We’ve neither won.
The referee will have to decide on points.
But before he can make his decision, a decision that could start another feud, the barn is split by the sound of a man’s voice screaming, ‘Police, police.’
The lookout has spotted them a mile away, which gives us a few minutes to get out of here. The two hundred odd people in this warehouse panic and start running for the exit in a mass exodus.
Dom and another man are beside me. ‘We got to go,’ Dom says.
‘Wait.’
I turn my head and Pilkington’s heavies are trying to help him up. I grab his upper arm. Pain shoots through my ribs. His mouth spills a long cable of saliva, his face is split and bruised, his hair and clothing are slathered in blood, grease and mud. He looks like a wild man. We both look like wild men, blindsided by lightning.
‘It’s over between us,’ I squeeze forcefully, and he just looks at me. His eyes are no longer electric, replaced by the aftermath mellowness of a punishing battle.
‘I respect you, Jake Eden,’ he says, and a spray of blood hits my face. ‘You have fucking balls. You met me head on. Your family and mine are tight now. You won’t have any trouble from the Pilkingtons.’
I stick out my bleeding hand. He takes it. Like a man.
‘You’re one tough fuck, Billy Joe Pilkington, and I wouldn’t want to do that again.’ He breaks into painful laughter that makes him wince. A mutual rush of respect flows through me.
In typically modest fashion he says, ‘You’re the greatest fighter of all time… Next to me.’
I grin.
I hear the sirens now. His men slide their hands under his armpits and help him away.
In a daze, I hear a woman’s voice calling me frantically. Ah, Lily.
And then I see her face. God! She looks like a fucking angel.
SIXTEEN
Lily
‘Oh, my God, Jake! You’re covered in blood,’ I scream, falling to the ground next to him. I cannot believe the state he is in.
‘Have you seen the other guy?’ he jokes, blood dribbling out of his mouth.
I stare at him in horror.
‘Come on,’ Dom shouts urgently. ‘We better get the fuck out of here. In a few minutes the pigs will be swarming all over this place.’
‘Shane’s waiting in the front with the engine running,’ I say automatically, remembering what Shane had told me. The sirens sound a whole lot closer. ‘Come on,’ I say, my voice high and shrill. ‘We have to hurry.’
Pilkington’s men rush forward to grab an arm each. By a weird chance my gaze collides with one of his helpers and the man’s eyes register recognition before he moves his eyes swiftly away. But I have never seen him in my life. Then they are making for the exit and I turn my attention back to Jake, with all my thoughts back to the worry of getting Jake into Shane’s car before the police arrive.
Dom and another guy support Jake. It is shocking that in his state he can still walk. I run ahead to open the back door of the car. Jake is put in, Dom and the guy run off, and Shane takes off. The sirens are deafening now, but the coppers are about to find that they’re too late again. It is shocking how quickly all the cars have sped away.
I turn to look at Jake.
‘Oh my, Jake. Look at you,’ I whisper.
‘Most of this blood is not mine,’ he lies.
‘We’re going to see a doctor, right?’
‘Nope. A doctor is coming to see us.’
I lean back and close my eyes. I feel shocked and shaken.
‘Hey,’ he says.
I turn my head.
‘The feud is over.’
I nod sadly. The price seems too high to me. ‘Are you in agony?’
‘No, I’m still buzzing.’
‘Buzzing?’
‘Yup. Buzzing. It’s up there with sex.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘Maybe not,’ he grins, then winces with pain.
I look at him worriedly and he touches my face gently. And for some crazy reason tears start slipping from my eyes.
‘Don’t, Lily. Don’t. Everything is just the way it should be.’
‘It’s just the shock,’ I sniff. Even I don’t know why I am crying. It seems so silly, but I feel unbelievably choked up and shaken.
We hurtle through country lanes, with Jake wincing now and again.
The doctor comes and to my horror tells us that Jake has fractured ribs. He prescribes a course of anti-inflammatory meds and painkillers. I set up an ice bath and Jake gingerly lowers himself into it. The buzz of adrenalin has worn off and the damaged ribs make even talking an incredibly painful thing. He lies in the ice bath for about an hour. I can see huge purple bruises and bumps coming up on his legs, his midsection and his face.
‘How do you feel?’ I ask, coming to sit on the toilet seat.
‘Like hell. Even breathing makes me feel miserable. And I’ve got a splitting headache.’
When he gets out of his ice bath, he is shivering and I gently help him to bed and cover him with a blanket. Then I wrap his hands with gauze bandages—the skin over the knuckles is all broken and raw.
‘Why don’t you have a little nap?’ I say.
He sighs. ‘I’d like to have sex.’
I look at him in astonishment. ‘How?’
‘I could if you did all the work.’
I shake my head in wonder. He can’t even breathe without pain and he wants to have sex. Incredible!
‘Will you?’ he cajoles.
‘No. Look at the state of you. Your face looks like a damn balloon. And you can’t even breathe properly. I’m not going to have sex with you. What if I cause you even more injuries?’
‘We haven’t had sex in three days,’ he says sulkily.
‘And whose fault is that? Who had to conserve energy to prepare for his big fight?’
‘How about a blow job?’
‘You’re mad.’
‘I thought you liked a swollen cock.’
I grin. ‘I’m not doing it.’
‘Right then, just open your legs and let me see your pussy.’
I blush.
‘Right, at least just talk dirty to me.’
‘Stop it, Jake. I’m not doing anything like that. You’re supposed to be resting.’
‘Go on. I just want to see my cock in your pretty mouth.’
I lift the duvet and fucking hell he is as hard as a piece of wood. I lay the duvet back on his body.
‘Spoilsport,’ he grumbles.
I grin.
‘By the way, we have to go see my mother in a few days’ time. She wants to meet you.’
‘Wake up, Lily. Wake up.’ Jake’s voice startles me awake. Disorientated, there is still a great rage left over from my dream. I turn to look at him in the light from his bedside table. He is too stiff and in pain to move too much and is lying on his back looking at me with worried eyes.
He reaches out and pulls me gently backwards onto the pillow. ‘You were shouting.’
My skin is damp with sweat. I inhale deeply. ‘Can’t you sleep?’
‘It hurts to sleep.’ His voice is dry.
I rise up on one elbow. ‘Is the pain really bad?’
‘I’ll live. Are you all right, Lil?’
I take a deep, calming breath. ‘It was nothing. Just a nightmare.’
‘What was it about?’
The hole that cannot be filled yawns. I can’t tell him about Luke. There is only one way I know to distract him. I give a tiny laugh. ‘Do you still want to have sex?’
For a second he seems confused, and then I see that familiar gleam of sexual arousal flickering in the depths of his eyes. ‘What do you think?’
I lift the duvet off our bodies and then I place both my palms on either side of him, very, very gently lowering myself onto his erect cock, sighing with pleasure as that big cock invades, stretches and fills me.
‘God! I’ve missed your tight pussy,’ he groans.
I whimper with pure pleasure and feel him get harder and bigger deep inside me. I know he will soon be at the point of no return. I feel his fingers move and locate my moist, swollen clit straining and protruding from its hood.
As his seed rushes upwards through his shaft he firmly grasps the tight bud between his fingers and squeezes it hard. The sudden furious sensation is so different from my gentle manipulations that it triggers my climax. I try not to buck too violently as the blissful spasms of my orgasm shake me from head to foot, but with his own climax upon him he instinctively forces more of his shaft into me, causing my buttocks to land on his thighs.
His groan is one of explosive ecstasy tempered by pain. For some time I hold him trapped within my body until our bodies are finally quiet. I remember once reading that the heart is like a tendril—it cannot flourish alone. It will always lean toward the nearest and loveliest thing it can twine itself with and cling to it. When I try to gently lift my body away he makes a sound of protest.
‘What is it?’ I whisper, thinking I have hurt him.
‘I am so…’ He hesitates. ‘Proud of you.’
SEVENTEEN
A week after the fight, when only yellow bruises and unhealed ribs remain, we go to Jake’s mother’s house for lunch. She lives in a cottage with a charming English garden. English gardens are always best in spring but hers still looks good. There are hanging baskets of purple petunias by her front door. The door opens before we can knock and a surprisingly small woman, perhaps five feet three inches, with extraordinarily bright green eyes, smiles at us.
She kisses her son warmly on both his cheeks and formally extends her hand toward me. I am relieved by this show of formality. Her hands are small but strong—a gardener’s hands. Jake introduces us.
‘Nice to meet you, Lily,’ she says. Her voice is soft but her accent is more pronounced than her son’s.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mara,’ I reply.
She withdraws her hand rather quickly and clasps it along with the other close to her chest.
‘You better come in,’ she says, and leads us into her living room. It is exactly as I expected it to be. As clean as two new pins with net curtains, family photos galore, and dainty china figurines on the windowsill.
‘Take a seat,’ she invites, and hovering uncertainly at the door asks if we would like something to drink.
‘No, you sit down and I’ll fix us all a drink. What will you have, Mother?’
I take the sofa and she perches on the end of a velour-covered Queen Anne chair. ‘I’ll have a sherry,’ she says. I notice that her hands are tightly clenched in her lap.
‘Lily?’ Jake looks at me with a raised eyebrow.
‘I’ll have whatever you’re having then.’
Jake walks to the carved armoire and opens it. One shelf holds an impressive selection of alcohol.
‘So how did the two of you meet?’ Mara probes.
I return my gaze to her. She is smiling politely, but her eyes are sharp. ‘Shane introduced us,’ I reply.
She frowns. ‘Shane?’
‘Yes, I was working as a dancer at Eden.’
‘Dancer?’
Ah! Malice disguised as moral outrage. She just about stopped herself from crossing herself.
‘She was,’ Jake interrupts smoothly. ‘She doesn’t dance anymore.’
His mother turns to him. There is a puzzled, curious expression on her face. ‘Oh!’
‘Now she works for me.’
‘Really?’ she says softly, taking her glass of sherry from her son.
I have the urge to down the entire contents of my glass, but I don’t. Instead I hold the glass in my hand and endure fifteen minutes of interrogation disguised as polite chat.
Finally, his mother stands. ‘Please excuse me. I think lunch might be ready.’ She disappears into the kitchen and I feel the tenseness in my shoulders go.
‘I think she likes you,’ Jake whispers.
‘I think she doesn’t,’ I whisper back.
‘I think she’ll come around,’ he consoles, and kisses me on the nose.
For some weird reason, his words touch me. I look into his eyes and he looks back and we are both so lost in each other’s gaze that we don’t hear his mother come back into the room.
She clears her throat and both of us turn to look at her. Her face is white and she seems shocked by something.
Even Jake notices. ‘What’s the matter, Mum?’ he asks, standing up and going to her. He puts his arm around her narrow shoulders, making her appear smaller and quite fragile.
She shakes her head and smiles weakly. ‘Someone walking over my grave.’
I stand, too, but I am conscious that she doesn’t want me near her. The truth is that she can barely bring herself to look at me.
‘Come on, lunch is ready,’ she says briskly.
‘Would you like some help?’ I ask, knowing what the answer will be.
‘Absolutely not. Everything is done.’
So Jake and I take our seats at a dark wood dining table. The room faces her beautiful back garden full of flowers and fruit trees. His mother then disappears from the room and returns with a trolley.
‘Be careful, the plates are hot,’ she warns, setting our plates of a lamb chop, peas, carrots and potatoes in front of us. She places a basket of bread rolls and a gravy boat in the middle of the table and sits herself.
‘May it do you good,’ she says.
‘May we all be together at the same time next year,’ Jake says.
An expression of alarm crosses her face.
‘Bon appétit,’ I say.
Jake picks up his knife and fork.
His mother turns toward me. There is something in her eyes. For a second I think it is envy, the normal envy a mother feels for her son’s chosen mate, and then I realize it is not envy. It is fear. She finds me terrifying. I am still staring at her in shock when her eyes slide away. She busies herself with tearing at a piece of bread, which she then lays down on the plate.
I turn to look at Jake. He has missed it all. He is cutting into a piece of meat. He catches my eyes as he carries it to his lips.
‘What?’ he asks
‘Nothing.’
I look down at my plate. She wants to rub me out. Like a pencil mark that has been made in error. She cannot know who or what I really am, but some instinct is driving her. Telling her I am not to be trusted. Not to be taken into her family.
The meal is a disaster. Both his mother and I hardly eat. As soon as Jake puts his knife and fork down, his mother turns to him. ‘I need more ice. Will you get a bag from the freezer, Jake?’
‘Sure.’ Jake gets up and makes for the kitchen.
‘Can you get it from the big freezer in the shed?’ she says.
‘Would you also like me to walk back very slowly?’ he asks with a grin.
‘That would be nice,’ his mother replies, but there is no mischief in her voice. Only worry and trepidation.
As soon as the door closes she says, ‘I’ve always preferred sketches to paintings. Paintings are closed, finished things that hide layers of lies. Sketches are the bones of what will be. They are more honest. They haven’t learned to lie. What do you prefer?’
‘If we are truly talking about sketches and paintings, then I prefer paintings. I know the finished product is a series of accidents, but I appreciate that the grand design of life allows accidents to become beautiful.’
She frowns. ‘I want to have grandchildren. I want them to think of me as the old woman who wears shawls and silly hats and reads tea leaves. Are you the woman to give me that?’
I swallow. ‘Look, Jake and I have just met. It’s too early. It’s not on the cards.’<
br />
‘What do you want from my son, then?’
I shift uncomfortably. ‘Did you ask this of all women he brought home?’
‘He has never brought a woman home before.’
My mouth drops open.
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘I don’t want anything from your son. We’re just in a relationship.’
‘Liar,’ she says very softly.
‘What did you just call me?’
‘You heard. You are a dangerously manipulative woman, Miss Hart. And I am here to tell you that I will never allow you to break this family, or my son for that matter.’
EIGHTEEN
As we fly into Las Vegas airport, I look out of my cabin window, and the sparkling city appears almost magically from the miles of desert surrounding it. The heat outside the airport hits me like a wall. We walk quickly toward a gleaming purple SUV, which is waiting outside for us. It is wonderfully cool inside.
‘Purple?’ I ask with a laugh.
‘It’s the Hard Rock touch,’ Jake says.
We are in Las Vegas for the weekend, because I have never been, and when I told Jake that, he said, ‘Well, you haven’t lived until you’ve been on the Strip.’
The journey to the Strip is only about fifteen minutes. I gaze at the infamous street with wide eyes. It is an over the top, glamorous fantasy playground, almost like a giant Hollywood movie set with its miniatures of the Sphinx, pyramids, the Statue of Liberty and the Eiffel Tower. I even take a photo of the M & M store to show my mother.
I wonder what she will make of it. She once told me a shocking thing about the gorgeous black torch performer Lena Horne, who was allowed to stay at The Flamingo as long as she was not seen at the casino, restaurants or public areas. When she checked out, her bed sheets and towels were burned.
Over the massive, gold guitar door handles are the words: When this house is rocking, don’t bother knocking. Come on in. And it really is rocking in there for Jake. There is no check-in for Jake and me. He is greeted by name by a smiling host and we are quickly and efficiently whisked past the awesome, fifty-five feet digital screen stretched behind the reception desk, straight to the elevator bank and up to the Provocateur penthouse suite.
Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes) Page 39
