Page 59 of Knights Game

Stepping under the jets, the hot water bites into my back, feeling like a thousand bee stings, and I take a minute to breathe through the pain. I can’t control this situation, but I can control the heat.

Once it’s unbearable, I turn it down.

Imports and exports … It’s drugs or guns. Or, oh my God, what if he’s a human trafficker. I lather up and scrub my hair with his shampoo, smelling of sandalwood.

What if it’s not drugs and guns but instead, children? I watched a programme the other day about stealing and selling children…. What if that’s what he imports and exports?

A wave of nausea runs through me, and I silently hope it’s drugs.

I wipe at the condensation on the mirror and lean forward inspecting the marks on my skin, tender and red. I turn my head and see where his fingers dug in, the unmistakable marks of his fingertips.

Fuck.

I take two painkillers and I look at my reflection, pale and feral. I think that’s the perfect way to describe me. My hair is a bedraggled mess, my blue eyes are bleary but wide, and I genuinely look like I’m about ready to have some sort of breakdown.

The coffee in my stomach makes me nauseous and I dart to the toilet, throwing up the lid in the nick of time as I heave, the bile and vomit burning the back of my already destroyed neck and throat.

My hands shake, and I’m overwhelmed by everything I’m feeling. I’m on an emotional rollercoaster and I want to get the fuck off.

But do I?

I pull on the clothes he left out for me, which of course all fit perfectly. The black roll neck hiding any evidence of last night’s shower incident. That’s what I’ll call it. An incident.

A lapse in judgement.

Let’s park the fact that he gave me the most intense orgasm of my life. Followed by two more in the shower.

I pull myself together and join him.

We ride down in the lift in silence, I’ve got my clutch in my hand, my phone dead. I’ve no idea where my clothes are. But I do wonder whether he still has my underwear in his pocket, the sick fucker has had his hand buried there since we stepped into the lift and started our descent.

“What, no driver today?” I ask as he presses a key fob and the lights to a Range Rover bleep in the underground car park.

“Not for today.” He throws a look at me, his lips in a grimace.

“You know you’re the one that’s making me come with you, if you hate me being here, I can just go home.”

He doesn’t answer.

“I’d give you my address, but you don’t need it.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that sarcasm is the lowest form of humour, sunshine.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a fucking lunatic.”

“I’ve got some business to take care of at the docks.”

“Ah yes, ‘business’.”

It’s 8 a.m. on a Saturday. London won’t be its usual chaos, but it will still be busy.

I’ve had about 3 hours of sleep and I feel like a walking zombie. He opens the car door, and I climb in. “How are you functioning?”

“I dozed.” He shuts my door and walks round the front of the car and climbs in. The seats are leather, and there’s a huge armrest that merges into the centre console putting some much-needed distance between us. I suppose that is the only conversation or acknowledgment I’m going to get about what happened last night.

“You’re coming with me to a gala dinner tonight, it will be our first opportunity to showcase our newfound love.”

“So romantic,” I reply, leaning forward and tapping the display.

---