Hard (Raw Heroes Book 2) Page 3

  I start sorting some clothes out, not looking at Sally as I speak. “Poppy deserves a nice room, she needs it more than I do.” My niece does deserve it. She’s still a toddler, and has more toys than she has the space for. Sally and I spoil her when we get the chance. It doesn’t make up for her shithead of a father, or not having any grandparents, but we try. “She’d be fine in this room.”

  “No.” It comes out sharper than intended, and I turn to see Sally frown, but she gives me a perfunctory nod.

  I have another reason I want this room. It stands on the far end of the hallway to their two rooms. I hope it gives enough space they can’t hear the nightmares I still have. They might not come as often, but they’re fucked up. I yell and shout in my sleep. I don’t want anything of that world, that violence, to be anywhere near Poppy.

  “Look,” I say, trying to soften my tone, “I want her to have the best from now on. She’s had a shitty start in life in a lot of ways. I’m fine here, for now.”

  While on my last tour in Afghanistan, I received the happy news that my fuckwit of a brother-in-law had been arrested for grievous bodily harm.

  I’d not been surprised; the guy had always struck me as a loser. But then other revelations came out, and Mum informed me, in one of her last letters, of how she suspected Ian had been hitting Sally.

  My hand tenses into a fist at the memory, but I focus on relaxing it. Sally doesn’t need more riled up, macho men in her life. Poppy either.

  “You’re a good man, but you need a life of your own. You can’t come home and take care of us. Mum wouldn’t have wanted this, you know?” Sally nibbles at her lip.

  “I have a life.” I pat Sally’s hand. Christ, I’m so useless at this shit. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about Mum, either. The loss still hurts too much. I can’t deal with this after being so wrung out by my night terrors.

  “Look, sis, leave it, okay? I like living here with you guys. I’ve got a great new job, and the few personal training clients I’m keeping on pay good money. Things are good.”

  “Okay, bro. Point taken.” She smiles and leaves me alone.

  I decide to hit the shower. I wash quickly, and as I do, my mind drifts to the woman I’ll be meeting soon. I get half hard thinking about her face. She didn’t seem to be wearing make-up and her skin was flawless.

  She looks buttoned up, too, which normally is a massive no-no for me. Uptight. Too intelligent for her own good. The sort of person who overthinks her entire life. Bottom line, she’s every single thing I don’t go for in a woman. And yet, I wanted her yesterday, in a way I haven’t wanted anyone in a long time.

  I watched her, covertly, as she went about her work during the class, and she seems somehow fragile. Competent, and capable, but also…delicate somehow. As if her competent exterior is a brittle shell that might shatter at any moment. I saw it crack in the lift. And I like that. Probably because my own shell is full of cracks and dents, too.

  Finished washing, I start dressing, and my mind stops wondering about how soft Ms. Toulson’s lips are, and drifts to thinking about the mess I found when I got home after the hospital.

  The state of the finances. Poppy’s disturbed behaviour, and Sally’s clear inability to cope with anything more. And why should she cope? Her mother had died from basically drinking herself to death. Her brother had been in the hospital with wounds from an explosion, and not the one I relentlessly dream about, but a later one in my military career.

  I was a mess, her mum was dead, and her useless piece of shit husband had been beating her up and spending all their cash.

  No wonder she almost cracked.

  I tie the laces of one shoe with smart, vicious movements. Shit, the anger is building.

  Some days I feel as if a monster lives inside me. One I barely control. When the monster roars, I need to move. To use my body until I wear it out.

  I’m going to fold my smarter clothes into my backpack and wear my workout gear. I’ll walk to the prison. Not quite a run, but at least it’s moving. Otherwise, I’ll end up spending the day gritting my teeth while my mind plays an endless loop of all the painful things I’d like to do to Ian, my piece of shit brother-in-law.

  I jog lightly down the stairs, not wanting to see Sally, or Poppy, whilst so pissed off. I don’t release my breath until out the front door and on the street. The lamps are still on as the dawn fights to break through. The shortening of the days heralds the time of year I struggle with the most.

  November looms large, still weeks away, but already too close. I can’t stand bonfire night. Guy Fawkes day is hell for me, as are the days leading up to it.

  It’s the only time of year I get any sort of PTSD symptoms outside of my night terrors. What with the rockets and flashes, and all that crap.

  During my first month back home, some little shit had let off a banger in the middle of the day while I walked through the town center. I’d nearly hit the fucking ground. The wanker who did it took off running. Thank God, because if I’d gotten my hands on him I think he’d have been seriously hurt, and I’d have been in all sorts of trouble.

  I power walk, pumping my arms and warming up, despite the autumnal chill in the air. I think about the day ahead of me. My first reaction to Laura’s suggestion about working at the prison for a few hours had been no way. But then I’d seem Ms. Toulson’s face, and knew she didn’t want me there. So, I said yes. Because I want to fuck with her. Or maybe just plain fuck her.

  For a moment, my mind wanders, and I imagine myself wrapping that long, red hair around my fist and jerking her head back as I whisper in her ear, calling her Ms. Toulson.

  I shake the thought away. I need to stop perving over my tutor. She might oversee me, but she’s young, only looks early twenties, and she doesn’t need some jaded shit like me sniffing around.

  I basically said yes to a job I don’t want in order to spend some time with a woman who isn’t even my type. That’s where my head is these days.

  It’s going to do my head in further having to be nice to a load of criminal scum. For fuck’s sake, they get lessons. And TV I bet, too. If I had my way, little dicks who steal cars, or deal drugs to kids, would be breaking rocks eight hours a day.

  They should bring back national service.

  I near the prison, and I’m not sure what to expect. Id envisioned a modern building, and touchy-feely art on the walls. I get a stone-built, imposing structure, as austere inside as out, and a long security process before I can be signed in.

  Once through all the checks, I’m ushered into a dingy room and asked to wait. Ten minutes later Ms. Toulson sweeps in, her red face and harassed air a world away from the smart and put together woman she’d been yesterday.

  “Sorry I’m late! Missed the bloody bus.”

  “You didn’t drive?” I’d have driven if I hadn’t needed to work off the aggression. I know she lives in Harrogate, and it’s a fair way. Why not bring the car?

  “I try to keep my carbon footprint as low as possible. Public transport is much better for the environment,” she says.

  Jesus. She’s hilarious. Smug much?

  I dip my head to hide my smile. “Ah, I see, Ms. Toulson.” And I’m a bastard, but my cock twitches as I use that name for her.

  She bristles. “What? You seem amused.” Her shrewd eyes watch me.

  “I don’t tend to think about stuff like my carbon footprint, I suppose. I’d kill for a newer, faster car. Not literally, of course.” I grin at her, but her own smile is tight, false.

  “Okay.” She moves to sit by a worn Formica table and indicates for me to come look at the folder she pulls out of her bag.

  I take a place next to her as she opens to a page full of black and white pictures of various men.

  “This is our class. There are twenty-five in total. Most of them seem decent enough from their profiles, nothing too worrying. One is a bit…different from the others.”

  “Different how?” I gaze at the photos
more closely.

  “This guy here.” Cara—I make myself stop thinking of her as Ms. Toulson, because whenever I do, a porn tape runs through my mind of me taking down her hair, and pulling up her skirt—taps a grainy image with a long, elegant finger. “He’s in for a violent offence. Grievous bodily harm. He might be trouble.”

  “I’d have thought they’d all be potential trouble. We are in a prison.”

  She huffs out a breath. “Low category prison. Most of them have nicked a few too many cars or shoplifted one time too often. Some are small time drug dealers, others have a string of petty offences. Few are dangerous. They don’t wear a uniform, and some can be allowed out on day release. To be honest, most of them shouldn’t be here, in my opinion.”

  I snort before I can stop himself. “I don’t view drug dealing or thieving other people’s property as petty. Anyway, going back to this guy, I’ll check him out, see what I think during the class.”

  “Excuse me?” Cara says. “I don’t want you doing anything. I am more than capable of judging my own students. I don’t need your help, Mr. Anders. I merely wanted to warn you in case you came up against any problems. I don’t need a student under my watch getting hurt.”

  I check my temper and bite back the response I want to utter. Instead, I try for conciliatory. “I didn’t mean to undermine you, not my intention.” I can’t resist adding, “But I’m not worried about being hurt.”

  Cara stands and paces around the room once, before coming to a halt in front of me. “Look. I know you were a soldier, and you’re trained, etcetera. But this is my classroom, and your safety is my responsibility. Fighting someone whilst wearing full combat armour and carrying a big scary gun isn’t the same thing as someone coming at you while you are unarmed and unaware.”

  Fury surges through me at her dismissive attitude of my training. I’ve tried to be diplomatic, but her outright fucking sense of superiority pushes all my buttons. Christ, she’s dangerous for me to be around. I’m either horny or wanting to punch something when she’s in the vicinity.

  Emotions overcome common sense, and I stand, too, and lean in close to her. “I may have spent most of my time fighting with a big scary gun, but I’m also trained in hand to hand combat. I can assure you, I’m not worried about this guy,” I jab at the picture, “no matter how violent he is. And that’s not me boasting, but simply the truth.”

  “I suppose you could kill him with your bare hands.” She shakes her head and laughs, but the sound dies as I let the statement hang in the air. Because, yeah, I could.

  A sick part of me relishes seeing her squirm as the meaning of my silence dawns. But then something flickers in her eyes, something akin to real fear, and I feel like shit. I hold my hands up in a placating gesture. “How about you show me the classroom and tell me what you want me to do?”

  She nods, but I can still see she’s on edge. In fact, she’s starting to look downright bordering on anxiety attack territory. I don’t know why I care, but I don’t want her feeling that way.

  I tell myself it’s because I’ve been through it myself with the night terrors, but it’s more than that. Something about her makes me want to stop the fear building in her eyes. That hint of a vulnerable interior, a softer part she covers up with her prim and proper façade.

  I lower my voice and touch her elbow for one moment. A conciliatory gesture. I make sure to make it light, and then move my hand.

  Men often touch women in ways that make them uncomfortable. They linger for too long. Or they touch somewhere too near to inappropriate. I’m a fucking expert on people. On body language. The Specials used me to interrogate enemy combatants sometimes because of it.

  “Look…I’m sorry for being a dick.” And then for some unknown reason, I tell her the truth. “I’m a bit stressed out today, I had a shitty night. Bad dreams. No sleep. You know the score. Anyway, my bad. I’ll try to be less of a dickhead. Okay?”

  She looks at me in surprise, and I’m glad I went for honest, because I see some of her walls crack. A tiny crack, but it’s there.

  For now, I resist getting my fingers into that crack and digging to widen it.

  She watches me for a long beat, then gives a curt nod. Sweeping the folder up in her arms, she heads out of the room, but holds the door open for me to follow.

  I watch her stiff gait as she walks ahead of me. She’s all uptight and tense. I try not to notice her arse, but it’s spectacular. Even her loose, seriously unsexy skirt can’t hide the fact. The dark grey fabric is so long it brushes her ankles, and she wears flat, black shoes with it. She can’t hide her figure though. No matter how hard she tries. I imagine sliding that skirt up her legs, seeing the firm globes of her…whoa. This no sex shit is clearly getting to me. This woman is my boss, for all intents and purposes. She’s also not my type.

  I need to reconsider this no sex thing if it’s going to make me horny for uptight, smug eco-warriors.

  The classroom we finally enter seems like any other, until you notice the bars on the windows and the panic buttons placed strategically around the room. Oh, and the heavyset prison officers right outside the door. I scout it out, noting the nailed down desks and chairs.

  Cara heads towards the only desk not fastened to the floor, a big, old wooden thing with a worn surface. Two chairs are placed by it. She indicates the one to the right of the desk for me to take as she sits in the one directly in front of it.

  “Right, this lesson, you simply observe. I want you to keep an eye on the students, and how I interact with them. One of the ways to get along with them is to show some respect.”

  Fucking hell! I bite my tongue to keep from saying anything. Surely the students should be the ones showing the respect?

  “Most of them have come from backgrounds where they’ve been ignored or dismissed, treated like crap, and I want to break the cycle here and now.”

  Lost for words, I stare at her. I know plenty of people who’ve faced hard knocks in life, none of whom decided to break the law.

  The door to the classroom bangs open. The prison officers stand at either side, like sentries, as five men stroll in. I don’t miss the small tremor that runs through Cara at the loud noise. She seems more on edge. The question is, why? She says she wants to respect these guys, and help them. She must be used to the work. So why the skittish act?

  “Hi, Cara,” one of the men mutters.

  “They call you Cara?” I ask, voice low.

  “Yes. Some of them already know me from basic numeracy or literacy, classes I taught in the spring. Those that don’t know me will be told today to call me by my first name. And they’ll call you Luka. We always use first names. It helps lower barriers.”

  “Riiight.”

  Over the next five minutes more men file into the room. Most of them seem young and stupid, and not any real threat. Finally, the guy Cara pointed out, Mike, walks in, and sits right in front of Cara, fixing her with a long look, before turning his cool gaze on me.

  And yeah, I see something simmering away underneath the surface, but not what Cara worries about. I don’t see violence, but I do see calculation. Mike’s not stupid.

  “Class.” Cara taps on her desk with her pen. “I’m Cara Toulson, your tutor for this literature course. Over the coming weeks, we will be looking at, and discussing, some great texts, but I’ll also get you doing some writing of your own. This is Luka Anders.” Cara leans back in her chair and points at me. “He’s going to observe today, and he might be back next week to help out. If you don’t all scare him off.” She laughs, and most of the class chuckle back, but Mike doesn’t. Instead he stares at me, taking me in, seeming to measure me up.

  I meet his gaze dead on and don’t look away. In my peripheral vision, I note Cara glancing between us both before clearing her throat loudly.

  “If you’ll all turn to your workbooks, please. Today, I want you to spend ten minutes talking in pairs, or threes, about a strong childhood memory you have. After the ten minutes are
up, I want you to write a short story concerning that memory. It doesn’t have to be a major event, although it can be. Something as simple as your first memory of ice cream can be the thing you choose. You’ll have twenty minutes to write up your piece and hand it in to me before we break for coffee.”

  I laugh softly. Coffee breaks? Fuck me, why not give them wine and women while they’re at it? Cara shoots me a look, so I turn it into a cough. I hope to God my piece of crap brother-in-law isn’t somewhere as cushy as this. Still, when the bastard gets out, I can pay him a nice visit. Lost for a moment, in happy thoughts of beating the ever-loving shit out of Ian, I startle when Cara addresses me.

  “You alright?” She sweeps those blue-blue eyes over me.

  “I’m fine.” I stretch my legs out in front. The men are all shuffling around, getting into groups, and their chatting fills the room.

  “Really? I could have sworn you wanted to say something.” She’s looking all supercilious again.

  “Fine.” I keep my voice down. “A coffee break? Seriously? They get a coffee break?”

  “Yes. They might be prisoners, but they are still human beings.”

  I merely raise one eyebrow and nod.

  “What?” Cara keeps her voice low, too, but there’s tension in the way she snaps out her consonants. “I can tell you’re dying to say something.”

  “Not me, Ms. Toulson.” I smile. And decide to make a genuine attempt to lighten the mood. “I’m a reformed character. Going to keep my thoughts to myself from now on. Promise, ma’am.” I let the ‘ma’am’ roll off my tongue. A touch flirtatious.

  Something changes behind Cara’s eyes, and they flash with an emotion I can’t easily read.

  I think about her reaction the other day when I caught her staring at me. The way she flushed. I might be a prick for it, but I like throwing her off balance. I like even more the flush of heat in her cheeks right now. She’s busying herself scribbling something in her notebook, but the two spots of colour keep on rising.

  I suddenly like the view a heck of a lot. Her hair is starting to wave slightly, and I think it might be naturally wavy, or curly. Some strands hang over her forehead, long lashes shield her eyes, and her lips move as she writes. And that flush doesn’t stop. It spreads down her cheeks to her neck, where it disappears into the collar of her blouse.