Authors: Jade West
My mind began to assemble the potential project outline. This one would take a lot of co-ordination. A lot of
people.
I hate all that shit.
I leant back against the worktop to sip my coffee. Black, no sugar, just the way I like it. Just how Lydia Marsh had made it. My mind bailed without warning; thoughts unravelling and skittering away. There, in their stead, was a full colour rerun of my Friday morning peepshow. Lydia Marsh’s tear-streaked face in full focus, and her eyes, so fucking green. Jesus.
Bex was right. I did need a proper scene. The need to dominate pulsed in my temples; thick with the craving for tears and pain and the total surrender of a body underneath mine. Cara had scratched an itch, but the real beast raged on unchecked.
I headed to the men’s room, resigned to an early morning hand-job. I pressed my forehead against the tiles as I worked my cock, eyes screwed shut as I summoned up a lightning-quick montage of memories. Women bound tight by their wrists, arching their backs into the pain as the cane strikes. Tears of surrender, and release, and abandon through pain. Their quivering legs as the adrenaline spikes... then the endorphin rush, the point where their bodies turn limp and their eyes glaze in lust. Quiet tears. Acceptance. Absolute, total submission. All for me.
Come on.
Another montage, this one of Bex. She’d fight against her surrender, writhing, kicking and screaming, to the edge of release. Spitting curses and fighting against her bonds, until she’d break apart and go toppling into the abyss beyond, screaming out tears and begging for more. She morphed into my Kitty Kat, my Katreya. Her bruised shins running away from me through long grass, begging me to chase her… begging me to hurt her… hurt her in her most tender places.
Jesus fucking Christ, James, just fucking cum.
In desperation I let myself go there. Lydia Marsh, bound at my feet. Staring up at me through watery eyes. Her tits are so fucking pretty, tied up tight in bondage rope, marks of her punishment savage against pale skin. Her mouth is open, ready. Her eyes begging me to take her. I force myself in, and she gags on me. I love the noises her throat makes.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I sprayed my load all over the wall, hissing out a string of expletives and already forcing Lydia from my mind. Colleagues were no go. An absolute no-fucking-way.
I had one golden rule. The one I’d never break again.
Fuck no-one you know, and know no-one you fuck.
It was a whole lot fucking safer that way, but damn what I’d give to see her cry again.
***
Frank and I had the same ritual every Monday morning. He’d knock at my door at 9.15 on the dot, blustering about how time flies, and then ask after my weekend. My answer was invariably the same.
“Can’t complain, Frank, how was yours?”
Cue his a long monologue of events. Golf, shopping, family meals, some story about the neighbours, and I’d sit and listen, making all the right noises. People like talking, and when they’re talking about themselves they aren’t talking about me. It suits me well. That simple fact has made me an exceptional listener, which also suits me well. It pays to listen. It pays to
understand
.
Frank finally turned his attention to White Hastings McCarthy, gushing at the potential of what the deal could mean for Trial Run. Another of the big boys on our client list. I shared his enthusiasm, and for a few minutes we were colleagues with a single common objective. It was one of those rare moments it felt good to be part of a team.
“Look, James, I know you aren’t up for overnighters. There’s no pressure on you to go, but Trevor White wants to kick off with a few days onsite once the paperwork’s in place. Brighton Head Office, nothing too crazy. A bit of a tour, an initial round of meetings, all the usual. I was thinking you could ask Sam from development in your stead, and send him with someone from project management. I figured maybe Steve Jones or Lydia Marsh, but it’s up to you. Lydia headed up the Anderson deal a few months ago, actually, went like a dream. She’d be a good fit.”
My throat went dry. “Lydia Marsh?”
“You must know her, pretty girl... tall... dark hair... crazy green eyes.”
“I’ve seen her around.” I glanced at my notepad, now cocooned out of sight in my in-tray. Lydia’s flowery text:
Islington bound, safe and sound.
“Great. Do you want me to get Janie to handle it or will you ask them yourself?”
“I’ll do it,” I said, before I’d even realised.
“Good stuff, James. Good stuff. Let’s meet this afternoon, get the team together. I’ll send over a calendar invite.”
He made to leave, clearly satisfied with our plan, but I called him back from the doorway.
“I’ll go to Brighton, Frank.”
He shot me a puzzled expression. “There’s no need, James. Don’t feel obliged, there’s no pressure.”
“The fact is, we’d be better off if I went. I’ll go.”
Frank beamed like a cat who’d landed a fat pot of cream. He came back to shake my hand, big solid jerks of gratitude. “I appreciate it, James, and so will Trevor White. I’ll get Janie to book you a hotel.”
“Make a booking for Lydia Marsh, too,” I said. “She’ll be coming with me.”
“Good choice, James. I’ll get Janie on it right away.”
I cursed myself once the door was closed, hands in my hair at the absurdity of my impulsion.
What the fuck?!
In frustration I tore out Lydia’s Islington note and fed it through the shredder.
***
Lydia
The senior management team at White Hastings McCarthy stared straight ahead at the man before them, nodding at every smooth point he made. James Clarke was polished, confident, faultless. That’s why they call him Mr Perfect, I guess.
My attendance at WHM, smiling and scribbling notes while Mr CTO presented the implementation proposal, was still a surprise to me. Apparently I’d been first choice. I was just glad he’d looked beyond my little meltdown to give me a shot. This project would be one hell of a gold star on my resume.
James handed me the room at the end of his presentation, and I was dropped right into the chaos of shared calendars and proposed schedules. By the time we wrapped up for the day we’d pretty much achieved sign-off on our timescales. We’d done good.
“That went well,” he said as we stepped out into the crisp Brighton evening.
I looked up at him, towering above. He had just the faintest shadow of stubble, his face etched in shadows against the gaudy brilliance of the pier beyond. “It went great,” I said. “They loved you.”
“They definitely loved
you
.”
“I scheduled in some dates in a diary, that’s all.”
“They liked you, Lydia. You coordinated well for a complex project, considering.”
“Considering?”
“Considering recent events,” he expanded, dark eyes crashing into mine without even a sliver of awkwardness.
I felt my hackles rise. “My personal shit doesn’t make me unable to do my job. I’m fine, James. Thank you.”
He laughed, and I gritted my teeth until I realised it wasn’t at my expense. “You sound like me. Knock you down and you’re scrabbling to your feet, swinging your fists at the air and claiming it didn’t hurt.”
“Oh, it hurt,” I smiled. “But I’m always straight up on my feet. Always.”
We walked along the beachfront towards the hotel in amiable silence. James Clarke was a brooding character, I could tell, but his smile was easy. I felt strangely comfortable in his presence, my steps falling into gentle rapport with his. Every now and again his eyes would catch mine, and I’d see something flash in him, some indeterminable knowing. Maybe it was concern, I dunno, but by the time we reached our venue for the night I felt a calmness I hadn’t felt for days. I put it down to the sea air, taking in cleansing deep breaths of salty breeze and thanking my good fortune for being out of the London chaos.
On arrival I paced straight through the hotel foyer, turning in the doorway to the bar to suggest we have a celebratory drink, but James wasn’t following.
“There’s a good restaurant here, by all accounts,” he said. “Have dinner and drinks on my room. I’m sorry I can’t join you, I have things to do.”
I kept my smile bright despite the major blow out. “Of course. No problem.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, Lydia.” His brush-off panged more than it should have. A rejection-fuelled chink in the Lydia Marsh armour. I elbowed it good and hard, and it fell away into nothing. No big deal.
“See you in the morning, James.”
I didn’t watch him leave.
***
I had a few in the bar. Enough to really feel them on my way to my room. James Clarke hadn’t made a reappearance and I hadn’t felt the need to keep up my work facade. Hence the large house whites and unsteady legs. I glanced at James’ closed door as I passed, right next to mine, trying to be a good neighbour by treading as lightly as possible. I was too drunk for a work night, but hell it felt nice to be in my own space again. A few weeks sharing Steph’s shoebox apartment was already driving me crazy. Probably her, too. I took a breath in my own space, and caught sight of the pier through the net curtains. Sea-view balconies were a win. Air, glorious air.
The breeze sobered me up enough to ease off the wobbles, and I relaxed against the railings with slightly steadier legs, staring intently down on the people below. I heard a door slide open to my left, but my view was blocked by a partition. A voice cut out in the night, quiet but deep, a low laugh tickling my stomach.
“She said no, then? Probably for the best... what do you mean you
kind of
asked her? You either did or you didn’t. You did, didn’t you?”
I held my breath, unsure whether to stay or go. Maybe he wouldn’t notice if I crept back inside.
“It’s for the best, you’d break her and she’d end up moving out again and leaving you in a worse state. Honest, she would... I’m pretty sure it’s not love... no, that’s definitely not love... Rebecca, that’s definitely, definitely not love.”
His laugh was so genuine and warm. At odds with the steely professionalism of his corporate persona. I stayed put, committed to waiting it out until he went back inside.
“You could advertise, you know... like most normal people do... you’re not
that
weird, Bex, not really. Anyway, some people
like
weird...
weird
people like weird...”
I heard him put a foot up on the bottom ledge of the balcony, and peeked forward to find him leaning out into the night. He was still in his suit, its tailoring hugging him in all the right places. He looked really fucking perfect. Drunk-speak. Drunk.
“I’ve got to go. Long day tomorrow... Yes, it’s going well... Yes, she’s good... I can give praise where it’s due, Rebecca. She’s
good…
Behave will you. It’s work...”
She’s good.
Me? All of a sudden I felt like an intruder. I should have coughed or something, made it obvious I was there. Shit. Too late.
She’s good.
I’m good. Of course I’m fucking good. I work really hard... but still.
She’s good.
I found I was smiling. Did I really smile anymore? Since Stu? Of course not. Of course not since Stu. His name cut, and I was right back there, at home, packing my things through spidery itches. I tried to rein my thoughts back in, but they wouldn’t come. Wine was a mistake.
“I’ll see you on Saturday, ok? Stick an advert online, you’ll have probably solved your dilemma by then. Who knows, you might have Cara mark-two already moved in. Goodnight, Rebecca.”
He finished the call but stayed still, staring out to sea. I was contemplating a move back inside, regardless of whether or not he’d hear m
e
,
but he negated the need altogether by leaning over.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you, Lydia.”
Crap. So much for hiding. “I was just getting some air, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.” I joined him at the railings, matching his stance. “It’s nice out here.”
“I like the sea. Clears the mind.”
“Yes, it does.”
“How was your evening?”
I smiled. “A few too many wines. I’ll be fine in the morning.”
“I’ve had a few too many myself. Quite a few too many.” He smiled at my lack of response, seeming to read my mind. “Does that surprise you? You think I’m Mr Uptight, is that it?”
“I think you’re Mr Perfect. I’m not sure Mr Perfect gets drunk on a work night.”
“Mr Perfect?”
“That’s what they call you, in the office.”
“Do they?” His eyes dug into me, glinting in the shadows.
“Sure do.”
“Do you know what they call you?”
“No idea.”
“They call you Cat. Short for cat’s eyes.” He looked me right in the face, staring for long seconds. “It suits you.”
“Well, Mr Perfect kinda suits you, too.”
“I’m not perfect.”
“I dunno, you were perfect today… and perfectly intimidating,” I said, moving a little closer as the wind whipped my hair.
“You find me intimidating?”
I smiled. “Perfection is intimidating, is it not?”
“It’s easy to be perfect in office hours. It’s after that it gets a whole lot harder.”
“Yep,” I laughed. “Can’t say I’ve got the home shit nailed.”
“How are you doing, Lydia? Don’t insult me with
fine
. How are you really doing?”
I felt my throat tighten, willing me to clam up and slap on the professionalism, but the wine warmed through my veins, loosening my tongue. “Most of the time ok. Right now not so great. Bad wine.” I slapped my wrist.
“I thought a change of scene might do you good.”
“Is that why you invited me?”
“No,” he replied in a beat. “I’m really not that generous, I wanted you here because you’re good. I just considered it an additional benefit.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. It doesn’t seem to have worked.”
“The thought was there.”
“On the periphery.”
“All the same. Thanks.”
“I’ve had too many wines, Lydia Marsh, and so have you. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, we should sleep them off.”
“Yes, sir.” I mock saluted, sailing my hand out towards him over the balcony. He didn’t move a muscle, just stared me out so hard I felt almost uncomfortable underneath the haze. “Goodnight, James.”
In a blink he was away from me; stepping down from the railings and out of view. “Goodnight, Cat. Straight to bed.”
Turns out Mr Perfect was Mr damn fucking Bossy, too. It suited him.
***
By the end of day two I’d have sworn we’d been introduced to every single employee of White Hastings McCarthy, including the cleaners. Round upon round of handshakes and tours and polite conversation. I hoped James had a better recall of faces and names than I did, because after about the fourth new person they’d all become a blur. Somehow I expected he did. He didn’t seem the type to be lost for a name at a dinner party.
We’d been waved off with fond farewells from the senior management team, and the morning would see our final wrap-up session with the IT department. Then back to London, to more sofa surfing and shared fridge space.
“Tomorrow’s just a formality,” James said, as we wandered back along the front. “The hard work’s been done.”
“I think I’ve got everything clear in my notes. I may just need to reconfirm some of the case management stages.”
“Our main prerogative was to cement the relationship, and we’ve already achieved that. You were invaluable, Lydia, thank you.”
“We made a good team,” I smiled.
“We did.”
After my previous evening’s rebuttal I waved James away in the foyer without the suggestion of drinks. He didn’t make a repeat offer of dinner on his room tab, so I figured I was out for myself. No big deal. I made a mental note to tone down the wine consumption. Just a couple, nothing crazy.
The first glass slid down my throat like liquid happiness, and Stuart slipped from my mind as easily as he’d thumped his way back in. I was checking out the bar menu when I caught the delicious notes of musk. Musk and vanilla.
“I’m sorry, Lydia, I meant to join you sooner. I had calls to make.” James took a seat next to me, leaning in close enough to scan the mains. “Have you ordered?”
“Not yet.”
“Excellent,” he smiled. “Let’s eat.”
***
“What was he like?” James asked, refilling my glass.
I slouched back in the chair to enjoy the ambience of the hotel restaurant, pleasantly tipsy and full of Dover sole. We’d covered all the work talk, and the wine had flowed much more freely than I’d intended.
“Who?” I feigned ignorance and he raised his eyebrows. I dragged out the silence before I answered. “He was nice. Funny. Patient... Safe.”
“Safe?”
“What happened to
refuse to dwell on the pain, not even for a single second
?”
“My bad. Forget I asked.”
“
Safe
. Stu felt comfortable, you know? It was easy. We fitted together.”
“It sounds more like a pair of footwear than a relationship.”
“Relationships get like that, no?” I took my drink, my eyes on his as I drank it down.
“Maybe some.”
“I guess the others must break up before they get that far.”
He sat forward in his chair, and that simple movement changed everything. The thrum of cutlery and surrounding diners faded to grey, and there was only him, with his dark eyes so intently fixed on mine. I filed it away, the-James-Clarke-effect, that ability to command the floor that I’d witnessed all day. “Some relationships offer consistency, others offer challenge. I prefer the company of a woman who’ll push me to the very heights of human experience. The kind of woman who’ll embrace the same in return. A relationship like that may never feel safe, even if it lasted a lifetime.”
“Your wife was like that, was she?”
He took a sip of wine, looked beyond me, to the diners I couldn’t see. “She was challenging, yes.”
“So what happened?”
“Did you enjoy your main?” he smiled.
“Delicious, thank you, but your subject change sucks. Not even subtle.”