nightmare. I’m headstrong and impulsive—differing time zones are the least of Kiki’s problems!

  Huge thanks to every single reader who chooses to read my books. Just the thought of that still gives me a thrill, especially in today’s saturated romance market. There are so many authors now and yet, you still choose to include my creations on your TBR list. Your unfailing support is appreciated more than you’ll ever know. Every time I you recommend my books to others, every time I read a thoughtful review and every time I read a message from one of you at 2 a.m. in the morning when you just had to let me know how much you’re laughing or crying, or to inform me that I owe you a new kindle after you got mad at a character and threw it . . . every single damn time, I want to hug you and tell you just how much it means to me. I continue to write because it’s what I love. I continue to publish for you. Because you put your faith in me whenever you read one of my books. I hope I never let you down.

  Much love,

  J.D.C. xxx

  A message from J.D.

  Hi everyone,

  I hope you enjoyed the first part of the Passion Noire series. It was an easy book to write, in that some days my fingers couldn’t keep up with the words in my head. It was a difficult book to write because of some of the subject matter. I paced up and down my kitchen before poor Dan . . . well, you know. I knew it was part of the story and that the story had to be told but that didn’t mean I had to like it.

  Yes it’s a work of fiction, but the issues raised in the book are very real for some people. I did thorough research which led me to hear some harrowing tales. There are therapists who specialise in BDSM related sexual/relationship matters and Veuve’s thought’s and opinions are not necessarily my own.

  I wish I could tell you that the other two parts of the series are all hearts and flowers but I can’t. I sometimes wish I could overrule the voices in my h
ead and write a light-hearted chick flick but I can’t. The Kid has a tale to tell and he wants everyone to hear it. I’m well stocked up on tissues and Jack Daniels. But this is me! I’ve always managed to find a HEA . . . I’ll do my best this time but I can’t make any promises. You know men, they never listen to us women! And Veuve’s no better. It’s like arguing with a dildo.

  Oh and yes, I have news! My prolific writing is set to continue (brain willing) but that means that I won’t be around to chat quite as much. Therefore, I’m starting a newsletter soon. Details will be on my website. You have visited my website? That’s where you’ll find bonus content and deleted scenes too. My Facebook page is currently having weekly giveaways so it could be worth your while giving it a like and selecting to receive notifications.

  I’d better get back. La Veuve Noire is snapping her fingers at me. She has no patience, that woman. If you’re attending a signing in Peterborough, London, Dublin or Aberdeen this year, come and say hi. I would love to meet you.

  Much love and gratitude,

  J.D. xxx

  To request your free personalized authorgraph (digital book signing) for Vouloir, click here

  I love to chat about books—mine and other authors’.

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  The Spotify playlist for Vouloir can be found here: Vouloir

  For deleted scenes, up-to-date news and information on book signings and other events please click on the web address to visit my website: www.jdchase.co.uk

  More books by JD Chase

  The Hunter (Orion the Hunter Part One)

  The Hunted (Orion the Hunter Part Two)

  Hunting Lust (Orion the Hunter Part Three)

  Hunting Truth (Orion the Hunter Part Four)

  Orion the Hunter: The Complete Anthology