An Open Lock Read online

  An Open Lock

  By R. J. Sable

  Text copyright © 2015

  R. J. Sable All Rights Reserved

  To my SS colleagues at CH for keeping me insane.

  To my readers for keeping me motivated. I thank each and every one of you.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Prologue

  I could take any one of these women.

  I stand back by the bar watching the rhythm and sway of all the women on the dance floor. I laugh inwardly at my own thoughts.

  That doesn’t matter if I don’t want any of them.

  I keep my frustration internal, nodding my head in acknowledgment as the tall, willowy, barman points his spindly finger towards my empty whiskey tumbler.

  I run my eyes over him. His trousers are rumpled, fingernails bitten, and eyes sunken. He keeps checking his shirt pocket and rubbing his reddened nose. This is a man whose casual use of cocaine is starting to become a full blown addiction and taking over his life.

  I knock the whiskey back, awaiting the few minutes of numbness that will wash over me before my body metabolises the alcohol and I’m sober and alert again. Since I was a teenager, alcohol has given me mere minutes of relief. Even when I craved months of it.

  “I like a man who likes his whiskey,” a leggy, confident redhead approaches me, curling her long fingers around my arm. “Let me buy you another one.”

  She has a firm bust, tight waist, and pale skin with glittery shit all over. She looks starving, with no bra, and no knickers.

  “No, thanks,” I give her a polite smile before looking past her to the dance floor.

  Her fiery red curls remind me too much of my sister-in-law, Elise. Although her eyes are grey not green and lack the sharp intelligence of Elise’s.

  “Come on, handsome,” she coos, pressing her tight frame against mine. “Let yourself have a good time.”

  This time, when I look at her, the politeness in my expression is gone. My features are set in a firm, cool look of disinterest. This is the expression I wear in my working life, the expression that makes me so good at what I do.

  Unreadable.

  I see her physically shudder as she pulls away, stumbling over her admittedly sexy high heels before she merges back into the anonymity of the crowd.

  If she hadn’t reminded me of Elise, would I have gone for her? No. Of course not. I’m a man who knows what he likes and she wasn’t it.

  I find myself wishing I could call up my colleague Claire and fuck her like I did yesterday, but that’s not the way our relationship works and I doubt her dom would approve. Our agreement doesn’t work like that.

  Go home, why are you even out?

  The fact that I’m questioning myself is a good sign that I need to call it a night. I have a lot on my mind with work. I have Elliot Vanders right where I want him, but we’re in the final innings and the risks are higher than they ever have been.

  We can’t afford a single mistake which is lucky because I rarely make them. I want to go home, but I’ve been watching a couple on the other side of the room since I got here and I’m not convinced the woman wants to be here. It looks like she’s on the verge of tears, but her partner doesn’t seem to care. I’m not prepared to leave until I can observe them a little more closely. I’m getting a bad read off the gym rat.

  He has a tight polo, greased hair, designer stubble, scuffed trainers, tacky tattoo. There’s trouble all over him; aggressive and possessive with no self-control. Control is everything.

  I take a few steps in their direction with a route to navigate the edge of the dance floor already in mind. I avoid an energetic twerker, glide around a girl who is lying on the floor in a drunken heap with her friends, and re-evaluate the room the room once more.

  With absolutely no warning, my brain stalls. That might seem normal to you, but my brain never stalls. It’s constantly reading the space around me, taking stock of every single detail, position, and possibility that others may deem insignificant.

  My mind hasn’t gone blank, the situation isn’t that serious. With my military history, my ability to be perpetually aware of my surroundings is one which has saved my life on several occasions and being without it makes me feel uncomfortably exposed.

  In this occurrence, all my neurons seem to be firing in one direction and one alone. All my senses are awakened as I approach her. Her light brown hair sets the depths of her dark brown eyes in steep contrast. I can identify the lightly floral scent of her perfume over the sweat and alcohol of the room. It’s a feminine, layered aroma which draws me closer.

  Her dress is tight, just above the knee, but could easily be worn in an office. Judging by the sensible, kitten heels, she may well have come straight from work.

  My feet move me in her direction because it’s not enough to see her and smell her; I want to touch her, to taste her.

  I come to a stop and lean against the wall to her right, observing her as she takes tentative steps into the large room, her full chocolate eyes scanning the space as if she’s looking for somebody.

  She might not realise it yet, but that somebody is me. My mind is made up.

  She’s mine tonight.

  Chapter 1

  I’m thinking of moving to London. That’s what I just told my long-term partner, Stanley. We’re lying in bed with our night lights on and a novel each in our hands, although mine is in digital format.

  “London?” Stanley doesn’t look up from the crime novel he’s reading. “Why on Earth would you move to London, Olivia?”

  “Steph is having a rough time of it,” I sigh, putting down my ereader, face down so that Stanley can’t see the semi-naked chap on the front. I’m not sure how he’d react to my slightly naughty bedtime read. “Kevin has broken up with her again.”

  “About time,” Stanley murmurs as he turns the page. “Never understood their relationship. They don’t have anything in common.”

  Unlike Stanley and I, who went to the same university, took the same courses, and ended up in the same jobs, albeit for different companies. We both manage our own teams within marketing departments of nationwide firms.

  “They loved each other, I suppose,” I frown slightly.

  He chuckles. “Somewhat of a childish fantasy.”

  Sometimes I wish life were more like the books I read. They may contain less than likely acrobatic sex fantasies, but they’re also love stories.

  “The company have a position open in the London branch. I submitted my application and they called me down for an interview,” I continue because I know there’s no point trying to change his mind about love. Stanley is a very practical man.

  “A
s a senior manager?” He glances over at me before turning another page.

  “Well, no,” I hesitate.

  “Then why would you interview?” He yawns.

  “Because Steph needs me,” I answer with a glare that goes unnoticed because of that bloody novel.

  “You two aren’t even that close anymore, are you?”

  “Maybe not anymore,” I admit, but we’ve been best friends since we were eleven years old. You can’t just give up on something like that. When your best friend calls you drunk in the middle of the day, it’s a cry for help. She has been in love with Kevin since we were fifteen. He was the heartthrob of our school and she wanted him from the moment he lead the school rugby team to county victory.

  They break up a couple of times a year, but she’s never begged me for help before. She’s never spent hours telling me that this was really it, that she’d lost him forever. It felt more serious this time. The last time I spent time with them, Kevin and I got a bit of time alone and had a heart-to-heart.

  Kevin took me under his wing at school; I was the bookish, nerdy kid, but because we were neighbours from a young age, he used to walk me to school every day and he kept me part of the it-crowd.

  During our heart-to-heart, he admitted things weren’t going well. I’ve suspected there was someone else for a long time, but it wasn’t my place to say that to Steph. I’m friends with both of them, but I couldn’t interfere with their relationship.

  It’s a shame, because it was pretty ideal having my two best friends in a relationship together. If I saw one, I usually got to see the other. I guess if they were not happy together, they deserved better.

  “Would you consider relocating to London if I got the job?” I ask, taking my glasses off and placing them in the drawer of my bedside table.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Stanley replies.

  “Okay,” I turn onto my side. “We could see each other at weekends?”

  “Sounds like a lot of effort,” he finally puts the bloody book down. “The train takes around eight hours doesn’t it?”

  “It’s more like four from York, isn’t it?” I reply because I’m not sure what else to say. Is he saying that we would break up if I moved to London?

  “A bit too long, don’t you think?”

  This is the thing with Stanley and me, our relationship works because everything is comfortable and easy. We can drive to work together because we work in the same quarter. We like the same foods and wines, and we don’t mind leaving the cleaning until Thursday evening and the place being a little messy until then.

  We both enjoy documentaries and a nice glass of Merlot. We can even use the bathroom in front of each other.

  Comfortable.

  We’ve been together so long, and it’s like living with my best friend, but part of me wonders why the books I read sometimes feel like they fill a hole in my life. Why the characters in my books rip each other’s clothes off and become breathless before the action has even started.

  I’ve always been a big reader, but over recent years I can get through one a day even on top of a full time job. My ereader is a god send.

  “Are we having sex tonight?” I ask Stanley now that he has put his paperback book down. He hasn’t progressed to the wonders of ereaders yet.

  “I suppose so,” he rolls onto his side as well. “I’ve pulled my hamstring playing squash though. You’ll have to go on top.”

  I refrain from sighing. “I’ll just pop to the bathroom first.”

  If I stay in the bathroom long enough, he’ll have fallen asleep. Or I could spend a little time considering which of my steamy romances I can fantasize about as we have almost silent sex.

  I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My light brown hair falls with a gentle curl against my shoulders. My heart shaped face is blemish free and my eyes are wide with dark brown pupils. My face is pretty, but plain, which I’ve come to terms with. What I have yet to learn to accept is the rest of me.

  The women in my books are always thin, lithe, and beautiful. They deserve the equally beautiful men who ravish them. I deserve a steady, fittingly boring man like Stanley. My wide hips and plush tummy are comfortable to him. I know he enjoys resting his head on my abdomen and using it like a down-filled cushion.

  My mind drifts, as it always does, to the little silver packet in my purse. I’ve had that condom in my purse since my mother gave it to me at the age of fifteen. That was the age Steph lost her virginity and, in my innocence, I told my mother. She gave me a condom and told me she’d rather I didn’t use it, but if I found myself in that situation, she wanted me to be safe.

  The condom began its life as a security net for me, a way to protect my future. Over time, its role changed. It taunted and teased me. A condom in the purse is for spontaneous, unplanned sex. It’s for sex which is driven by a carnal need to get down and dirty with somebody you don’t know well enough to invite them back to your room where you have a box full of condoms in your bedside table.

  My twelve year old condom is well past its sell-by date and perhaps I am too. Perhaps I’m too old to fantasize about such things. Stanley will always be here. Steady Stanley. There’s nothing wrong with sex with Stanley. Sometimes I even reach climax when he’s feeling particularly athletic.

  I’m not a naïve young girl, I know the difference between fiction and the real world. Am I being childish even considering this? I am happy with Stanley. There’s nothing wrong with our relationship per se. I’m happy, he’s happy, we’re both happy. The small, romantic part of my brain is screaming for more though. I can’t truly explain it.

  I take a deep breath and push open the bedroom door, almost collapsing in relief when I see that Stanley is already sleeping soundly. I remove his reading glasses and place them in his bedside drawer before pulling the cover up over him so he doesn’t get cold.

  I snuggle up on my side of the bed and pick up my kindle to recommence the scene of lava level hotness I was getting started with.

  I’m not really focussed on the story, because my brain is mentally preparing me for my interview on Tuesday. I'm unaware I am doing it until I find myself practicing my hand positioning and almost dropping my e-reader. Stanley just told me that we would end our relationship if I took the job. Shouldn’t that put me off?

  Those thoughts are far from my mind on the day of the interview itself. My nerves slowly disappear as I confidently and competently respond to the questions because I’ve interviewed a fair few people for the same position. It’s the role of somebody in my team in the York office, but the salary is almost the same as mine because everything has a higher price in London.

  The office doesn’t seem as friendly as the one back in York and the city is somewhat big and intimidating. Nobody stopped to ask if I needed help when I spent ten minutes looking at the underground map. I’m sure I can get used to it. The underground may well be a mishmash of sweaty commuters and multi-coloured routes which make no sense, but I know I can learn to understand them in time.

  “Are you going to take the job?” Steph asks me hopefully.

  I came straight from the interview to meet her in the café around the corner from her flat. I was offered the job immediately once the interview was over and that was an ego boost if ever there was one.

  “I don’t know,” I sigh wistfully.

  “Olivia Lyons,” Steph whines. “I’m dying here. We spent all last night arguing again when he came to pack up the last of his things.”

  “I’m sorry, Steph,” I reach out and grab her hand, but she pulls away.

  “I need you here, Olivia,” she folds her arms over her generous bosom.

  “Stanley won’t come with me,” I explain guiltily.

  She shakes her head and forces her long blonde locks back over her shoulder. “So?”

  “We’ve been together for years,” I frown slightly.

  “But he doesn’t care about you enough to move here with you?” She raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

&
nbsp; My frown deepens, but I can see the bags under her eyes and how puffy and swollen they are so I forgive her for dismissing the relationship which defines most of my adult life.

  “He cares,” I argue. “He’s just happy in York.”

  She shrugs and plays with the spoon on the side of her untouched slice of cheesecake. Mine went within three minutes of arriving on my plate. I’d love to have a thin and trim figure like Steph’s, but I love cheesecake more.

  “Are you happy?” She nails me with her crystal blue eyes. When we first met, I misinterpreted her icy eyes for unfriendliness and… well, bitchiness. Don’t get me wrong; she has got it in her, but she’s not always like that. She has been a brilliant friend to me in the past.

  “I guess,” I reply noncommittally.

  “You never go out,” she points out. “When was the last time you got smashed?”

  “Steph,” I chuckle. Whilst she may be the night club and vodka shots type, that’s never been my scene. “I can hardly see myself and Stanley gyrating on the dance floor.”

  “Who said Stan had to be there?” Steph giggles. “We’d have much more fun without Mr stuffy. Remember that night after we finished sixth form?”

  I blush crimson, but I can’t help but giggle along with her. I had one or two too many glasses of wine. Apparently, I was almost throwing myself at a group of older men – much to my friends’ amusement – and Kevin had to take me home.

  He spent the whole night and much of the early morning making sure I didn’t choke in my sleep and pumping me full of water to keep me from dehydrating. He’s always been a good friend.

  “I’ve never needed to get wasted to have fun, Steph,” I remind her. “I’m not like you, I don’t enjoy the sweaty clubs with too loud music and too much alcohol.”

  “That’s because you don’t know how to have fun,” she teases me. “Nothing better than dancing with a hottie and feeling him pressed up against you. With the right moves, you can have him in the palm of your hand and get free drinks all night.”

  I just shake my head because she’s incorrigible.

  “When you move here, we’re going out,” she tells me.