It’s a crisp Sunday morning. At eight, London hasn’t fully woken up yet, but I haven’t slept.
I thought running from my flat in Brixton to his house in Greenwich would calm me down and help me find a solution to this. That on my run I would find the words to make him forgive me.
But instead, I lost focus and ended up falling on my face, scraping my hands and knees. I shouldn’t be surprised since functioning as a human is difficult. I haven’t eaten or slept since Friday night when Jack stormed off. It’s been two days but feels like an eternity.
I would prefer to feel empty instead of full to the brim with this heart ache.
Yesterday I told Dad that Jack will go to the police. Dad’s in denial. Like I’ve been for weeks. He said they’ll never be able to pin it on him because a barmaid from ten years ago isn’t a reliable witness. I could hear the fear and anger in his voice though. So now the only two people that know about this shit show aren’t talking to me.
I’ve never felt so alone. I wish I could tell Mum, but I don’t know how she will react.
I ring the doorbell because I know he won’t answer his phone. He ignored all my texts and calls yesterday.
Today will be no different.
Lucy barks immediately in the back garden and the panic I tried to suppress during my run rises in my stomach.
Jack appears at the door, topless and drenched in sweat. He looks like he’s been boxing all night.
He stands rigid in the doorway, staring at me.
Maybe coming here wasn’t a good idea. If looks could kill, I would be meat for Lucy.
I swallow the massive lump in my throat. “Can I come in?”
“There’s nothing more to say.”
He’s different today.
He’s cold and detached. The anger that burned through him on Friday is gone.
Somehow this woodenness is much, much scarier.
My eyes fill with tears. “I can’t stand us not talking.”
“I was brought up that if you don’t have something nice to say to a lady, then don’t say anything. But I’ll make myself clearer,” he grits his teeth, “I’m not interested in anything else you have to say.”
I feel a sharp sting of pain from his words. He can’t mean them.
“So, what, it’s over?” My voice breaks.
“I thought I made that clear on Friday night,” he says in a detached tone. His eyes skim over my body. “What did you do to your knees?”
I smile sadly and shrug. Does he think I give a shit about my knees? “I fell. It’s just a little scrape.”
“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters, widening the door. “Come in. I’ll get a cloth.”
I follow him in because right now, I’ll take whatever he’s willing to throw at me.
He strides into the kitchen in silence. I walk behind him, so nervous I try to quieten my footsteps.
I’m glad Lucy’s out the back. She’s probably as angry as her owner.
With his back to me, he runs a cloth under hot water, then rummages to find the first aid kit in the cupboard.
The tension in the air is unbearable.
“I made a mistake, Jack,” I say quietly to his back. “I didn’t know what to do.”
He turns, his eyes cold. “You covered for your killer Dad.”
“He’s not a killer.”
“You know my father was alive for thirty minutes on that pavement?” His knuckles tighten around the cloth and every muscle in his body appears to tighten. “He could have saved him, but he didn’t. He ran away and let him bleed out.”
“I didn’t know that,” I whisper, feeling nauseous. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t blame you for that, Bonnie. I blame you for lying to me.”
“I was going to tell you,” I repeat, knowing how empty that sounds.
“When?” He stares at me flatly. “When, Bonnie? When I proposed? When you got pregnant? On our tenth wedding anniversary?”
“No! I-I don’t know,” I stammer, leaning against the table for support. “Soon.”
He steps forward with the cloth and antiseptic and gets on his knees before me. In silence he washes each knee without any of the warmth I usually feel when he touches me.
I blink back tears.
He’s not doing it out of love or affection. He’s doing it out of obligation.
My arms hang awkwardly by my side. I want to reach out so badly and wrap my arms around his shoulders just to feel his warm skin but I don’t.
“I need you,” I say softly. “Don’t reject me.”
His hand comes to an abrupt halt on my knee, and he stares at my leg.
When he finally looks up, his eyes are void of any warmth. “What do you need?”
I need him to look at me the way he used to, like I’m the most important person in his world.
Because the way he is looking at me right now is breaking my fucking heart.
“You.” Tentatively, I run my hands through his hair. “Please, Jack.”
He winces as if I struck him and rises from the ground to tower over me so that I’m eye level with his broad chest, glistening with sweat from boxing.
“You want it?” he snarls. “Fucking take it.”
My eyes grow like saucers. Is he serious?
He rips his gym shorts down and steps out of them, spreading his legs wide. He fists his cock in his hands and it rises against his stomach.
I search his eyes, begging for him to grin at me and tell me how much he loves me. Tell me that everything is going to be okay.
Nothing.
Swallowing my nerves, I place my palms on his chest. His heart is beating fast, surely that must mean he cares?
My fingers trail down his pecs and lower stomach to his perfect V. His muscles tense but he doesn’t stop me. I take that as a good sign because I’m desperate. Not for sex. For him. Just to touch him. To be held by him. To have all of him again.
His dark eyes dilate as I wrap my fingers around his thick length, feeling him pulse against my hand.
He might not forgive me, but he wants me. At least I still have that.
This is mine. I can’t lose it. I can’t read in the papers that he’s been with other women.
I can’t lose him.
He doesn’t touch me back. A muscle in his jaw flexes as I tighten possessively around his cock and as his eyes blaze down on mine, I’ve no clue what’s going on behind that fire.
I tilt my head up to kiss him but instead he grabs me by the hips and flips me around until I’m tight to his chest, his hardened cock pressing against my running shorts.
“Take’ em off.”
His gruff voice sends shivers down my spine. This isn’t how I wanted him but it’s the only way I’ll have him so I bend down and pull my shorts and pants down past my legs, gingerly stepping out of them.
He doesn’t bother to wait for me to take off my top.
Giving me no time to warm up, he lifts my hips and thrusts hard inside me, grunting.
I cry out and fall forward as he stretches me.
“Open wider.”
His legs nudge my thighs impatiently so he can force his cock deeper.
I suck in a breath and do as I’m told.
“Is this what you wanted?” he growls from behind me, holding my hips in place as he drives himself deep over and over again. “My cock buried inside you?”
Not like this.
It’s raw, primal fucking without love.
But I take it.
I take it all because I miss him.
I vaguely hear Jack cursing breathlessly behind me.
His hand slides around my stomach and his fingers circle my clit. A choked cry escapes me because it’s the only sign of affection I get.
His breathing grows laboured behind me as the thrusts become faster. He hits a place that only he can hit, and I don’t believe anyone else ever will be able to.
Holding me in place, he grunts his way to release. A deep growl rumbles in the back of his throat as he comes hard inside me with a final jerk.
His fingers immediately leave my clit. His way of punishing me, I guess.
My body collapses against his, covered in his sweat. I want to turn to see his face, but he holds me in place with one hand caging my stomach.
I feel the other hand come around my neck, brushing my hair off my back. Everything’s going to be okay. He’s going to bury his face in my neck and kiss me.
He doesn’t.
It takes me a minute to understand what he’s doing.
The chain.
He’s taking back the chain.
A sob leaves my throat.
When it slips off my neck, I feel him disappear from behind me.
I can’t move.
“Have a shower,” he says in a low rough voice, breaking the silence behind me. “Then let yourself out. I’ll be in the gym.”
I don’t need to turn around to know he’s gone.
I was wrong.
Hate sex is the worst type of sex.
***
Four hours later
I can’t ignore Kate forever. She’s called three times already today.
When you live by yourself and don’t answer your phone the first time, your friends jump to the worst conclusion.
I try to sound breezy. “Hey, Kate.”
“Bonnie!” She, on the other hand, does not. “Why are you not answering your phone! Have you seen it?”
My stomach lurches.
Dad.
Jack’s gone to the police.
“What?”
“Seriously?” She shrieks. “You haven’t seen it? Oh, my God. Wait, I’ll send it to you now.”
“Great.” Talk about getting me all worked up.
Moments later a message flashes on my screen.
I click on the link, hyperventilating. Will it show a picture of Dad?
Except . . . the link isn’t about Dad. It’s a picture of Jack and me. I zoom in on the article.
“What is this?” I say more to myself than to Kate.
“Are you in the middle of a fight?” she asks. “I can’t believe you got bloody papped! Actually, not papped, it was just a random girl with a camera. But everyone’s paparazzi these days. Still look how many likes and comments it has!”
It’s from Friday night. It shows Jack and I outside my flat in Brixton. I look like I’m trying to plead with him, and Jack looks irate.
Oh, fuck. That’s all I need.
“It’s a pity they caught you like that,” Kate muses. “It’s not the most romantic of shots.”
No, it’s most certainly not.
My cheeks burn. I’m screwed. On one hand, it’s not Dad being exposed, which is a good thing, but on the other hand, it’s me being exposed.
What a mess.
I sigh loudly into the phone. “Bradshaw and Brown are going to have a fit.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Kate says reassuringly. “I doubt your old bosses are on social media. Besides, it’s not ground-breaking news. The only reason I came across it is because I was hungover and spent hours on Instagram.”
She has a point.
A message from Max flashes up.
Max: Care to tell me why you are in a fight in the street with Jack Knight?
Kill me now.
