Chelsea Rising Ch. 03

Ben stared at him. "How did you get this information?"

"That is what I do, Mr. Rogers. You can see why it is inadmissible."

"Of course. Please go on."

"She made a similar call the following day, also in the afternoon, to an address in Sunnyvale. The house is rented to a Mr. Samuel Robards - 61 years old, married with grown up children. He's a merchant banker. The property is a flat in Jasmine Circuit. I took a photograph of her leaving the car - you can see why."

Ben stared at the glossy photographic image. The depth of field was very narrow, suggesting the use of a long telephoto lens, and the background was a blurred patchwork of light and shadow. It served to highlight the image of the girl, as sharp and clear as if he was standing next to her. She was dressed as a schoolgirl - a short plaid skirt, bobby socks and little black shoes, and a school tie with a loose knot at the neck of her white blouse. The shutter had frozen her in an instant of time - her pony tail bouncing free of her shoulders with the sun glinting off the shiny golden hair, and one foot poised in the air as she stepped forward. She was gazing at the building, her head tilted upwards and a small smile on her lips. Her face was alight with excitement and she looked very young and achingly beautiful.

Ben closed his eyes, remembering last weekend - the same little school uniform paraded for him, the press of her nipples against the blouse like sweet ripe cherries and the crease of her tight little buttocks peeping from under the skirt. He had taken her over the sofa, hearing her squeals as he fucked her, legs splayed out and her little silk knickers twisted around one ankle.

He felt the sharp pain of betrayal but he set the photograph down with the others without expression. "How long did she stay?"

"Just over two hours."

"I don't suppose he was giving her financial advice?"

The Detective smiled without humour. "I don't think so, Mr. Rogers." He consulted his notes again. "She left a few minutes before him, and made a similar trip to the bank." He leaned forward, indicating the bank statement. "Another deposit of five hundred."

Ben closed his eyes. It was much worse than he had thought. "And the final visit?"

"Last Monday to the house that you drove past - 28 O'Connor Avenue. It belongs to Mr. Ramal Hussein. He's 40 years old, married with one child and is a very successful middle -eastern businessman. You may have read about him from time to time - a buyer and seller, although there is talk of him being heavily involved with certain criminal elements - prostitution, drugs and the like. It's only hearsay, but the rumours have been persistent. He's certainly very wealthy." He paused, as if checking to see that Ben was paying attention. "She arrived before him and let herself in with a key, dressed in a very smart red business suit and carrying a small bag. He arrived shortly afterwards and they remained inside for nearly three hours. He left first and she followed about twenty minutes later, dressed in jeans and a tee shirt."

"Did she go to the bank?"

"Not at first. She called into Nightingale's in the High Street - you know, the women's fashion boutique, and she paid a large sum of money against an account. I could not ascertain the amount but it appeared to be in the order of a couple of thousand dollars. She then went to the bank and made a deposit of just over eight hundred."

"I see. Is there anything else?"

"She made a number of phone calls on her mobile phone during the time I observed her." He drew another sheet of paper from the file. "Here's a print out of her cell phone account with the numbers and their times and duration. I regret I did not have time to match the numbers to names, but you will see that there are some that appear quite frequently. If you call each one I'm sure you might get an impression of who they are." He paused. "I'd suggest you use a different name, and don't use a phone that leaves its number."

Ben nodded. "Anything more?"

The Detective passed a final piece of paper to him. "I ran an identity check on her, just to see if it threw up anything of interest. It was a convoluted trail, but I believe that her original name was Donatella Marcella Sassounion, born in Sydney in 1991 of a single mother, Maria. They lived in the poor side of town. Her mother had numerous convictions for prostitution and petty theft, although she never served time - probably having a young daughter saved her from goal. She died in 2005 from a beating inflicted by persons unknown." He looked at his hands. "Sophie left home just before then although it's not clear where she lived. She did well at school and has no prior police record." He looked up at Ben. "From what I can find out she had a very tough childhood, if that's any consolation."

"Thank you. Is that all?"

"Yes, but I can find out more about her if you wish."

Ben ignored the suggestion. "What do you think she was doing?"

The Detective regarded him, and for the first time his voice was sympathetic. "I believe she was selling something. There's no other explanation."

"You mean drugs, or something?"

"No. There was no merchandise. She was selling herself."

Ben nodded and closed his eyes for a moment. It was so easy to see, once you knew - her behaviour patterns fitted into everything he had learned in the last twenty minutes. He reached into the drawer of his desk and drew out another packet of banknotes. "You have been very thorough, Mr. Howard. Here is the balance of what I owe you. I believe that we can rely on each other for complete discretion?"

"There are no copies of any of the material that I have given you, and I don't ever talk about clients."

Ben held out his hand. "I wish your report had been other than what it was, but I appreciate your thoroughness and your sensitivity. Good day to you."

*****

Ben sat in his office with his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the soft leather surface of his desk and half a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue beside him. The staff had long since left and it was quiet in the room apart from the little sounds of the city - the occasional chime of the clock across the square, and the muted sound of traffic heading home on the freeway to the south.

He opened the top drawer of his desk and extracted Sophie's report, resting it on the blotter in front of him. Her name had been written on the front cover in neat capitals - Sophia Delaney McGraw and then, in smaller letters underneath 'aka Donatella Marcella Sassounion'. He wondered whether she had other names that he did not know about - other lives in different shades and hues, like coats of paint layered one upon the other, each of them skillfully concealed by the fine brushstrokes of the one above.

Ben sipped his whiskey, the smoky flavour as smooth as warm butter on his tongue, and he considered what was to be done. Surprisingly, he felt no anger. The slim report under his fingers was not a body blow but a way out, and he felt relief that he had found out now, rather than later when the tendrils of her entrapment would have been even tighter. He would deal with her tomorrow, and that would be the start of his life without her.

He thought of his sister Chelsea, images of their lives together racing through his brain in a kaleidoscope of time and colour - the skinny little blonde with a flat chest and braces who grew to stunning womanhood; their discovery of each other in the little holiday chalet, her eyes soft with love as he entered her hot, tight body. He remembered their time in the remote beach hideaway - long, lazy days together, filled with loving and laughter; and then the little flat they had rented above the dusty bookshop in the main street, where they lived as a couple for almost a year.

They thought it would never end, but it had. He had been sent to Europe for a few months on business, and the separation had put things in perspective. Living together in their home town had been a mistake - they knew too many people, and they had to work too hard at hiding their relationship. Their lives were shrouded in shame and secrecy, the spectre of disgrace their constant companion, hanging like the sword of Damocles above their heads. How could you live like that, being ashamed of the one you loved? The lies and deceit had eventually worn him down.

The chime of the town clock broke into his thoughts, and he stirred. The sound of the traffic on the freeway had diminished, and the night was still. It too late to look back with such regret, he thought - the bed had been made, and he must lie in it. He rose stiffly to his feet, aware that a chapter of his life was about to close and the pages beyond it were empty. He thought again of Chelsea, and wondered whether she might ever forgive him; perhaps he could talk to her at the wedding. He thought reconciliation unlikely, though - how could she ever take him back, when he had left her, just as his Sophie had betrayed him?

He drained the last of his Scotch, placed the report carefully in his briefcase and he left the office, closing the door softly behind him. Tomorrow was another day, and he had no idea what his world would be like beyond it.

*****

It was 11:58 on the bedside clock when the door to Chelsea's bedroom opened, and Bec slipped into the room. The light from the hallway illuminated her briefly, her nightdress translucent for a moment so that the outline of her body was visible under the thin material; and then she was beside the bed, leaning forward to peer into Chelsea's face.

"Are you awake?" she whispered.

"Yes. What is it?"

"I can't sleep. I keep thinking about him."

Chelsea smiled. She'd been expecting her, even though there had been no commitment. She pulled aside the bedclothes, shuffling her body over the bed to make room. "Come in, Bec."

The girl climbed in beside her. She was shivering, and Chelsea put her arms around her. "Hey, don't let him get to you."

Bec's voice was low, her words uncertain. "It's the same every night, Chelsea...you know - I'm alright during the day, when I'm busy, and then I get to think -"

Chelsea stroked her head gently. "Then think good things," she murmured.

"I - I don't have good things to think of."

"Sure you do. You're young, beautiful, have a good job and good friends and you'll soon meet someone who thinks you're the most special person in the world. Isn't all that good stuff to think of?"

Bec rolled onto her side, so that she was facing her. "I'm not like you," she said. "I don't make friends easily. It took ages before I found Jeff."

"He was your first, wasn't he?" It was too dark to see her, but she sensed the girl's nod. "Well, the first always takes the longest."

"You're just making that up!" There was a trace of laughter in her voice.

Chelsea laughed softly. "I'm not - promise! Cross my heart -". Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness and she could see Bec's head faintly against the white of the pillow. The girl's hair was silky under her fingers and she smoothed it gently, her fingertips brushing over her temple and the soft skin behind her ear. "I took ages to find the first guy, and then had three all within a year."

"Really?" Bec's voice was curious. "So how many boyfriends have you had?"

Chelsea chuckled. "Are you asking me how many men I've slept with, Bec?"

"I guess."

"That's a whole conversation. Enough to know that some are good and some are bad, though." She paused for a moment. "And nobody in the last year."

"Don't you miss having someone?"

Chelsea was silent for a moment, thinking about the question. Her anger at Ben had sustained her for a while, but now it was just a dull ache, every moment of the day. She wasn't ready for another relationship yet.

"Sometimes, Bec. Sometimes I just want to hold someone - you know, to share the day's problems ... and then I wake up in the morning and I'm glad I don't have all the complications of a relationship to worry about." She moved her fingers down, the tips sliding lightly over the nape of the girl's neck and the soft buttery skin of her shoulder, sensing its warmth and plasticity. "Being on your own is OK, sometimes - you don't have to answer to anybody but yourself."

"But it's lonely, too."

"Yes, sometimes it is, and there's nothing good in that." She laughed. "Now, missy - we have to go to work in the morning, so we'd better get some sleep!"

"Tomorrow's Saturday - are you working, then?"

Chelsea laughed. "No...I'd just forgotten which day of the week it was. I need to go to sleep now anyway."

Can I stay here?"

"Of course you can. Don't snore and don't pinch all the bedclothes." Chelsea patted her on the shoulder lightly, rolled over so that they were back -to -back and closed her eyes. For a while she lay quietly, luxuriating in the feeling of having someone in her bed. The girl was right - it had been lonely on her own. She liked Bec a lot, and to her surprise she found that she was looking forward to waking up with her in the morning. It's just the companionship, she told herself, nothing more. But the warm glow at the base of her stomach told a different story.

When she woke up the bedroom was suffused with grey light and she could hear the sound of rain on the metal roof and the gurgle of water in the drain outside the window. Bec was still asleep, her head on the pillow close to Chelsea. A swathe of hair had fallen forward over her face and she was breathing lightly, her lips slightly apart. She had pushed the covers back a little and one arm was flung outwards, the strap of her nightie displaced so that Chelsea could see the swell of one breast, the nipple peeping over the lace edging and her skin soft and creamy.

She felt a surge of tenderness towards the girl. Although she was only a couple of years younger than herself, she seemed so vulnerable - and yet she had an irrepressible spirit and a quiet sense of humour that Chelsea found appealing. She regarded Bec's face: seeing the delicate arcs of her eyebrows and the dark lashes closed lightly over her eyes. There was a sprinkling of freckles over her nose and her lips were full, soft and well shaped, turned up at the corners slightly to give a sense of fun. Her face was square, framed by the bob of her hair, and the firm chin gave her strength and determination. It was a face you could easily get used to each morning, she thought, and she smiled.

Bec's eyes opened, soft and unfocussed with sleep. For a moment there was confusion in them, and then she remembered where she was and she smiled at Chelsea in return. They lay for a moment looking at each other, each of them experiencing a growing awareness of the sudden intimacy of their situation. Chelsea lifted her arm and gently brushed aside the lock of hair on her forehead, her fingers lingering on the girl's skin. She could see the want in Bec's eyes - almost a look of desperation, a fear of rejection and the need for someone to hold her. She could hear the rain hammering on the roof above their heads, adding to their closeness, their bodies warm and secure in the cocoon of her bed.

On impulse she leaned forward and kissed the girl softly on the lips, her touch as light as a feather. She could feel their softness and warmth, taste the honeydew fragrance of her mouth. For a moment nothing happened, and then Bec opened her lips to open slightly, increasing the pressure, kissing her back. Chelsea felt the girl's arm encircle her, pulling her down against the warmth of her body, feeling the soft press of her breasts against her own and the hard nub of her nipples stiffening beneath her. She felt Bec's tongue brush into her mouth, small and slippery, easing between her lips and then retreating, and she was aware of the press of her thighs against her own.

She pulled away, looking down at her. Bec's eyes were bright and her lips open, and there was colour in her cheeks as she stared up at her.

"Are you OK with this?" Chelsea whispered.

Bec nodded. "God, yes!"

They kissed again, exploring the soft contours of each other's lips, their tongues touching and dancing against each other, slippery and warm. Chelsea could feel her heart hammering in her chest and the tight clutch of excitement building in her belly. Her senses were alive to everything that was happening: the softness of the body under her - yielding and fragrant, its soft curves and malleable flesh so different to the hard, angular muscle of the men she had known. The scent of her body, too, a trace of perfume from the night before - apple and cinnamon in her hair and the warm, milky smell of her skin; and her taste - a hint of sweet wine and honeydew melon on the enveloping softness of her lips. It was all so different to what she was used to - her senses were spinning, overcome by the deep well of pleasure that had suddenly opened before her, drawing her downwards in a spinning vortex of desire.

She could feel Bec's hands sliding over the material of her nightie, her fingers catching in the decorative lace and ribbon, and she broke away for a moment to strip it off and toss it aside. Her breasts were released, fuller and heavier than Bec's, and she could feel the girl's eyes on them and then the tentative touch of her fingers brushing over their fullness. Chelsea leaned forward a little to give her better access, and she watched as the girl's mouth closed over one nipple, her lips teasing it, sucking gently before releasing it again. In the pale, grey light Chelsea could see the shine of saliva on her skin, the nipple stiff and aroused, and she could see Bec looking up at her.

For a moment Chelsea hesitated, aware that she was on the edge of a precipice. She could stop now, pull back from the brink and they would laugh about it awkwardly later in the day, and life would go on; or she could pluck the soft, warm fruit of the body before her. She regarded the girl in her bed - the open lips and her hot, panting breath, her hair spread over the pillow in a shining curtain. Bec was waiting, aware of her uncertainty and its reason, and she had an expression of desperate longing on her face.

Chelsea smiled down at her. "Take off your nightie, Bec."

A flash of relief crossed the girl's face...or was it triumph? She pulled the nightie over her head, the scrap of blue silk fluttering free, and lay back. Chelsea pulled the bedclothes aside. Bec's body was quiescent, ready for her to take; the soft curves and firm flesh an open invitation. She crouched down and ran her tongue over her skin, down from the creamy swell of her breasts and over her midriff, dipping into the little hollow of her navel and then across the flat plain of her belly to where the thin elastic of her panties began. She heard the soft sigh of the girl's pleasure and felt the stretch of her body responding to her touch, arching up against her mouth.

She could feel Bec's hands reaching out, pulling at her thighs to bring her closer, and she swung herself over the girl, her knees either side of her shoulders and her buttocks towards her face. She could feel the trickle of her own juices, held back by the thin fabric of her briefs, and she wondered if the material was stained. Her awareness was heightened, each moment a bright sliver of light and sound under the microscope of her consciousness: the wild thudding of her heart beating in her chest and the pulsing of her blood through her arteries; the creak of the bedsprings as their bodies moved gently together, and the splatter of rain on the window beside the bed.

She lowered her torso, hunkering down to bring her hips closer to the girl's face, feeling Bec's breath on the inside of her thighs as light as a gossamer breeze, and she felt the girl's hands reach up to her thighs. For a moment Chelsea could feel the coolness of air on her heated flesh as Bec eased aside the gusset of her panties, and then there was the sudden touch of soft, wet lips on her vulva, and the slow slide of the girl's tongue over the opening to her body. Her back arched, pushing her mons harder against Bec's face, and she felt her vagina contract violently, releasing a little squeeze of warm juice. She rotated her hips gently, rubbing her labia over the girl's face, delighting in the press of her tongue upwards into her cunt.