Undone (32 page)

‘And neither are you,’ she replies crisply. Her shoulders stiffen and her chin tips up. ‘So tell me, Mr Revivo. Why did we have a relationship? What did I mean to you?’

I note that she keeps using the past tense. ‘Sit down, Lana. Please.’

She shakes her head. ‘Tell me.’

I draw a deep breath. I can’t sugar-coat any of this. But I wish she’d sit down with me. The way she’s standing in the doorway like that makes me edgy. As if she’s on the verge of walking out. I’m on her bed with her diary. She’s looking in at me, and I’m looking in at her life. It’s not good, really not good. I am the lowest of the low. Even if she meant for this to happen, I should have been a bigger guy. Infiltrating a bunch of crooks to get intel on them is one thing; reading the heart of your lover is another. If this
is
her heart. God, but I hope it is.

‘As part of an ongoing investigation,’ I say, ‘we had to gain access to the social circle of a number of people. We had Morozov and others under surveillance. We knew Morozov went to fetish clubs in his personal life so I tried to get involved in the scene. Met Lou via a kinky dating site, Brighton-based like him. And then I was in. Or on the outskirts. Turns out she didn’t know him that well. No one seems to have done. Kept himself to himself. Then I got an invite to Dravendene with Lou’s crowd. And he was there. And you were all over me and you knew him and it was a gift, a total gift dropped right in my lap.’

She nods. Her face is tense. She’s remarkably calm, considering. It bothers me.

‘That night,’ she says, ‘you kept saying you thought you knew him from somewhere.’

‘An act. A way to forge a connection. Make him think we moved in the same circles.’

‘You used me to get close to him.’

And here comes the wrecking ball, smashing into my dreams.

‘It’s not that clear cut,’ I say. ‘Sure, this was a covert, intelligence-gathering operation but—’

‘Bullshit.’

‘I swear, Cha Cha, I didn’t—’

‘Don’t Cha Cha me, you treacherous, fucking cunt. You used me!’

‘Lana, please! Let me explain. Give me a chance here.’ God, I sound like such a cliché. I wouldn’t blame her if she tried to punch me in the nuts.

She glares at me, lips pressed tight, shoulders rising and falling. ‘I need a drink.’

It sounds like an accusation. She leaves the bedroom. I listen to her moving in the other room, bottles, glasses and ice clinking. Will she fix me a drink? Do I deserve one? Should I ask? Should I join her? I could kill for a smoke but I’m holding off a while longer. It’s self-indulgent and rude. I’m walking a tightrope here. I need to not fuck up any more than I already have done.

Minutes later she returns, a balloon glass in one hand, a tumbler in the other. Brandy for her, bourbon for me. Over ice. Two cubes, the way I like it. It’s the little kindnesses that kill you. Bourbon on the rocks and I want to weep with gratitude. She passes me my drink and stands by the bed.

‘So why don’t you tell me who you are,’ she asks, ‘and I’ll tell you what I’ve done.’

I raise my glass to the air. ‘Quid pro quo.’

She sits on the edge of the bed with me, not too close, and she takes a sip of brandy. Then she lies back on the duvet, feet still on the ground, and gazes up at the ceiling. One hand clasps the balloon glass to her stomach, the other is tucked behind her head. Lamplight from the courtyard shines through the window, throwing stripes across the lower half of her body. She’s wearing this sky-blue dress, an ordinary, straight-up-and-down number which probably cost a whack because she always looks so damn good in it. Her knees peek out the bottom. She has great knees. Her posture is open, as if she’s lying on a river-bank and dragonflies are dancing around her, but there’s a stiffness in her body. Everything about her says, ‘Don’t you dare fucking touch me.’ So I don’t. I value my balls.

‘I’m listening,’ she says.

I inhale deep and hard. I figure it’s best to start at the end because that’s of most relevance to us. ‘Like I say, you seemed a useful link to Morozov,’ I reply. ‘That was the start of it. Plus, you know, you were cute, so that helped.’ She doesn’t smile. Failed again. ‘Then suddenly he’s dead,’ I continue, ‘and when I smelled your hair, I knew there was something you weren’t telling me. So, forgive my language, I decided to cultivate the connection and monitor you off the record.’

‘And they say romance is dead.’

I ignore the barb. She has every right to fire them.

‘You know, we ought to have been at his inquest the other week,’ I say. ‘But my unit had words with the right people and we were let off the hook because it could’ve gotten complicated. What else? Hell, so much to fess up to. I faked the building site job. Used it as an excuse to be in Saltbourne. With you. I’ve been briefed on the building trade. I’d work from home, writing up reports, checking in with HQ. Then I’d go for a run, stick on these dirty clothes and smear a little grime and plaster here and there. Then I’d drive over to the bar for … for Happy Hour. And I
was
happy, Lana. You made me happy, so fucking happy.’ My throat tightens. I wait for it to pass. ‘Can’t fake happiness, Lana.’

‘No,’ she says sternly, still lying there, eyes fixed on the ceiling. ‘Tell me who you
are
, Sol Revivo. What makes you tick?’

The pause that follows seems to go on forever. Tumbleweed practically rolls across the silence. And I’m thinking I am a man who, right now, would peel off his own skin and dive into salt if it would take away your pain. But, instead, I tone it down, stay matter-of-fact, and I say, ‘I’m a regular, middle-class Jewish guy from New Jersey. Been living in London these last twenty years. I have dual nationality. That part was true. Joined the police force in my twenties and gradually moved up the ranks.’

‘Why did you leave the States?’

I give a hollow laugh. I can’t help it. This stuff’s so petty. ‘Quiet, toxic family dramas. The usual. Wanted to get away from my mother. Ironically, my mom swapped continents for the same reason. It’s a family tradition.’

She sits up next to me, frowning.

‘So your parents weren’t killed in a car crash when you were a child?’

Ah, hell. It’s hard to keep track of what matters when you fabricate a life. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Alive and well.’

‘There was no Little Orphan Sol?’

I wince. ‘No.’

‘And your grandmother with the inheritance?’

I shake my head. Man, this is harrowing, and it’s all my fucking fault. I want to reach out and hold her hand as she sits there, stunned, but I don’t think the gesture will be helpful.

‘It’s useful to have money and no job when you’re undercover,’ I explain. ‘Wins you friends, keeps you free to roam. I played up my Jewishness. Claustrophobic relatives with cash. That kind of thing. Easy to convince people of your credibility when you tap into their … their preconceptions.’

‘So your tattoo?’ she says. ‘Those seed heads? One for every loss.’

I shake my head. ‘Just a tattoo, Lana.’

Her face flushes, a darkening rose. She takes a large, steady sip of brandy. She stares at the wall opposite us.

‘You made me care about you,’ she says. Her voice is so tiny, as if she’s having to eke out every word. ‘With your tales of loss. Your talk of fear. Guilt. I thought – stupid, stupid me – I thought it meant we were close.’ Then she turns to me and, with a vicious little jerk, hurls the remaining contents of her glass in my face.

It’s cold, it’s wet, it’s a shock. For an instant, I can’t see. Alcohol stings my eyes. She’s on her feet and so am I. She’s running from me. The room is blurred, but I follow. I hook her around the waist and pull her back. She shouts but she lets me restrain her. I’m damn certain she lets me.

‘Lana, forgive me, please. Please! I’ll do anything, I swear to God, I’ll…’

Tears well in my vision. A reaction to brandy in the eyeballs. I’m holding her against the open door of the bedroom. No, not holding. Let’s face it, I’ve trapped her. My arms are either side of hers, my hands are flat to the door. She’s motionless apart from the faint pump of her shoulders. I blink and the tears spill. I expect her to knee me in the cojones. She doesn’t. Another wave of tears rises. I’ll admit it, that’s not the brandy weeping anymore.

She reaches up, face moving close to mine. She presses a sucking sort of kiss to my cheek. Ye gods, but it’s impossible to second-guess this woman. Her lips pulse. It’s like a sea anemone’s got suction on my face, and it’s beautiful. Fucking beautiful. She’s slurping on her brandy and on my tears. I can taste the mixture when it dribbles to my lips, salt and sweet and warm. Part of me’s wondering if she’s about to bite a vengeful chunk out of my face, and part of me’s getting hard. I hope to hell she doesn’t notice.

Well, she notices. Too late. Her hand is on my dick, rubbing me through my pants. Immediately, I’m a good deal harder.

‘Make me forget,’ she whispers.

Oh God, Lana, Lana! I’m right back in the forest at Dravendene. ‘I can make you forget,’ I’d said, and I had meant it. Or I’d wanted to. I’d wanted us to get lost together, lost in each other, to forget everything for a while before facing the fray. Because we were both reeling from the death of Morozov. But, yeah, for different reasons. I get that now.

She raises her arms, inviting me to take off her dress. So I do, and she’s there against the door in her bra and panties. I’m not sure if this is good medicine for either of us but, right now, I’m risking it.

‘You OK?’ I ask.

‘No,’ she says. ‘Are you?’

‘No.’

I reach behind her to unhook her bra and she lets me. She makes slopes of her arms so the bra slides to the floor. The responsibility I’m being given here terrifies me. I rub the indent of her waist, hands either side of her. Her skin is so soft. Sometimes I worry I’ll break her. She’s so slender and I’m such an oaf. But I know that’s dumb of me. She’s not a porcelain doll. She tips her head back to the door, eyes closed. She’s giving me her surrender. I’m not sure I can take it. Not sure I deserve it. Well, no. No, I don’t deserve it. But, oh God, the things she lets me do to her. It’s always been this way.

By now, I know what she likes. It chimes with what I like. The second-best aspect of this job has been learning about a world that caters for people with marginal desires, people such as me. I’ve gained skills and understanding. I’ve put my new knowledge to good use with Lana. Sure, I’ve still plenty to learn but, for the first time in my life, I feel I can be the sexual person I’ve never dared be before. I’m thirty-eight years old. That’s pretty freaking major. And I have Lana to thank for giving me that freedom. She loves what I love to do to her, and that makes me love it all the more. It was supposed to be a role ordained by the Met. They reckoned I looked the part, could carry it off. I guess you could say I’ve gone native on that score.

Meeting Lana trumps any BDSM training, of course. Although right now, I’ve hurt her so badly I’m wondering if it would’ve been better if we’d never got involved. Had never known happiness. Her voice echoes in my head:
Make me forget
.

What does she want to forget? Us? Our past together? Please, not that, Lana. The past might be all we have.

I tug off my tie. The bedroom door has this row of hooks slotted over the top. There’s often something hanging there. Clothes, towels, bags. But not tonight. I glance at the hooks. I think we both know where this is leading. I take her wrists, raise them in front of me and cross one hand over the other. Briefly, she closes her eyes and gets that dreamy look of hers. She holds the pose I’ve put her in, offering her softly clenched hands. Then she watches me as I wind the tie around her wrists.

‘Is this OK?’ I ask.

She nods.

I lift her hands, raising her arms above her head, and catch the sound of a tiny mewl. My dick throbs. Her arms are so pretty. So graceful and strong. That’ll be the swimming. How did I miss that? I fasten my tie to one of the hooks and run my hands down those pretty arms. Then I stroke down further to her waist and her panties. I tuck my thumbs in the band and slide them down her legs. She steps out of them willingly. She uses her toes to edge off the flats she’s wearing. Naked, pale and vulnerable, tied to the door. I guess she’s thinking I have a plan, something in mind I want to do to her, but I don’t have a notion in my head. Well, there’s a lot I want to do to her, there always is, but none of it is appropriate right now. So I touch her and look at her while I’m mulling it over, and my cock’s hard as rock in my jockeys. Her bush is dark gold. Her tits are two perfect handfuls. Her nipples are pink as shells.

I think of Ilya Travis and I want to kill him.

I stoop for a mouthful of nipple. She goes from soft to stiff in no time at all. I suck and tongue her, my hands spanning the curve of each tit, nudging into her flesh. I want to devour her. I edge up to kiss her neck. I lick and kiss, nuzzle and nibble. I want to erase every dread and every memory that Travis planted in her mind when he sliced his tongue tip across her slender neck, left to right. I’ll get him one day. And I’ll have him strung up with his own vas deferens.

They say something soured him, that he lost a woman he loved when he was bartering with some low-lifes. I’d wish him sorrow till the end of his days but I figure he long since cut his heart out.

Lana whimpers when I drop to my knees. I am a drowning man. She is my air. I don’t care what she’s done. I press my hands to her inner thighs, pushing her apart. She tips her hips as I move in. Her pussy melts into my mouth and I’m all over her, in, around and through, lapping and slurping, wet on wet. She floods my tongue, brine running fast and fresh. Her flesh is warm on me and she smells ripe. I mean that in a good way. Seriously good. Above me, she’s making tiny gasps and cries, quieter than usual, as if she’s loath to give me anything. After a while, I shove two fingers inside her and devote my mouth to her orgasm. She’s hot and pulpy around my fingers. Her fat clit rolls beneath my tongue, glossy and taut. I fuck her with my fingers, curving them the way she likes it, and she fucks right back, grinding into my lips with eager little thrusts. Soon, she’s coming in a series of jerks and shudders, small, focused and violent, as if her loins are having a seizure. She barely makes a sound.