Dom and another man are beside me. ‘We got to go,’ Dom says.
‘Wait.’
I turn my head and Pilkington’s heavies are trying to help him up. I grab his upper arm. Pain shoots through my ribs. His mouth spills a long cable of saliva, his face is split and bruised, his hair and clothing are slathered in blood, grease and mud. He looks like a wild man. We both look like wild men, blindsided by lightning.
‘It’s over between us,’ I squeeze forcefully, and he just looks at me. His eyes are no longer electric, replaced by the aftermath mellowness of a punishing battle.
‘I respect you, Jake Eden,’ he says, and a spray of blood hits my face. ‘You have fucking balls. You met me head on. Your family and mine are tight now. You won’t have any trouble from the Pilkingtons.’
I stick out my bleeding hand. He takes it. Like a man.
‘You’re one tough fuck, Billy Joe Pilkington, and I wouldn’t want to do that again.’ He breaks into painful laughter that makes him wince. A mutual rush of respect flows through me.
In typically modest fashion he says, ‘You’re the greatest fighter of all time… Next to me.’
I grin.
I hear the sirens now. His men slide their hands under his armpits and help him away.
In a daze, I hear a woman’s voice calling me frantically. Ah, Lily.
And then I see her face. God! She looks like a fucking angel.
SIXTEEN
Lily
‘Oh, my God, Jake! You’re covered in blood,’ I scream, falling to the ground next to him. I cannot believe the state he is in.
‘Have you seen the other guy?’ he jokes, blood dribbling out of his mouth.
I stare at him in horror.
‘Come on,’ Dom shouts urgently. ‘We better get the fuck out of here. In a few minutes the pigs will be swarming all over this place.’
‘Shane’s waiting in the front with the engine running,’ I say automatically, remembering what Shane had told me. The sirens sound a whole lot closer. ‘Come on,’ I say, my voice high and shrill. ‘We have to hurry.’
Pilkington’s men rush forward to grab an arm each. By a weird chance my gaze collides with one of his helpers and the man’s eyes register recognition before he moves his eyes swiftly away. But I have never seen him in my life. Then they are making for the exit and I turn my attention back to Jake, with all my thoughts back to the worry of getting Jake into Shane’s car before the police arrive.
Dom and another guy support Jake. It is shocking that in his state he can still walk. I run ahead to open the back door of the car. Jake is put in, Dom and the guy run off, and Shane takes off. The sirens are deafening now, but the coppers are about to find that they’re too late again. It is shocking how quickly all the cars have sped away.
I turn to look at Jake.
‘Oh my, Jake. Look at you,’ I whisper.
‘Most of this blood is not mine,’ he lies.
‘We’re going to see a doctor, right?’
‘Nope. A doctor is coming to see us.’
I lean back and close my eyes. I feel shocked and shaken.
‘Hey,’ he says.
I turn my head.
‘The feud is over.’
I nod sadly. The price seems too high to me. ‘Are you in agony?’
‘No, I’m still buzzing.’
‘Buzzing?’
‘Yup. Buzzing. It’s up there with sex.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘Maybe not,’ he grins, then winces with pain.
I look at him worriedly and he touches my face gently. And for some crazy reason tears start slipping from my eyes.
‘Don’t, Lily. Don’t. Everything is just the way it should be.’
‘It’s just the shock,’ I sniff. Even I don’t know why I am crying. It seems so silly, but I feel unbelievably choked up and shaken.
We hurtle through country lanes, with Jake wincing now and again.
The doctor comes and to my horror tells us that Jake has fractured ribs. He prescribes a course of anti-inflammatory meds and painkillers. I set up an ice bath and Jake gingerly lowers himself into it. The buzz of adrenalin has worn off and the damaged ribs make even talking an incredibly painful thing. He lies in the ice bath for about an hour. I can see huge purple bruises and bumps coming up on his legs, his midsection and his face.
‘How do you feel?’ I ask, coming to sit on the toilet seat.
‘Like hell. Even breathing makes me feel miserable. And I’ve got a splitting headache.’
When he gets out of his ice bath, he is shivering and I gently help him to bed and cover him with a blanket. Then I wrap his hands with gauze bandages—the skin over the knuckles is all broken and raw.
‘Why don’t you have a little nap?’ I say.
He sighs. ‘I’d like to have sex.’
I look at him in astonishment. ‘How?’
‘I could if you did all the work.’
I shake my head in wonder. He can’t even breathe without pain and he wants to have sex. Incredible!
‘Will you?’ he cajoles.
‘No. Look at the state of you. Your face looks like a damn balloon. And you can’t even breathe properly. I’m not going to have sex with you. What if I cause you even more injuries?’
‘We haven’t had sex in three days,’ he says sulkily.
‘And whose fault is that? Who had to conserve energy to prepare for his big fight?’
‘How about a blow job?’
‘You’re mad.’
‘I thought you liked a swollen cock.’
I grin. ‘I’m not doing it.’
‘Right then, just open your legs and let me see your pussy.’
I blush.
‘Right, at least just talk dirty to me.’
‘Stop it, Jake. I’m not doing anything like that. You’re supposed to be resting.’
‘Go on. I just want to see my cock in your pretty mouth.’
I lift the duvet and fucking hell he is as hard as a piece of wood. I lay the duvet back on his body.
‘Spoilsport,’ he grumbles.
I grin.
‘By the way, we have to go see my mother in a few days’ time. She wants to meet you.’
‘Wake up, Lily. Wake up.’ Jake’s voice startles me awake. Disorientated, there is still a great rage left over from my dream. I turn to look at him in the light from his bedside table. He is too stiff and in pain to move too much and is lying on his back looking at me with worried eyes.
He reaches out and pulls me gently backwards onto the pillow. ‘You were shouting.’
My skin is damp with sweat. I inhale deeply. ‘Can’t you sleep?’
‘It hurts to sleep.’ His voice is dry.
I rise up on one elbow. ‘Is the pain really bad?’
‘I’ll live. Are you all right, Lil?’
I take a deep, calming breath. ‘It was nothing. Just a nightmare.’
‘What was it about?’
The hole that cannot be filled yawns. I can’t tell him about Luke. There is only one way I know to distract him. I give a tiny laugh. ‘Do you still want to have sex?’
For a second he seems confused, and then I see that familiar gleam of sexual arousal flickering in the depths of his eyes. ‘What do you think?’
I lift the duvet off our bodies and then I place both my palms on either side of him, very, very gently lowering myself onto his erect cock, sighing with pleasure as that big cock invades, stretches and fills me.
‘God! I’ve missed your tight pussy,’ he groans.
Carefully, so my body never touches anything but his cock, I clench and tighten my muscles around him and drag myself up and down that deliciously thick shaft. The nightmare falls away in pieces like leaves in autumn and makes me forget the tide of emotion that was aching to come out.
I whimper with pure pleasure and feel him get harder and bigger deep inside me. I know he will soon be at the point of no return. I feel his fingers move and locate my moist, swollen clit straining and protruding from its hood.
As his seed rushes upwards through his shaft he firmly grasps the tight bud between his fingers and squeezes it hard. The sudden furious sensation is so different from my gentle manipulations that it triggers my climax. I try not to buck too violently as the blissful spasms of my orgasm shake me from head to foot, but with his own climax upon him he instinctively forces more of his shaft into me, causing my buttocks to land on his thighs.
His groan is one of explosive ecstasy tempered by pain. For some time I hold him trapped within my body until our bodies are finally quiet. I remember once reading that the heart is like a tendril—it cannot flourish alone. It will always lean toward the nearest and loveliest thing it can twine itself with and cling to it. When I try to gently lift my body away he makes a sound of protest.
‘What is it?’ I whisper, thinking I have hurt him.
‘I am so…’ He hesitates. ‘Proud of you.’
SEVENTEEN
A week after the fight, when only yellow bruises and unhealed ribs remain, we go to Jake’s mother’s house for lunch. She lives in a cottage with a charming English garden. English gardens are always best in spring but hers still looks good. There are hanging baskets of purple petunias by her front door. The door opens before we can knock and a surprisingly small woman, perhaps five feet three inches, with extraordinarily bright green eyes, smiles at us.
She kisses her son warmly on both his cheeks and formally extends her hand toward me. I am relieved by this show of formality. Her hands are small but strong—a gardener’s hands. Jake introduces us.