Page 31 of Kept 2
“What? And you just decided then and there to open a vein for him?”
“It’s not like that,” she laughs gently, “he bites me when we make love, and Josie it’s…” she pauses, “wonderful.”
“Ugh! You are a walking blood bag, nothing more,” I snarl, sick of her stupidity and refusal to see the truth.
“Just come and join us, you will see,” she changes tack, “this life is great. Jerry will protect you, he told me so. Nicholas doesn’t even want to kill you anymore – Jerry said so.”
“Nicholas? You are on first name terms now with the serial killer hunting me?”
“Josie, please, be reasonable. You can’t live your life on the run. He will find you sooner or later – let Jerry protect you.”
“No.”
I hang up and put a block on her phone. If you can’t trust your best friend not to betray you and side with the devil, who the fuck can you trust?
I’m close to tears as I enter the small taverna and walk through the back to the kitchen where Ricardo is prepping the vegetables for the evening meals.
“You took too long,” he shakes his head at me, “were you feeding all the seaside cats again?”
I sniff and turn my back to him, place the fish basket on the bench, and peruse the menu. I don’t want him to see I am upset. That will lead to questions which will lead to discussing my past – something I had steadfastly refused to do since I started working here as a kitchenhand a month ago.
“No, I received a phone call. I’m sorry. We are focussing on fish and chicken tonight?”
“Yes,” he nods, “here, you take over the vegetable prep while I prepare the marinade for the chicken.”
I turn and take the knife from his hand, my own lingering upon his for the shortest of time, but long enough, as smiles and sweeps me into his arms, kissing me passionately.
“Ah, I cannot get enough of your body,” he groans into my neck as I press myself hard against him, “I want to take you right here, right now.”
I smile.
“You need to prepare the chicken.”
“Ah yes, but the techniques that are applicable to the breast,” he squeezes mine gently, “are not the same as those applicable to the leg and thigh,” he moves his hand lower and runs it up the inside of my thigh until it can go no higher.
“I’m learning from a master,” I snort, pushing him away with a laugh.
“Such a tease,” he chuckles, turning to the meat and beginning to work his magic.
I finish the vegetables quickly, my knife skills are precise and fast, and turn to watch him work.
He is a handsome man, dark-haired, caramel-skinned and muscular. He has a reputation with the ladies, apparently, a reputation I had succumbed to soon after meeting him, and quite eagerly. He had stamina, experience, and a down to earth way of looking at life, all of which I appreciated very much. And I wanted a little warmth, the facsimile of love that can be experienced during the sexual act, if even for a few hours a night – I craved it. The fact that he shared his bed with several dark-eyed local beauties was of no concern to me, and I’m sure that was one of the things he most appreciated about me – that and my work ethic. Since I’d moved into his house, ostensibly renting the top room of his three-storey villa, but actually moving into his bed, he had never brought another woman home. I know he still dates though, just elsewhere as a consideration, I’m sure, to my feelings, although I’ve never given him any reason to think I consider him more than he is, a boss with benefits.
“Cara mia,” he smirks, noticing I am watching his biceps as he pounds the chicken breast, wrapped in sheets of cling wrap to ensure none of the flesh or blood splatters us. “If you keep looking at me like that, I will have to take you into the cool-room – and you know what that will mean.”
I feel my breath hitch and give him a cheeky smirk. Perhaps that is just what I need to take my mind off the fact that my friend is living her life as a takeaway.
“Is it hot in here?” I unbutton my shirt slightly, “or is it just me?”
He sighs, washes his hands, and spins me around, pushing me towards the cool-room.
The door slams behind us and my giggles echo around the small, dark room as he raises my skirt and falls to his knees before me.
Swept away by his experienced technique, I ignore the pig carcasses hanging at the rear of the room, swaying slightly with the force of the cold air blasting from the fans, their throats cut, eyes dull and mouths open, as though still emitting their last, silent scream. Instead, I focus on the man before me. I’m thinking, before waves of pleasure steal my rational thoughts, that I really must phone Daniel and thank him for introducing me to this remarkable chef.
But all thoughts soon disappear as Ricardo rises and, lifting my hips, enters me, pushing deep as I grip his broad shoulders. The containers on the shelves behind us rattle and bang with the force of his thrusts, and I close my eyes against the corpses as they sway in silent admonition.
The small blonde woman with the large breasts smiles as I serve her a dish of linguine alle vongole, a pasta made from clams and amontillado sherry.
