by Linda Coles
No, he was indulging quietly – on the outside, at least.
On the inside? Well, that was a different matter. Parts of him were screaming, wanting, desiring, and he knew he wasn’t far off his peak. That’s the main reason he was headed in search of the coffee cart.
A distraction.
For now.
But he’d need a proper fix soon, he knew, and that meant making a choice. Who was it going to be? And when? Could he wait, or did he need something now, before the main event, something to tide him over? Oh hell, why had he agreed to meet with the detective later? Why hadn’t he left himself some free time to savour his memories of the day, and find release with those? Now he’d have to wait until much later in the day. If he could.
He felt himself salivate involuntarily, and he swallowed hard, licking his lips to dispel the moisture before he ordered his coffee. Talking with lose spittle in one’s mouth was not attractive to anyone. He wiped the palms of his hands on his trouser legs to remove some of the clamminess he felt as his pulse picked up, like a greyhound noticing a rabbit.
A glimpse of chrome broke through the melee. The coffee cart was up ahead, and he prepared himself to place an order without making a fool of himself or disgusting anyone. He raised his head to look where he was going, like normal people did when they were about to order coffee. A smile creased his lips at the thought. Normal people. Was there such a thing? Who says what normal looks like? Who says humans should be monogamous, and who says some cultures can have multiple wives? And who says it’s wrong to drink alcohol at fourteen? And who says it’s okay to smoke tobacco but not weed? And who says it’s not normal to worship beautiful feet? Who? Who? Who? To Hadley Spinks, normal was what you made it. Did anyone get harmed by his personal desire, a desire he acted on in private? No, never. And while that was part of the rules, even if he didn’t do what he did the way he did, he wouldn’t want to hurt anyone anyway.
He only wanted to worship them.
He applied his most endearing smile and flashed it to the barista.
“A large capo to go, my darling. Thank you.”
Her gaze lingered a second longer than it did on anyone else, but Hadley didn’t look or speak like everyone else. He was used to, and indeed revelled in the extra glances and attention he often got.
“I love your neck scarf,” she said. “Such a pretty colour and design, and so unusual to see on a male. You wear it well.” The pretty young woman smiled her approval, assuring him that she had indeed meant it as a compliment.
Hadley bowed his head for a second, his eyes twinkling before they fell, in acceptance of her kind words. She blushed ever so slightly when he looked back up.
“That’s very kind of you, my dear. I try my best,” he said, and took two small steps to stand aside and wait for his order. There, he turned to view the room that he’d navigated only moments ago, only this time he kept his head raised, held high, even. His sun-tinged ponytail lay down his back, hanging dead centre of his shoulder blades. It was secured at the very end by a discreet band to keep it from flying out and becoming unkempt. He liked things to be neat and just so, particularly when it came to his own attire. If he demanded beauty, then he had to present the same. He pulled out his starched linen handkerchief and wiped his mouth as he surveyed the room. Such beauty filled it. It wasn’t difficult to pick out the heads of the foot models from the heads of the other women. Even though their special body parts, the ones that earned their keep, were at floor level, the women knew the clients demanded the whole package. Many of the women sold multiple body parts to the camera. It wasn’t unusual to find a foot model who also had the perfect chin, or nose or wrist. God gave beauty in gift-wrapped packages at creation time, and a very few women were lucky enough to receive one. Those who didn’t had to make the best of what they’d got. Some managed, and many didn’t.
A tall woman with blonde hair cut tight to her nape caught his eye. He didn’t discriminate when it came to type; there wasn’t one type of woman he enjoyed, and likewise, there wasn’t one type he disliked, either. They were all eligible to be the chosen one. The blonde’s head glided evenly along as she walked the length of the stand she was working on, and his eyes travelled down her body, taking her in: narrow shoulders, narrow hips, and long elegant legs. . . but he restrained himself from lowering his gaze any further. He would save that for later. Feeling sure he’d find something special there, he moved his attention to another woman, also obviously one of the models. Only this time, the shining brunette head was travelling towards the coffee cart as though she were walking down the red carpet at the Oscars – slow and steady, allowing the press time to snap her picture. This woman was practiced in her craft and, as she gained on him, he could see she was a little older than the other models, although still stunning visually. And extremely confident. He liked her instantly. Then she was almost next to him.
“Green tea, please.”
No milky calories for this woman, he mused. His thoughts were interrupted by someone trying to attract his attention. He was being called.
“Sir? Your coffee, sir.”
Turning to the voice, he said, “Why, thank you, my dear.” He took the paper cup and took a small sip to test the temperature. He was playing for time, though he didn’t need to, really; nobody was likely to move him along, but he felt he needed to have an excuse of some sort to linger a moment longer.
While he browsed what he might have later.
Chapter Fifty-Five
She was in a world of her own. Her feet killed, her head hurt and her heart was hammering. Thank goodness for make-up, and lots of it. After another fitful night’s sleep, she was hanging on by her nerves and not much else. The skin on her face looked lacklustre and she felt haggard. Not ideal for a model, foot or otherwise, but what could she do? When the headmaster had phoned and asked for a meeting, she’d driven the two hours to the school where Danny boarded and sat in front of the man as he’d described her son’s latest sins. Possession of weed. Found in his room. And more fighting. Could it get much more serious than that? Probably not, and all three of them knew it. Dr. Badell had said he wasn’t going to involve the police – this time – but since Danny was now firmly on his last warning, he wouldn’t hesitate if it happened again, he said, and a note would stay on his file to that effect.
Ellen was grateful for another chance. Danny, though, couldn’t have cared less, sulky teenager that he was. She knew he hated the school, but without a father figure in his life at home, she’d hoped the boys-only school would help fill that gap and that he’d eventually settle down. But he hadn’t, and Ellen realized now he probably never would. If she took him out of the boarding school now and sent him to the local school, he’d think he’d won, and even he’d acknowledged he wasn’t keen on breaking into a new group of friends at the tender, awkward age of fifteen. He didn’t want to leave the ‘friends’ he had at the boarding school, more likely. Better the devil you know and all that, even though she knew he hated them in reality; they were bullies who made him miserable. The headmaster had suggested his behaviour was something akin to Stockholm syndrome, that he didn’t want to leave their grasp even though he didn’t want to stay, either. He was a mixed-up young man and in truth, neither she nor the headmaster knew what to do. So, the status quo had prevailed. And she knew a good deal more headaches and heartaches would thunder her way.
She needed a drink. In public like this, green tea would have to do in place of vodka, but it was the kick she longed for, then the peace. She had a small bottle in her bag, but there was no way she’d drink whilst working. But it would be there, she knew, taunting her for now, and waiting for her later. On the way home, a couple of mouthfuls in the privacy of her car would be a different matter. She checked her wristwatch; there were still two hours to go.
“Green tea, please,” she told the woman at the cart, not really paying attention to anything but her thoughts, and her feet. If she could get through the next couple of hours with a s
mile stuck hard on her face, she’d make it through another working day without casualty. She didn’t notice the man stood to her right, the man with a silk scarf fastened around his neck in a feminine way and a long golden ponytail.
A man in a tailored suit.
A man who was watching her.
Her own world was too consuming to contemplate another being, so she didn’t. When her tea had been handed to her, she stopped to take a sip, in no real rush to get back to the trade stand. If only she could slip her shoes off for a moment, let her toes spread leisurely for a while, dip her feet in something cool, even. They throbbed like the pulse in her temple, and she reached up to touch her head absentmindedly, her pale vanilla manicured fingernails on show. She rubbed ever so gently, willing the pain to stop, before reaching into her bag for the paracetamol. It should be another hour before she was officially due another two tablets, but the pain, oh, the pain was distracting. Ellen checked her watch again, expecting an hour to have passed since she’d looked at it only five minutes ago, and wrinkled her nose up in disappointment. It was standing room only at the cart now. There was no point hanging around, so she made her way towards the edge of the hall in search of a chair to rest for a while.
Had she been a little more in tune and aware of her surroundings, she might have noticed the same man fall into step a couple of people behind her and follow her to her final destination of a solitary chair by the wall.
Hadley let her sit and carried on past as though he had intended all along to go that way, she none the wiser to his moves or motive. He stood near the entrance to the gents’ room and watched her from less than twenty feet away. It was obvious something was bothering her from her body language, and it wasn’t just a hard day at work. Could she be the perfect candidate? His eyes travelled to her ankles again, then lower down to her perfect toes protruding from delicate sandals with thin pins for heels. A little redness was showing, and he wanted to take them in his hands, to soothe them for her, dip them into something cool, like milk, rub them and take care of them. He felt himself harden at the thought of easing her discomfort and stroking those feet leisurely.
For hours at a time. For his own satisfaction.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Once inside the gents’ toilets, he reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out an ornate pillbox. He held the tiny silver box in his hand like it was the smallest of birds and just as precious. It had been his mother’s pillbox, and one she’d used all the time, right up until she’d finally died a rather slow and unpleasant death. Hadley’s father, long gone many years before his wife, had looked after the family well. They’d wanted for nothing as the years had rolled by. Old money had kept them all in comfort, and it was that same old money that had enabled Hadley to become a shoe designer. Especially through the early years. There hadn’t been a lot of money in the shoe design business back then – still wasn’t, unless you were an established name – but it hadn’t worried Hadley because there was always the old family money to dip into.
When his mother had finally passed, he’d sold up. Sold the heirlooms, sold the estate, sold everything, and he now had a tidy sum sat in investments and in the bank. His place on Mayfair was extravagant but suiting, as was his holiday home in Guernsey, though he hardly ever frequented the place these days. No, he was happy around London, working, watching and doing his other favourite pastime – anticipating.
He opened the box gently in the privacy of the stall and marvelled at the little grain-like devices. How could something so tiny ultimately bring so much pleasure later on? There were two of them, one green tipped and one amber tipped. The colour indicated what would happen when each one was activated. The amber one, signalling ‘look,’ meant that a possible individual had been found but the operator needed to do a little digging into their past to find their sweet spot. In other words, what debt they might need settling – and there was always one to be found. Most people had something worth fighting for if you dug deep enough, a skeleton they’d rather not have uncovered. With men, it was usually an indiscretion. With women, well, it was not much different, really: old boyfriends with secret videos and photos, secret babies, or the age-old favourite – secret liaisons. So much of what happened in this particular system was to do with sex of some form from some earlier time.
The other little device, the green one signalling ‘go,’ informed the operator that an individual had been found and they required immediate surveillance and apprehension as soon as possible. Once the trackers in either case were activated by liquid, such as a drink or stomach contents, there was a 24-hour window to get into that person’s life or encourage them into one’s own via their sweet spot, the debt that needed settling.
Hadley picked out the amber-tipped grain and held it between the tips of his thumb and forefinger. Closing the little pillbox with his other hand and tucking it away, he knew precisely what to do and how to do it. He was quite the practiced professional after all these years. Keeping the little device firmly in his grasp, he left the stall, left the gents’ room and headed back out to where he hoped the woman was still sat. As he rounded the entrance back out into the main hall, he couldn’t have been happier. There in the distance, he could see her as she stood with her tea still in her hand and her bag by her chair. She bent to pick it up and leave her resting place – headed back to work, no doubt. Hadley picked up speed as he neared her and, in a practiced move, bumped her right arm with his, hard enough that the tea cup catapulted out of her hand and onto the floor. It was an easy move he’d completed without fault on numerous occasions, and today was no different.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “My goodness! Please, excuse my clumsiness. Are you okay, madam? I hope you’re not hurt?” He looked into the brownest eyes for a split second before he busied himself trying to settle the woman he’d bumped into a moment ago. “I’m so sorry – what an absolute oaf. Look, let me at least replace it. What were you enjoying before I came along?”
He was looking directly at her now, his best gentleman face in place to put her at ease. For his plan to work, she needed to relax a little more. Eventually she spoke. It was more of a loud whisper.
“That’s not necessary, thanks. I’m due back on the stand in a moment anyway.” She smiled the weakest of smiles he’d ever seen on a woman, and he wondered at her obvious pain. The woman seemed so sad, so beaten.
“Then let me get you something to sip on during the afternoon. Which stand are you on? It’s the least I can do, and besides, I insist.” He smiled his practiced, gentle smile and to his delight, she returned the same.
“Green tea. Thank you.” Such a small voice; it needed cheering up.
Something inside of him glowed warm as she melted for him.
“I’m over there.” The woman pointed across the way to her particular stand. He nodded.
“Then you go on ahead. I’ve detained you long enough. I’ll replace your beverage and drop by shortly.” His smile was like a full stop to their conversation, and she nodded and turned back on her route towards her work for the afternoon. Hadley stood for a moment and watched her go, the thin grain between his thumb and finger reminding him there was still work to be done. He turned on his heel and made his way back to the drinks cart to order a replacement green tea. When it was safely in his hands, he dropped the tiny grain inside the paper cup and wandered over to her stand. Even if she didn’t drink it all, and she probably wouldn’t do now, the grain would have been activated and the cogs and wheels would start turning.
In a few short hours, he would know a whole lot more about the delightful mystery woman whose feet he was dying to spend time with.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Across town, the newly activated device appeared on a screen. The flashing amber light was the operator’s cue to activate the players within the vicinity and locate the target. Once the target had been confirmed, the next part of the plan would run. That’s the part the operator always found the most fun – the digging. Some enjoyed
the surveillance, but to him that tended to be boring. What was fun about sitting in a van waiting for a target to move so you could follow them to their next destination, and then sitting in a van and waiting for them to move on again? Monotony was not his forte. He watched the screen as the three players he’d activated made their way towards the glowing amber light that they were following on their own screens. Until they reached the destination, no one knew anything about their target, not even the gender, though from experience, the operator knew they were predominately female.
He didn’t have many female clients who used his service. It was only a couple of percent in reality, and over the years he’d been operating, that percentage had stayed about the same. The vast majority of fetish requests – to his own business and to others, he knew – came from the males of the human race. He’d done his research. Fetishists tended to be men, usually with a background of infatuation with a woman – an over-enthusiastic love for their mother or a mother figure – or a dominant woman early in their life. The fetish was something that developed in their teen years, rather than in their later years. Feet, shoes, hair – in fact, any part of the body could be attractive to someone who had developed a fascination with and sexual desire for it. The operator couldn’t have cared less. If hair did it for them, then so be it. If fingers did it for them, then fingers it was. The client got what they desired, and in return the giver got their debt paid, even if they never realized it at the time.
But their lives would be better off for it.
There were never victims. Any crime against the giver was mild, maybe burglary or, at a push, assault, but that was a small price to pay for the service he was offering and the better life he was giving. And no one would come to any physical harm. Those were the rules. Hair would grow back, and clients who liked to spend time with certain body parts knew not to overextend their attentions.
