Head On (Strength And Love)(2)

“I won’t. See you soon, Ethan.”

I leave and get into my car. A nice, new Audi S5, sporty as fuck. Not gunning the engine, because that would make me a wanker at this time of night, I pull away from the pavement and out onto the empty road. The drive home takes me thirty minutes, and by the time I park up, my back is driving me mad. Slamming the door, I crunch over the gravel to my farmhouse.

Total fucking bolthole from the world.

Ever since getting out of the armed forces, I’ve been a part-time recluse.

Barking from behind the door makes me smile. I turn my keys in the lock and step into the kitchen. Two wagging tails greet me, along with two smiling canine faces.

My girls are glad daddy’s home. I give them both a hug, and Cindy slobbers all over me. She’s a big Rottie and absolutely gorgeous. Lucy is a rescue whippet and quieter, but affectionate in her own way. She had a bad start in life, and I think she still has nightmares about it. On that score, we understand one another.

The dogs follow me out of the kitchen as I head into the hallway and up the stairs to the bathroom. I pull my shirt off and turn to look at my back in the bathroom mirror. Fucking hell, I look like a tiger has been at me. I slide open the medicine cabinet and fumble about in it, looking for the spray antiseptic. I bought the spray-on shit to deal with the scratches Selina always gives me. Can’t reach my own back to put lotion on. Whenever I pick up some woman to fuck for pleasure, which is rare these days, I always check she doesn’t wear those fake nails. They do my head in.

Tired and bad tempered, I jog back down the stairs and grab a tumbler from the kitchen cupboard. I pour two healthy fingers of brandy into it, and take a sip as I open the door to let the dogs out. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me these days. I like my job. It’s no hardship fucking women for money. Most of the time I get a happy ending too, and the odd nights I don’t, like tonight, I fake it anyway. They don’t know, and they’re not paying me for my pleasure. So, work’s fine. I love my car and house. I’m happy with my own company, and when I’m not I have friends I can meet up with for a pint. So why the pissed off mood? It’s almost as if I’m bored of life.

I miss the adrenalin high of combat, but that’s nothing new, and it’s why I work out like a demon most days. Otherwise, I doubt I’d be a fit member of society.

Lucy chases Cindy around the garden three times, before Cindy gets bored and ambles back to me. At some point, I ought to do something about the overgrown grass, but again, I’ve been putting it off.

“Hey, Luce, come on.” I sip more brandy as she wanders over, stopping to sniff at the border on her way. It’s packed with flowers and in full bloom now in late spring. The old lady who lived here before I bought it planted them. Thankfully, they don’t need much care or they’d be dead by now.

I bring both the dogs inside, and lock up. They have baskets in the kitchen but tonight they’ll follow me upstairs and kip on the bed with me. They only stay down here if I have company. They know if there are guests, they stay in the kitchen. It’s rare these days, I have any company of the female persuasion though, unless it’s my sister, Ann, and niece, Katie.

Brushing my teeth, I look at my reflection and think I look as jaded as I feel. And still I don’t know what’s wrong. Maybe, I am bored? I fill my days working out, working on the house, and reading. My nights fucking for money and sometimes for fun. Every now and again, I go out for a drink. It’s easy, it’s safe…it’s boring.

I thought I’d be relieved to leave active service after the shit I saw. I never thought I’d miss it. But I miss it to fuck, and the only time I feel real is when I’m with my friends from the specials, hitting a punchbag, or walking the dogs. The rest of the time, I move through life in a fog. Cut off, and locked down. I rinse and spit, and scowl at myself in the mirror. I should think myself lucky. Too many guys came back all kinds of fucked up. Limbs missing. PTSD. Me? A few nightmares, and some sleepless nights is as bad as it has got.

“Be grateful, shithead,” I tell myself, before clicking the light off and turning away.

Sliding between the sheets, I grab the iPad from the bedside table and move Cindy up with my feet. She always wants to be right up next to me, but 95 pounds of Rottie snuggling in makes me too hot.

I’m reading a weird as fuck thriller at the moment. One of those psychological things, where no one says what they mean, and I’m losing patience with it. My mail dings and I open it to see a new message from an unknown account. I double tap and it pops up with the full message.

“Hey there. I got your deets from Selina. I’m Isla, a twenty-five-year-old paralegal. This is a screen shot of my Facebook profile.”

I check the picture and the age – always make sure they’re legal. Seriously, a sixteen-year-old tried to hire me once, and no way. I pause at the picture, and for once my gaze lingers on the woman there. She’s beautiful. Not in the put-together, wealthy way of most of my clients, but in her own quiet way. Her long blonde hair is down around her shoulders, and she’s laughing at the person taking the picture. She’s wearing little to no make-up. She’s pretty, more than pretty. My dick twitches. I think I’ll enjoy this job.

I return to reading the rest of her email.

“I’ve never done this before, but I don’t date because I don’t want to settle down or get into anything serious right now. I’m missing certain things. Wow, this is hard to talk about, even by email. Selina told me to get in touch after we had a bit of a drunken chat one night. She says you cater to certain scenarios. I’d like to request a night with you, but are you willing to do rough? I like it rough? Really rough.”