Where the Ivy Grows (#2 Bestselling Devoted Series) Page 21

  ‘And I don’t need your forgiveness,’ Marc’s father adds.

  ‘Well you have it, anyway. Come on.’ Marc takes my hand. ‘I’ve done what I came here to do. For better or worse.’ He leads me into the hall.

  ‘You thought I’d see you differently if I met your father?’ I ask. ‘That I’d love you less?’

  ‘I thought ... perhaps ...’ His eyes search my face, and I see a desperate vulnerability in his eyes. They’re so clear today, it’s astounding.

  ‘Well, you were wrong. I love you more the more I know about you.’

  'We should go.'

  I feel Marc’s eyes on me all the way down the stairs. When we get to the front door, he reaches out a hand to stop me opening it.

  ‘Wait. Let me go out first. I want to keep the wolves at bay.’

  I step aside and let him march out, glaring at photographers. Predictably, they back off.

  I follow, and then Marc takes my hand and leads me to the car.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ he says.

  ‘You’re leaving your father’s car here?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. It’s staying with him. He can do what he likes with it. Sell it for drink. I don’t care. I’m letting that part of my life go.’

  I squeeze his hand. ‘Marc. I’m so proud of you.’

  ‘It’s all down to you,’ says Marc. ‘The student taught the teacher.’ He raises his eyebrow and gives me a little smile.

  ‘I guess she did.’

  97

  On the drive home, Marc and I sit in silence. I sense Marc needs some thinking time, and so do I.

  When we arrive back at the townhouse, I glance at Marc in the dark garage and his face is... sort of softer. A little tired perhaps, but there’s a glow in his eyes. A peace I’ve never seen before.

  He jumps out of the car and opens the passenger door for me, then pulls me out into his arms, pushing his face into my hair and bringing me tight to his chest.

  I rock forward to meet his body.

  ‘God, I missed you. Christ. For you still to accept me ... to love me ... after meeting him ... it’s just beyond anything I could ever imagine.’

  Marc picks me up and carries me up the stairs. Soon, we’re inside the house and taking the big wide stairs up to the second floor. He doesn’t take his eyes from mine, even when we reach the bedroom.

  Slowly and carefully, he lays me on the bed and undresses me. His movements are tender and loving, but urgent too. He kisses my neck and breasts with an abandon I’ve never felt before. He’s not trying to hold it together. He’s not trying to stop himself or take charge of me.

  He flips me over and runs his lips from the nape of my neck all the way down my spine to my buttocks, lips pressed so passionately against my skin that I feel he’s eating me up.

  I’m so used to Marc needing to dominate that I’m kind of expecting a little slap on my buttocks, and my legs twitch in anticipation.

  ‘I won’t spank you,’ Marc says, running his hand around. ‘Today isn’t about me being in charge. It’s about letting go.’

  ‘I’m happy with that,’ I murmur.

  Marc turns me over again and slides himself inside me, his face inches from mine as he moves back and forth. His lips are a little open, and there’s a softness to his eyes that, little by little, tells me he’s giving way to me.

  ‘Wait,’ he says suddenly.

  ‘No, Marc -’

  ‘It’s not what you think.’

  Marc doesn’t leave the room or take some sex toy from a drawer or shelf. Instead, he reaches up and finds a pillow, which he props under my buttocks.

  ‘I think you’ll enjoy things more this way.’

  He’s right. With my hips tilted up against the pillow, Marc rubs against me in all the right ways, outside and inside, and a dull bruisy pleasure builds up.

  We watch each other as Marc moves back and forth, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so in love with him.

  Eventually, soft pleasure takes over me, and I moan and groan, moving under Marc, tilting my hips up to meet his.

  Marc comes too, with a gentle murmur, and rests his cheek against mine.

  ‘I love you, Sophia,’ he whispers.

  ‘I love you too.’

  98

  ‘You look like you’re in a world of your own,’ says Keith as we shunt along in London traffic.

  ‘Oh. Yeah. Sorry, Keith.’

  ‘Are you nervous then?’ Keith glances at me, then back at the road. ‘About dress rehearsals?’

  ‘A little bit. But ... Marc has taught me so much. He’s been tutoring me all week. To help me with my confidence.’

  ‘Like when he took you to the farm?’

  I nod. ‘Riding that horse was so scary. But ... Marc was right. It brought out the best in me. And I’ve been growing ever since. I’ll miss the college, though. It was nice rehearsing in Queen’s Theatre. I felt safe there.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about safety,’ said Keith. ‘Marc has got the whole place rigged for security. How was your trip to East London?’

  ‘You heard about that?’

  Keith nods at the road. ‘Rodney mentioned it.’

  ‘It was ... enlightening,’ I say. ‘And it’s brought Marc and me closer. Much closer.’

  ‘Glad to hear that. Any plans for Christmas?’

  I smile. ‘I really don’t know yet. Marc and I haven’t spoken about it. It’s come up so fast. It’s next week, isn’t it?’

  ‘Same every year. You blink and it’s on you. I haven’t bought any presents yet.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Do you know where you’re going to be?’

  I shake my head. ‘Usually we spend Christmas at my dad’s cottage. But this year ... I don’t know. I don’t know what Marc has planned. All I know is that I’ll be performing before and after Christmas Day, so I’ll have to stay near London.’

  I see the theatre up ahead, and it’s surrounded by a black swarm of paparazzi.

  ‘I’ve got orders to go the back way,’ says Keith, swinging the car around and heading down a narrow side road. ‘So. You nervous about opening night? It’s getting pretty close, isn’t it? And right before Christmas.’

  ‘I should be petrified,’ I say. ‘But for now, I’m just focusing on the dress rehearsal. That’s enough to be nervous about.’

  Keith pulls to a stop by the stage door, and I’m relieved to see a tall security guard with a thick brown beard. He’s wearing the navy blue and yellow baseball cap that tells me he’s with Marc’s firm, and he looks tall and tough.

  ‘Well. Don’t break a leg,’ says Keith as I climb out of the car.

  ‘I’ll try not to.’

  As Keith drives away, I knock on the bright red stage door and wait. The security guard is doing a good impression of a statue, so we politely ignore each other while I wait for the door to be opened.

  But there’s no reply.

  I knock louder, biting a thumbnail.

  Come on, come on.

  I don’t like being out here alone when there are paparazzi nearby, and something about the silent security guard is making me uneasy.

  I raise my fist to knock a third time, but before I can make contact with the door, the security guard’s hand darts forward and clamps itself around my wrist.

  ‘Nice to see you, Sophia.’

  I recognise that voice.

  It belongs to Giles Getty.

  99

  I turn to the guard, fear creeping up my throat. The thick beard covers almost all of his face, and the baseball cap puts his eyes in shadow. The beard – it’s a fake. Of course it is. No one grows a beard that large.

  ‘Getty,’ I stammer, shaking my wrist away.

  ‘You took your time.’ Giles Getty steps forward. ‘I was getting worried about you. I thought you might not make it.’

  ‘How did you ... What are you doing here?’

  ‘Why, waiting for you, of course.’ How did I not notice it was Getty? His jaw is as jittery as ever
, and he can hardly stand still.

  We’re in a blind alley, and he’s blocking my route to the road. I turn to the stage door, but it’s tight shut.

  Getty takes a step closer. He reaches forward and strokes my hair.

  I smack his hand away. ‘Don’t touch me.’

  The busy street is a long way away, and London traffic makes my voice small and lost.

  Getty’s eyes glow with excitement. ‘I like the way you say that.’

  He reaches forward and I step back, but I stumble and he grabs my wrist again.

  ‘Where are you going, Sophia?’

  ‘Get out of my way.'

  ‘You owe me a story,’ says Getty. His grip tightens on my wrist. It hurts, and my eyes water.

  ‘Let go,’ I breathe. ‘I’m not kidding.’ I try to wrench my arm around, but he tightens his grip.

  ‘I thought you liked being held down,’ Getty whispers. ‘If you’re Marc’s girlfriend, I thought that was a prerequisite. Or have his tastes changed since I knew him?’

  ‘You don’t know him at all.’ I’m getting a Chinese burn from twisting my wrist around in his hand. ‘Let me -’

  It happens before my brain can work out what’s going on. Getty’s fist comes towards my jaw, and my head spins fast around. Then everything goes black.

  100

  When I wake up, it’s completely dark, and my knees and elbows ache. I realise I’m curled up into a ball, and there are shooting pains at my wrists.

  I can hear a car running, and I feel vibrations bumping me around.

  Oh my god.

  My wrists are bound. My wrists are bound.

  Getty’s fist comes back to me in a flash, and I begin to struggle and kick. My legs strike metal. I see a long line of white light, and I realise with horror where I am.

  In the trunk of a moving car.

  Bile floods into my mouth, and I swallow it down.

  ‘Help,’ I shout, shocked to hear how weak and broken my voice sounds. ‘Someone help me.’ The left side of my jaw aches, and so do all my molars. I feel like I’ve had a tooth taken out.

  Abruptly, the car comes to a stop and I hold my breath, my heart flying into my mouth. A car door thunks closed and my body stiffens. He’s coming.

  Inside the trunk, I see a shadow fall across the line of white light, and then hear a click as the trunk opens.

  I squint up at Getty, who stands over me – the beard and baseball cap disguise now dispensed with.

  ‘Well, well, Sophia. I hope you enjoyed yourself in there. Marc only likes to play act, but the real thing is so much better, don’t you think?’

  ‘Please. Let me go. You can stop this now. Before it goes too far.’

  ‘Too far?’ Getty hauls me out of the trunk by my shoulders, and I stumble onto tarmac. ‘Oh, we’ve got a long way to go yet. Like I say. You owe me a story.’

  ‘Where are we?’ I see we’re on a driveway, and there’s a two-storey red-brick house up ahead. Its windows are completely dark, so I’m guessing no one’s home. I don’t see London skyscrapers, only black sky.

  ‘I’m surprised Marc hasn’t taken you anywhere like this before,’ says Getty, pulling me along by my wrists. ‘We’re going to have a lot of fun here.’

  I stumble, struggling the whole way up the path to the house, but Getty holds me firm.

  He slips a key into the front door and pulls me into the hallway.

  ‘Is this your house?’ I ask, struggling to keep my balance.

  Getty laughs. ‘You think I’d set something like this up at my own place? Then everyone would know the pictures weren’t real.’ He moves his face close to mine. ‘Of course, the pictures might become real. If you start to enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Please,’ I say, my wrists burning. Some cruel part of my brain reminds me of the last time my wrists burned – with Marc – and I begin praying for him to find me. But how can he? No one even knows I’m missing. ‘Let me go. I don’t know what you think happens between Marc and me, but you’ve got it all wrong.’

  Getty laughs again, and his voice is high pitched and manic. ‘Like I told you, I’ve known Marc a long time. I know exactly what he’s into. And a man like that doesn’t change.’

  He leads me towards a narrow set of steps leading downwards. I can tell by the damp smell that there’s some sort of basement down there.

  ‘No,’ I scream. ‘Please. Stop. Let me go.’

  ‘Sophia,’ says Getty, stroking my cheek, his voice sickly calm. ‘All I want is some pictures. That’s all. And who knows? You might even enjoy the experience.’

  ‘What experience? What are you going to do?’

  He grips my wrists tighter and hisses, ‘You know exactly what. Don’t play games with me.’

  He pulls me downstairs, and I stumble and trip, trying desperately to keep my balance. When we reach the bottom, my chest turns to ice.

  I scream and struggle back towards the stairs, but Getty holds me firm.

  My vision clouds over as I take in everything I’m seeing. I’m going to faint. Truly, I’m going to faint.

  I’m in a basement room full of torture equipment.

  101

  In this room, Getty looks more manic than ever. No, manic isn’t the right word. Insane. He looks insane. His jaw is working, working, working, like he has ten pieces of chewing gum in his mouth, and his eyes are wide and crazed.

  There are manacles on the wall, like some sort of medieval prison, and a wooden rack in the corner.

  There’s a black leather bench in the centre of the room, a little like a beautician's table, if it weren’t for the chains hanging off.

  Various different instruments hang from nails on the wall.

  My eyes flick over a curled black whip, a cutlass, a crowbar and a large Stanley knife.

  ‘Let me go,’ I scream.

  Getty’s eyes narrow. ‘Pose for the pictures, and then I’ll let you go.’

  I see white light at the top of the staircase and will myself towards it.

  ‘You ... just want me to pose? That’s all? And then you’ll let me go?’

  ‘Exactly right.’

  ‘O … okay.’

  ‘Good girl. I have an outfit for you.’ He goes to a black metal cupboard, like a school locker, and opens it. There are various red and black garments hanging inside, and he takes out a rubber corset with an eye-wateringly small waist.

  ‘Painful to get into,’ he says, his eyes shining. ‘But you must be used to that by now.’

  ‘Marc and I ... it’s not like that,’ I say. ‘He doesn’t like hurting women who don’t want to be hurt.’

  ‘So he used to say.’ Getty runs his knuckles down the corset. ‘But ask yourself, what normal man likes seeing women restrained? Spanked? Gagged? There’s something in him that wants to hurt you. You’re just in denial.’

  ‘No. He loves me.’ I bite my lip so hard it bleeds, and Getty’s thumb instantly goes to my mouth, pressing at the blood.

  ‘You bleed so easily,’ he breathes.

  I turn my head away, but he pulls my chin back. ‘I think you’re going to look pretty good in these pictures. Good enough for my personal collection.’

  I’m shaking now, pulling against the silver masking tape that binds my wrists.

  ‘I like blood.’

  ‘Don’t hurt me.’

  ‘Sophia, hurting you is the whole point.’

  Oh my god.

  Getty takes the Stanley knife from the wall, and I try to run to the stairs, but I trip and fall, bruising my cheek on the concrete floor.

  ‘Nice of you to assume the position,’ says Getty, standing over me.

  ‘No. Please.’ I try to wiggle away, but he grabs my sweatshirt and pushes up the Stanley blade.

  Oh my god. He’s going to cut me.

  ‘NO!’

  Getty stabs the blade through my sweatshirt, and I scream as he runs it up towards my neck. But it’s not touching my skin, just my clothes. He’s cutting me out of my clothes.
/>
  My jeans and vest are slashed next, until I’m lying shivering in my white underwear. Getty kneels over me, breathing heavily.

  ‘Looking good,’ he says.

  I try to squirm away from him, but he puts his hot hand on my naked rib cage and I shudder.

  He holds the Stanley knife up and levers it under my bra strap.

  I swallow and close my eyes.

  102

  When I open them again, he’s cutting at the fabric.

  ‘I like to see you afraid,’ says Getty. ‘It makes your eyes even more beautiful.’

  I put my chin up and lay perfectly still as he cuts at my bra. I know he’s getting off on this and it sickens me, but he could do a lot worse than cut off my underwear, and we both know it.

  I bring my bound hands up to my chest as my bra comes free, trying to cover myself.

  Getty pulls my hands away and roughly fits the rubber corset over my head and around my middle, pulling the strings tight. I wince as the waist gets tighter and tighter, but I try not to make a sound. I know if I look or sound in pain, Getty will enjoy it.

  Getty lifts me onto the black bench, and I try to look calm. Dignified.

  ‘I’m going to enjoy wiping that look off your face,’ says Getty, lowering me onto the cool black leather.

  ‘Just take your pictures and let me go,’ I say.

  ‘Tut tut,’ says Getty. ‘Is that how you speak to Marc? Young ladies who talk to me that way get punished.’

  I suck in my breath as he goes to the wall of instruments.

  ‘Now,’ says Getty, fingering the whip. ‘What shall we begin with?’

  ‘Please don’t use that on me,’ I say. ‘I’m dressed how you want. You don’t need anything else.’

  ‘You’re not behaving how I want,’ says Getty, taking down the long black barbed whip, and pressing his fingers against the barbs.

  ‘Did Cecile behave the way you wanted?’ I blurt out, trying to keep him talking.

  Getty’s jaw twitches. ‘That stuck up bitch. She was on her back before the first meal out. Did anything I wanted. No satisfaction at all. All I needed her for was to get to you. But she couldn’t even get that right.’

  ‘But what about the baby?’ I ask.