Written in Scars(6)
He left the room, slamming the door behind him and mounted the stairs. He held it together until he reached the bedroom where he punched the pillows to vent his rage.
“You fuck, fuck, fucker,” he bellowed, the sound coming from deep in his chest.
I must the biggest fucking mug in the world. Stupid to believe Johan when he said he’d changed. When he claimed this kind of thing was behind him. That he’d never do it again. But here he was, in their home, shooting up and screwing a couple of random skanks.
Sam had suspected for a while that Johan had broken his promise. That he hadn’t kicked his addiction to chemsex and dating apps. The signs had been obvious. Coming home late several times a week, disappearing for whole afternoons at the weekend when he said he was going to the gym, the fierce protection he had for his phone and the instant way he reacted whenever a message alert sounded. Regardless, Sam had given him the benefit of the doubt.
Because he wanted to believe him. He needed to think their relationship was sound. Their marriage was worth something.
It wasn’t worth shit.
Johan had left him in no doubt about that; bringing this pair to the house, shooting up in their living room. Drugs and dick were the only things he cared about.
Sam sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Blood roared through his ears like thunder. He took great, chest-filling breaths, trying to calm his trembling limbs. Was there any way back from this? Could their relationship be saved after such a betrayal? Unlikely.
There were footsteps on the stairs. Johan, coming to grovel and beg forgiveness no doubt. Sam had heard it all before.
The door opened, but it wasn’t his husband who stood in the frame. It was the hairy guy with the bad skin and tiny dick. Stark naked, his pot-belly protruded above a wild bush of unkempt pubes.
“There you are cutie,” the man leered. “Why’d you run away so fast? Don’t you want to join the party?”
“Get out of my house.”
“Don’t be like that. Unfriendly. It’s not nice.” The man raised a thin syringe and grinned. “Why not take a little slam? It’ll help you relax. Make you friendly and more in the mood to party. Like your husband, eh?”
“I don’t want that shit. Have you seen what it does to you? Do you have any idea what you look like?”
“Don’t care what I look like darling. I just want to feel good. And this stuff makes you feel soooooo good. C’mon, why don’t you try it? Loosen up a little.”
The man came towards him with the syringe raised. Sam swiped it from his hand.
“Hey,” the man cried.
As the syringe rolled across the floor, Sam stepped over and brought the full weight of his heel down, crushing the narrow tube. He didn’t care about the fluid that leaked onto the carpet.
“You stupid cunt,” the man said, wide-eyed and startled.
Sam shoved him aside and headed down the stairs.
In the living room, he found Johan bending the skinny kid over the sofa and doing him doggy-style. No sign of any condoms or discarded wrappers.
“Come to join the party,” Johan asked, slapping the boys boney arse. “I’ll get him warmed up for you.” He thrust harder. “Take my sloppy seconds.”
Sam swallowed his revulsion. This drug-crazed savage was not the man he had married.
“I want them out,” Sam said firmly. “Now.”
“Don’t be a spoil-sport. We’re just getting started.”
“Out!”
“No, you get out,” Johan said. It was the voice of a petulant child. “For fucks sake, you never let me have any fun.”
“Fun?” Sam couldn’t believe this shit. “You think this is fun? Screwing a couple of rancid, filthy whores.”
“Yeah,” Johan said, fucking the boy more aggressively. He grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled his head back, exposing his face. The boy’s eyes rolled back in his head. “It is fun.”
What a bastard. He had no intention of stopping. He was out of control. Feral.
Sam turned and headed for the door. He left the house without a backwards glance.
Chapter Three
Logan got home a little after eight. High Nest Cottage sat on a hill above the village of Lower Nest. It was already dark when he pulled onto the gravel drive. During the day, the property boasted the most enviable views in the area; the village to one side and on the other, a mile away at the edge of a limestone cliff, the open vista of the North Sea. The location, more than anything had drawn him to the cottage. Formerly a blacksmith forge, the Grade II listed building was nothing more than a shell when he bought it six years ago. Logan had spent the last five years, all his savings and a lot of hard graft, turning the interior into the home he’d always wanted.
Perfect in every way but one: his only companion up on the hill was a ginger tom-cat called Hunter.
Hunter was waiting at the kitchen door when Logan returned, meowing loudly for his overdue dinner. The cat patrolled the fields and outbuildings for mice and rats but still expected a serving of juicy cat food promptly at six each evening. He brushed impatiently against Logan’s legs while he retrieved a bowl and food pouch from the cupboard.
“Give me a minute. I haven’t taken my coat off yet.”
The cat gave a touchy yelp and nutted his leg more insistently.