Maggie's Five ...the first in a LOVE story (14 page)

Red carries me
to a large bed and gently lowers us, relaxing his hold and kissing
my mouth like a lover.

“
You’re so fucking fresh, Maggie.” His lips moves against my
tingling skin as he presses his pelvis between my legs.

The blonde woman
leans over me to kiss Red’s neck, murmuring, “She’s lovely, thank
you for bringing her for me.” Her English accent is soft, her words
flowing elegantly from her full red lips.

“
I
want her for myself, Abigail.”

“
I
can tell. I’ll be nice, don’t worry.”

His voice drops
to a whisper as he undoes the rest of the buttons on my shirt,
opening it to expose my lace bra. “You’re so fucking innocent,
Maggie,” he says in wonder, kissing my mouth with perfect lips
again before climbing off the bed and walking to a
table.

The bed dips as
the blonde, Abigail, slides down next to me, patting my exposed
stomach like I’m her pet. She leans over and licks a kiss over my
navel.

“
Abigail,” Red warns, capturing my attention I watch him bend,
place a short black straw to his nose and inhale. First one white
line, then he switches the straw to his other nostril and draws in
a second, rubbing and pinching his nose. He blinks rapidly as he
comes back to me.

I feel my eyes
rolling to the back of my head. My lids get heavy begging to close.
“What… What did you…” my voice trails off, unable to complete my
sentence. Red takes off his shirt and climbs over me.

“
Shh,
Maggie, you’re going to be okay, I promise sweetheart. Just lie
back and let us take care of you,” he purrs, brushing the hair from
my face and kissing my mouth like he loves me.

I know his mouth
is on my mouth. I can feel him, see him if I open my eyes, but I
can also feel another mouth licking at my thighs, willing them to
open. I’m so far gone that I can’t seem to find the presence of
mind to be concerned about it. When a hand slides under my skirt
and soft fingers press onto me, I’m gone. My mind is awash, my
nerve endings alight, and I’m completely overflowing in surreal
erotic sensation.

Somewhere in the
back ground I vaguely hear a door open, then close. A chair is
dragged close, and I hear a deep satisfied hum of
approval.

“
Just
let go, sweetheart.”

I WAKE LYING face
down on the couch, drooling into a soft cushion underneath my head.
I’m covered with the blanket that’s normally folded over the back
of the three seater I’m sprawled out on. The sun’s setting through
the lounge windows, warming my skin, but no longer strong enough to
burn.

My limbs feel so
heavy that they could leave permanent indentation in the cushions.
My mind is dull, hung over but not. The same, but
different.

I don’t know how
I got here. I barely remember a thing from last night after
entering that club. I feel violated, dirty. And I don’t even know
why.

I lift the
blanket to take in my appearance. I’m dressed and, for some reason
this surprises me. Holding my breath, I gently press my hand
between my legs, anticipating pain, or in the least, discomfort,
but feel nothing. I must still be numb from last night’s cocktail
of dissolution. Carefully sitting up, I take an inventory as I
move. Nothing screams out for attention, nothing broken or
battered, so what in God’s name happened last night?

I stand on heavy
legs to trudge to the downstairs bathroom, stopping short when I
see the cut flower sitting on the coffee table in front of me. It’s
bruised and damaged pink petals remind me of my neighbour’s garden.
Behind the flower I see the light flashing on my phone. I
robotically pick it up and slide my thumb to unlock the blank
screen. There’s a text.

Red:
You
were so fucking innocent last night Maggie. I wish I could show you
just how perfect you were. Thank you so much sweetheart.

Chapter 8

THE CAR HORN sounds repeatedly from my
drive, making me jump in fright after being perched on the couch in
the living room, waiting. Red texted me earlier, telling me to be
ready to go by ten.

I was ready by
seven thirty.

As to where we
are going, I have no idea - so I’ve dressed basically, with black
knee-length fitted skirt that’s little roomier than it used to be
and a white short-sleeve shirt. Knowing Red however, we’re most
likely heading to a club of some description - same as all the
other nights he’s come for me.

Leaping to my
feet, I shift the curtain to spy through the front window and see
Red’s black sports car idling with the driver, side window down,
his arm hanging out; the orange glow of his cigarette swinging
lazily from between two fingers.

“
Come
on sweetheart, let’s go,” he calls impatiently from his seat. The
orange glow lifts inside the car and is inhaled to life, burning
brilliant for but a moment, petering out just as quickly. Much
along the same lines of what he does to me, he offers me bright
bursts of life that smoulder out far too soon.

“
You
don’t knock anymore?” I ask, attempting to mask my question with a
half-hearted giggle while I situate myself in the passenger seat
next to him and close the door carefully.

“
You
can’t find your own fucking way from the front door to the fucking
car?” he barks, passing me his smoke. I look down at his hand
without moving, my brows crossing. Slowly I lift my eyes to see his
glare.

He holds his
hand up higher, “Take the fucking thing when I tell you to,” he
growls, wedging the rolled paper between my lips. Then he jars the
gearstick into reverse, and presses on the accelerator so abruptly
it causes me to lurch forwards until we’re in the middle of the
road. He then forces it into first and speeds us away, slamming me
back against the seat.

I inhale the
joint as I’m told and stay silent, offering it back to him when I’m
done.

“
Finish it.” And I do. After all, this is Playing with the
Devil Red. The moody, dangerous, unpredictable and sexy as all get
out Red that I find so incredibly physically appealing… it’s goes
beyond all rational logic. I’m caught in one of those moments when
you know bad is just bad, but can be so freaking pulse-racing
good.

By the time
Red’s parking the car I’m feeling more relaxed, numb. I think numb
looks good on me these days. It certainly sits better than the
alternative.

“
Got
any cash on you, sweetheart?” Red asks, gnawing on his top lip and
staring out the windscreen.

“
Yes,
I think so.” I lift my bag to my lap and take out my purse. Before
I can open it to see how much is in there, Red snatches it out of
my hand and hurriedly jerks the zip, tugging at it until it’s free
of its catches, and dives his fingers in to take what’s
there.

“
This
all of it,” he states rather than asks, rubbing the back of his
hand aggressively over his nose before holding up the wad of cash.
He folds it in half and shoves it in his pocket. There’s actually
more than I thought - about two or three hundred at
least.

“
I
need it. Let’s go.” He’s shouldering the car door open before I
have a chance to reply, tossing my still-open and now empty purse
at me, littering the receipts and cards over my lap.

The club’s in
full swing when I finally catch up to Red. I hook a finger in his
back pocket, feeling the now familiar tingle of anticipation as I
enter the vast space behind him. It covers all the usual culprits:
smoke-filled room, loud blaring music, dim lighting with blinding
strobes and half-dressed leather-clad people with more coloured
flesh than organic.

Red marches
straight up to the bar and immediately starts talking animatedly
with one of the barmen. He’s edgy, clutching and unclutching his
hands and all but climbing over the marred timber top. His temper
escalates until the barman says something in his ear, then reaches
under the bar and shakes Red’s hand. Red’s entire body visibly sags
in relief. He digs his hands into his pockets, pulling out the wad
of cash he took from me with the other and passes it over with a
nod.

He immediately
snatches a short black straw out of the metal canister on the
counter, working it between his teeth. He takes my wrist firmly,
his other hand still deep in his pocket, and drags me hastily to
the men’s room. No explanations, no apologies, nothing but his
insatiable need.

He forces his
way through the middle of a small group of men leaving the
bathroom, and zeros in on the sink. Dropping my arm, he wipes
vigorously at the sticky wet surface with the edge of his
tee-shirt, then with his bare arm. Trembling, he tears open the
package the barman gave him with his teeth and hurriedly empties
the contents. I’m captivated, watching Red working the white powder
on the counter with a credit card, chopping it into two even lines.
He wipes harshly at his nose, brings the black straw to his nostril
and bends, first inhaling one line, then shifting the straw to his
other side, to draw in the second. He wipes loose powder from the
top of his lip with his middle finger and rubs it over his gums and
teeth. Every molecule that possesses his body exudes relief, and
finally Red straightens, becoming himself again.

He wipes the
same finger over the surface he just breathed in and wanders
towards me. His voice is soft and gentle. “Come here sweetheart.
Let me help make it better for you.”

I step slowly
over to him, amazed by the change in him. He’s calm and no longer
intimidating, smirking so his dimple’s showing. He licks over my
mouth to open it and slips his finger in after, rubbing over my
gums and teeth. I trace my tongue over the path his finger took to
dissolve the dry powder sticking to my numbing flesh.

I watch
fascinated as he reaches for me, wrapping one hand around my waist,
the other delving into the front pocket of his jeans. He presses a
tender moist kiss to my mouth, licks my lips apart again and places
a small pill inside while I pull away slightly.

He repeats the
words he used last time I questioned him. “It’s nothing real
sweetheart.”

And it’s not.
What Red gives me isn’t real like the stuff he uses.

It’s fine. I’m
fine. Better even.

I swallow and
lean in to hold him as euphoria warms me to my core, heightening my
senses, at the same time dulling my reality. I feel, while my
heart-rate increases. I sigh, as Red’s soft hands begin to massage
my back; his mouth working wet biting kisses to my mouth, attacking
me with his tongue. Heat instantly shoots and swells between my
legs, moistening my underwear. My breasts tingle and pucker under
the sublime pressure of Red’s incredible fingers.

I hear a deep
male voice boom from afar - “Holy fuck, a free show” - but don’t
find the rationale to care… not even when Red hoists my skirt up
around my hips and is lifting me on the edge of the counter, my
knees clutching the sides of his grinding hips. I don’t find the
logic to care when people start to cheer us on, nor when Red lowers
his pants and fumbles, sliding on a condom, nor when he shifts my
underwear to one side and enters me.

I don’t care
because I’m so completely lost to myself, and it’s
heaven.

NIGHT BLEEDS INTO
day, day bleeds into night. My life’s become filled with turbulent
highs bursting with lust and escape, and bone-crushing lows so dark
and overwhelming that my existence could end and bring a smile to
my face.

Luke calls
constantly, and I constantly reject his number.

It’s safer that
way.

I began to find
my fit when he was here and now that he’s not, I don’t seem to fit
anywhere.

I don’t like
feeling that dependant on one person, I don’t like that I need that
one person to make me more. I don’t like that Luke’s the one that
helps fill the emptiness that I can’t seem to fill
myself.

I don’t
understand why he’s the only one that I can exhale with. I don’t
like that I miss him so much it brings me to my knees when we talk,
when I listen to his hollow promises about coming back, coming
home, when he’s still there week after week.

I don’t like
that Luke’s became the right kind of right for me when I wasn’t
looking. I hate that I can’t find that on my own.

I hate that I
like what I find when I’m with Red.

Jon’s been by a
few times between photography shoots. They’ve been awkward visits
with coffee and little conversation. Amazing, isn’t it, how after
all the years we’ve known each other, we no longer have anything
left in common. Nothing alive, anyway.

He’s off on
assignment again now, according to his latest voicemail anyway - no
doubt shooting pictures of all the wonderful things out there in
the world for his many adoring magazine admirers.

My dad’s having
trouble with his arthritis and is mostly house-bound. He has a
nurse who visits him every day, and yes, I feel like a selfish
bitch for not spending time with him.

It’s the hurt in
his eyes that stops me, the hurt that’s for me not for himself, not
for his loss, but mine. I don’t need to be reminded more than I
already am about how much I no longer have.