Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play by Sydney Jamesson Page B

thought, knowing she was
gagging for it. He could hear the peals of laughter as he turned down the
corridor, and could already feel the bile forming in his throat. It took a
visit to his locker to see his girl, and a couple of strokes to make him feel
better.
    When he turned up as arranged at 5.30 in the foyer of
the main entrance, she was there, fussing with her peroxide blonde hair and
straightening her blouse which was easily two sizes too small. Her face lit up
when she saw him and he even managed to manufacture a reciprocal smile to
reassure her, before he hit her between the eyes with a knockout punch.
    “You’re here.”
    “I am.”
    He watched her wiggle her arse, straighten her skirt,
leading him on. From the way she was holding her mouth, he could tell she was
expecting to be kissed. But there was no way that was going to happen. Almost
choking on cheap perfume and cigarette breath, he rocked forward into her. “Then
fuck off, I don’t date slags!”
    Her face was a picture. He wished he’d brought his
expensive camera along, even without the zoom lens it would have been one for
the photo album.
    Leaving her standing, mouth agape and ashen faced, he
walked away muttering, “Why the fuck would I settle for a witch like you when
I’ve got a princess at home?”
    At the end of his shift, he made the forty minute
journey back to Ely, grinning for the entire 16 miles at the memory of her
disintegration.

3
    In one swift movement we are trotting down stairs and gliding along marble
floors. Ayden is pressing the screen on his iPhone and, after only two rings,
puts it away in his pocket. For a matter of seconds, we linger at the bottom of
the foyer steps, avoiding a passing vagrant of gigantic proportions.  A sleek,
silver Rolls Royce comes around the corner to the left of us, registration
number: ASMED1A. It pulls up outside the entrance.
    A smartly dressed man with a number two haircut and a
stance that belongs more on a military base than outside a theatre, steps out
and walks around the car to open the passenger door. I glance over to Ayden and
we share a look, yet say nothing about the chauffeur driven car. It’s our
private joke.
    "Good evening Mr. Stone, Miss Parker."
    “Hi Lester. Just drive." This is a side to Ayden
I have yet to see; him giving commands so effortlessly. "After you,
Beth."
    I step into the sumptuous interior; there’s the sweet
smell of leather cleaner and polish and it reminds me of my mum’s house. How
strange that a fragrance can evoke such a powerful memory.
    "Where to?" Ayden asks, shaking me out of my
absorbing recollection.
    I’m too taken with the night’s events to have even
considered where we’re going, but I’m supposed to be taking charge so I issue
an order; "To my apartment please," realising he doesn’t know where
my apartment is. "Sorry, the address is ..."
    "He knows the address," Ayden states as a
matter of fact and throws me a ‘what did you expect’ look.
    "He does?" I return fire with a surprised
look. I wonder what other information he has on me? There’s a kind of
uncomfortable silence and I feel on edge, I want to laugh. Ayden looks so
debonair and I can’t believe my good fortune; this kind of thing doesn’t happen
to women like me. I put my hand to my mouth to contain a giggle.
    "That’s one way of breaking the ice." He
grins and leans into me expectantly.
    Is he assuming I’ll take the lead?
    I look out of the window and try to devise a plan of
action, but nothing comes to mind. "Ayden … what are you expecting when we
get to my apartment?"
    He has a dead-pan expression. "I’m expecting
chains and whips and a selection of bondage gear."
    "What! Have you had them delivered?" From
his reaction, my face must be a picture, I’m startled beyond words.
    "Beth … I don’t know what I’m expecting when we
get to your apartment. I’m in the dark here." He is shaking his head, but
his eyes are laughing: he’s fooling around.
    "That makes two of