The Mak Collection (134 page)

But you want one.

Of course a massage would be great. Who could turn down a decent massage? But it was Bogey and she hardly knew him, except as the shy, charming face seated next to her while a young lady with a stage name of Charlotte displayed her flexibility, unhindered by clothing. It wasn’t like a massage would mean she was cheating on Andy or anything. But…

‘No, no, I didn’t mean it, really,’ Mak
continued. ‘I just haven’t had one in ages. That’s all I meant. I didn’t mean to sound like—’

‘Like you are a woman who will die if she doesn’t have a massage. That’s what you said,’ Loulou pressed.

‘I am not going to die. Stop it. I just meant that…well, everyone likes massages, don’t they? Why is everyone staring at me?’

Drayson and Loulou were both watching her. Bogey was looking determinedly at the coffee table.

‘Oh, now you have to!’ Loulou urged Bogey, who appeared to be blushing slightly, as he had when Mak had squeezed his knee at the strip club. To make it worse, Loulou elbowed him hard.

If he had been embarrassed at all though, Bogey seemed to recover quickly. ‘I could give you a little relaxation massage after dinner if you would like, Mak. It would be no trouble,’ he said.

‘He’s a trained masseur. He’s really good.’

Really? A coffin maker rock-’n’-roll-poet masseur?

Mak smiled and finally stopped protesting. It’s not that she didn’t want to say yes—she just wished she could say no.

So she said nothing.

‘Now stop the car,’ the deep, monotonous voice said.

Warwick O’Connor put the brakes on slowly, and his car came to rest in a massive parking lot, deserted on a Sunday evening. It was near a construction site, from what Warwick could tell. And it was dark. He and his mysterious companion were alone. Warwick had not yet seen him—he had been waiting in the back seat.

‘Look, I know who sent you,’ he said, his voice tremulous.

At least I think I do
…Warwick had a lot of disgruntled clients and colleagues. He’d imagined that something like this might happen one day. Someone might be sent to fix him up. He’d been sent on such jobs himself.

‘I have a lot of money,’ he pleaded, trying to placate his unseen foe. ‘In
cash.
Unmarked bills just waiting for you, yeah? They’re hidden in a shed. I can give it all to you. I can pay you well.’

Warwick knew he could scream as loudly as he wanted to and no one would hear him, not
here. No one would come to his rescue. He had to talk his way out of this.

The man in the back seat of his car said nothing.

Warwick strained his neck to look behind him and turned his cheek right into the cold barrel of a pistol. It had a long, cylindrical silencer on the end of it. This man meant business. You didn’t come with a silencer if you didn’t plan on firing.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

‘No, man, no! I—I can pay you! I’ll do whatever you want!’ he pleaded.

‘Yes, you will.’

Warwick got a chill.
Fuck!
This guy was serious, and he had a pistol with a goddamned silencer at his face.
Fuck!

‘Anything! I’ve got money. I’ll give it all to you and I can leave town, man. I’ll leave! You won’t ever see me again!’ Warwick rambled, tears forming in his eyes. He was not ashamed to beg for his life. If he were this man, he would take the money. If it were enough money, he might even let himself live. ‘I don’t know what they’re paying you, man, but I got lots in that shed.
Thousands.
Tens of thousands in cash!’

‘Get out. Slowly,’ was the only reply.

That voice.
It was so deep and unfeeling. He thought he might have heard it somewhere before.

Warwick did as he was told. He slid out of the car with his hands up, still trying to placate the
man. ‘I’ll do whatever you say, man, it’s cool. Whatever you want…’

The man now got out, gun still pointed at him. When he stood, his torso just kept rising and rising until he was head and shoulders above Warwick. He was a huge man. Tall
and
broad.

Oh Christ…

But there was something familiar about him—it wasn’t just the voice now. Even in the low light, he thought he recognised the man. ‘Hey…hey, is that you?’

There was a smile in the dark—white teeth, but a strange smile. Something was wrong with it. Warwick’s eyes were still adjusting, and when he looked at the man he saw that his skin looked funny.

Luther?

‘Is that you, Luther, mate?’

There was a slow nod.

‘Geez, man, you had me scared there for a sec! How the hell are you?’ He hadn’t seen Luther in, what—ten years maybe?

‘Nothing personal,’ Luther said.

Warwick had been so busy looking down the barrel of the gun that he had failed to notice the object in Luther’s other hand. It was a tyre iron. It flew towards him at lightning speed, and with one crushing blow made contact squarely with Warwick’s head. He cried out.

Now Warwick thought he was going to die.

‘No, man, no!’

The tyre iron struck again, this time against Warwick’s jaw. He nearly lost consciousness from that one blow.

‘Stop, please! Stop!’

Luther Hand kicked him to the ground, and continued kicking him. He had steel-toed boots, and every blow brought incredible pain to Warwick’s body. Warwick lost track of time as he was beaten into near unconsciousness. He no longer begged or pleaded. He could barely speak, and barely move.

Finally the beating stopped.

‘Get in the trunk.’

‘What?’ Warwick tried to mumble through his swelling face. The word came out in a grunt.

‘GET—IN—THE—TRUNK.’

Warwick tried to lift his body but failed. He wanted to do whatever Luther said. Luther was beating him, so he’d begun to hope that he wasn’t going to kill him. He wasn’t using his gun. This was about teaching him a lesson: Warwick would leave the Cavanaghs alone. The Cavanaghs or whomever else he had pissed off. He would leave them all alone so that no one would send Luther Hand to him again. He would skip town. He’d send a postcard to Madeline and she would join him one day. Maybe he’d go to Darwin. Or Perth. He would move far from Sydney and he would never come back.

Warwick dragged his body along the gritty pavement of the parking lot, towards the rear of his car, while Luther watched in silence.

Luther had already opened the trunk.

There was no way Warwick could lift himself to get in. He was pretty sure his leg was broken. And one of his arms.

Luther bent down and hauled his victim up, pain soaring through Warwick’s bruised and broken limbs. He couldn’t help but cry out, blood mixed with tears and mucus oozing down his face.

He was shoved inside the trunk of his car. Warwick managed to open his swelling eyes just enough to see Luther’s form above him, the light of a distant streetlamp giving the giant man a faint halo.

‘I…’ Warwick began, but found he couldn’t speak.

Luther slammed the trunk shut, leaving him in darkness. Warwick was relieved.

It’s over. Thank God, it’s over.

When he got out, he would leave Sydney and never come back.

After a few minutes his shaking began to ease. The full impact of his wounds sank in: he had been beaten to within an inch of his life. He didn’t want to bleed to death; he hoped someone found him before that happened. He would need a good surgeon—someone to make his face look normal again. His nose was broken, his eyes swollen shut.

Then Warwick thought he smelled petrol again, as he had when he’d first got into the car. The smell was stronger this time. Something dripped on his face and stung. He was confused.

The realisation hit him only as he felt the searing heat. Smoke poured into the trunk. He kicked against the lid of the trunk, screaming, shouting, coughing, struggling, but it was no use and he knew it.

This wasn’t a lesson.

It was an execution.

‘I’ve got the room set up. Come in and make yourself comfortable.’

‘Okay,’ Mak said and walked into the bedroom. Thankfully Loulou was busy with her boyfriend, and Donkey was comatose in front of the television, so there would be no more embarrassing talk. Mak wondered if Loulou had any idea how awkward she felt.

The modest guestroom had been temporarily transformed into a relaxing retreat; a couple of candles lit, the floor space cleared and a yoga mat stretched out for her to lie on, next to some towels. Her suitcase was pushed into a corner.

Mak took a deep breath.

‘So you used to do this professionally?’ Mak asked.

‘Yes, one of my many and varied careers,’ Bogey said, and laughed softly. ‘I did remedial massage for about two years.’ He gestured to the spot he’d set up. ‘Are you okay to lie on the mat?’

‘Sure.’ She got on her knees at first, trying to
decide what to do about her clothing. ‘Did you enjoy it? When you were doing massage?’

‘Yes. It’s nice to make people feel good. I still like to give massages once in a while.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who used to be a musician, masseur and coffin-maker,’ Mak commented.

‘I guess I am still looking for something I’m good at.’

There was an uncomfortable silence while Mak pulled her jumper over her head and stretched out on her stomach on the mat. She realised she had only text messaged Andy to see that he had arrived safely in Virginia. She hadn’t called. That was a little insensitive of her. Then again, neither had he contacted her once he’d touched down.

Andy, don’t be gone too long.

‘This is very kind of you. You don’t have to just because Loulou suggested it,’ Mak said then.

‘No, it’s my pleasure. As long as you are comfortable with it?’

‘Absolutely,’ she lied. She wanted the massage, but that didn’t mean she was entirely comfortable about it.

Bogey asked her how hard she would like the pressure.

‘Um, I like it hard. Ummm, deep tissue.’

I like it hard? Jesus, Mak…

She was blushing wildly by now, but she hoped he couldn’t tell with her face pushed into the pillow.

‘I’ll take my T-shirt off, if that’s okay,’ she said. It was useless to try to have a massage fully clothed. She pushed herself up on her elbows and strained to pull her top over her head. It was a thrill to disrobe, even to this degree. Perhaps too much of a thrill. Was all this really harmless?
Of course it is. It’s just a massage.
She hardly knew this guy, but he had been cool about her strange adventure at Thunderball, and he was a friend of Loulou’s latest boyfriend. That sort of made him trustworthy, didn’t it?

‘Are you okay if I undo your—’

‘Yes, yes, that’s fine,’ Mak said to him, and she reached behind her back to undo her bra. The elasticised straps sprung apart and hung from her sides.

She took another deep breath.

Now her back was entirely vulnerable and exposed. She felt the cold air of the room over her skin. Her face was continuing to flame, so she kept her head firmly on the pillow.

‘Just close your eyes and relax,’ Bogey told her.

She heard him rub his hands together briskly for a few seconds and when he placed them on her back they were hot. Her skin responded gratefully, and Mak felt her heart jump. His touch was electric.

‘Take a deep breath for me,’ he said.

She inhaled through her nose, filling her chest with oxygen, and letting it out slowly.

‘Good. And another.’

She repeated the deep breathing, feeling her head sway slightly from the experience. With the red wine, she was feeling it even more.

Bogey gently pushed against her back with his palms, rocking her spine softly. She listened for the sound of a bottle as he filled his hands with oil and slicked her back with it in slow-moving rhythmic circles and strokes. The feeling of release was immediate and beautiful. He caressed her back with an almost loving grace, and as the minutes progressed and she lost herself in his touch, Mak allowed herself to imagine this interaction as a slow and sensual foreplay to lovemaking.

‘That is beautiful,’ she muttered guiltily, enjoying his touch.

‘Just allow yourself to relax completely and enjoy it. Let everything go.’

She was beginning to feel warm between her legs. Being touched by another man, this young and fascinating Australian, was getting to her. She had sensed the danger of it. What if she rolled over and pulled him into her? What would he do?

She could feel her body respond as if for sex; as if this man, this near stranger, was worshipping every inch of her skin, section by section, before entering her and bringing her to orgasm, which she already felt tantalisingly close to reaching.

Stop it, Mak. Think about something else.

But she couldn’t.

Perhaps the way she felt was just because of the change of scenery, or perhaps it was because of the way Andy had left and his proposed move to Canberra when he got back, never having discussed any of it with her, never talking about how she might fit into that picture. Mak felt tempted to take advantage of this moment.

She was alone with this man, and she might never be alone with him again.

Mak was relieved when Bogey was gone.

He had massaged her for nearly ninety minutes before gently running his fingertips in lines down her skin, and asking if she felt good.

Did she feel good?

She felt transported.

Now she was preparing for bed, feeling guilty at the pleasure she’d experienced. The temptation to step over the line had nearly overwhelmed her. Imagine if she had given in to it…What would she do then? Tell Andy? Move back to Canada? Keep a naughty secret like that?

What was getting into her? Andy had left only yesterday and she was already acting like they had been apart for years.

Mak brushed her teeth in Drayson’s bathroom and crept back to the guestroom in a long T-shirt and a pair of Andy’s boxer shorts. The lights were off in the apartment, with only a soft glow
coming from under the door of the main bedroom. She could hear Loulou giggling, the mattress squeaking. They would be having sex.