Buy Me, Sir

I lunge for him, but he holds me back before I can hug him.

“Wait!” he snaps. “There are conditions!”

My heart pounds as I wait for them.

“If I let him fuck me, you quit cleaning afterwards. No fucking about, Lissa. If the guy fucks my ass to make your crazy fucking plan work out for you, you quit and you tell him your real name. You make this real, or you walk away.”

My mouth is so dry. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Yeah, that’s a deal. He fucks you, I quit my cleaning job.”

“And you tell him your real name?”

I pause for just a heartbeat. “Yeah.”

He sighs. “I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this.”

And neither can I.

He gets to his feet, and heads for the door, and I still can’t believe it. I still have to hear the words.

“You’re saying you’ll let him fuck you? You’re saying you’ll do it? For me?”

“No,” he says before he closes the door. “I’m saying I’ll do it for me.”Chapter Thirty-FourAlexanderI confirm first thing Monday morning that the boys will be changing schools. Brenda draws up the letters I dictate to her, and I sign them off with a shaky hand before she faxes them through to their headmaster.

I send Claire an email telling her it’s done, and also telling her the boys are free to attend Terry’s shitty kids’ club on a Sunday afternoon.

My whole world is spinning on its fucking axis.

My mouth is parched no matter how many Americanos Brenda brings me from the coffee shop next door.

I’m listless in my client meetings and I’m clumsy with the board report amendments that need my bastard input.

I hate how out of control I feel. I hate the wriggling worm of vulnerability in my gut.

I hate how painful it feels to find my heart still beating.

I’m staring into the abyss today, but whereas I normally rely on Brutus to be my sobering factor, I now have another anchor in the storm.

The insanity with Amy is the only thing keeping me actually sane.

The Puppet Master title the industry slapped on my head over a decade ago suits me well, but not as well as it did, and not anywhere near as well as it suits my slimy fucking father.

His grubby fingers are in everything, twisting everything.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise when he blasts his way into my office before lunch. It shouldn’t come as a surprise when he slaps a copy of the paperwork Brenda faxed across to the school onto my desk.

“What the fucking hell is this, boy? Have you lost your fucking mind?!”

It takes all of my restraint not to reply in the affirmative.

“The boys are changing schools,” I say. “I’ve discussed it with Claire, I’ve discussed it with them.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” His eyes are angry and wired. Just as they were all those years ago in the public toilets.

Just as they’ve been so many times since, when I haven’t played into his filthy fucking hands at every opportunity.

“It’s none of your cunting business, old man,” I tell him.

“Oh, but it fucking is,” he hisses. “Those boys are next in line to the family business. My fucking business.”

I laugh in his face.

And there, amongst the laughter, is the simple truth I’ve been avoiding my whole fucking life.

The truth of the peace I’ve granted my boys, even though they don’t realise it yet.

I want out.

“You’ll have to find another puppet to train in my stead. Thomas wants to be a footballer, and Matthew… well, Matthew doesn’t have the disposition for this shit. I see him as an artist maybe, or a celebrity chef. Maybe even a flower arranger.”

“Don’t test my fucking patience, boy.” My father’s disgust is actually etched into his features. A lifetime of scowling carved into stone under spiteful eyes. “You’ll withdraw your instruction with immediate effect. I’ll handle Claire and her lunatic educational preferences.”

“I won’t,” I say, “And you certainly won’t be doing fucking anything about Claire.”

The thump of his fist on wood makes my pens rattle. “Be careful, boy. Be very fucking careful.”

I don’t even blink. “We’re done here.”

It’s in my eyes and I know it. I know he sees every single flicker of hatred I have for him, and this shitty fucking business, and the way I’ve lived my seedy fucking life.

“We’re not done,” he seethes. “Not even fucking close.”

“I’m done,” I tell him, and I hate my beating heart. “I’m done with bailing out cunts and crooks.”

“What the–”

“I’m done with shaking hands with addicts, and fraudsters, incompetent fuckwits with more money than sense.”

“Don’t–”

“I’m done with rapists and murderers, I’m done with people hiding behind expensive suits. And I’m fucking done with you.”

“YOU’RE NOT FUCKING DONE!” he roars.

I laugh, because he looks even more unhinged than I feel.

“Oh, but I am,” I say. “I’m going to off my caseload onto Hugh Lister. He’s doing well. A rising star in your delightful organisation. I’m sure he’ll be able to handle it.”