TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) (9 page)

come into contact with muscle and bone yet, in typical Rizler style, he brazens it out. He’s wiggling

his fingers, testing their flexibility, making a fist. “No pain, no gain,” he whispers into the early

evening air.

He’s standing on a stained and dirty island of flattened carpet, facing his cork board; before his

eyes his girl walks and talks and smiles, unaware of his prying eyes upon her. She had no idea then

and she has no idea now, but that’s about to change.

One by one he pulls out the coloured pins and places each faded photograph on the kitchen table.

What remains is a patchwork arrangement of squares, a checkerboard of used and unused space. The

dusty, coloured tinsel moults and faded strands of gilded threads flutter downwards, and settle on his

shoes like alien snowflakes. Only one picture remains, the most intimate of them all: the picture of her

sleeping. Soon, his girl’s weary head would be resting on his chest, those delicate fingers would be

caressing his face, and her breasts would be swelling at the thought of him coming inside her. So

weighty is the fantasy, it makes him throw back his head in rapturous anticipation; his hard cock

wrestles with the seams around his zip and strains to free itself from the confinement of his jeans.

Simply thinking about her is becoming physically painful. He wants to hold off on his orgasm, wants

to savour the sensation of it; he wants to save himself for her.

Having stripped the board bare, he lifts it from the wall. Behind it is a clean and brightly coloured

expanse of wallpaper, a reminder of a time when he had colour in his life. What it was to be a free-

agent. His future stretched out in front of him like an open road full of possibilities. Then their paths

crossed and he was knocked sideways. Consumed by vengeance, he takes the board across his knee

and snaps it in half like a piece of dried out bracken. The fact is, he’s not prepared to sit around any

longer; the time has come for him to shape up or ship out. Tonight’s the night.

For over a week he has been an invisible shadow. He’s seen her at her best and her worst, and

today? Today, he followed her into the city; waited while she spent the afternoon with some long-

legged model type, watched Stone’s chauffeur hand her a phone and then kept her under observation

as she sat, a solitary figure on a bench, crying. He followed her home and parked up, not even

bothering to turn off the engine. She was alone; there was no sign of Stone or anyone else for that

matter.

His hunter’s instinct tells him she’s fair game. After nearly seven, long years he can still smell her

fear and taste her tears; they cling to his tongue and he licks his lips, hungry for more. With total

assurance, he packs the crisp and curling photographs into a shopping bag, lifts up the pedal bin lid

and throws it in. The lid snaps shut. “This isn’t goodbye princess. It’s see you later.”

4

By
ten o’clock I’m suffering from eye-strain and sensory overload. My empty bed beckons so I turn

off my iPod; companion songs seem like fair weather friends now, offering little in the way of

comfort or consolation. I cannot be pacified or lulled into a false sense of security by them anymore.

I’m possessed by love. It’s tangible, all consuming, addictive: I’m hooked on Ayden Stone.

My phone rings and I rush over to answer it, checking the time. It’s only just gone 5 a.m. in Hong

Kong. What’s wrong!

“Hello?”

There is no reply.

“Hello?”

I’m sure someone is there but they either won’t or can’t speak. How strange. I check the call log

and it’s a withheld number. It’s probably someone randomly pressing numbers to see if one actually

connects. I set my phone on charge by my bed and walk with heavy steps to the bathroom.

Ayden’s email and his six photographic attachments have held my attention for the past three

hours. I’m undressing, getting ready for bed. My eyes are drawn to my wrists; the bruising has faded

but it’s still possible to tell I’ve been restrained. The soft cord has caused pink lines to circle the skin

like rose coloured bracelets. I trace the circle on my left hand with my forefinger and close my eyes.

Inside I’m tingling; it’s as if an electric current is building in my stomach and lancing through my

groin. My pulse is racing; the air in my lungs is escaping, making my shoulders dip. The memory of

that night in Rome, the blindfold, hands tied, pinioned beneath Ayden defenceless, hits me like an

overwhelming torrent of hot steam, suffocating me.

Wide eyed I sit, assessing sensations and self-diagnosing symptoms as my hands inch towards my

groin. It’s arousal. Not the kind I get from sex or oral stimulation, or even from Ayden’s words, but

the kind that is beginning to creep up on me when I least expect it. It resides in my brain as a memory

and grips me by the throat, leaving me gasping for air, powerless and totally helpless. He’s not even

here and I’m ready to submit, so staggering is my clawing need for sexual contact.

I miss him.

My body misses him ...

I collapse onto my bed a quivering wreck, floored by my own recollections. I close my eyes tight,

taking in slow, easy breaths, pushing out my stomach in an attempt to relax and centre myself. I’ve

got to get a grip. With what can only be described as self-restraint, I move my hands onto my navel

and feel it rise and fall steadily while my heart rate decreases.

My thoughts take me away from my physical manifestations of sexual craving to actual events of

the past few days, the peaks and troughs of our turbulent love affair. My attempt at deceit and the

disastrous consequences of lying to someone who’s trust in me was compromised and shaken to the

core. I hate myself for putting him through that and driving him to despair. What memories live in the

dark recesses of his mind, what demons drove him to seek punishment; to unbuckle a belt, to remove

his clothes? What has he had to endure at the cruel hands of so called carers?

My arousal fizzles like the dying embers of a spent firework at the thought of my Mr. P. being

subjected to that.
‘I’m a dominant man,
’ he said. And who could argue with that? ‘
I like to win.
” Well

why the hell not? It’s been the mantra that’s kept him on track for the past 16 years.

What about
my
demons? There’s only one; it haunts my dreams still and lingers in my psyche like a

bad smell, always there no matter how much I scent the air with happy thoughts. For now, I have to

deal with the present and, with each passing day, it’s becoming a taller order. Our engagement,

Alenka’s duplicity and the revelation that followed are more than enough to occupy my thoughts. Pile

onto that preparing for work and Charlie’s birthday party ... I’m mindful of the time. It’s almost

midnight. All this soul searching is exhausting. Tomorrow I’ll be able to face the world with fresh

eyes and a more astute mind. I need to sleep.

The familiar sound of an incoming text catches my attention. Cleaning my teeth, I read on:

Just got up, heard this song and thought of you. I’ve emailed it. It’s everything you are to me.

Take me to bed with you and listen. These words from my lips to your heart.

I love you. A.X

I collect my laptop off the kitchen table and carry it into my bedroom. It’s booting up while I

smother my face in moisturiser. With my bedroom door bolted and my body wrapped in Ayden’s

oversized T- shirt, I snuggle under the duvet.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: 29th October 2012 06.10

Subject: THINKING OF YOU

Lovesong: Adele

I recognise the song but haven’t heard it for a while. I press play, hear Adele’s hypnotic voice
and

joyful tears fill my eyes. Instinctively, I’m wrapping my arms around my body, longing for his

embrace, allowing the words to spark my senses, to touch my heart. My future husband is about to

oversee one of the most important business transactions of his career and he’s listening to a romantic

love song and thinking of me.

I outstretch the fingers of my left hand and focus on my engagement ring. I don’t need to turn it to

the lamp, it finds the light and draws the eye, much like the man who gave it to me. I need to send a

message, one which will put his mind at rest; no song can do that for me. These words have to be my

own.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: 29th October 2012 00.17

Subject: CONFESSION!

Your song made me cry. I needed to hear those words from your lips. I know you’ve more

important things to do but, for the last four hours, I’ve been thinking about you, nothing but you.

You’re my obsession Mr. Stone.

The day you walked into my life our two worlds collided, remember? Since that day, every

thought I’ve had has been about you. I close my eyes and your voice is an aphrodisiac, I smell

you on my skin and I ache for your touch ... that’s just the way it is; the way it’s always been

between us.

But what we have goes beyond the physical, doesn’t it? It’s profound. It scares the shit out of us

but it’s undeniable. It’s that feeling of relief and thankfulness at having found one another.

We’re soul mates Ayden.

You’ve left me with three rings: one on my finger and two around my wrists. All three bind me

to you. I’m unconditionally yours; I belong to you.

Every day is a new chapter in the story of us and I know how I want this part of our story to

begin and end; with me as your wife and you as the father of our children. That’s
my
fantasy

Ayden. Do you think you can make it real for me?

These words from my lips to your heart.

I love you Mr. P (Go be powerful)

B. X

Before I can turn out the light, he answers me. I’m not sure what to expect. Have I said too much?

Is the price of my love too excessive?

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: 29th October 2012 06. 30

Subject: REQUEST!

I DO. MARRY ME TOMORROW!

I love you, more than you know.

A. X

P.S. Pack a bag and be ready to be picked-up at 10.00 am. Remember to pack your travel

sickness tablets. It’s a 12 hour flight to Hong Kong and I don’t want you sitting on anyone’s

knee!

X

So astonishing is his email, it causes me to fall backwards onto my bed.

‘
Pack a bag …’

Is he serious? He wants me to fly out to Hong Kong so we can get married! Did he think I was

giving him an ultimatum?

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: 29th October 2012 00.40

Subject: EXPLANATION!

Mr. Stone! Are you suffering from jet-lag or Hong Kong flu? You seem a little – impetuous. I

wasn’t suggesting you make my fantasy real for me TOMORROW! It was a simple declaration

of love.

B. X

In a nanosecond, he replies:

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: 29th October 2012 06. 45

Subject: ANOTHER REQUEST!

Are you saying no? If so, I will have no hesitation in sending Lester over with a strong sedative

and two first class tickets. He will carry you onto the plane over his shoulder, if necessary! Pack!

We’re getting married.

Can’t you hear the wedding bells??

A X

Sedative! Bells! What the fuck! He’s completely lost the plot.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: 29th October 2012 00.40

Subject: ARE YOU INSANE?

I can’t hear anything other than men in white coats coming to take you away! Do you realise that

you’re talking about drugging me and carting me off to the Far East against my will!!!

There’s a name for men who do that!

This is not the stuff dreams are made of Ayden!

I’m going to bed…

I love you B.X

I think I’ve made myself perfectly clear.