Chapter 32

CHASTITY

I don’t know how long it takes me to get to Tate’s restaurant, or if I get there by running a dozen traffic lights, by broomstick, or by ruby fucking slippers. But the one thing that consoles me as I pull up on double yellows is that this isn’t the first time I’ve driven on autopilot and lived to tell the tale. We’ve all been there at one point, I’m sure. One minute you’re turning the key in the ignition, and the next you’re pulling up outside your destination without any recollection of the journey. Difference is, I think, as I slam the door to my car, this time my mind was filled with discernible thoughts. Angry thoughts—no, rage filled thoughts. How the fuck—no, how about why the fuck would he do this?

I push open the door to the restaurant, assailed by the smell of garlic and rosemary, my eyes flicking around the light filled space. The lunch crowd have mostly departed though there are one on two tables with paying customers still seated. I feel sorry that I’m about to spoil their afternoon coffee, tapas, or whatever the hell they’re partaking in.

‘Table for one?’ A young waitress appears in front of me. Dark haired and pretty, she wears the bistro staple of white shirt, black skirt and wrap around apron. A menu is pressed between her folded arms and her chest, her eyebrows raised in expectancy. The girl next door type. I mentally kick myself for slotting her into a trope or a category—professional hazard, I suppose.

‘Actually, I’m here to see Tate,’ I reply. Maybe I should be in the movies. That devil-may-care answer was almost Oscar worthy. Meanwhile, something resembling lava swirls and builds deep inside my chest.

‘Oh.’ Her brow furrows but straightens almost immediately. ‘He’s just popped out to the bank. Would you like to take a seat while you wait?’

No, I would not. Righteous indignation won’t have the same effect if I’m sitting. I’m more likely to stand on a table and Lucha Libre his ass, though without the mask because I want him to be sure that it’s me that’s taking him down. You know, just in case he has a troop of irate women after him. Not that irate really covers how I feel. How did he do it? And more to the point, why? What kind of low-life scum does that sort of thing? The mentally ill kind?

‘Chastity! What a lovely surprise.’ I’m brought out of my musing with a snap at the sound of Tate’s cultured voice and his pleasant though measured smile. ‘Were you meeting someone or waiting for me?’

There’s just something about his tone; a certain smugness, an almost imperceptible something that provokes me immediately. As the waitress makes herself scarce, words begin tumbling from my mouth. Though not the kind of I would’ve anticipated. Less swear-y for one thing. My mother would be so proud.

Camilla not so much.

‘Why, Tate? Why would you do such a thing?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Yes—yes you do.’ This I know for sure. What I don’t know is, ‘What could you have possibly thought you’d would gain from it?’

His laughter is bitter. ‘Well, Chastity.’ There’s such venom in his delivery. ‘Your parents didn’t think your name through very well, did they? Perhaps they were duped by that pink mouth and peachy skin? I’m sure you must’ve been a beautiful baby. And your parent’s fooled into thinking their cherubic child would grow to be a woman of virtue and taste.’

Ah, so that’s where this is going. I have no taste because I didn’t choose him. And because I produce erotica, I have no virtue. What a colossal tit.

‘Do you think you’re the first person to ever remark on my name and my looks as some kind of antonym to my profession?’ I fold my arms across my chest defensively, my words reasonable, my expression probably anything but.

We’re standing almost at the front door, out of the way of the main restaurant, but I wonder how long we can keep up our exchange in spoken terms.

‘Profession,’ he spits. So not long, apparently. ‘I suppose even whores can lay claim to the nomenclature.’ His eyes roam over my body, full of distain. ‘At least, the ones that get paid, anyway.’

Big words and a superior attitude. Well, fuck this for a game of soldiers. This pathetic kind of boy’s club pisses me off no end.

‘Get over yourself, you complete fuck nut! I have no idea why you would do such a thing—why you would want to hurt me this way. And what gives you the right to use Sophia in such a despicable manner.’ Each word fuses the heat in my veins. Each reminder of the transgressions of this . . . person, because I refuse to call him a man, makes me feel sick.

‘The woman has sex for a living. Don’t expect me to feel anything for her.’

‘You’re fucked up.’ This is my official diagnosis. There is no remorse or feeling or guilt. There isn’t a flicker of anything decent in his expression. How could I have been so fooled?

‘She deserved it. What’s more, she probably liked it. Girls like her are so worthless, they’re familiar with being used. As for you?’ His gaze flicks over me again, the lazy distain turning to hate. ‘You brought this on yourself. You led me on—let me believe you were interested, then you fucked another man while I wandered around your kitchen serving food!’

I realise three things at this moment, as angry fricative-spittle hits my face.

1. He’s moved closer

2. He’s completely delusional

3. He’s possibly dangerous.

4. That was him outside my bedroom door, listening like a perv.

Okay, four things. I’m a little stressed; I can’t be held responsible for counting.

‘No one asked you to serve food,’ I answer calmly, reasonably. ‘I paid for waiter service, just as I paid for the food.’

‘And do you honestly think the paltry sum you paid covered even the raw costs of the produce?’

‘That’s on you, Tate. I didn’t flutter my eyelashes at you to get a better rate.’ It’s not my fault you’re a crappy business man.

‘I thought you’d be opening your fucking legs.’ Although quietly spoken, his words are rage filled as he reaches for my arm, his fingers pinching instantly.

Time to leave. There’s getting your point across to sane persons and there’s putting yourself at risk. These two things are not the same.

‘You insulted my manhood and my intelligence. You’re a cock-tease. Nothing but a filthy cock-tease’

‘Let go of my arm, Tate.’ I begin to feel a little sick. Not the ill kind, the anxious kind. Yes, there are people around, but they’re behind me. The floorspace is L shaped and the customers seated some distance away, probably out of Tate’s line of view. Can they see this happening? And if they can, will they just watch if he gets physical? I’d like to think people stand up for others, but I know this isn’t always true. ‘I want to leave.’

‘Oh, she wants to leave now,’ he snarls, towering over me. ‘Now that she’s heard a few truths. What’ll you do now, Chastity? Will you go back to your cunt of a boyfriend and suck his little dick?’

I might laugh if I wasn’t so stunned. Or suggest we call Flynn over and get a tape measure out. Instead, I struggle, trying to pull my arm free but his just tightens. Fear swells in my throat, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing me call for help. It’s broad daylight—nothing can happen here, right? Even as I’m reassuring myself, I can see how my reaction fuels the fire in his gaze.

There are names for men like him. Men that get off on power over women. Rapists, my mind whispers. But no, not here.

I put my whole body weight into one shove, and yank on the door as he stumbles back. I can’t get my keys out of my purse quick enough before his shoes sound on the pavement behind. Cars whizz by; it’s the mad rush hour centred around school pick up time.

He won’t hurt me—not in broad daylight. Not with all the traffic rushing by. Pedestrians bustle past, their shopping bags almost brushing my back.

‘You’re a cunt,’ he growls, coming up behind me. ‘It’s women like you who give your gender a bad name.’

Ignore him. Get in the car, drive away.

Finally, my fingers grasp my key. I click the fob, put my fingers on the door handle and cry out as he grabs my hair.

Fear zips down my spine as he slides his other hand around my waist. We might look like lovers—my head pulled back and resting on his shoulder as he whispers in my ear, my whole being caught in his embrace.

‘Fucking slut.’ He elongates the insult as though it wasn’t already frightening enough. I’m no shrinking violet. I stand up for what I believe in. Stand up for those I love. I never once imagined that, should a man put his hands on me, I would react like this.

Tears prickle from the force of his hand, but my fear is debilitating and like a punch to my chest. I have no breath for breathing. I want to run but don’t have the freedom or the wherewithal to do so.

And then, I’m suddenly free. Slumped against the car, my heart beating as though I’ve just taken part in a marathon. And I don’t run. Not by choice, at any rate.

‘Chas!’ Paisley’s voice is like a balm as she throws her arms around me, pulling me back from the car. ‘What was that about? Did he hurt you?’

As I turn, her eyes flick over me as though to discern my state of wellbeing. But you can’t always tell what’s broken just by viewing the surface. All the same, I shake my head. He didn’t hurt me. At least, not physically. And at least, not this time.

It’s about then I notice the motorbike and the man. Two men, really. Keir stands off to the side, almost refereeing the fierce looks being exchanged between Flynn and Tate. Looks that speak of violence and hate.

I open my mouth, to what purpose, I’m not sure, but I’m pleased I don’t take that moment to look away, not as Tate pushes Flynn. Not as Flynn retaliates by bringing his fist to Tate’s stomach, hard and fast, making his body bow. I wished I could hear what Flynn says as he places his hand on Tate’s shoulder, lowering to whisper something in his ear.

And then it’s over.

And he’s walking over to me.

And he looks so pissed.

And I want to cry but I can’t let myself do it.

His hands on my upper arms, his jaw flexes under the stubble covering his skin, and his eyes are just so . . . unyielding and grim.

‘You look like shit,’ my mouth seems to say, though I’m almost certain my brain meant to ask him what he’s doing here.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and even in this state I can see that this is a delaying tactic . . . for a smile. A smile that is a precursor to laughter.

‘I wished I could say the same.’

‘You wished I looked like shit?’ I answer, bemused, though I’m sure I must look like someone who’s just had the piss frightened out of them. Try not to look down. If you had peed yourself, I’m sure you’d know by now. You’d be feeling a little cold down there, surely.

He inhales, and when he exhales, the merriment seems to drain out of him. ‘Yeah, I wished you looked like shit. It’d be easier to walk away.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I sound like a cartoon mouse—a blubbering, eye-watering, snot bubbling mouse. ‘I know it’s not enough, but I really am so, so very sorry.’

‘I know.’ He nods, his hands tightening. ‘Me, too.’

And then he turns away.