“It’s not like that …” Her arm reaches out to touch me again. Stepping back, I evade her touch.
I can see tears in her eyes, but have zero sympathy. She’s brought this on herself. I take a deep breath.
“What
is
it like then? You’ve been screwing other men in my apartment, taking drugs? You’ve lied, cheated. What other secrets have you been keeping?” As she starts to answer, I slash my hand through the air, cutting her off. “Don’t say another fucking word, Chantelle. There’s nothing you can say that I want to hear.” I continue stuffing her belongings any old how into her suitcase.
“Nijad, we’re good together! I didn’t expect you home today!”
I can’t believe she’s trying to offer
that
as an acceptable excuse. She puts both her hands round my head and tries to pull me down as if she’s going to kiss me. Unsure how I’m still controlling my temper at this point, and incredulous that she thinks there might be any justification for her actions, I remove her hands roughly, my sore and bleeding knuckles leaving a red smear across her cheek. I thrust her away from me …
And then the world goes black.
****
I wake feeling groggy, with no idea where I am. Slowly, I begin to take in the sounds around me and the strong smells wafting in the air. The unmistakable odour of antiseptic makes me think of hospitals and, as I open my eyes, I realise that I’m right on the money. It’s not until I go to sit up that I find my right wrist handcuffed to the side rail. What the fuck? Shaking my arm, trying to rid myself of the restraint, I see I’ve drawn the attention of a gendarme sitting in a chair beside me. It’s impossible to ignore the look of disgust on the officer’s face. Disorientated, hurting and utterly bewildered, I swallow a couple of times, trying to produce enough saliva to speak.
“
Hommes comme vous me dégoûter!
”
the gendarme mutters.
Men like me disgust him?
I can make no sense whatsoever of that statement. I shake my head to clear it, but the movement only results in the room swimming around me and shooting pains tearing through my skull. After the pain settles, I ask him what he’s talking about.
“
De quoi tu parles? Je ne comprends pas …
” I need to know what the hell is going on, but he interrupts me.
“
Vous ne comprenez pas?
”
the gendarme spits out. “
Je doute que le fait de cette pauvre femme, non plus
.”
What
poor woman
? What has happened? Feeling that I’ve been dropped into an alternative fucking universe, I want to know more, but before I can question him further the door bursts open, and several men enter in quick succession. The first is easy to identify: my brother, Jasim. The second takes me slightly longer to place, but then I recognise the Paris-based lawyer the family use when necessary. His name escapes me for the moment. The man who follows them introduces himself, in English thank fuck, as the detective inspector in charge of the case.
What case? Have I been attacked?
And finally, there’s a doctor, apparent by his white coat, who’s having little success in his endeavours to usher everyone else out. While not at all in the mood to feel amused, the thought comes into my head that they resemble actors performing a slapstick comedy. I choke back the inappropriate, and probably hysterical, laugh before it can escape, and relax back on to the pillows. All the activity around me makes my headache worse so I close my eyes. Perhaps soon somebody will say something which will make some sense. Luckily, at the moment, they seem content to talk among themselves, seeking no contribution from myself.
“My client will answer no questions. You have no case against him.”
“No case?” The detective sounds incensed. “Have you seen the state of the woman?”
“She’s withdrawn her complaint.” The lawyer’s voice is calm. “She remembers now. She fell downstairs.”
“And
his
injury?”
“He tripped while helping her,” the lawyer answers steadily. If I hadn’t got the feeling of dread that they were discussing me, I would applaud.
“I can still press charges. The evidence speaks for itself! And do you know what else we found in that flat? Handcuffs, rope, gags, sex toys, whips! My God, what is this man capable of?”
Those were in Jasim’s room, not mine. I open my eyes and throw a quick glance at my brother, who is looking horrified. He gives a slight shake of his head; I nod, and keep quiet. Anyway, it’s a bit of an exaggeration. Last time I looked, there was one crop there, no whips at all. But the sex toys were quite intriguing.
“Whatever. The woman was not bound or whipped. I don’t think the
procureur général
will want to waste police time investigating a case with no witnesses. Sheikh Nijad al Kassis has an impeccable reputation.”
“And a bottomless pit of money,” the detective adds.
The lawyer nods, not trying to deny it. “As you say.”
I’ve been growing more and more confused listening to them talking. As the conversation seems to reach an impasse I turn to my brother.
“Jasim.” My voice shakes as I start to speak, not only with weakness resulting from whatever’s happened to me, but I’m very much beginning to dread what I might hear. “What the fuck has happened?”
I see the detective shooting me a look as if he can’t believe I asked the question. But his next words show he knows he has to bow to the inevitable.
“Remove the handcuffs,” he instructs the gendarme, spluttering out the order as he admits defeat. “
Mr
Kassis.” he looks down to address me directly. I note that he declines to use my title. “I suggest you stay out of Paris, damn it, out of France! Your money might have got you off this time, but you’d better pray to whatever god you have that you don’t cross my path again.” He turns to leave the room, but before he reaches the door, he spins back. Reaching into his wallet he pulls out a photograph and throws it at me. “And you might as well have this,” he snarls as the paper flutters down, landing on my chest. “A memento of Paris.”
Bemused, I pick up the photo, glance at it and shudder, feeling bile rising into my throat. I’m no stranger to violence – I’ve been in combat, seen injuries beyond belief on the battlefield – but to see a woman in this state is almost more than I can take. I don’t understand why I’ve been given the photo of a face so covered in blood that it’s almost impossible to recognise her. As I look closer, though, I know her immediately. It’s Chantelle. Fuck, she’s hurt! Who attacked her? Did the same person attack me? Is that why I’m here? Once more I address Jasim.
“What the fuck is going on?”
The disappointment in his eyes almost undoes me. I watch him take a deep breath, and then exhale as if he’s having difficulty speaking to me. In the end, he chooses not to use words at all. He just pulls a newspaper out of his pocket, unfolds it, and holds up the front-page headline so I can read it. I immediately wish I hadn’t. “
SAVAGE SHEIKH SAVAGES WOMAN!
”
Swallowing a couple of times, I take the paper and try to get my eyes to focus and my brain to comprehend what the hell is going on. I read the text beneath the headline, feeling as if a cold hand is clutching at my heart. I turn my eyes up to my brother’s face. “Tell me this isn’t true, Jas,” I plead. “I couldn’t have done this!”
Jasim shakes his head sadly, his despair plain to see. “It would appear that you could,” he tells me simply. “And that you did. This time, you’ve gone too far, Nijad. You club membership is permanently revoked, and what’s more,” he pauses a moment, running his fingers through his hair before turning his face away from me, “I disown you as my brother.”
I don’t know what shocks me most, the accusation of an inexplicably violent attack on Chantelle or my brother’s rejection of the relationship between us. My head is spinning as I try to take in everything that’s been said over the last few minutes.
The police officers have gone, the lawyer following them. The doctor busies himself checking my vital signs, and then he too leaves. Apart from Jasim, the only person remaining in the room is Jon, standing stoically by the door, his arms folded, his feet apart in typical soldier stance. It’s the look of repugnance on his face that’s the final nail in my coffin. Rapidly, I rack my brain, unable to accept what I appear to have done. Surely I couldn’t have reacted so badly? I remember Chantelle and Henri’s appearance. I remember packing her clothes. I remember I was going to throw her out … But everything after that is a blank. I couldn’t have done it; there must be a way to prove my innocence.
“The security camera …” I start, thinking rapidly. The newspaper report said it had happened in my flat, but Jon’s firm installed the security equipment for me.
Jasim defers to Jon with a nod.
“It was turned off,” Jon replies, his voice terse.
My forehead creases. I realise I hadn’t reset the alarm in my hurry to get my rocks off, and Chantelle must have disabled the security camera while I’d been away. Presumably so there’d be no evidence of her dealer’s visits.
“How the fuck could you think it was me?”
Jon shrugs. “I was first on the scene. There was no one else there. Chantelle told me, and the police, that you attacked her.” He shifts awkwardly and, at last, looks me in the eye. “Ni, I’ve spent the last two days while you’ve been unconscious trying to find another explanation. Chantelle is adamant it was you who attacked her, and the available evidence backs it up. Blood from your knuckles was on her face, and her blood on your clothes. There’s no doubt.”
A touch on my shoulder brings my attention back to Jasim. “You did this, Nijad. Just like you lost your temper with St John-Davies. You’re out of control.” Sadly he shakes his head. “Fuck knows what’s going to be done with you.”
I stare at him but see only the certainty of my guilt in his eyes. With no alternative, I have to accept what he’s telling me. This time, I’ve gone too far. I’ve hurt a woman. Badly. I hurt Chantelle. Jasim’s right; I’ve no control, I’m no Dominant, and I won’t be able to trust myself ever again. Closing my eyes, I can’t forget the newspaper headline. I’ve earned a new title. I think I would rather be dead.
Cara
“Hunter! For heaven’s sake, you scared me!” I almost scream at his sudden appearance, jumping so much I only just manage to keep a hold of my jar of instant coffee. “Did you have to creep up on me like that? I thought you were waiting in the sitting room!” My free hand covers my heart to try to still its frantic beating.
“Nervy much?” Hunter gives a short laugh. He’s standing, no,
looming
, in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, his tall frame almost filling the entrance; his muscular arms are folded in front of him, one ankle lazily crossed over the other, looking more attractive than anyone has the right to be. But it’s the expression on his face I don’t appreciate. He regards me with an intensity that seems to see right through me, and I know I’m going to have to play it very carefully when he asks, “What have you been up to, pet? I know there’s something you’re not telling me, Cara.”
Turning back, I continue making the coffee knowing, if I look at him, I’ll give myself away. I pour boiling water on to the coffee granules and add cream and sugar, making it just the way he likes it. Picking up the cups, I carefully school my features.
“Excuse me.” I want to get through the door to take the drinks into the lounge.
Stepping aside to let me pass, he reaches out and holds my arm gently. His other hand comes up to cup my face and he regards me with that lazy smile, the one that makes other women throw themselves at his feet.
“You’re looking good, pet.”
I cringe as his hand touches my blighted skin, and shake my head. “Come off it.” I dismiss his comment, not wanting to go through the same old dance again.
“You’re not the person you were then,” he says forcefully. “Haven’t you looked in the mirror lately?”
I pull away from his grasp with a frustrated shrug. “No mirrors here,” I tell him glibly, hoping he’ll drop the subject. There hasn’t been a mirror in my house since I smashed the last one seven years ago. “Do you want to get your accounts sorted, or what?”
Ignoring his sigh of exasperation I lead him into the sitting room that doubles as my home office, out of which I run my successful accountancy business. I know he’s only looking out for me, in the same way he has for over ten years now. It started out as an odd friendship, beginning when he first protected an overweight, spotty fourteen-year-old new girl from bullies trying to steal her book bag. Then, Hunter was as much an oddity as I was: a gangly American boy, only lately arrived in the UK, with an odd name and a penchant for calling football ‘soccer’. Neither of us fitted into our new school easily, and while a couple of years on Hunter’s height and obvious good looks resulted in him being one of the most popular boys, excelling at sports and attracting all the girls, I hadn’t changed at all. But he continued to look out for me, smoothing my path under his protection. When I lost my mother, Hunter took me under his wing and became the only family I had. Our strange relationship somehow endured even after we went our separate ways. Months might pass before we get together, but as soon as we do we slip back into that easy friendship that we’ve always known. At twenty-six, even I have to admit he’s fit, a tousle-haired man with film-star good looks, well over six feet tall and with bulging muscles apparently from working out. But me? Well, I haven’t changed at all. I remain a freak.