All the Forbidden Things

by Jones, Lesley

  Like most women, I have a few issues and insecurities with my body image. I’m short, so any weight I gain shows instantly. I rarely work out but have naturally toned legs, my boobs are a little too big for my frame, hips that are curvy, a belly that’s soft, and an arse that is round. Fortunately, I was blessed with a small waist, so the whole package works for me, and by the way Max went at me all night last night, he’s happy with all that is me too.

  So, I own those short legs and fat arse, and I walk to my bathroom like a boss, knowing for sure Max will be watching me every step of the way.

  While standing under the hot water, I replay everything that happened last night. Max is an expert fuck who likes to talk dirty and push boundaries. A moment after telling me he’s gonna slide his fingers in my arse while fucking me from behind, he’s kissing softly up my spine to my neck, telling me how perfect I am. He kissed me like he’d die if he didn’t. He worshipped every inch of my body, including my fingers and toes, and then he gave me four orgasms.

  Two of those were the first time he fucked me, one the second time. The third happened when I woke in the middle of the night to feel him slide inside me from behind as we spooned. His fingers on my clit, his cock stroking in and out of me, and his arm wrapped around my waist as he held me tightly against him while whispering filthy, dirty words into my ear, had me going off like a rocket in minutes. And although I’m feeling sore and sensitive, I loved every, single moment.

  I should be ecstatic, but after slathering my face and body in moisturiser, pulling my huge pink towelling bathrobe around me, and cleaning my teeth, I head back out to my bedroom with a huge knot lodged in my throat and a stone sitting in my stomach.

  I fucked up. Massively. And now we need to have the talk.

  Max is sitting on the end of my bed when I walk back outside. His jeans and T-shirt from last night are back on, and with one ankle resting on the opposite knee as he pulls on a sock, he looks up at me and smiles.

  I stop in my tracks.

  His smile stops me in my tracks, and my nose begins to tingle as I worry I’m about to fuck all of this up.

  I twist the belt from my robe around my fingers and just stand there, not knowing what to say.

  “You all right?” he asks. “What’s that look for?”

  I take a deep breath in, but it doesn’t stop my jaw, my lips, or my voice from trembling, because I know I’m about to ruin everything. “That’s the first time I’ve had sex in two years.”

  He frowns, finishes pulling on his sock, places both his feet down on the hardwood floor, and leans his elbows on his knees. “Okay.”

  “When I started working for the Bosworth's, I had to have a full medical. Obviously, they were handing over their most precious possession into my care, so that included tests for HIV and STDs.”

  He sits up straight, pulling his shoulders back and, still frowning, he now looks worried. “Go on . . .”

  “Everything came back negative. I’ve never slept around, Max. There was one boy at school and one boy at college, but I’ve always been careful. There’s been no one . . . no one since college, no one since I had the medical.”

  He nods, his shoulders a little more relaxed, but his brows are still pulled down into a frown.

  “We weren’t careful last night. We didn’t use a condom . . .”

  His eyes dart to my fingers as I twist the belt around them. “We didn’t,” he agrees, nodding. “And I apologise for that, but I’m all clean. After Whitney, after I found out she was banging Gardener, and apparently doing it without a condom if she thought Layla was his, I got myself checked out . . . Layla too. He was a junkie, and I didn’t know what he might’ve passed on to her. We’re good, we’re both good, so you—”

  “I’m not on the pill.”

  His head jerks back as if he’s been slapped.

  “I was, but then everything happened in America, and then I was in the hospital, then I flew home, and all of my stuff only arrived last week . . . so, yeah . . . I know I should’ve said something, but I didn’t expect . . . I was never . . .”

  He stands from the bed and walks towards me. Stopping about as close as he can get without touching me, he pulls the belt to my robe from my hands, grips my chin between his thumb and index finger, and tilts it up, so I have to look at him and not at the floor.

  “We’re both adults, Bamm. Last night’s on both of us, not just you. I was the instigator, I should’ve planned ahead.” He wraps his arms around my shoulders and pulls me against him. “We both fucked up,” he says right into my ear.

  The eruption of goosebumps across my skin is instant.

  “We fucked up . . . and down. From behind. And sideways.” He continues grinding against me. When I pull back and look up at him, he’s smiling. “And now I’m hard and want to do it all again.”

  “You’re insatiable for an old man.”

  “I’m thirty-eight, I’m in my fucking prime.”

  He unties my bathrobe and slides his hands inside, pulling my naked body flush against his clothed one. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he kisses my mouth gently.

  “We’ll work it out. Whatever the outcome, we’ll deal with it, so stop worrying.”

  “Max . . . what if I’m pregnant?”

  “Then I hope it’s another girl with red hair exactly like yours—”

  “Max—”

  “Bamm . . .”

  I stare at him, mouth open, brows raised.

  “You said you want lots of kids. If you’re pregnant, we’ll deal. We’ve got one, what’s one more gonna matter?”

  I have no words.

  “Don’t look at me like that. Layla’s almost as much yours as she is mine and definitely more than she’s ever been Whitney’s. This is the beginning of our us. Layla’s a part of that, and if another baby is too, then so be it.” He kisses my nose while I remain speechless. “I need to go take a shower. I’ll get clean clothes for Layla and make up some bottles. Shouldn’t be more than half-hour. Have a think about what you wanna do for the rest of the day . . . and food, I’m starving, we need to organise some food, there’s absolutely fuck all in your fridge or cupboards. I’ll see what I can find in mine and bring it over.”

  He says all of this while walking backwards towards the top of the stairs. He kisses the pads of his middle two fingers, holds them up in a peace sign, and says, “Thank you for having us, Billie Wild, it was great being in you.” He winks.

  I clench and squirm and do all those other things females do when hot rock stars make them horny.

  “Fantastic show tonight. Peace out people, we love you.” He strums an air guitar a couple of times, turns, and with his arms in the air, runs down the stairs making a noise I assume is supposed to resemble the sound of a crowd roaring.

  When my front door slams, I look across to Layla lying on my bed and smile at her. “You’re dad’s a nutter, Miss Layla, but I think I’m falling in love with him anyway.”

  She responds by sucking on her tiny fist while I just stand and smile. This us is new and scary and sexy and swoony. It’s all of the things. I’m both terrified and excited to rush in and discover all it might become.

  I go to the large built-in wardrobe and stand and stare as I try and decide what to put on. I want to look good for Max, but at the same time I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, and if we’re just going to chill today, I want to keep my outfit comfy and casual.

  I settle on boy shorts and a crop-top style sports bra under black sweats and another of my slash-necked loose-fitting sweatshirts. This one is plum-coloured, my choice inspired by Max’s little display earlier, having the two-fingered sign of peace on the front with the phrase “Hippie Chick” written around it. I’m just pulling on a pair of pink fluffy bed socks when I hear the crunch of gravel on the drive.

  When I look out of the window, I catch the back end of a white car circling the drive to the front of the house, followed by a small black car. I don’t recognise either, but f
or some reason, my intuitive heart begins to thrum in my chest.

  Layla is swaddled in a blanket and sleeping soundly in the middle of my bed. I’m watching her, wondering whether I should wait here or take her to the main house when my phone sounds with a text. I almost jump out of my skin and hold my hand against my erratic heart while searching for where the sound came from. When I find it on the coffee table, I open the text with a frown.

  Max: LOCK YOUR FRONT DOOR. DO NOT LET ANYONE IN. CALL AARON. TELL HIM IT’S URGENT. I NEED HIM HERE ASAP. THE POLICE ARE AT THE DOOR.

  My head swims, my skin heats, the blood in my veins runs cold, and I know from experience I’m in the early stages of a panic attack. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I breathe deeply, in and out through my nose, and drop my head down low between my knees, while attempting to process what his text message means and why the police would be here. I come up with nothing, so when my breathing evens out, despite my every instinct urging me to text or call Max back, my shaking finger presses Aaron’s number.

  “Billie?”

  With a calmness I pluck from an unknown place inside me, I explain the situation, quickly. “Aaron, I have no clue what’s going on, but Max is over at the main house, and he’s just text and told me to lock my doors, let no one in, and call you because the police are here.”

  “Where’s Layla?”

  “With me.”

  “Stay put, I’m on my way. Do as he says and talk to no one. Call me back if you need to. I’ll be about twenty minutes.”

  He ends the call without another word. Within seconds there’s a loud banging at my front door. I haven’t had time to go down and lock it since Max’s message. Before I can react, feet are pounding up the stairs, and my living room is being filled by police officers.

  I don’t move. I can’t. Absolute blind panic has me rooted to the spot.

  “Billie Wild?” A female police officer approaches and asks from the other side of my open bedroom doorway.

  I nod.

  “Are you Billie Wild?”

  “Yes.”

  She’s looking over my shoulder to where Layla’s sleeping. Her eyes land back on me. With a nod, and her hand on her baton, she says, “Can you please put your hands in the air where I can see them and step towards me.”

  I’m confused and don’t move. “What?”

  “Can you please place your hands where I can see them and step towards me?”

  It’s not a question; it’s an order. My legs feel as if they’re made from a combination of lead and jelly. I shakily stand, and as soon as I’m a couple of steps away from the bed, the officer rushes past me and picks up Layla. I’m still standing with my hands in the air but being totally ignored as the policewoman passes Layla off to a hipster-looking dude wearing skinny black jeans, converse, and a checked shirt. Contrary to his beard, thick-framed glasses and fresh-fade haircut, he looks about twelve years old.

  Despite my mouth feeling as if I’ve been sucking on cotton wool balls, I soon find my voice when he moves towards the stairs with Layla in his arms. “Where are you taking her? Who are you? What’s all this about?”

  Sick of holding my arms up, I let them drop to my side, and no one even notices.

  “Can you follow us please?” Again, an order not a request from the policewoman, so I do as I’m told.

  As soon as I step out of my front door, the shouting and calling starts up from the multitude of reporters and photographers gathered at Max’s front gate in the early morning light. I keep my head down as I follow the hipster and three officers across the drive into the house.

  “Where are you taking her?” I call out to the hipster when instead of turning towards the kitchen, he heads for Whitney’s room.

  The panic bubbling in my belly has me wanting to vomit. Tears are streaming from my eyes, and I know the fear of having no idea what’s going on is what’s causing them. “Wait, where are you taking her?” I move to follow wherever Layla is being taken, but an officer grabs my arm.

  “We have some questions we’d like you to answer, Miss Wild, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  I attempt to wrench my arm from the policewoman’s hold, but her grip is too tight. “Where’s Max? Where’s he taking Layla?” I ask while still trying to free my arm.

  With absolutely no idea what’s going on, what to say, or how to act, I’m guided into the kitchen where I find Max is pacing.

  I instantly move towards him, but the look he gives me brings me to a stop.

  “Max?”

  My phone’s been vibrating since the police came through my front door. I’ve not dared take my attention away from what’s going on around me to look at the screen, so, like the previous calls, I ignore it as it continues to go off in my pocket.

  I watch as Max rakes one hand through his hair, and plants the other on his hip. He lets out a huff, blows out a breath, and says words that might very well be the beginning of the end of our us.

  “There’s been an accusation made, a … I don’t know the correct term, Bamm, but somebody has reported that they think Layla might be in danger.”

  “What? I don’t understand. In danger of what? Who have they reported it to?”

  I’m losing my fucking mind, and screeching out questions to Max as I cry, but I’m so fucking confused, angry and shocked by this that I can’t get my shit together.

  “Some pictures have been shared to social media overnight. They show you in a pub with a number of drinks and empty cocktail glasses lined up in front of you. There’s also video footage of you tripping as you get out of a taxi in front of the house, dropping your keys, and then making several attempts to key in the correct number to open the gates.”

  “That was last night. I don’t . . . I don’t understand why that would involve the police? What has any of that got to do with Layla?”

  “There’s a story in one of the tabloids that you’re not coping after the attack on you in America, on top of losing your parents at such a young age.”

  Max can’t even look at me as he talks, the fingers of one hand still buried in his hair, the other switching between rubbing at his jaw and gesturing towards me. “Someone’s reported the pictures, video, and the story to social services, claiming you have a drinking problem, and as Layla’s nanny, you may be putting her in danger . . . that I’m putting her in danger by employing you … that she’s at risk.”

  “Max, I wouldn’t . . . I would never—”

  I’m cut off by a blonde woman wearing all black entering the room. “Miss Wild?”

  I fold my arms defensively across my chest and tip my chin, because fuck this, I’ve done nothing wrong. “Yeah,” is all I give her in reply.

  “I’m Dawn Mcgowan. I work for Westminster City Council’s Children’s Services Team, my colleague, Ben Sutton, is a medical nurse practitioner who works with us. Mr Young has given permission for Ben to examine Layla in the presence of her mother.”

  I shoot Max a look, why the fuck would he let Whitney witness the examination and not be there himself?

  “What? Why? Why does she need to be examined?”

  He gives me a look and a slight shake of his head, leaving me totally confused.

  “Can you confirm for me you were not carrying out your role as a nanny on Saturday night?”

  I’m about to tell her that it’s my weekend off when I realise it’s only Sunday morning. How do I explain Layla being over at my place so early, nearly naked, when it’s my day off?

  “Why is Layla being examined? What is it exactly you’re looking for?”

  “We’re following a safeguarding report after concerns were raised to both our department and to the police regarding the welfare of Layla Young. Mr Young has assured us you are more than competent and capable of taking care of his daughter and that he has no concerns. Mrs Young, however—”

  “Federov,” Max interrupts. “She never changed her name after our marriage. It’s still Federov, it was never Young.”

  Dawn nods. “I’m
sorry,” she continues in her broad Scottish accent. “Miss Federov, on the other hand, said that she did, in fact, have some concerns and informed us that you do not have a current DBS.”

  “It’s being processed. I’ve been working as a nanny overseas and only started this job a week ago, but I’ve already applied for the check, just in case I decided to go back to nannying in this country.”

  She nods again, her eyes darting all over the room, taking it all in.

  Max remains silent.

  “So, you weren’t working yesterday, went out last night, had a few drinks, came home, and that was it?”

  “That was it. Is having a drink on your night off a crime?” I snap.

  She raises her brows at me, so I childishly roll my eyes in return.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong. This is ridiculous. All because of some photos on social media?”

  “We’re not here because of the photos Ms Wild, we’re here because a safeguarding report was made by two different sources—”

  “Yeah, and I bet both those sources share the same surname.”

  She twists her lips to the side, again raises her brows, and gives a slight nod.

  “I’m just following up a report. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

  I let out a huff. I get that she’s only doing her job, but I’m so fucking angry.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong. I didn’t even drive myself. You can check with Micky, Max’s driver, he dropped me off. I spent the day shopping with a friend—”

  “It’s fine Ms Wild, we don’t need to know—”

  “No, you’ve come in here accusing me of something I’d never in a million years do, now you bloody well listen to what I have to say.”

  I follow Dawn’s eyes as they dart to Max, who still isn’t looking at me, but is now wearing a small smile.

  “I shopped with a friend,” I continue. “After, we went to the pub and had a few drinks during happy hour, just before we left, some random bloke stopped in front of our table, and took a photo on his phone. We left. In a taxi. The video, I’ve no idea who took that.” I pause and look in Max’s direction, but he’s still not looking at me. “Max being who he is means that the press and photographers are often hanging about out the front, this week especially with Whitney coming out of the hospital.” I’m unsure as to whether I should mention the media’s interest in me, even without Max’s involvement, and decide to go for it. Hopefully, she’ll realise that this is just part of life for people like us, something we have to deal with. “There’s been a bit of press attention directed at me since I got back from the States too. My former employ—”