Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play (19 page)

He lifts it from the box carefully, as if
it’s spun gold.

“Now, you can travel the world, be
powerful and invincible and I’ll be with you.”

His head falls and his eyes are fixed on
the lock of hair; he wraps it around the fingers of his right hand and pulls it
tight.

“See.” I fold his right hand into a fist
around it. He licks his teeth and bites his bottom lip but says nothing. Shit!
I’ve misjudged the situation:  it’s too much, too soon. “Of course, you don’t
have to keep it, I just thought ...”

I’m captivated by his serious eyes; their
glistening flashes mean only one thing. “Oh Ayden.” I hold him to me and he
hugs me back so tightly I can barely breath. “I never intended to upset you,
I’m sorry.”

He edges back. “Don’t be sorry Beth. It’s
a very special gift. The most amazing gift I’ve ever had. I’ll treasure it and
take it everywhere I go.” He stands and leaves the room.

He’s on the phone. Is he calling a taxi?

***

When I enter the lounge, he’s poured out
two glasses of red wine. He hands me a glass, still seeming a little unsure of
himself.

“I’ve ordered Chinese food,” he announces,
moving over to the sofa. I follow, but there’s an invisible barrier between us
and the air has shifted in the room.

“Ok,” I respond cheerfully. “I’ll eat
anything.” His hand is on his knee and I place mine on top of it
affectionately, but he lifts his hand and rebukes my gesture. Suddenly, after a
fantastic day, I feel bereft. I could cry.

“Beth ...” He struggles to articulate his
feelings. “Beth ...we’ve not even known each other a week and I ...”

I know what’s wrong - he thinks I’m taking
this relationship far too seriously, cutting off my hair? What was I thinking?

“… Look Ayden, don’t sweat it. I’m a big
girl and I won’t put any demands on you.” He’s watching me speak but doesn’t
seem to be registering the words; he has the look of a man tortured by
something so painful the mere mention of it has him in pieces. “If you think
the hair thing was too much then give it back.” I reach out for it

“No, it’s mine now,” he calls out
impulsively.

His declaration rocks me. He’s a
frightened child, he’s my broken boy! I feel the muscles around my heart
tightening.

“You can’t go giving things to people then
take them back! That’s just cruel, Beth.”

“I don’t want it back Ayden. I thought you
didn’t want it.” I’m shocked beyond words.

“I need it Beth.”

I’m close to tears. “Then fucking keep it.
What’s wrong with you? You think I go cutting off my hair for every guy I meet?
No! I don’t. So it’s yours, from me: a gift.”

His head falls into his hands and he seems
lost.

“If you don’t start telling me what’s
going on, then you can leave, because I’m not sitting here letting you make me
like shit for doing something with good intentions.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice is small and
helpless.

I pull him to me, he’s tearful. “Ayden.”
My Mr. P is coming apart at the seams. What have I done? “Please don’t be
upset. I didn’t mean to shout.” I swallow back tears: I’m so desperately sorry.

“It’s not you,” he mutters, sniffing and
wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I never talk about my childhood but
something like this is a trigger, it brings it all back.” He looks to me for
understanding. I let him talk.

“I didn’t get gifts, no-one cared enough
to buy me presents. If I wanted something, I’d either work, steal it or trade
what I had for it. I was the kid who got left behind on trips; the cute kid who
got more attention than was good for him, especially off the wrong kind of
girls and then there’s the pervs who ruffle your hair and offer you sweets in
exchange for fuck knows what - you soon learn to give them a wide berth. So
...”

He holds onto my lock of hair as if it’s a
lifeline offering some kind of salvation. “So, to get such a special gift like
this with no strings attached is something unexpected. It’s like a mind fuck
for me.” He looks into my sad face and I can’t even fake a smile.

“That’s all, it’s not you.” He holds my
face in his free hand. “It’s me.” He places the softest of kisses on my flat
mouth.

The images I had days ago, all come
flooding back; picturing that lonely and neglected boy tears me apart. “Oh
Ayden, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not after sympathy.” He’s regaining
his composure and offering a smile of sorts. “But this.” He kisses the lock of
my hair circling his fingers. “This I’ll keep right here.” He places his hand
onto his chest, onto his heart.

I manage to hold back my tears somehow.
“Good!” I exclaim. “That’s where it belongs.” I plant a noisy kiss on his hand.

He nuzzles my hair and we embrace for
several minutes. I count every second and listen to his decreasing heart beat
while my own heart continues to race.

Like a man possessed, he stands and begins
to pace the floor. “Where the hells that food?”

In the blink of an eye, he’s back. He’s on
the phone and I barely recognise him. His body language, the tone of his voice,
everything about him reeks of authority. I reach for my glass of wine and gulp
down virtually the whole glass. Unintentionally, through my innocent act of
offering him a gift, I have unearthed some disturbing memories. I realise, for
all his wealth and status, he’s just a man, a very special, self-made man. All
I can do is offer him my understanding and love. I just hope it’s enough.

It’s Saturday night, the TV is on,
creating a kaleidoscopic backdrop to the main event; a half-eaten pizza is
starting to curl around the edges, looking like pantomime shoes and Honey has
long since left the premises. Only Dan remains, packing his newly acquired
equipment into his rucksack with the excitement of a schoolboy embarking on a
camping trip or starting a DIY project. One at a time he ticks each item off,
knowing there’s no room for error; he lost his bottle and fucked it up last
time, he won’t make that mistake again.

He’s made an addition to his checklist and
added a box of sedatives; he told the doctor he was having trouble sleeping 
years ago and has kept the Tamazepan tablets, just in case. Of course he’d
never take them, he’s made of stronger stuff, but they may come in handy if his
little girl plays hard to get.

The drill comes with a selection of drill
bits, making it possible to chew up any kind material and to secure a fixing,
although he suspects the walls of the apartments in Elm Gardens will either be
breeze block or plasterboard. He places the mighty tool carefully into the bag,
ticks it off and moves on.

The heavy chain has links the size of
pound coins, it seems solid enough but, not taking any chances, he’s checking
it for weakness; pulling and tugging at each one, taking the strain, inspecting
the metal for fractures.

The double width, masking tape gets a
cursory glance; he’s used it before, there’s not much can go wrong with that.
Same for the box of latex gloves, size large, a necessary accompaniment but,
not something he intends keeping on. He’s waited long enough to touch her, to
feel her soft skin against his. He throws the box into the rucksack. “Fucked if
I’m doing it with gloves on,” he announces. “You can’t leave fingerprints on
skin.”

He pulls the knife out of its brown,
leather sheath; it’s a Browning Backcountry Hunting Knife almost nine inches in
length, lightweight, easy to handle and very, very sharp. He catches his face
reflected in the stainless steel blade and presents a distorted smile. “Dan,
Dan, the dangerous man,” he chuckles, waving the blade in front of him like a
luminescent sparkler. He balances it across his palm, slips it into the sheath,
then into the waistband of his jeans and pulls his shirt over it. It feels a
little uncomfortable put empowering. With bare knuckles and a blade, he’ll be
invincible.

The folding tripod takes some manoeuvring
to fit inside the carrier and, even after several attempts, it sticks out of
the top, looking like a ‘60’s TV aerial. He isn’t worried, it could be
anything, no-one will suspect its real purpose. He checks the camera is fully
charged and slips it into an inner pocket for safe-keeping. It fits perfectly
onto the tripod. Unable to contain merciless laughter, he gives in to the idea,
“A couple of home movies to add to the family album. Why not?”

Finally, he frees the leash from its
packaging and wraps it around his hand. The strip of leather will serve as a
training tool: absolute submission and obedience are what he expects and that’s
non-negotiable.

With the evening’s entertainment out of
the way, he turns his attention to the TV but, disinterested, returns to the
list, sensing he has forgotten something. It comes to him slowly, taking shape
out of the mists of time. He scuttles off into his bedroom, returns holding
something small and fragile in his right hand. Unhurriedly, his fat fingers
unfold like the petals of a prehistoric plant, revealing a tiny ring. It has
little monetary value but, he suspects it’s the kind of ring only a princess
would wear for sentimental reasons, after all, she put up such a fight to keep
it.

“With this ring, I thee wed …” He loves
the way that sounds. “ … for richer, for poorer, ‘till death us do part …”

The ring nestles into a small zip-up
pocket. He secures the fastening, places the heavy rucksack on the floor and
leans back in his chair feeling proud of himself. Reaching into his jean’s
pocket, he pulls out the receipt for one month’s deposit and one month’s rent
in advance for 53c Elm Gardens. Tucked beneath the folded paper, is a cream
business card:

Miss. Elise Richard

Residential and Commercial Sales/Lettings
Negotiator

Taylor and Main

Tel:
02086114327

He taps the card to his lips. “Why not, nothing
ventured, nothing gained …”

When
I wake, I’m stretched out between Ayden’s
legs on the sofa; we’d fallen asleep and missed the end of Titanic. Trays of
uneaten Chinese food are scattered on the coffee table: there’s still enough
left over to feed an army. I slither off the cushion and begin clearing food
away as silently as possible, leaving Ayden to rest.

Twenty minutes later, the job is done. My
freezer is full and the kitchen is tidy. I select George Michael from my iPod,
Jesus
to a Child
softly plays
.

Carrying what’s left of the Rioja I return
to his side, moving stealthily to sit on the sofa in the curve created by his
body as he rests, side-on. The music is a gentle lullaby and the words resonate
and create the perfect backdrop for my moment of veneration: and why not, he
has the face of a prince – my prince? In his repose, he is at peace with the
world, serene and untroubled by dark memories. What a rare treat this is to see
him in this unconscious state. I lean over him, resting my weight on my elbow
and brush back the hair from his forehead, taking a mental picture. This is the
man I love, this is the man I’ve been waiting for: he’s found me at long last.

I brush my lips against his. “Awake my
beautiful prince, awake.”

He stirs, scratches his head and swings
his legs into a sitting position, unaware of my secret proclamation. “Hey, I
must have fallen asleep. How long was I out?”

I hand him his glass of wine. “A couple of
hours. I’ve only just woken. You missed the end of the film.”

He offers a phoney sigh. “Oh no! At least
I got to see your Titanic moment.” He holds his glass up to mine.

“Our Titanic moment.”

“I stand corrected.” He’s still sleepy:
his hair is ruffled and he looks a little dishevelled but still a wondrous
sight: a gift from above.

I ask tentatively, “Are you planning to
stay over?” I don’t want to make any assumptions.

“If you want me to.” He seems a little
surprised I even ask the question.

I nod.

“Then I will, besides, I have plans.” He’s
found his second wind; his libido is fuelled by something inflammable. Is he
concocting some kind of sexual assignation?

I do hope so …

“That sounds like fun.” I smile cheekily.
“But before you put your plan into action can I ask you something?” I’m afraid
I might have handed him a fire blanket but there are things I need to know,
things he’s said and done that are floating around in my head like flotsam.

“Fire away.” He sits back and folds his
arms, preparing for an inquisition.

I put down my glass of wine on the coffee
table. “It’s about before, you know, when we were fooling around.”

He nods and I see his mouth twitch; he
manages to stifles a full smile.

“Well, actually I have two questions.”

“Two?” He looks faintly amused. “Ok, but
before we start what’s my motivation?”

Oh, I hate it when he plays this game.

“What motivation do you need to answer a
couple of questions?” I give him a baffled stare.

“Buttons.”

“What?”

“Two questions, two buttons.” He holds his
forefinger to his chin as if contemplating his words and then points to my
shirt. “That’s my best offer.”

“Oh please, you’re like an adolescent
boy!” I undo the top button of my shirt revealing the top of my white lacy bra.
“Now will you stop negotiating and just listen?”

 He nods acceptance “I’m all ears.”

“Before, you seemed to know what you were
doing when you were ... you know...”

“Getting you off.”

“Yes that. When I Googled you and selected
images, there were hundreds of pictures of you with beautiful women. I just
wondered ...”

“… You wondered if I’d fucked them all?”

 I nod and concoct a half smile. He knew
this conversation was brewing.

He lifts his chin and begins. “Just for
you, I’ll explain: in my position, I’m invited to at least three functions a
week: Award Ceremonies, Movie Premiers, Book launches, Charity functions and so
on. To keep up appearances, I have a list of people - women - who I get my
secretary to call, so they can accompany me to these events. I buy the dress,
we smile for the cameras and Lester takes them home.”

“And that’s it, with every one?”

He interjects. “I didn’t say that, not ...
every
one. I’m not made of stone.” He smiles at his own attempt at a joke
but, for some reason, I don’t find it amusing.

“So you’ve slept with ...”

“Slept with, no - fucked yes, there’s a
difference.”

I feel myself becoming agitated. Have I
opened an exploding can of worms? “So, you’ve fucked how many?”

“I don’t know. I don’t keep score.” He
starts to laugh but I’m not sure it’s appropriate.

“More than 20.”

He nods yes.

“Less than 100?” Does he actually have to
think about the question?

“Less than 100.” He is primed and waiting
for my next question. He knows what I’m getting at but he’s making me work for
it.

“Fifty?”

“Look Beth, I don’t know. Does it matter?”
He’s becoming a little defensive.

“It matters to me.” I assert with too much
humility.

“Why?”

“Because ...”

He waits for the rest of the sentence. 
“Because ...”

“Just because.”

“That’s not a reason Beth, besides, I
could ask you the same thing.”

At that precise moment, I feel the room
folding inwards. I should have got out before he turned the question on me. I
look down at my hands before taking a sip of wine.

“How many guys have charmed their way into
your panties, missy?”

I don’t like where this is going. I won’t
look at him.

“More than ten?”

I shake my head:  no.

“Eight … six … four?”

I can stand it no longer. “What is this? A
bloody rocket launch?”

He laughs, but soon that happy face is
replaced by a serious frown. He takes me by the shoulders and lowers me back so
he is lying on top of me on the sofa. He has me pinned with no means of escape.
“You started this Beth. You’re asking me some really personal questions here.”
He brushes my cheek with his thumb. “Two?”

“No.”

He withdraws and supports his body weight
with his hands. “Don’t tell me you were a virgin, not after this morning.” He
looks horrified.

I try to sit up. “No, I’m not, I wasn’t a
virgin, not really.”

He’s astounded. “Not
really
...
what does that mean?”

I’m blushing. “I’ve been with someone, of
course I have but ...”

“Yes ...”

“But not properly, not like this morning.”

He rocks back and his right hand reaches
for his neck. “Fuck!”

He’s finding this so difficult to accept,
why didn’t I keep my big mouth shut? “Please don’t do the neck thing.” I reach
out my hand to touch him.

“The what?” He has no idea what I’m
talking about.

“You always rub your neck when you’re
anxious or stressed about something.”

“And why would I feel anxious or
stressed?” Sarcasm oozes from his lips like butter melting on a crumpet. “I
could have hurt you Beth, I mean really hurt you.”

“But you didn’t Ayden, you didn’t. I
enjoyed it. Shit! I want you to do it again.” The words ricochet out of my
mouth, but he’s not listening.

“Thank God I held back.”

I cannot hide my surprise. “You held back!”

Christ! That’s holding back!

“I didn’t want to, but you were so fucking
tight, I got scared that I might tear you. I felt like I was breaking you in.”

I launch an indignant look in his
direction. “That’s not very nice.”

“You know what I mean? Christ Beth, you’ve
got to be straight with me. If something isn’t right tell me.” He lifts up my
chin and plants a tender kiss on my lips. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know. I’ll tell you if something’s
bothering me.” I pull his face to me and take his tongue in my mouth, briefly.
He’s eager to continue but I push him off. “That leads me to my second
question.”

“Buttons.”

I reach down and undo another button so
that my push up bra is clearly visible. “Have you any idea how ridiculous you
sound, trading answers for buttons, Ayden?” I raise my voice. “Ayden! Eyes, up
here.”

He takes one last look at my heaving
breasts and returns his attention to my face.

Oh dear!

Those wicked, dark pool of desire betray
his every thought. We share a straight smile which stretches the width of our
faces. He leans right, folds his elbow and rests his head on his upturned palm.
I take a lingering look at him.

My God you are exquisite.

Momentarily, I lose track and the question
goes out of my head. He’s doing it on purpose. He needs reprimanding. “Stop
trying to distract me, don’t look at me like that.” I shake my head to ease the
fog and clear my throat. “I got a little scared when you said you were going to
stretch me, is that because I was so tight?”

He rubs our noses. “I didn’t mean to scare
you, but I could tell you were inexperienced this morning so I wanted you to
get used to feeling me, that’s all.” He laughs quietly. “If I’m honest, it’s a
massive turn-on. I mean, every guy wants to think they are the first to bust
their girl’s cherry: it’s a guy thing.”

I dismiss it as a nonsensical idea. “I
thought that was an urban myth?”

“It ain’t baby. Us guys still think with
our dicks most of the time. Can’t you tell?” He leans into me with an imminent
erection. He starts to laugh and it’s a rude kind of giggle that has me heating
up all over.

He sees my brain working. “Tick, tock,
tick, tock. What now?”

“Back to my first question.”

“Buttons.” He leans back anticipating a
full strip-tease.

“No, it’s the same question and therefore
doesn’t constitute the undoing of any more buttons.” I slap his hand. “What did
you mean when you said you’d just fucked, what about foreplay? So many women; so
many bodies to practise on.”

“I don’t know why you do this to yourself
Beth.” He manoeuvres me so he can lay me flat; he sits at my side, as if he’s
perched on a hospital bed. With his right hand he’s stroking my hair like I’m
some kind of treasured possession.

“Outside these four walls, I’m a different
person. I have ...” He rethinks his words and alters the tense. “I
had
no other reason to exist other than to make money. I employ around four
thousand people worldwide and that’s a massive responsibility. I get up, I get
dressed, I work. I come home I get dressed and, when the mood takes me, I get
laid. And that’s it. It’s old news Beth, I’ve fucked beautiful woman who have
been only too pleased to be fucked by me. I’ve not had much occasion to indulge
in foreplay. I haven’t needed to.” He faces me squarely, assuming he’s drawing
a line under the matter.

“Then how come you’re so good at it?” I
venture to ask.

“I can read. And I can watch.”

“Oh!”

“Oh. That’s it? Oh?” He kisses my forehead
and grins. “You make me smile, Beth Parker. You really want the truth?”

“Yes, of course.”

Here it comes…

“I’ve not met anyone as …” I wait with
baited breath. “As inexperienced as you. I want to be the one to introduce you
to a more erotic, sexy kind of relationship. Besides, just the thought of you
gets me in the mood for sex.”

“Really?”
Wow!

“Really.” He tips up his chin, pondering
what my next question will be.

A tiny shiver of satisfaction ripples
through my body; how is it possible I have this effect on him? Just the thought
of me?

 I accept the accolade with modesty and
prepare to launch an offensive strike. “Have you been in love with any of them;
the women you’ve fucked?” I ask timidly.

He nods no. Takes hold of my hand and
languidly sucks on each finger, beginning at the smallest. Just watching is
causing me to tingle all over.

“Look. I’m not sure what’s going on
between us. I don’t have all the answers.” He sandwiches my hand between his
until it becomes an invisible slice of something hot and moist. “All I know is
that it’s not about who’s done what, how often and with whom. It’s about being
connected and, I think, it’s blatantly obvious that we are. Don’t you?”

I give him a wide eyed stare and nod in
agreement.

He kisses me softly. “So, stop looking for
hurdles to climb over. There are none. I’m not making comparisons. I have no
benchmark for this, for us …”