Siren (19 page)

‘I…um…should taste this drink,’ she said, and laughed.

He smiled. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to…’

‘You didn’t do anything. That was me. I wanted to kiss you.’ She picked up her drink and downed half of it in one gulp. ‘I really like you, Bogey.’

Bogey took her in with childlike wide eyes. He put his hand in hers and looked at her with silent intensity. He clearly did not want to push her into anything she might regret, but his desire was palpable.

Again she leaned close, this time pushing her hips to him. The hollow of her lap connected with his hipbone, and they kissed again, falling back against the couch. She felt him throb and grow. He was straining hard against his jeans, and feeling that mound of warm sexuality aroused her further. She straddled him and positioned herself gently against it, straining slightly.

Delicious…

The heat between them grew, their kisses ever deeper. She felt herself letting go, feeling like she wanted to consume him completely. In that moment Mak cared little for regrets or expectations. She didn’t care about what anyone would think.

She sat up, still straddling him, and smiled. He smiled back, unsure. Her dress had rolled up to her waist. She stood up and took his hand and led him to Loulou’s bedroom.

‘Sit down,’ she ordered.

He sat on the edge of the bed, obedient.

In one movement she unzipped her tight dress and pulled it down to her thighs, letting the bundle of fabric drop from her hands. She stood in front of Bogey in her bra and panties, feeling bold and unashamed, feeling almost like someone else. He watched, entranced, with that same wide-eyed expression. He did not move. When she bent to pull her panties to the ground, his plump Cupid’s bow trembled, and he leaped to his feet, sliding his arms around her waist. She carefully took his glasses off and placed them on Loulou’s bedside table. Naked of his spectacles, Bogey appeared even more entranced.
Vulnerable
. She brought her mouth to his, and their tongues connected again, tangled eagerly. With increasing urgency, she found herself pushing against his growing erection with her hips, wanting more and more of him. There was a tension in her that was relieved only when he knelt before her and finally—beautifully—took his moist tongue and licked the soft cleft between her thighs, teasing at first, and then harder, followed by a gentle suckling that sent her into gasps, fading away into a temporary, death-like peace.

Mak did not know how long she swayed on her feet, pulsing inside. When she regained herself, a surge of desire reanimated her. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his forehead leaning against her bare stomach, his eyes closed. She pushed him back and slid his black leather belt out of his belt loops with a forceful tug, the end flicking his exposed stomach. Instead of tossing it aside, she seized his wrists and—silently daring him to refuse her suggestion—she looped the belt over his wrists and pulled it back around his waist,
binding him. In seconds she had his dark denim jeans unzipped and thrown to the floor. The firm tent in his boxer shorts displayed clear arousal. He was hers.

Her mouth ravaged him, and before long she had removed their last scraps of clothing and climbed on top of him. Time was nothing. It neither passed nor stood still. She felt their bodies joined together, and at the point of orgasm her shoulders began to shake, her thighs, her lips. She cried out and warm tears collected in the corners of her eyes and rolled freely down her cheeks. In that instant she became deeply aware of a well of grief and sorrow, previously unacknowledged. In a blink she saw a black hole of loneliness in the centre of herself, terrifying and impossibly huge.

Bogey sighed beneath her, snapping her back into the physical world. He pulled out of her quite suddenly, his hard penis pouring warm jets across his naked stomach. She had a flash of his upturned face and his tattoos and pale skin, and she pressed down onto him, melting into him, sweat and moisture pressed tight between them, intermingling. Though her body still tingled with a deep pulsing pleasure, she worried about the glimpse of that giant dark hole of emptiness. She worried about what had been opened up, what it meant.

He rolled her to his side, still bound to her, limbs entangled. There was only the sound of breathing. No conversation. Nothing to distract her. For long minutes her vulnerability felt intolerable.

Accustomed to Andy’s habits in recent years, Mak prepared herself for Bogey’s physical departure, followed closely by the toss of a towel to clean herself, or worse, tissues, or the sound of the shower starting. But he remained against her, their
bodies touching. He watched her, and seeing her tears, spoke no words. Thoughts rushed through her head—urges to weep, to flee—but he only held her tighter. His warm semen was slick across their bellies and felt somehow comforting.

Communion.

‘Jolie! Come, come. Mr Roberts is here, and he wants to see you.’

Ms Rosalay stood in the doorway and held out her long fingers, gesturing to the young woman, who rose from the lounge chair as if manipulated on strings.

‘You remember what I told you about Mr Roberts?’ Ms Rosalay said, her brown eyes glittering.

Jolie nodded. ‘Yes.’ She felt confident. ‘I’ll get ready, then.’ She tried not to take notice of the sudden interest of the other women in the waiting room. Some looked up from their preparations, their reading, the television that was softly speaking in the corner. None spoke. She supposed they would ask her about him afterwards.

Jolie was not her real name, but no one in this place used real names. She liked to call herself Jolie, after the movie star. Her real name was Faith, and she was from Idaho, but she didn’t think that sounded very glamorous so she kept it to herself. ‘Jolie’ had been working in Ms Rosalay’s establishment in Mumbai for only two weeks, and so far she thought she was
doing pretty well. The money was excellent. One client had even given her a $500 tip, which was quite a compliment, she thought. Her mum in Idaho thought she was working part-time as some rich businessman’s secretary while she studied at the SK Somaiya College of Arts, Science and Commerce.

It was something like that.

Ms Rosalay had told Jolie about Mr Roberts. She had said he was a nice man, and paid very handsomely, but that some of the girls did not work out for him because they had some kind of problem with his appearance or something, and found it hard to perform their services satisfactorily. Jolie thought that sounded ridiculous, but then, she hadn’t seen him. The important thing was that he paid top dollar, and he wasn’t violent or into any of the weird stuff that she wouldn’t do. In fact, Ms Rosalay said that what Mr Roberts wanted was for a woman to stay with him for the entire night, so he could sleep with them in his arms afterwards. She thought that sounded kind of sweet.

Jolie sauntered to the bank of well-lit mirrors in the waiting area, leaned in and checked her reflection. She ran a tongue across her white teeth, and slicked her mouth with another coat of clear lipgloss, making her lips glisten alluringly. With her index finger she pressed against her eyelashes to curl them up further so her eyes would look even wider. She applied another coat of mascara to accentuate the look. When she was done, she stood back and patted her hips a little selfconsciously. Jolie wore an ankle-length silk dress in the elegant, sophisticated style Ms Rosalay approved of. It was a dark blue that set off her golden skin, and the design with its thin spaghetti straps and low plunging back offered tantalising glimpses of Jolie’s curves. At 155 centimetres she was petite,
and wore designer platform sandals, her toenails immaculately polished in a cherry red. She spun before the mirror, ran her fingers through her hair, took a breath and stepped into the parlour.

Ms Rosalay was waiting. She handed Jolie two fresh glasses of French bubbly. ‘The private room,’ she said, and pointed her long fingers towards the entrance to the small alcove. ‘Remember what I said.’

Look him in the eye when you talk, but don’t stare. Whatever you do, don’t stare.

The main room was a dimly lit place, comfortable and warm, illuminated with stained-glass table lamps and burning candles. A grand piano, now unattended, was the centrepiece. The walls were papered in dark, sensual colours, with subtle hints of carnal red. Incense filled the air. A few customers were chatting with some of the other girls, sitting as couples on lounges and sipping champagne. Most wore suits, and two men were in military uniform—no doubt they were of high rank to be able to afford such a place. Despite the troubles Mumbai and the financial markets had experienced in recent years, business was steady. The women of Ms Rosalay’s parlour were renowned as the most beautiful in India, and such a promise would always hold its currency. They came from Canada, Australia, Japan, Russia and America to work there. There were blondes, redheads, brunettes. The majority of the customers were wealthy foreign businessmen, mostly Englishmen and Americans. The establishment was a far cry from the infamous brothels of the Kamathipura red-light district. Rosalay prided herself on civility, service and class. She liked her girls to look classy, too, and have a good grasp of English and some Hindi. Jolie was trying to learn Hindi.

She glided past the other couples with her drinks, and arrived at the entrance to the private room. She pushed the curtain aside, smiling.

Don’t stare.

The man waiting for her, the man who called himself Mr Roberts, was one of the most startlingly nightmarish creatures—
men—
young Faith had set eyes on. She was Faith now. Her persona of Jolie had somehow vanished, along with her confidence and her ability not to stare. She had never seen anything like him in Idaho, or in her travels. Even sitting, his hulking size positively terrified her. His hands were thick, the size of dinner plates. His neck was knotted, his chest broad. But it was not just that. Most of all it was his face. There was something wrong with it.

‘Hello, Mr Roberts,’ she said, trying not to betray her revulsion. Her smile had faltered.

‘You can call me Luther,’ he told her, and cast his eyes downward.

His nose had been broken, she noticed. It sat strangely on a face already pulled and puckered with scars that ran from one side to the other like train tracks. Part of one ear was missing. She could not stop staring at him.

‘Why don’t you have a sip of your drink?’ Luther said, looking up at her.

This was her line. This was what Ms Rosalay taught them to say. But she wasn’t saying it, he was. She could not stop staring.
The scars.
He had them all over his face. What would his body be like? He would dwarf her. He was easily three times her size, and most of it muscle.

‘It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said, and looked down again. He sighed heavily, annoyed.

‘I…I…’ she began, but the words wouldn’t come.

‘Go,’ he said. ‘I want to be alone.’

Faith backed away, apologising and shaken.

Ms Rosalay would be upset.

A rogue sunbeam strayed through a gap in Loulou’s curtains and struck Mak across the eyes.

Ugh.

She brought a hand to her face to shield herself, rolling over to escape its brightness. Inches away, her rock-and-roll poet, Humphrey Mortimer, lay deep in sleep, curled in the foetal position, facing away from her. Mak’s eyes drifted to the red digital numbers of the alarm clock—7:11 it flashed—then sleepily ran over the ink on the smooth skin of her companion. Her eyes lingered on a tattoo of a coffin etched on one shoulder—no doubt one the motorcycle gang had branded him with as a teenager. He had packed a lot into his twenty-nine years, almost as much as Mak had packed into her thirty. She had once been told that she had ‘seen a lot of action’ for someone not living in a war-zone, and it was a good observation. Andy, too, had a seen a lot. Perhaps this was the common factor between these two vastly different men she was drawn to. They understood life’s extremes better than most.

Andy.

She frowned.

Mak had not opened the card that had come with the roses. In truth, she did not want to know what he had written. His words would hurt, that much she knew, and for now that was knowledge enough.

Her lips curled up again at the sight of Bogey’s black-rimmed glasses sitting on the bedside table next to a half-drunk glass of rum and Coke, the ice cubes long since melted. She spotted a tangle of jeans and her dress crumpled on the floor. His studded leather belt was still wrapped around the bedpost…something about his wrists having been bound in it…Or hers?

A touch surreal, all of this…

Bogey was beginning to stir. One hand released its grip on the pillow and reached for her soft flesh. His fingertips found her and ran over her ribs and the side of her breast, leaving a light tingle in their wake. Mak lay back and stretched her arms above her head. His eyes still closed, Bogey rolled over to lie in her ample chest and curled his arm over her shoulder.

Mak’s eyes were still heavy, her mascaraed lashes bent like spider legs from being crushed against the pillow. They had not slept much. It was way too early to wake.

As long as you get up before nine…

They lay like that, naked, limbs entangled, bodies dewy with sweat that smelled of sex and warm candy.

Crickets. Big ugly crickets nattering away at her ears…

Ugh, stop it…

Makedde opened her puffy eyes to see her phone jumping around on the bedside table, making its cricket-like buzz. As
she reached for it, it stopped. She blinked and tried to clear her vision.

Bogey lay sleeping. She still could hardly believe he had arrived in her life again, much less that she was waking up in his arms. He mumbled something and rolled onto his back next to her. She took the opportunity to revel in the sight of him. From day one he had been interesting and attractive to her, and his dishevelled morning hair only made him more appealing. That square jaw and those black brows framed his handsome features wonderfully. His plump Cupid’s bow was extended in a sleepy pout. And the things they had done together…the way it had felt.

Crazy.

Her phone began to ring again.

Shit, Marian, can’t you see I’m busy…

Marian Wendell was a woman of order and habit. If a phone call woke Mak up, it was generally Marian calling for a morning case update, as she often did with her active agents. Not taking the call would be a sign that something was wrong. Mak leaped up, and for the first time noticed her nakedness. She grabbed Bogey’s black leather jacket and wrapped it around herself.

‘Marian, hi,’ she said softly, scanning the floor for useful articles of clothing. ‘Just hang on a minute.’

‘Where are you? What’s going on?’

‘Nothing’s going on. Just a sec…’ She pulled on a pair of jeans, realising too late they were not hers. Bogey’s blue jeans hung off her waist in eighties rock video style.

Nice look.

She glanced over her shoulder, and seeing that Bogey was still sleeping despite her ruckus, she stepped out the bedroom
door and stood in the kitchen. The sun was streaming in through the window, warm across her feet. It would be a hot day.

‘Sorry about that,’ Mak apologised.

‘What is happening?’

‘I couldn’t talk, that’s all.’ She thought of making excuses about being in a meeting, a restaurant, something like that. But this was Marian she was talking to. It wasn’t worth trying to fib. ‘Now, for the update on the case.’ She tried to clear her head of remnants of alcohol, of sleep deprivation and her strong desire for a coffee. And of Bogey in the room behind her.

‘I’m not calling for a case update,’ Marian said, surprising her. ‘I know you’ll call in. No, I’m calling to let you know that Pete Don called. Mrs Hart’s missing gold watch showed up in a Brisbane pawnshop yesterday.’

Mak stood rigid. ‘Really? Brisbane? That’s great.’
Why didn’t Pete call me?

It was then Mak noticed the flashing light on her phone. She had an unanswered text. Something else she’d slept through.

‘He gave them his valid ID. An EU passport,’ Marian continued.

EU passport?
This was news. Mak hadn’t known he had a passport with him.

‘Only got five hundred, poor kid,’ Marian said.
He isn’t doing a good job of covering his tracks. That’s good.
‘The client is over the moon that her son’s okay. She wants you to fly to Brisbane and bring him home right away, before he gets in any more trouble.’

‘Business class?’

‘Economy.’

Mak smiled. She’d known.

‘You leave this afternoon.’

When Mak slipped back into Loulou’s bedroom, Bogey was beginning to stir. His eyes were wet-looking and shiny, just a touch bloodshot.

‘I’ll get you a coffee,’ he said, sitting up. His pecs formed attractive curves, his nipples small and hard—rather distracting for Makedde. ‘Eggs?’ he suggested.

She smiled. ‘No, don’t be crazy. Relax.’ She looked around, experiencing an odd mix of feelings. She wanted to leap back into bed and kiss those pink nipples, those beautiful lips. But she also wanted to be alone. Safe. It had all moved very quickly and she didn’t know what it meant or if it was meant to mean anything at all. The blur of the night’s activities came into focus. Yes, the sex had been good, fantastic even, but there had been something else. She had felt a terrifying closeness to something. Something…

‘Mak, I…’ Bogey began and stopped.

Makedde froze. This seemed serious. Serious was not good. Not now. What would he confess? Something horrible? Her chest tightened.

He tried again. ‘I’ve thought about you every day.’ His voice was croaky, breaking like an adolescent’s. She sat on the bed next to him, wanting to hold a finger to his lips. She wanted to tell him to stop. ‘I didn’t want to get in the way between you and…I still don’t want to get in your way,’ he continued. ‘But I want you to know that it took every ounce of my strength not to call you every day since I saw you last, just to see how you were.’

Mak felt overwhelmed. His words should have soothed her, but they did not. Panic set in with the intensity of something like vertigo. Panic about what? She could sense his vulnerability, and she did not know what to say. She had wanted him, dreamed of him while she was still with Andy and could do nothing about it. Now, here he was, and she had not been expecting it.

She gently kissed his forehead, her fingers running through his thick black hair. ‘I have to go to Brisbane,’ she told him, and pulled away. ‘I’ve had a break in the case.’

Makedde packed an overnight bag, walked up to the main street and hoisted one arm into the air to hail a cab.

Traffic flew past and she felt eyes on her. The warm wind whipped her hair. Perspiration began beading on her forehead. Every cab that passed her was busy.
He is in Brisbane. I have him.
Maybe she would have the case completed in the next couple of days?

Oh, come on.

Her confidence waned with every passing blast of exhaust. She thought about walking back to the apartment and phoning for a taxi. She had thought this way would be quicker.

‘Oi!’

A sedan pulled up in front of her. It was not Bogey’s car. The window rolled down slowly, and a waft of cool air-conditioning drifted out.

‘Get in,’ a man said softly. ‘I’ll drive you.’

Cars began honking. The driver was blocking traffic.

‘Mak. It’s me,’ the man said, a little more forcefully. ‘Get in.’

She took a deep breath and ran a hand across her face. Another gust of wind blew against her, tangling her hair. He
pushed the door open for her. Mak gripped her keys in her hand, steadied herself for whatever was to come, got in and slammed the door shut behind her. How else would she find out what this was all about?

‘My name is Ben, by the way,’ the man said, driving on.

It was the man from the Metro; the guy with the mean mouth. ‘Hello, Ben. Have you been hanging round here all night waiting for me to come out?’ Makedde asked with faux civility, her arms crossed.

‘Not quite, but close enough,’ he admitted and turned a corner.

‘So what do we do now?’ she asked him, deadpan.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Airport.’

He looked at her bag. ‘Back to Canada?’

‘No. So, this is part of your standard stalking service, is it?’ she said. He didn’t answer. ‘Driving the target to the airport? You know, Ben—if that is your real name—I thought you were an undercover cop when I first saw you at the Metro. You didn’t exactly blend in. But I was wrong. You’re a private investigator, like me. Aren’t you?’

He smiled.

‘Have you been hired by Damien, or Jack?’

‘Neither.’

Of course you’d deny it, because you’re working for rich arseholes who don’t think anything of killing people, and that doesn’t sound so good.
‘I’m not convinced you’ve been doing surveillance for long, Ben. I made you at St Ives. Same car, and wearing a baseball cap. And then there was the McDonald’s on George Street, wearing that same stupid baseball cap that you were wise to ditch. Much better without it, Ben, if I may say. And
you should really quit smoking, by the way.’ She unfolded her arms. ‘Then there you were last night, in an ill-fitting blue cop suit on a dance floor with a bunch of tattooed goths, blending in like…well, like my redhead friend would in an office. So tell me, where did I miss you?’ she challenged.

He just continued to smile, and she squinted at the road ahead.

‘You’re lucky I’m too tired to feel angry,’ she told him. In fact, some part of her found the situation strangely amusing. She wanted to know who he worked for and what they hoped to gain by so obviously tailing her. And why he was so bloody bad at tailing her. A tail shouldn’t get made.

‘They told me you would be a handful. Look, I’m really not such an arsehole,’ he said, seeming pleased with himself.

‘Really? Are you it, or do they have a team following me?’ she asked, hostile now, watching his face carefully. A flash went through her mind. This guy driving her through the gates at Darling Point into the Cavanagh house to meet his boss. Now that would be a interesting conversation.

‘I told you, I’m not the arsehole you think I am.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I’m doing you a favour.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Someone you know needs to have a chat with you.’

‘Really? Who?’ she asked, infuriated.

He had only driven two blocks and he pulled the car over. Mak saw a flash of red in the side mirror. Her jaw hung open.
Andy?

Andy’s red car was pulling to the side of the road. Mak sighed and recrossed her arms.

For Christsake!

She got out of the car, and walked along the kerb to Andy’s vehicle. The other car drove away. Her ex-boyfriend sat in the driver’s seat with the window down. ‘I got here as soon as I could. I really needed to see you. Please get in. You haven’t been taking my calls.’ He sounded breathless.

She stood next to his car as if paralysed. Fresh conflict ran through her.

‘Did you get my flowers?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Thank you,’ she said.
They mean nothing. Our relationship meant something, but not flowers, which you never used to give me.

‘Mak, I really need to speak to you.’

‘So you ambush me?’ She shivered. This was stalker behaviour. ‘I have somewhere I have to be.’ Taxis were flying past on the street now. She needed to get into one.

‘Just give me two minutes,’ Andy pleaded. ‘It’s not what you think.’

Not what I think?

‘Fine.’ Mak sat herself in the passenger seat, overnight bag on her lap, distinctly unimpressed. ‘This better be good.’

Andy looked at her with concern. ‘Look, I love you. But that isn’t what this is about.’

Will everyone please stop talking in riddles?

‘You have to stop tailing the Cavanaghs. You’re getting in the way,’ Andy said solemnly. ‘There’s a Federal investigation going on. Damien and his father are both under surveillance.’

The whole world seemed to come to a halt. ‘Holy shit.’ Mak was shocked.
My god…

‘Exactly. You need to pull back.’

‘So something is finally being done?’

‘Just stop getting yourself involved. You are either going to get yourself more tangled up in this thing than you already
are, or you’re going to blow it for them. Either way, it’s not safe for you.’

Mak shook her head.
I can’t believe it.
‘Is it about the girl?’ The ‘Dumpster Girl’, as the cops called her. The underage trafficked prostitute Damien was seen with. She had not received justice for what Damien had done to her.

‘It’s broader than that. Organised crime. Something international.’

Mak put her hands over her eyes. ‘I’m really tired,’ she said, defeated. She had no anger for him. She had no fight in her. She just wanted peace.

Andy moved close to her and hugged her as she sat stiffly, remembering the taste of Bogey on her tongue. And then the tears came. They rolled down her cheeks freely, without warning. Andy held her in her wordless grief, her head leaning into his chest, her tears casting off into his shirt like warm drops of rain.