The Boss (4 page)

I would love to have been a smuggler. OK, well, I am, sort of, but I mean a proper smuggler, bringing gin in from Holland during the eighteenth century. I've got a book somewhere, which Nan gave me on my ninth birthday, which shows these guys in their big heavy coats and fancy hats, with pistols in their waistbands and knives in their boots. There even used to be women involved, including some really tough characters, and I used to daydream for hours about being one of them.

It was only years later I came to appreciate another virtue of smugglers. I've always loved rebels, and any man who just doesn't give a shit for the authorities has got to be at least a bit of a turn-on. That matters to me more than looks, more than how in he is, more than money or anything like that. A smuggler would be just perfect, some really big man with a devil-may-care attitude who'd fuck me bent over a barrel of gin while he held off three excise men with his pistols . . .

What I got was Steve, with his beaten-up Ford Transit and a penchant for risky blow jobs. Still, at least
he wasn't likely to get hung, drawn and quartered at the drop of a tricorn hat, which was something. It's just not a very romantic image – jeans and a hoodie – although who knows, maybe in three hundred years' time girls will be daydreaming about the smooth, reckless lager and fag smugglers of the early twenty-first century?

We'd chosen a night run, because the ferries are so much cheaper and there's generally less hassle, or that's what Steve said anyway. I knew the real reason, which was producing just a little tiny tingle in the back of my mind. The knack is getting the timing right. You go over on the last ferry that lets you catch the hypermarkets, then mess around in Calais for a bit and come back at dead of night. That also meant I'd be driving back at least some of the way, so I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift with the music, thinking of that huge smuggler, swearing defiance as he eased himself into me from behind.

By the time I woke up we were off the motorway and passing the complexes where the Channel Tunnel comes up. Steve had driven fast and we had plenty of time, allowing me to swallow a Diet Coke and a bag of crisps before we got in line. After that it was simple, a familiar but enjoyable routine. Through Customs, ignoring the temptation to tell them we were international terrorists on our way to a conference on hijacking techniques, onto the ferry and up to the highest deck to watch the sea while Steve stuffed his face with burgers and chips.

In no time we were in Calais and loaded up in not very much more, up to the limit of what the van could take but not another ounce. That's another problem – if you're too greedy. The police lurk on the A20 and
pick anybody up if they're down on their axles, which is an offence. It makes them almost as big a risk as Customs. We didn't want to chance that, which was another good reason for coming back late at night, taking the back roads out of Dover and joining the motorway further up.

We ate at a French seafood restaurant, my choice, and Steve's second meal of the evening. It didn't seem to bother him, with his hands folded complacently over his stomach as we sat outside drinking coffee afterwards. He looked tired and I was wondering if he would just doze off, but I needn't have worried. No sooner had we returned to the ferry terminal than he slid the van in between a lorry and a big camper, and behind another van, so there was no possibility of anyone seeing into our cab unless they actually stuck their nose against the window. I knew what was coming and how I'd play it, pretending to be reluctant. He gets off on that, and I don't know why, but so do I. Even as the sound of the engine died he was turning to me, his face split by a big, dirty grin.

‘How about my blow job?'

‘You are a dirty pig, you know that?'

‘What, because I like a blow job? Everybody likes a blow job.'

‘Maybe, but not normally like this.'

‘Aw, go on, Fizz, you gave me one last time.'

‘As a special favour. That doesn't mean I have to give you one every time.'

‘Well, I could do with another favour right now. I always get stiff when I wake up. Look.'

He'd pulled his cock out, holding it proud of his fly, already half erect. Immediately he began to pull on it, sighing in contentment as more blood pumped in.
Despite more than a little chagrin at the way he treated me, there was no denying my instinct: to take him in my mouth. I decided I'd shown enough resistance.

‘OK, if you take your balls out too.'

‘That's my girl!'

He complied, slipped a hand into his fly to pull out his balls. I love the look of a man like that, with just his cock and balls out of his trousers, otherwise fully dressed, or maybe with his top off if he has a good torso. It's so much hornier than naked. I bent down, using my fingernails to tease under his balls and up the long, thick shaft of his now fully erect cock. He let me do it for a moment, then gave a low growl under his breath.

‘Get on with it, Fizz!'

‘Pig.'

I just managed to get the word out before he guided my head down onto his erection, with his hand twisted into my hair. As I began to suck, so he began to play with the nape of my neck, which gets me every time. He chuckled as I grew more eager, and I could see his face from the corner of my eye, grinning down at me as I sucked on his penis, no doubt enjoying the power as much as the pleasure. I didn't mind. I'd have been the same, and he was turning me on by being firm with me.

That was part of the thrill; the other was knowing that it was just possible we'd get caught, maybe by a fellow passenger casting a curious glance in at our window as he passed, maybe by some official with a torch, maybe even by an illegal immigrant sneaking in among the lorries and vans. In any event they would get an eyeful of me with my mouth wide around Steve's erection.

Steve was trying to pull up my top and I let him, knowing it would make the view that much ruder. With my bra unclipped I slipped the cups up myself, relishing that delicious moment of exposure as I came fully bare. He began to stroke my chest, his breathing now hoarse with excitement as I tugged him into my mouth and squeezed on his balls. I was wondering if I dared go further, maybe to push my jeans and knickers down and play with myself as I sucked, making both my exposure and my pleasure complete. My hand had even gone to the button of my jeans when he grunted and came, too fast for me as usual, but I wasn't finished.

I pulled back, dizzy with sex and my mouth full of the taste of man. The side of the lorry was just a couple of feet from my window, blocking off any possibility of us really being seen. In a moment I had my jeans and knickers down, leaving myself nude from my ankles to my neck, deliciously, delightfully bare. I let my legs wide, drawing a grunt of surprise from Steve.

‘I'd have fucked you if I'd known you were so horny.'

‘You should have done. Now get down there.'

‘You are one dirty bitch, Fizz.'

His hand went between my thighs, manipulating me. A finger pushed inside, and a second, making me sigh, but it wasn't what I wanted.

‘Come on, Steve, lick me. I did it for you.'

‘Yeah, but . . .'

‘But nothing. Lick me, you chauvinist pig!'

He gave a doubtful grunt, or maybe it was supposed to be an oink, but he'd gone down, forcing me to slide forward on the seat and cock one leg high so that he could get his face to my sex properly. He began to lick and I settled back with a contented sigh, playing with
my breasts as I went back to my thoughts of being caught. Obviously it would be no fun at all, not really, if it was by an official, but the officials of my imagination behaved very differently to real ones.

In order to let us off, they'd demand their fun with me. Steve, being a complete bastard, would let them, and I'd be taken into one of their little huts. They'd make me strip. They'd make me suck their cocks and balls. They'd bend me over and fuck me from behind. They'd make me suck them when they'd been inside me and come all over my face and breasts, leaving me so, so high I'd end up stark naked on the floor masturbating in front of them for the way they'd handled me.

I came, pushing Steve's head down at the last moment so I could get a finger where I needed it and the right rhythm to come. He didn't stop licking, his tongue still working on the inside of my thighs and across the curves of my bum cheeks as my body went tight in ecstasy and stopping only when I finally went limp.

Just a few minutes later officials began to walk up between the lines, asking us to move into position for boarding. I had trouble keeping a smirk off my face most of the way to Dover.

It had been a good run. Steve had been dropping by the time we came off the ferry and I took over driving. Customs was a breeze, with something going on at the other end of the docks and just two men dealing with us. I drove up through town, keeping to the back roads most of the way to Canterbury and only then joining the motorway. Steve stayed asleep until we were almost home and it was still dark when I got in. I collapsed into bed, thankful for the roll of notes in my
pocket and still thinking sleepy, dirty thoughts as I drifted towards sleep.

I woke to the sight of Mum looking slightly disapproving and holding out a cup of coffee. I ignored the look and took the coffee, leaving her tutting as she picked up my discarded clothes from the floor.

‘Honestly, Felicity, you didn't even put a nightie on.'

‘I was tired. Sorry.'

‘Well, at least you're all right. I worry about you, driving for so long, and all night.'

‘We shared the driving, we always do.'

‘That's something, I suppose, but I don't see why Steven can't take one of his friends. You'll injure your back with all that heavy lifting.'

‘He prefers my company, and it's only a few beer cases.'

‘Well, just you be careful. There's a letter for you, from that security company. Maybe you've got the job.'

I did my best to look interested and hopeful as I picked a large white envelope from the bundle she was holding. The back showed the Black Knight Securities name and logo, a tasteful gauntlet clutching a length of chain. Mum was hovering with intent so I took a sip of coffee and opened the letter, expecting to see the familiar words – ‘Dear Miss Cotton, you are a dirty scally, so fuck off . . .' only perhaps phrased a bit more politely. I even began to read it out loud.

‘Dear Miss Cotton, We are delighted to be able to offer you the position of Management Support Operative with our company . . . fucking hell! They're offering me the job, Mum.'

‘There we are, I said you could do it if you tried.'

I braced myself to tell her I didn't want it, that I was going to turn them down, but then I saw how much
they were offering me: £21,500 plus a performance-related bonus. That stopped me dead. It was enough to run my own car, something nice too. I might even insure it.

Only it was a complete betrayal of everything I believed in. I'd be working for the enemy. I'd be one of them. Or would I? Maybe I could subvert the company from the inside and wreck their plan. No, it was a ridiculous idea. I either worked for them or I didn't, and if I worked for them it meant becoming part of everything I hated. On the other hand, there were my catalogue bills, which were getting well out of hand, and Mum kept hinting that it was time I started paying something towards the house.

Maybe I could keep the job for just a few months, enough to get some money in my pocket and enough experience to let me move onto something else, something that paid OK but didn't compromise my principles, or rather, my lack of principles. Turning down the job wasn't going to stop the cameras going up anyway, and with me on the inside at least I could make sure everyone knew what was going on.

That had to be the best choice, surely? I was still feeling intensely guilty as I wrote out a letter of acceptance with Mum peering over my shoulder, a sensation that reached a peak as I pushed my envelope into the postbox at the end of the road. I'd done it, sold my soul in a way I'd told myself I would never do, had never even imagined myself doing. Me, Fizz, who'd always said that working as a check-out girl or flipping burgers was selling out, and I was a Management Support Operative with a security company. How was I going to tell my friends? What was I going to say to the girls in the band?

Not that there was much of a band, at least, not one with anywhere to play. Having been kicked out of the Dog and Duck there was nowhere closer than Thetford who were going to book us, let alone pay. Rubber Dollies was dead, to all intents and purposes, except possibly for winding up Josie's neighbours. In was no surprise either, because the council had had it in for us from the start, objecting to everything from the noise to us taking our tops off, as well as the general mayhem that tended to follow our gigs. Still, we'd never compromised, which was something.

I was going to have to tell Josie and Sam and as many other people as I could before they started talking about me behind my back, which was inevitable. It was tempting to put it off until after the weekend, but I was supposed to start work on the Monday and there really wouldn't be time. I had to get it over with and hope they'd realise that it was better to have me on the inside than somebody else.

As I walked over to Josie's I was dragging my feet, and the moment I saw her I was wondering if I could go through with it. She was outside the garage, messing about with her bike, in tatty jeans and a leather jacket, shades pushed up on top of her head and a cigarette sticking out from the side of black-painted lips. I hadn't seen her since the night at the Dog and Duck, and when we'd spoken on the phone I'd avoided any mention of my change of look. Inevitably it was the first thing she commented on.

‘Shit, Fizz, what's with the hair? You look . . . I don't know, like something out of one of those weird adverts where they drink bacteria.'