Silas Page 8

  I’m stunned. And stung. It fucking hurts. Like nothing’s ever hurt before. Full frontal rejection. I should be used to it. But normally it comes when I mention the cancer patient at home.

  Mentioned. Past tense. I need to remember that.

  It doesn’t come after we’ve already slept in the same bed.

  After he’s given me an orgasm.

  After it’s been decided we’re gonna do it again.

  It comes from some guy called Brad or Chad or Tatum who looked like potential until he realized I might have some other obligations aside from baking him apple pie, fucking him senseless and bearing his children. Not from...Silas.

  That thought alone is absurd.

  How can I presume to know this man already, how can he be so ingrained in my soul after what?

  A week.

  A week of nothing.

  Not that last night was nothing.

  Not that this afternoon in the kitchen was nothing.

  Not that the way he looked at me about five minutes ago was nothing.

  I’m so frustrated I want to scream.

  Instead, I start sobbing.

  Until there is a gentle knock on the door.

  I wipe the tears from my face.

  “Come in,” I say, my voice hopeful, despite the fact I haven’t heard the front door open again since he left and I can’t feel his presence in the house.

  It’s Sheena.

  Luna follows hot on her heels, immediately overtakes her, jumps on the bed next to me and starts rubbing up against me, purring. I pat her head, avoiding Sheena’s eye contact.

  When I get home, I’m gonna go to a shelter and get myself a cat. It’s a flight of fancy, of course. ‘Cause in reality, I’ll have to room with some randoms and pets are usually a no-no. Reality sucks. But it was a nice thought.

  The mattress next to me dips and I finally face my hostess. She’s taken the towel turban off and her hair is spiked up in all directions, making her look like a hedgehog. She puts her hand on my arm, just above the wrist, and gives it a gentle squeeze.

  “Don’t give up on him, ducky,” she says. “He’s a troubled soul, my Silas. But a good one. He’ll come around. I’ve never seen him like this with a girl before. Not even with Niamh. Hang on in there.”

  “Who’s Niamh?”

  “She was his first and only serious girlfriend.”

  “Ah,” I say, my heart dropping about two stories. Here we go, an ex he never got over. What d’ya know.

  She shakes her head.

  “Don’t even think it, ducky. That was ages ago. When they were teens. Ended just before his twentieth birthday. She’s in London now, getting married soon and he’s had at least one other bite at the cherry since. Besides, it didn’t end well. Though they’re still on speaking terms. But, trust me, there is nothing left there.”

  “What do you mean, it didn’t end well?”

  She takes a deep breath as if she is about to tell me a long, heart wrenching story but then she shrugs.

  “Truth be told, I’m not sure. All I know is they were fine one day then not the next. Maybe a bit tepid but fine. You know, lukewarm as opposed to the burning hot between you and him.”

  I squirm. It’s weird hearing his mother say it. But she just shrugs again and raises her eyebrows.

  “I’m not blind, ducky. And you two are scorching.”

  Her voice is so matter of fact, there is no real room for embarrassment. It’s still weird, though. The idea that what happens between this guy and me is palpable even to others. Even to his mum.

  “The thing is. He’s not been okay ever since. But with you? He can’t seem to handle it, but for the first time in a long time, I think there may be hope for that boy. He needs this. And I don’t really know you, Grace, but I think you might need this, too,” she carries on and grins, making her instantly look twenty years younger, before she gets up, stands in front of me and lays her hands on my shoulders, imploringly. “So do us a favour, ducky. Don’t give up on him.”

  I don’t tell her that I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.

  Silas

  I sit at the beach in the darkness, listening to the waves for a very long time, before my thoughts start kicking into gear.

  When I got here, I was just numb. Numb with the realisation that for the first time in a very long time, I want something, someone, for myself but I can’t have it, can’t have her.

  It’s been over five years since that night. Since he fucked off out of our lives and left us with this mountain of debt. Not counting the Cerys fiasco, all I’ve done since then is work, train, fight, repeat. It’s taken four seasons to build up my rep as Snake and get to the top of the league. Not that I really care about the status. But I was so close to just finishing on a high note, wiping the slate clean and being done with it. A few more fights and I could have started on becoming the kind of man a woman like Grace deserves.

  I could have left TripleX, doing something normal for a living. Fuck knows what, but that’s not the point.

  But with this new deal on the table, there is no chance of that.

  It’s one thing being an illegal fighter, it’s quite another being part of a rig where no doubt powerful people will be conned out of a sizable chunk of their ill-gotten gains. The more I think about Diego’s proposal, the fishier I think this set up is. The maths just doesn’t add up. There is something he isn’t telling me.

  And then it hits me.

  It’s so glaringly obvious it should have come with its own personal neon sign.

  One month isn’t long enough to build someone else up to make it worth a rig.

  You need titans to put on a clash of the titans, and a titan needs breeding for at least a couple of seasons.

  What the fuck is Diego up to?

  Who the fuck am I fighting?

  Grace

  After Sheena leaves, I lie wide awake until the small hours.

  I go pee three times, creep downstairs to get a glass of water, try reading, try listening to music, play around on my cell, but nothing keeps me occupied for long, or gets me to sleep.

  Not surprising, considering I’d been asleep all day.

  Not surprising, considering I keep listening out for the front door key entering the lock.

  I wonder where he went. Did he change his mind about taking a holiday and went back to work? I know he’s security in a nightclub. I wonder what kind of club it is. I haven’t really explored the nightlife in Brighton yet. Not on my radar. I’m not big on going out dancing. It’s not that I don’t like to dance, I do, but working in a bar means that on my nights off I like the quiet. My own company and a book, now that I’m not coming home to caring for Mum any longer. Sad for a young woman in her mid-twenties, really. Maybe I should go out one night while I’m here. I wonder if Kalina knows where to go. Maybe we could go together.

  I’m thinking about it when I finally hear the sound I’ve been hanging on for.

  The key turns in the lock downstairs and my heart starts racing as soon as I hear it. A quick glance at my cell tells me it’s one in the morning, so he didn’t go back to work. I feel relief at that.

  It’s not really presumptuous to think that his bruises are connected to what he does for a living and I don’t think he’s fit to go back. Those were serious injuries. It dawns on me that that is what the ‘holiday’ is about. It’s sick leave. He just couldn’t tell his mother.

  I listen out for his movements, waiting, hoping he’ll come up, but he doesn’t. I get up as quietly as I can, because if there is one thing I’ve learned staying here it’s that British houses are extremely badly soundproofed. I step softly over to the door and open it a little. The hallway is plunged into darkness, but some light shines up from the kitchen. I hear the faucet running downstairs, and then it’s turned off. He kills the light in the kitchen, the flick of the switch loud in the quiet, traveling all the way up to my ears. After that, I feel more than hear his movement through the house. His steps ar
e light, barefooted.

  I open the door farther and half push my body through the gap, still listening intently. My breathing seems like a steam train in the quiet and I hold my breath. His footsteps move along the hallway and then stop. I’m convinced he’s got one foot on the bottom step and I can feel myself clench in anticipation.

  But then I hear him turn and move away, followed a few seconds later by the soft click of the living room door being shut. Tears of frustration pool in my eyes, but I’ll be damned if I let myself be written off like that.

  I go back to my, our, room, switch on the light and open the wardrobe of which Silas so gallantly cleared half for me when we came to our arrangement.

  I don’t own any sexy lingerie, there has been zero need for it in my life so far, but I do have a nice cream silk blouse that hangs long enough to cover my ass when it’s not tucked into a skirt or pants. I take off my yoga pants, panties and camisole and slip on the blouse. I love silk, real silk, the way it’s cool and warm at the same time, the way it caresses your body like a summer breeze. There is nothing like it. I spent an entire month’s tips on this blouse.

  For a moment, I think about running a brush through my hair, but it seems too contrived. Hey, look at me, just casually strolling by in my sexy silk wear with my freshly combed tresses. The blouse on its own will have to do. There is no mirror in this room and actually that’s cool by me. I already know when it comes to him, to us, it doesn’t matter how I look or what I wear. He’d have me in my rattiest old gym shirt. The silk is purely for me, for my confidence. It’s armor in case he turns me down again.

  I shut my eyes for a moment, swallow hard and then I leave the room.

  Silas

  I switch the TV on with the sound so low I can barely hear it, sit down on the sofa and wait for the paracetamol to kick in. I’m in fucking agony. I slide down a little and lean my head against the back rest, so I’m not as creased at the midriff.

  It’s funny, the curve of pain. For the first few hours, the adrenaline completely kills it, then it starts hurting and then a day and half or so later it starts really hurting. I’m at the really hurting stage. I barely made it home from the beach just now. I have to concede, whatever else he is up to, George has done me a favour laying me off.

  The pain killers will do fuck all, I know that already. Ibuprofen would be more effective but, like aspirin, it thins the blood, tends to make the bruising worse. And I stay away from all things opiate based. Codeine, morphine and all that shit. Dulls the head, slows your reflexes. Not for me, thanks.

  I know I’m just distracting myself from not thinking about her.

  Upstairs. In my bed.

  I need to apologise to her. I shouldn’t have done that. Told her I’d be up, in front of my mother, and then just leave her hanging. She must think I’m a complete dick. Fuck.

  I squish my eyes shut in annoyance at myself. As I open them, I catch a movement at the edge of my vision. The door handle is being pushed down gently. My heart stops. I know it’s her. Mum is fast asleep, she sleeps like a stone these days. Besides, she’d just barge in like a normal person, and Kalina doesn’t ever come in here.

  I let my head roll to the side and watch Grace step into the room then gently shut the door again, her back to me, not looking. She looks like one of those airbrushed fucking fantasy drawings, doused in the blue-grey light coming from the telly.

  She’s wearing a shimmery, light-coloured blouse that reflects the sheen from the screen, making her glow almost eerily. The hem falls past her butt to mid-thigh, not revealing anything but the most innocuous part of her legs. Yet the fabric skims over her curves in all the right places in all the right ways.

  Her long red hair is wild, falling down her front and obscuring her nipples under the silk, but I just know they are stiff as fuck underneath. My dick wakes up at that thought ─ and the sight of her.

  This woman.

  She turns to lean against the wall and looks at me. One knee locked, the other hitched up and the leg resting on the ball of her foot ─ that stance all prostitutes know the world over. Only on her it isn’t cheap, it’s fucking mind-blowing. I can’t help but stare. Then she smiles at me and bites her bottom lip.

  I’m fucking toast.

  Grace

  Hell, yeah, the Julia Roberts routine is working for him.

  He’s hard, his cock straining visibly against his jeans zipper.

  I did that, by just standing here.

  The thought gives me a glut of pleasure, and I shiver as I can feel myself turn to syrup.

  We do that thing again, where we just stare at one another and the heat in the room goes up with every second that passes. I already know he’s not gonna bolt on me again and it would be so easy to put on a show for him. I’m not wearing any underwear. He doesn’t know that yet. I could slowly unbutton my blouse, let one hand go to my breast, the other between my legs. Pleasure myself while he watches.

  Another jolt, another rush of liquid.

  What would it be like? I’ve never masturbated in front of somebody before. Would I even be able to make myself come? Or would I feel too under the spotlight, under too much pressure? I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon, how he achieved with a kiss what no other has been able to achieve with full on intercourse and I’ve come to the conclusion it’s ‘cause he wasn’t even trying.

  I watch the hunger in his eyes, watch how his hand comes over his hard-on and pushes down hard. I’m not even sure it’s a conscious gesture until he moans under the pressure.

  I can feel moisture run past my slit.

  I’ve never been this wet before.

  I’ve got to see, find out for myself.

  Without any show, I hitch up my blouse, expose my sex and cup myself. The motion pushes my lips slightly apart and my juice oozes out, as if I’d squeezed open a ripe fruit. I let go, shocked at my own arousal, smooth my blouse down again and try to collect myself. I breathe, trying to still the pulse in my clit.

  This wasn’t the plan. At least not like this. First, we need to talk. A little.

  Silas

  That was without the shadow of a doubt the sexiest thing I have ever seen. Her cupping herself. Her syrup dripping through her fingers, glistening between them in the flicker of the TV. The shock on her face. Fuck me. I want her to carry on. I want to watch her. Really, I want her to do a whole load of things, and then I want to do a whole load of things to her.

  This is so not me.

  Not anymore.

  Never really was.

  Only with her, it seems to be.

  Not that that helps because realistically I can’t do shit right now. I’m in excruciating pain. I wouldn’t be able to move the way I would want to move. Wouldn’t be able to give her what I want to give her. Not by a long shot. So I wait for what she does next, in the hope she’ll carry on fingering her pussy, but she doesn’t. Instead, she speaks.

  “You didn’t come up,” she says.

  Sounding normal. How the fuck is she managing to sound this normal? I’m getting the impression this is a woman who you could go down on while she’s behind the bar and none of the punters on the other side would be any the wiser when she comes in your mouth. My dick goes even harder at the image. I had no idea that was my scene.

  “No,” I grunt out in answer.

  Like a caveman.

  “Why not?”

  There are so many answers to that question and I can’t think of a single one of them right now. All I can think is that I want to watch her come. I want to see her face as she loses all control. And then I want to feel that mouth that she’s licking right now wrapped around my dick. Watch me slide in and out of those pussycat lips.

  That thought snaps me out of the trance that’s got us in its grip, and I go very, very still inside. I look for the frozen bit inside myself, the dark matter I never want to unpack. And, yeah, it’s still there, alright. But that doesn’t change the fact her lips would look amazing around my cock. It takes me
by surprise that I can allow that image, but I embrace it, warily.

  I realise she is still waiting for an answer. I try to find the truth, all the truths, for her in one word.

  “Conscience,” I finally reply.

  She smiles at that.

  “Fuck conscience,” she says.

  And starts coming towards me.

  Grace

  “Pretty sure that’s the attitude that got the world all fucked up,” he quips, and I’m impressed that he’s found his capacity to string a sentence together.

  A second ago it seemed like he’d gone all singular words on me. Which, granted, with Silas is still more than his usual silence. But there was also a weird withdrawnness I hadn’t witnessed before. Like he’d completely disappeared into his own head. So I wonder where this sudden soliloquy has sprung from. But as I get closer, I see the vein pulsing in his neck and the twitch on his upper lip, and suddenly I have a pretty good idea.

  He’s nervous.

  He’s turned on but he’s also a little insecure, vulnerable, and that gives me the confidence to carry on doing what I’m doing.

  I come to a halt in front of him and stand between his legs. We look at each other without touching for a beat until, suddenly, quick as a snake, his hands come up, under my shirt and grip my hips, firmly.

  An entirely new sensation blooms in me. I feel held. Not just in place but in time and space. I have barely processed the sensation when his thumbs start doing that swiping thing, so near my sex yet so far away. He’s gonna drive me crazy.

  I lean forward, my long hair falling between us. I’ve got to kiss him. Now. My mouth finds his and I press my lips to him, tenderly. He shudders then draws back a bit to speak.

  “Careful, I’m still in agony, Grace. I can’t really move.”

  I nod in understanding and kiss him again before I let my mouth trail around to find his ear. I suck his earlobe between my teeth and play with it a little before I let the tip of my tongue run around the shell of his ear. I have no idea if he’ll like this, I know I would. I think. Again, not something anyone has ever done to me.

  He bucks on the couch and I smile to myself. I guess he likes it.