Page 44 of Demon
“Think we’ve already done that,” Ciara said softly, a hint of amusement on her face.
And now I couldn’t stop staring at her, at the smile lines pulling her face into that heart shape and those rich brown eyes that captivated me, that I could dwell on every second. And those beautifully plump tits that made me madly hungry, that I could fucking feast on all day. Fuck. She’d done a right number on me. I was hooked. In every way.
*****
I watched her all night, hatred spilling from my very soul every time a punter looked at her too closely, their eyes lingering on those fucking luscious tits and her long legs. I needed my cut on her back. That would keep their eyes off her. But the ol’ ladies never wore the cuts. The title alone keeping them safe, even amidst the MC wars, not that there were many of those these days.
Ciara watched me too, glancing over at me every so often, her face straight, no hint of a giveaway of her thoughts. I liked to think it was my cum dribbling out of her all night that distracted her, reminding her of the orgasm I’d given her against the mirror in the changing rooms. But it was probably most likely my eyes boring into her constantly, watching from the booth next to the bar. Observing her every move from the shadows.
The night had dragged, the watch on my wrist seeming to go slower and slower each time I glanced at it. For a while I tried to distract myself with the naked girls winding themselves around the pole, the odd one or two venturing over to joining me at the table. But when I paid their advances no attention, my eyes only on her, they gave up, bored.
Tonight was slow. At least as far as punters were concerned. It was a week off payday and most regulars were down to the bones of their arse, Billy Carmichael the only one with the never-ending stream of cash. His family had owned a whole load of businesses along the River Tyne for the last century, the name Carmichael a local legend in South Shields. Billy was the last of a long line of Carmichael ship builders, and later export and importers, not all of it legit. His late wife had left them childless and instead he sat, spending his nights watching tits and fanny gyrating round a pole in the middle of a dance floor. Not a bad way to end your days if you asked me, not that Billy was that old. Early fifties, the youngest of five.
I watched him lift his pint to his lips, smiling and chatting to Ciara as she walked past, and that familiar pang of jealousy stabbed into the centre of my chest. Into the scar tissue. Raking around into emotions, I tried to keep buried. I shook my head, clearing the familiar haze of anger lingering over my eyes.
And then eventuallyTroubleemptied. The only ones left were me, Tez and Ciara. I lurked across from the bar, watching her wash and dry glasses and clean the bar top down. It was only 1am. The light trade making Tez close early and my little envelope of club profits much lighter than usual.
“You not got a home to go to, Demon?” Tez asked, flicking a few switches at the panel at the door, the lights at the very back of the club switching off and plunging half the venue into the shadows.
“Aye. Just waiting for Ciara.”
“Why?” she asked suddenly, spinning round from the optic she’d just wiped clean.
“Because I told you, you’re coming home with me.”
“I’m not.”
“It’s not up for debate. It’s just what’s happening.”
Ciara looked at Tez, as if expecting back up, but he raised his hands in the air in surrender.
“Whatever beef you’ve two got going on, it’s nowt to do with me. Now if you’d both like to piss off. I have a wife to get preggers tonight.”
Ciara smiled, the nasty scar pulling at her face.
“Baby making duties, huh? Better not hold you back from that,” she said, a softness in her voice and suddenly I felt weird. Something swelling in my chest, radiating through my body for a moment before self-doubt and loathing kicked the fucker out.
I followed Ciara out onto the street, keeping pace just a stride behind her as she strode off into the night towards the carpark.
“Ciara, wait,” I pulled at her arm, and she shrugged my hand free, turning to face me. “Stay at mine. Just for a few days. Just while your electricity and gas are off. The minutes it’s back on again, you can go home. I’m not fucking asking you to move in with me.”
“Fine. But I need to go home and get some things.”
I smiled. I could feel the fucking thing pulling at the corner of my lips, lightening my heart and making me feel like an elated schoolboy who’s just asked his first crush out on a date. What a fucking loser. All she’d done was throw me the tiniest crumb. But I took it like a starving dog. Speaking of which, I’d never mentioned Kinobi to her, ever. I really fucking hoped she didn’t hate dogs.
*****
I followed her home, pulling into the sleepy, half abandoned street. The little red car in front of me slowed, hesitating at the blue lights flickering all over the terraced houses. My stomach lurched as I counted the vehicles. Three police cars, two ambulances and a paramedic car. Someone was in serious shit.
Pulling up behind her, I kicked out the stand of the Harley, letting it settle to the left, and hesitating as I pulled my helmet off over my head. In front of me, Ciara stretched a bare leg out of the car, her flesh even paler in the intermittent neon blue. She stood for a moment, sheltering behind the driver’s door, as if caught up in whether to approach the house or not. But she had no choice.
Approaching her side, I placed my hand on her elbow. A signal I was here. Whatever it was, she needed me to do. Ciara glanced at me, her eyes wide with apprehension, and all she did was nod at me. An acknowledgement that something was gravely wrong.
Outside the door, a jumble of bodies gathered. An old man, a woman comforting him, and a couple of wiry men with dark skin and even darker hair. I followed Ciara closely, watching as her head moved left and right, taking in the clusters of people on the street, her body stiff with tension.
And then, just as we reached the bodies milling around the front steps, the old man stepped forward suddenly, catching her by the arm and pulling her towards him. I reacted. My arm sprang out, grabbing his wrist and squeezing my other hand at my side, the fist curled tightly in a ball, ready to launch it into the face of anyone who might harm her. But her hand patted mine. A calm, gentle signal to stand down.
“Ciara,” I heard his voice above the whir of the cars and apparatus and the gentle hum of faraway voices discussing things we couldn’t hear. “It’s Trevor,” he said again, his voice faltering, and I knew what was coming. “He’s dead.”