Falloir (Passion Noire Book 2) (6 page)

I’ve let women take the reins but it was mere role play. There was nothing to keep me in the role except my own pretence. I was tempted to experiment with a Dominatrix but I doubted that I’d respect her enough—if at all. I’d fork out hundreds of pounds to find that it was role play with a price tag. I knew I’d have to meet a dominant woman and develop respect for her as well as a throbbing arousal whenever she was near.

Meeting Veuve the other week in Vouloir didn’t just tick all my boxes, she ticked boxes I didn’t know existed.

She moans in her sleep, her fingers twitching against my balls. She’s had me by the balls since I met her that night ... she doesn’t know it. But I do. The less she wants me, the more I want her. But what happens if she starts to want me? Will I lose interest? If the challenge disappears, will my motivation follow? Will it be game over?

That’s a gamble I’m going to have to take. Like most things in life, it’s a case of no risk, no gain. And, from the way she invades my thoughts, making my blood throb in my veins and the fact that I cannot even comprehend how good fucking her will feel, there’s everything to gain. Risk analysis complete.

From the moment I saw her naked in the bath, it’s been mission accepted. I cannot fucking wait until it’s mission accomplished.

I’m awoken by movement in my bed. I sleep alone—there should be no movement. I’m instantly wide awake and on high alert. I hear a moan. It’s female. Fleetingly, I think I must have gone back to some slapper’s place but I realise I’m in my own bed. I think I must be dreaming, but then my memory wakes up and I remember I’m sharing my bed with Veuve. I relax instantly. She must be dreaming.

There’s a series of low moans. I wonder if she’s having a wet dream ... it would be so easy to slide my hand down and check ... I grin but there’s no way I would. I’m not a creep. I like my women consenting and fully conscious. The thought of her getting wet makes my cock twitch.

She speaks but it’s too mumbled to decipher. It’s impossible not to hear it so I don’t feel bad, it’s not like I’m deliberately eavesdropping. I can’t deny that I hope to hear something about me ... a clarification of how she feels about me. She needs my help ... I’m not naïve enough to think her decision to take me on as a client had anything to do with benevolence. In fact, it was purely to do with malevolence—the threat of that abusing bastard entering her life again.

I’m used to drama in my work life but not in my private life. I keep that drama-free.
Kept.
In the past few weeks that philosophy has been flipped right on its fucking head. Since a certain sex therapist came into my life. Thanks to her, I’ve lost my will to fuck random strangers, only being turned on by one woman ... who can barely tolerate me yet gets turned on by my naked body. I’ve been turning work away yet I’ve no shortage of unpaid work. And it looks like I have a nephew ... and a niece ... and a way to find my sister after all these years.

‘Fuck off!’ the body next to me cries, making me jump. ‘Get off me!’

I reach over and flick my lamp on. She’s thrashing about now crying out ‘No,’ over and over.

‘Veuve,’ I say softly, not wanting to touch her. I’d learned to keep my distance the hard way, having once gained a black eye courtesy of a Commando having a nightmare.

‘Veuve, wake up. You’re having a bad dream,’ I tell her but she’s too wrapped up in her dream to hear me.

I sit up, at a loss as to what to do except try to get her to hear me.

She screams.
Jesus! My fucking car alarm’s not that loud! And it doesn’t make all the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Her eyes open as her lungs run out of air. I freeze, unsure what to do, not knowing whether she’s awake or asleep. Her eyes focus in on me and I’m about to tell her she was having a bad dream but a look of utter terror paralyses me. Not her, though. She yelps and tries to get out of the bed but her legs are tangled in the duvet.

I put my arms out to help or reassure her or something. I don’t fucking know. I open my mouth to tell her she was dreaming but she cuts me off.

‘Get away from me, you bastard. One step closer and I’ll fucking kill you,’ she growls. ‘I don’t know how you found me but you can fuck right off. I’m not a kid anymore.’

Her eyes flick to the door and I know what she’s going to do. She bolts and I try to stop her.

Too late, I realise that she’s confusing me with someone else. Him. The evil bastard. I lunge forward but manage not to grab her. She shrieks and races into the hall.

I follow her cautiously. She’s at the front door, attempting to yank it open with all her might but it’s locked. The key is removed, as always. I like my home to be secure.

Her sobs cut through me. Fury has turned to desperation and then to despair.

‘Veuve, it’s me. It’s Jones. You had a bad dream. A fucking evil nightmare. I’m sorry if I scared you when you woke. You’re in my flat. The Kid’s in the spare room. You’re safe, Veuve. You’re safe.’

The yanking on the door handle slows and then stops but she doesn’t turn around. She sags and sinks to the floor. Just then, The Kid comes out of his room, wrapped in his duvet.

‘What’s go—’ he begins before dropping the duvet and running naked to Veuve. He wraps his arms around her near-naked body and holds her as she sobs.

The protected becomes the protector.

And I feel like an intruder. An imposter in my own fucking home.

Shaking my head, I walk into the kitchen. I fill the kettle and turn it on—I doubt anyone will be going back to sleep straight away after all the commotion. The clock tells me it’s almost one in the morning. I’m standing naked in my kitchen while my naked nephew comforts the near-naked woman I want to fuck.

How fucked up is that?

If anybody described this scene to me, I’d think they were bullshitting. I’d stake money on it.

Fuck!

I take three mugs from the cupboard and wander back into the hall to ask them what they’d like to drink. The hallway is empty. I put my head inside my bedroom—empty. The lounge is empty. So is the bathroom. The door to the spare room is closed. I shrug but I can’t help feeling excluded.

I make a decaf coffee and sit looking out at the array of street lights and signs in the distance. A capital city ... a first world country ... a human rights haven.

Yet it’s part of a world in which people can be abused, tortured and almost killed and it all goes unnoticed. Veuve ... The Kid ... his sister ...
my
sister.

I’ve seen some shit in my line of work but nothing like that. And my experiences were voluntary. Legal. Sanctioned. I signed up in full knowledge of what I might encounter.

Sandy’s out there somewhere. What has she seen? Felt? Endured?

And where is she now?

For the first time in my life, I have a lead. A living, breathing lead in the form of The Kid. My nephew. And I’ve a niece too.

I’ll find them—my sister and my niece. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll find them. I’ll make damn sure that no more harm comes their way. I’ll make sure they’re loved and protected. Maybe Veuve will give them some professional help. Some therapy to help them deal with everything, like she’s done with The Kid.

And while Veuve’s doing that, I’ll protect her too. I’ll make sure that they’re all safe. I’ll bring every one of the evil fuckers responsible for their pain and suffering to justice. My own kind of justice. No jail terms. No second chances. In the Corps, I’d become known as Justice Jax for my own special style of law enforcement and retribution. Rarely did I have to look over my shoulder.

Tomorrow, I need some answers from The Kid so I can start my search.

I also need to find out about the nursing company that looks after Thierri and figure out a way to get inside his fortress.

Yeah, who has time for paid work when you’re a freebie freelance vigilante?

I finish my coffee and head back to my bed. I catch the faint scent of Veuve’s perfume as I climb back into bed. I can’t believe that I had a woman in my bed. It was weird earlier, lying next to her sleeping form. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t get to sleep.

I hope she’s okay but I’m sure The Kid’s looking after her. I have my bed back to myself. I can sleep now. Oddly, that thought makes me feel lonely.

HAVING CANCELLED ALL CLIENTS for the day, I wait impatiently for Jones to get us inside my flat. There’s been a strange atmosphere so far this morning. Even The Kid is subdued. Jones didn’t say a word about my night terror but then he’s spent most of the morning running errands. He was out when The Kid and I got up. He came back with bacon sandwiches just after I’d showered. He didn’t eat, he said he’d eat while he was out, meeting someone. Then he was gone again.

The Kid surprised me by asking to stay at Jones’ while we came and tackled the flat. All he wanted was his iPod, he said. I left him playing on the Xbox, assuring him that I’d bring it back with me. Secretly, I hoped to get the flat into a decent enough state for us to be able to return today. The fact that The Kid and I both had nightmares at Jones’ tells me that it’s the right thing to do. Okay, so yesterday was an emotionally charged day and that could have triggered them but I feel it’s better for everyone if we keep Jones at arm’s length.

Jones sets about getting the door replaced as an emergency while I strip the bedding from both beds once I’ve opened all the windows. The washing machine is going to be busy today. I discover that none of the curtains are machine washable when I take them down. But there’s a dry-cleaner’s in the shopping precinct down the road and I’ll drop the curtains in later.

Armed with a bowl of soapy water and a hair scrunchie, I get down on my knees, pull my hair back into a ponytail and start scrubbing the walls in the hallway. Near to the door, they’re black. Jones offers to give me a hand but I wave him off. I need some distance. I ask him to look up decorating firms and arrange for three separate quotes—as per the insurance company’s conditions. It’s the same procedure for a replacement hall carpet so I set Jones on that too.

Within no time, I’m hot, irritable and covered in soot. I have to keep directing Jones to put loads of washing into the dryer and put more loads on to wash. Even when I scrub my hands, they’re still a grimy grey and my clothes are filthy. I’m still determined to be able to sleep here tonight but it’s a daunting task.

Jones comes back from the local DIY superstore with a carpet cleaner and enough deodorising shampoo to clean Buckingham Palace’s carpets. I’m just finishing off the walls and ceiling in the hall. They’re respectable but far from perfect. At least they can be painted now.

‘I’ve brought lunch,’ he says, a grin all across his face.

He’s obviously very pleased with himself. I’m not sure whether it’s surprising me with the carpet cleaner or his hunter gatherer action that he’s so proud of. I’m grateful for both, I just don’t see the need for a huge grin.

‘Thanks,’ I say, throwing the sponge I’m using back into the bowl. I am really hungry. I’ve worked up quite an appetite. ‘Shall we eat on the balcony? It still stinks in here and I could do with some fresh air.’

‘Good idea,’ he says, heading off towards my room, carrying a box containing something that smells delicious. ‘But you might want to have a wash first.’