Dirty Aristocrat(60)

'No police. But yes, warn Brianna.'

She comes to sit beside me, her forehead creased with concern. 'Why no police, Jewel?'

'I've got history. Minor things, but I can't go to the police.'

'OK. No problems. No police.'

'Thanks, Mel.'

Literally a minute after Melanie ends her call, my mobile goes.

'Jake,' I say, with a frown.

'Wow! Brianna was fast,' Melanie comments.

'Are you all right?' Jake barks urgently into my ear.

'Yeah, minor bruises.'

'Are you sure it was him?'

'Yeah, I got a good look at him.'

'Right. I'll be there soon. I got something to take care of first. And, Lily … '

'Yeah?'

'Don't go anywhere until I get there, OK?'

'OK.'





FIFTEEN



Jake

I ring on the little cunt's bell and wait, nausea clawing at my guts. He put his filthy hands on my woman.

His disembodied voice comes through the intercom. 'Yeah?'         

     



 

'You hurt one of my employees this evening. I'd like to come up and talk  to you about it. Discuss some compensation.' Jesus, I sound calm.

'What? You've got the wrong guy, mate. I've been in all day.' He does offended and indignant very well.

'Or if you prefer I can go to the police and let them sort it out. You decide.' I do rational and threatening very well.

For a moment there is silence and I think the coward is going to take  his chances with the police, but then the buzzer sounds. First mistake,  Motherfucker. I push open the door and run up two flights of stairs to  his door. I lean the baseball bat against the wall next to his door,  ring his bell, and affect a relaxed pose. He looks at me through the spy  hole, then takes his time about opening the door. But he does.

'I'm telling you, you've got the wrong guy,' he says strongly.

I shove him hard and he flies backwards and lands sprawled in his  corridor. His eyes widen with terror as he sees me casually retrieve the  baseball bat from its place. I come in and kick the door closed. Shame.  He has cream carpets.

He starts moving backwards. 'It wasn't me. You're making a big mistake,' he whimpers like a fucking pussy.

I throw him a ball gag. He doesn't catch it. It bounces off his body and falls on the floor. 'Put it on.'

'I'm not going to put it on. I'm innocent. I want the police here. Now.' His voice trembles with fear.

I lift the baseball bat and strike him in the gut. He doubles over in  agony, staggers back two steps and drops to his knees clutching his  stomach. Then he starts blubbering like a fucking two-year-old brat!

'Not so big and strong now, eh?'

'You got the wrong guy,' he sobs.

'Yeah? Put the gag on or I'll crush your skull with one blow. A beating or a quick death. Choose.'

He is struggling to breathe through the pain. He takes wet-sounding  breaths. The ones people take when they are dying. It sounds like a  rattle. But he is not dying. Not by a long shot. Oh no. Death would be  too easy. I watch him put the gag on with shaking hands. Cowards never  fail to fascinate me. Fucking idiot! Why would you put something on that  is meant to silence you?

A savage growl tears from my throat. The rage in the sound surprises me.  I thought I was through with all that years ago. I haven't swung a  baseball bat in ten years and yet here I am. For her.

Using my foot I push him to the floor.

Then I lift the bat high over my head and bring it crashing down on his  kneecap. The shocking pain makes his eyes bulge and roll upwards. I  think he might pass out, but fortunately he doesn't. Cold sweat pours  out of his skin as his hands rush to hold the smashed bone. I pick up  the bat and shatter the other kneecap. He spasms with shock.

After that I rain his body with blows. Each one precise and destined not  to kill but to maim permanently. Finally I am done. I stand over him.  He is lying on his side: alive, but only just. His breathing is shallow  and his eyes are half-closed. I use the tip of my shoe to tip his inert  body on his back. A groan escapes his bleeding mouth. Two of his teeth  are lying on the carpet.

'This is just a little warning. Open your fucking mouth and heavy comes next,' I say mildly.

I take a handkerchief from my pocket and wipe his blood off the bat. How  strange! So many years since I did something like this and I still  carry a pristine white handkerchief on my person and a baseball bat in  the boot of my car.

Calmly, I walk out of his flat. There is a phone box around the corner. I  get into it and call nine-nine-nine. I change my accent to a Cockney  one and tell them a man is dying in his flat.

'Looks like he's been beaten bad. Get an ambulance, man.'

I ring off and look at my hands. Dead steady. I feel ice cold. I get into my car and drive to Lily's apartment.

Melanie opens the door.

I go through and come to a dead stop. My hands start shaking. Tears  sting my eyes. Shit. I haven't cried since I was fifteen years old, when  I saw my father fall down dead at my feet.

Hell! This hurts so bad I want to bellow.

She stops too and we stare at each other. Both shocked. Her by my  reaction, me by her appearance. Minor bruises! Fucking hell. Her face is  so swollen and blue-black I can hardly recognize her. Then I start  advancing on her. My gait is that of an angry bear. I want to be normal  but I can't be. The raw fury simmering inside me is making me shake.

I reach her and she touches the blood splatters on my clothes. Then she  looks up into my eyes-hers are huge pools of fear. I see her eyes  change, widen. I am alien to her. In her nice candy-floss world what I  did to her attacker is wrong. 'What have you done?'         

     



 

'Gangster rules,' I say harshly.

'Is he dead?'

'No, but he's wishing he was.' Tears are slipping down my face. I just can't help it. My mate has been badly injured.

'What is it?' she whispers.

'You need to go to a hospital.'

She shakes her head. 'I'm fine. It looks worse than it is.'

I have never experienced this fierce need to protect before. Ever. The  way I feel shocks me to the core. This is not me. I'm tough. I'm in and  I'm out. I don't trust anyone. In this business you can't. A king is  never killed by his enemy but by his courtiers. They are the only ones  who can get close enough to poison the wine, stick the blade in. I'm not  saying, 'Et tu, Brutus,' to anyone. The easy way-never let anyone get  close.

Except her.

She opens her arms. Her lower face is too swollen for her to smile but I  see it in her eyes, a smile of comfort as it is I who have been  attacked and am in pain. The tears fall faster as I catch her to my body  and hold her tight. She's still here. She's still mine. I squeeze my  eyes shut. And then I lift her into my arms.

'I can walk,' she whispers.

But I don't put her down. I turn around with her in my arms and Melanie  wordlessly opens the front door. I walk out with my baby in my arms.

I could have lost her. But I didn't. Never again will I be so careless with her.



I put her on my bed and she looks up at me drowsily. The stress has worn  her out. She looks so small and defenseless in my bed. Her fingers are  curled into a light fist. I circle the wrist, shocked at the fragility  of the bones in her hand. Gently I rub my thumb along the pulse leaping  on the pale underside of it. Her vulnerability terrifies me. Scares me.  Makes me feel weak.

'Sleepy?'

'Hmmm … ' she hums.

I sense her slipping away, drifting into dreamscapes where I will not  be. I pull her closer toward me. When she is awake there is always a  part of her that remains aloof and watching. She is like a forest. Deep  and dark. You can lie or howl in it. She murmurs something that I don't  catch, and snuggles in, accidentally scrapes her face against my  forearm, and winces.

My breath catches. I can't bear to watch her in pain.

She is wearing cotton pajamas. An erotic seduction it is not. It is so  demure it makes her seem a child. I guess this must be what fathers feel  when they watch their daughters sleep-absurdly protective. The collar  of her top shifts and my heart fucking stops. I stare in horror at her  neck.

Fucking bastard bit her.

Bit her so fucking hard he broke her skin. That piece of shit marked my  woman! I ease myself out of the bed carefully and pad into the living  room. The rage is nauseating and gut-churning. It is so all encompassing  I can't even think straight. I want to go back to his fucking poky  little flat and finish the job, but he won't be there. He'll be behind  glass in Intensive Care by now. I go to the bar and pour myself a large  measure of Jack Daniel's. I drain it in one swallow and slam the glass  on the bar surface, so hard the noise reverberates like a gunshot. I  press my palms to my temples.

'Stop. Just stop,' I tell myself.

But the desire to go out and bash his sick head in is so strong I have  to physically fight myself. I stride out to the balcony. It could rain  anytime. I throw my head back and take large gulps of air. I feel like a  volcano about to erupt. I would have loved to go out running. A couple  of miles and some of this pent-up energy would've been gone, but I can't  leave her alone.

'He's not worth going to prison for. I have already broken his legs and  hands in at least a few places and smashed his kneecaps. Not to mention  the shitbag's ribs and jaw.'