by Ashe Barker
Unfazed by my grumpy response he leans back casually, his arms folded as he listens. He nods slowly. “Yes, Side, near Antalya. I’ve been there. Very nice.”
I hadn’t expected that. “You’ve been there? I never have, even though I’m half Turkish.”
“Well, that explains your exotic beauty, sweet Ashley. That gorgeous all-over tan. I had wondered…” His grin is sexy now, sensual. I shift in my chair, beginning to suspect I may need to be making a move soon, if I’m not to miss the best of the day. The hours of daylight are especially precious at this time of year. Still, I suppose there’s always tomorrow. But no, he’s still on the scent, and back to the business in hand. “So, a Turkish waiter then?”
I shake my head. “No, not a waiter. His name was, is, Bajram Balci. It’s spelt B A L C I, but pronounced Balji. I think it means beekeeper or something like that in Turkish. Or so my mum used to say. He didn’t keep bees, though. He was deputy manager in the hotel his family owned. Bajram and my mum spent a hot passionate summer together bonking their heads off, and she stayed on with him over the winter. The magic or passion or whatever had pretty much burned out, though, by the start of the nineteen ninety-one holiday season, and by May she was headed home. Eight weeks pregnant. I was born in nineteen ninety-two.”
“I see. And did the magical, sexy Bajram Balci know he was a father?”
“Oh yes. They parted friends as far as I could ever tell, and stayed in touch. He sent money quite often, became quite wealthy I think through the family business. Hotels in Side must do well.”
“Yeah, I can imagine they would.”
“My mum used to buy me presents with his money when I was very little. And later she put it in a savings account for me. And he sent me a birthday card every year. Written in Turkish so I couldn’t read them properly, but he put kisses on. He never missed. Even after I left home, my mum kept them. I found my nineteenth and twentieth birthday cards in a drawer in her house, after she died. Unopened. I suppose my twenty-first’ll arrive there too.”
“You didn’t contact him then? To let him know she’d died? That you’d sold up and moved?”
“No. I never thought to. He was in touch with my mum but he never asked to speak to me as far as I know. If it wasn’t for the cards I’d have just thought he wasn’t interested in me. And now it’s too late. I don’t have his address. My mum did, but I don’t know where he lives. And anyway, I didn’t sell up. I still own my mum’s house in Gloucester. I rent it out, to students.”
He glances up sharply at that last revelation but lets it pass. For now. “Maybe you could contact him. He might like to get to know you.”
“No, I doubt it. Not after all these years. He had plenty of opportunity when I was little. He wouldn’t be interested now.”
“A birthday card every year for twenty years doesn’t sound to me like a guy who’s not interested. He might have other children. You might have brothers, sisters, cousins. Aren’t you curious?”
I think for a moment, then, “Yes. Yes, I am curious. I’d like to be part of a family, a big family like yours. I should try to track him down, I suppose, at least let him know about mum and where to send cards to now. If he still wants to. But I’ve no idea how to start. It’s another country, I don’t speak the language, I don’t know anyone there. And what if he didn’t want to hear from me? What if he does have another family and they don’t know about me? I could blunder in and wreck his life. He might hate me…”
“Twenty birthday cards, love. He won’t hate you.”
“Maybe. Maybe I could do some Internet research or something. I don’t even know the name of the hotel, though, or anything.”
“You know his name, approximate age—same as your mum, more or less?”
I nod. “Yes, I expect so. She never mentioned that he was older or anything. She was forty-two when she died.”
“Right. And we know his probable location, and that his family are in the hotel business. That’s a lot to go on. Where there’s a will, love, where there’s a will. Now, what are you doing to celebrate your twenty-first?”
“My—what?”
“Your twenty-first birthday, the day after tomorrow. New Year’s Day.”
“How did you know? I never said… I don’t usually bother with birthdays.”
“Yes you did say. That first day, in your cottage when we discussed your hourly rate for working up here. Remember, the minimum wage goes up when you’re twenty-one? You told me you’d be twenty-one on January first. That’s the day after tomorrow.”
“Ah, right.” God, he misses nothing.
“So, any plans for how you’ll celebrate it?”
I shake my head. Truthfully, I’ve never given it a thought until this moment.
“Right, leave that to me then. Now, I owe you at least one orgasm before you go roaring off up the hillsides on my quad. We’ve not christened your ‘borrowed’ vibrator yet so we could give that a tug, so to speak. How do you like to use it? What did you discover when you tried it out? Maybe you could do the honors, and I’ll watch. And learn.”
His sexy grin would be irresistible if I wasn’t reeling, caught on the back foot by the sudden swerve in direction. And by the matter-of-fact way he approaches this stuff. Christ! Not that he’s going to learn anything much from me.
“It doesn’t matter. You don’t owe me anything. Really,” I mumble my apologies, make to get up, go and retrieve my clothes from the sitting room. He takes my arm as I pass him, pulling me backwards to land on his knee.
“Not so fast, lovely Ashley.” He takes my chin in his thumb and forefinger and tips my face up, holding my gaze even when I try to pull away. “What’s the matter? You’ve only to say no, you don’t need to run away from me. But it’s more, isn’t it? I’ve upset you, I can see that. Tell me why? How?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does. Tell me, sweetheart. Don’t leave here feeling upset. If you do, I’ll be terrified you won’t come back. And I need you to come back.”
Need me. No one ever said they needed me before. Not even my mum. I stare at him, look for the flicker of deceit in those brilliant green eyes, the quirk of lips that betrays the lie. There’s no incriminating evidence there. I frown, puzzled, not understanding…
“Tell me. Let me make it right. Don’t leave like this.” His tone is quiet, pleading.
I blink. He traces the shape of my mouth with his thumb before kissing me gently, and I’m lost. My arms are around his neck and I’m kissing him back, hungrily, greedy. Needing. I nibble kisses along his jaw line and up to his ear, nipping at his earlobe the way he does mine sometimes. And I whisper it into his ear, holding onto him tight so he can’t see my face—“I didn’t use it. I don’t know anything. I can’t teach you anything. I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t even pretend to misunderstand me. No game-playing with Tom. “Why not? Why didn’t you use it?”
I return the favor, equally blunt. “I didn’t know how. And—I thought it might not work. And then I’d be disappointed.”
He hesitates for a moment, taking in my humiliating revelation. Then, “Might not work? You could always have tried new batteries…” This time there’s a chuckle in his voice and I lift my head, stare sternly at him.
“Don’t take the piss, Mr Shore. You know bloody well what I mean. I thought it might not work—on me. I checked the fucking batteries before I nicked it!”
He manages to keep his serious face on for a few more seconds. “Thank goodness for that, Miss McAllister. I was beginning to think you might be slipping, getting sloppy in your thievery.” Then he’s hugging me to him and laughing out loud. And so am I.
He needs me? Christ, how I’m starting to need him. He keeps me sane.
He stands, plants me again on my feet, his hands gently resting on my shoulders. “The next time you’re here, my sweet little Ashley, I’m going to spend a long, long time demonstrating to you the many and various little tricks that piece of kit can
get up to. And how beautifully it works on you. And we’ll try out a few more toys if you like. You can expect to have a very, very good time on your next visit here. And then, next time you borrow any of my toys, you’ll know exactly what to do with your ill-gotten gains. Deal?”
I look at him solemnly, then. “Deal.” I hold out my hand and he takes it. Shakes briefly. “And next time, I’ll ask. I promise.”
“If you must, love. But that might take a lot of the fun out of it. I prefer it if you keep me guessing.”
Chapter Eighteen
By the time I eventually chug back down to Smithy’s Forge on the quad it’s almost noon. The weather’s clear, a beautiful crisp winter’s day, but with only around three hours of decent daylight left there’s no point heading up onto the moors. Instead I settle for an afternoon and evening spent with Photoshop, working on my existing stock of images, laying out a collection that I can offer to the first influx of tourists due here by around Easter. My working title for this batch is Time and Timeless and I’m trying to capture the permanence of this landscape, the slow, steady burn of evolution as the years and centuries roll on. So much remains unchanged, but still the subtle encroachment of the years as trees grow and age, farmsteads spring up then slowly crumble as the weather erodes and the seasons carve their way through the rocks and stone. The conservationists do their bit, and they make a difference, but nature is the real arbiter of what happens here.
And all the time I’m working I’m turning over in my head what has already happened, what’s passed between Tom and me. Over a matter of days our relationship has shifted, grown, deepened into something I could never have imagined. Something I never thought could exist, not for me. Tom’s nice. And even more incredibly, he’s nice to me. More than nice. After what I did, even after what happened before, in Bristol, it’s as though none of that ever existed.
Except it did. And it led to the disastrous encounter that first day when Tom found me, recognized me. When he came to my new home, humiliated me, threatened me, stripped me, then spanked me. He hurt me, scared me, and I couldn’t stop him, couldn’t protect myself. I felt I had no choice. Hindsight is a wonderful thing and I now I realize he did me no lasting damage, except perhaps to my pride. He never intended to really hurt me, I was never in any real danger. I survived, but I never want to feel so vulnerable again.
I’ve read a little about BDSM on various websites—well, more than a little actually. And I now know what the missing ingredient was that day. A safe word. I had no word or signal that would have stopped what was happening, and that’s why I felt so helpless. I hadn’t willingly surrendered my power so much as had it snatched from me. It wouldn’t have to be like that, though, next time. Would it?
Tom the lover is wonderful, exciting, arousing, endlessly seductive, but I’ve seen Tom the Dominant, I saw him that first day and that man unnerves me. I want the lover, desperately, but can I also accept the Dom?
Can I separate the pleasure/pain of submission from the violence and fear of my previous life? Nathan Darke seemed to think I might.
When Tom’s with me, his eyes twinkling, his ready smile, his laughter, his humor, his gentle hands and wicked tongue on me, in me, I lose sight of what happened between us. While we’re together I can manage to forget it and begin to contemplate—what? Submission? Allowing him to hurt me again? Accepting it? Welcoming it even? Maybe, if that’s what I need to do to have the lover.
Nathan talked to me of respect, caring, and I do know Tom cares for me. Seems to respect me. But that day, that first day, there was something more—his implacable determination, and my powerlessness in the face of it. And now I’m waiting, apprehensive, expecting that commanding, dominant presence to re-emerge and overwhelm me again. And that’s why I can’t trust Tom. And without trust…
My phone pings to let me know I have a text. It’s from Tom.
How’s work? U coming here tonite?
Fine. And no, tomorrow. OK?
Missing U. Tomorrow then. Or I come & find U. xx
CU. xxx
* * * *
The following morning, Sunday, is bright but cold, a hint of snow in the air. I get up at around nine o’clock—late for me—shower quickly and get dressed warmly. Holidays or not, this is a beautiful day for taking pictures, building my range of glorious winter landscapes. I have pressing business with Tom that does need to be settled, but I’m confused. I want him, but I don’t know if I can let myself have him, let him have me. Whatever, I rather think, however our relationship progresses, it could improve with waiting. Just a little longer at least. Anticipation is everything in these matters, I suspect.
I munch down a bowl of cereal, and realize how much I miss Sadie. She should be delicately lapping her share of the morning milk, then licking her paws as she watches me pile my equipment into my rucksack. The cottage is truly empty now, and I don’t particularly like it. Maybe I’ll ask Tom about getting another cat. He’s sure to know someone with kittens to spare.
Within half an hour I’m starting up the quad bike, my photography gear stowed on the back in a large rucksack. Now I’ve got transport and don’t have to lug everything myself I can carry more lenses and a sturdy tripod. Not to mention a flask of hot coffee and piles of cheese sandwiches. My plan is to ride up to my favorite viewpoint about three miles away, high up on the moors, and set up there for some panoramic wide-angle shots. The sprinkling of snow makes the landscape look as though someone has shaken icing sugar on it and the crisp frost in the air just sharpens all the edges, all the angles. The dry stone walls are etched in white lace, the contrast sharp against the blacks and dark greys, It’s truly beautiful, a world of powerful images. I hope to be able to capture the chilly bite in the air, the icy blues and greys in this timeless, moody wilderness.
It used to be a good two-hour walk to my viewpoint but I can do it in less than an hour on the quad. I ride steadily uphill, enjoying the open spaces and the magnificent views. I’ll never get tired of this place, even though my commercial head tells me I will soon need to be starting to build portfolios in other locations too if my business is to develop and grow. Still, not today’s problem.
I arrive at my destination, the exact spot marked by the small pile of stones I collected and left there on a previous visit, and set up my equipment. I plant my tripod firmly and attach the camera to it, then start experimenting with lenses and filters to achieve the effects I’m looking for. The whole process is helped by warm coffee and chunky Cheddar cheese sandwiches, and once again I find reason to be grateful for Tom and Nathan’s foresight in installing that vending machine. Without it I’d surely starve.
A couple of hours slide by blissfully. I don’t mind solitude when I’m up here on the moors, I can immerse myself in my work, relish the silence—the only conversation I need to make is with myself. Time enough for talking to others—other—later. Back at Greystones. Or maybe at Smithy’s Forge. I know I need to talk to Tom, really talk, try to get past this, get past that first terrifying initiation to the world of Dominance and submission, reach past it to settle into the easy, comfortable intimacy we seemed to be starting to build. But I’ve no idea what to say, what to ask. I’ve yet to meet with Abbie, and that might help. Might clarify—something.
But not today. I’m perched on a dry stone wall enjoying the last of my lunch when a familiar sparkling starts to encroach in the corner of my vision. It’s nothing much, just a glittering around the edges, innocuous enough. For now. But along with the slight but insistent headache now starting to throb behind my eyes it’s a sure sign a migraine is coming. And coming soon. It usually takes no more than a couple of hours to hit me fully and by the time it has me in its grip I really do need to be at home. I need to be cowering under my duvet, hiding from the light, blocking out the sounds. I know the signs, I’ve battled with migraines all my life. It was worse when I was a child, or at least the attacks back then were more frequent. These days they are few and far between but tend to be much more
severe. Totally debilitating. When it fully takes hold I can’t see, can’t hear, can’t concentrate. Can’t stand, can’t eat, can hardly manage to sip a few drops of water.
Painkillers make a marginal difference at best, but I usually do pop a few hopeful paracetamols. Nothing if not optimistic, that’s me. Helpless when migraine strikes—I know that eventually I can only lie down, hide in the dark until it passes. Which takes about thirty-six hours, then I’m absolutely fine again, as though nothing ever happened.
With a groan I get up, start to collect my gear together. If I set off back now I’ll be home in plenty of time to bury myself and wait it out.
It’s as I turn to tip the dregs of my coffee over the wall that I catch sight of the flash of neon pink, high up the hillside to my right. The light show inside my head must be building at a super-fast rate this time—I normally take a couple of hours to get to the flashing colored lights stage. I stand, straighten, squeeze my eyes shut to steady myself then slowly open them again, gazing around me at the far horizons. And find I can still see the landscape around me, still early days then. As the attack builds my sight will narrow in, diminish. I’ll be unable to bear the light. But right now, I still can. Just about. I look back, up toward the higher ground, and the neon flash is still there, high up to my right. Solid and still.
Now that’s odd. It should be flashing about, dancing, mobile and disjointed. I peer up the hill, screwing up my eyes, trying to focus. I can make it out, something bright and pink, incongruous and stark against the dull greys and bright whites of the wintry landscape. It’s not my migraine conjuring this up. Something’s there, something out of place.
Puzzled, I peer up the moor, trying to focus on the distant hills. Then I remember my photographic gear, now stowed in my rucksack. I brought plenty of wide-angle lenses, but there is a possibility I might have a telephoto lens in there too. I dig in my bag, find what I’m looking for. Fumbling as my vision starts to leap around crazily, I manage to slot the large lens onto my camera and train it on the hillside above me. With some difficulty I pan the viewfinder across the moors, trying to locate the splash of color again. Could it be a piece of equipment dropped by some careless hiker or camper? Usually serious hill-walkers are more careful. The real danger is to wildlife, and even in the relatively short time I’ve been here I’ve come to respect the need to take care of our heritage. Our rural livelihood depends on it.
