Page 4 of Their Cruel Love

Marcus: I know ‘her’. Fuck. I’ll be there. Where?

Razor: An old place. Not myusual.

Marcus

I sprawl in the black armchair and almost fall out when it rocks. I lean over the side to discover it’s tilting low, almost to the scratched timber floor, due to a leg being loose. The one window hasn’t been cleaned this century, and leaves are stuck to the exterior. The fireplace contains whatappears to be part of a bird nest, and everything in this study lies beneath a quarter-inch of dust.

“I see you’ve cleaned up for my visit.” I run a hand through my short hair, judging by the flick that I need a haircut.

Razor drops a briefcase to the square desk that lurks beside the window. A raven sculpture lies on its side on top of the desk, and Razor rights it then sits on the desk edge. “I haven’t been here for a year. Bought it as an investment, had a couple of parties here. It’s good for horror roleplays at night. But we’re here because I didn’t want the complication of this girl of yours seeing my main residence.”

“Girl? One of mine?” I’m trying to decide who this could be.

It never fails to amuse me, hearing Razor talk. The smooth accent is a stark contrast to his tattooed neck and some dark make-up leftovers around his eyes. His chest is also tattooed, though it’s never going to be seen at a board meeting of his biotech company. Neither are his pierced nipples. Or his greedy use of subs for all manner of perfectly filthy deeds.

I haven’t seen him for seven or eight months, but he seems the same, maybe a little more brittle, if that’s the right word. A little harder around the eyes.

“Here. Real paper copies for you.” From the briefcase he pulls a clipped-shut plastic folder.

I rise to take it, but he tips the contents onto the desk.

Photos spill, showing a woman descending some steps. Her brunette hair curls slightly and toys with her shoulders when she turns her head. Age: twenty-seven years. No siblings. I know this without reading anything in his file.

I know her back-to-front and sideways, can recall the smell of her hair and the feel of her body moving against mine, thenight we danced in her parents’ apartment. The scent of a slightly perspiring female. A girl who wanted me inside her.

Until everything came unstuck.

Phoebe Bartholemew. I haven’t seen her for years, but my brain trots out all the facts.

I remember her throat humming with a sub-vocal moan as I bit the side of her neck. That she is coming here, for reasons to do with CNC…my cock hardens at the thought of touching her again, of grinding her into the dirt while she whimpers and begs me to stop.

“Fuck,” I mutter, poking at the papers and photos with my forefinger, shifting them as if by doing so I can get this problem to fix itself.

“I was right then?” He inclines his head, questioning without pushing. “My enquiries through my investigator came up with an old family rivalry between yours and hers. And that maybe you were an item in high school.”

“Yeah. After graduation, mostly.” I rub my chin, and the bristles scratch my fingers while a buried memory surfaces. “You have a good investigator. We were until we weren’t. Her step-brother died. It was ruled an accident, but her stepmother, Emma Bartholemew, called foul. She thought I’d pushed him off the balcony.”

I’d never confessed to it, and the reason for his fall had never been publicized. The police were not told. There was no video footage, but Phoebe knew what happened. From what happened afterward, she had spun some awful tale to her parents.

I shake my head. I’m not airing this now. “There is bad blood between us.”

“As I thought.” Razor shuffles the papers back into the file. “Sir Greg said she might contact me, and so I had her vetted.Her friend, Milli Derringer, came to see me a month ago, also through Sir Greg.”

“Is that why she’s here?”

“So he tells it. She thinks her friend is missing because of us, but the police dismissed her theory, and I only saw the woman at one party.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls through to an image, shows me. “Her.”

“The model who was curious about kink. Very sexy. Naïve. Just the way some of us like them. If she is actually missing, did one of us snatch her up?” This might be a security matter.

“Your call. We let this Phoebe talk then send her away and then you can see if there’s anything to her missing friend query?”

I remain silent. Send Phoebe Bartholomew away. It would be wisest.

“I can see it in your grim expression. The bad blood. No need to say why.” He flashes a smile then stands. In those designer jeans, chalk-white shirt, with those boots, he’d fit right in with a crowd of investors in his field. In mine, they lean more toward the older gen, Boomers through to Gen X, with a scattering of the younger. “It was odd from the start. She’s obviously not really interested in CNC. I’ll send her away. Do you want her to know we know who she is?”

“No. Don’t. To both. I am curious. I’ll sit in on this, and you can call me an adjudicator. It sounds official. We can always end this if or when we change our minds. Pretend she’s not known to us.”

His smile returns, slowly, then a hint of teeth. “You want to fuck with her. She will recognize you. We have thirty minutes to find a way to disguise you, unless you want me to cut you a peephole in the wall?”

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