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Joseph Nigel Lisgoe – CEO of JNL Debt Collectors and newly appointed “financial advisor” to Mr Ross Gaines.
A few months ago, the two men had struck up an unlikely business arrangement. Lisgoe received a small pot of money from Ross, which he moved from investment to investment in pursuit of the best return. Apparently, his hard work had paid off because it prompted Ross to open up an entire savings account to him. He had even handed over his debit card and PIN to Lisgoe, as well as one other pertinent item. A spare key to his flat.
When Ross had slipped Lisgoe the key, it had simply been the next stage in a long line of business arrangements. A way to streamline the process. And, once or twice, when the two men had chatted about “finances” until the early hours of the morning, Ross inviting Lisgoe to stay the night was solely a matter of convenience, even if Ross only had one bed and Lisgoe refused to sleep on the least comfortable sofa in the world.
As Lisgoe makes his way towards Ross’ flat, he takes the time to reflect on his new line of work. Although it's not his field of expertise, the side-step from debt collector to broker feels natural enough and, truth be told, he enjoys the challenge. It has all the thrill of gambling without having to put his own money on the line.
The briefcase swinging by his side doesn’t contain quite enough paperwork to justify itself but it's a symbol of his dedication. Proof that he's taking his new role seriously. Ross has put a lot of faith in him and he refuses to disappoint - Call it dogged loyalty.
Having stumbled upon a promising scheme, he needs to speak to Ross as soon as possible. The scheme could go one of two ways, leading to outright success or utter disaster. He needs to know if Ross is willing to take the risk.
Having called him three times in the space of twenty minutes with no reply, Lisgoe arrives outside Ross’ building armed with a briefcase full of paperwork that he hopes will be convincing enough. He really thinks this could pay off. It's the most optimistic he has felt in years.
He lets himself into the flat, pulls the door closed with a quiet click and something feels... Different. He can’t quite place it.
Silence.
There's an odd quality to the silence. It’s heavy. Anticipatory. He can’t help but feel as though he has stumbled into something that he should never have been part of.
Walking towards the closed door of the living room, Lisgoe is just about to call out to see if Ross is at home when he hears the younger man’s voice, muttering something deep and authoritative. Somebody replies (a distinctly feminine-sounding somebody) and then there is the sound of shuffling around on that God-awful sofa and a sudden, distinctive hitch in the woman’s breathing.
Lisgoe freezes. A phantom pair of hands thrust themselves into his abdomen, grab and twist.
He trusts his gut reaction and already has a good idea of what might be happening. As much as he doesn’t want to hear, he needs to know for certain. He edges closer to the door, listening intently. The sound of his own breathing disturbs the quiet of the hallway, joining the cacophony of his heartbeat. It seems impossible that the two people in the living room don’t know that he is here.
The leather creaks once. There is a pause, and then it creaks again. And again, building into a steady, rhythmic rocking sound. For a moment, he stares blankly at the closed door, visualising the sofa that lies beyond. On several nights, he had shared that space with Ross, drinking together, talking until the early hours of the morning and occasionally turning their attention to whatever shite was on the telly. ‘Peaceful’ is not a word that applies to many aspects of Lisgoe’s life, but it's how he would describe his time spent alone with Ross. For a moment, he finds refuge in his memories and allows the rhythmic thudding to fade into the background.
And then she moans.
Lisgoe grimaces, lets out a slow breath and sets down the briefcase.
He can’t claim to be good with emotion at the best of times and he certainly doesn’t know what he is supposed to be feeling right now, so he defaults to anger. It swells, growing from the pit of his stomach to the base of his throat and, as it takes hold, his fists clench by his sides. His expression sets into a cold, hard mask. His ice-blue eyes see nothing but red.
It’s a betrayal and no betrayal should go unpunished. So why, he asks himself, is he still standing in the corridor like some sort of cuck? He supposes it’s the shock. Just the shock. He'll snap out of it in a minute. Maybe he'll barge into the living room and ring the little fucker’s neck.
Whilst deciding what to do, he edges closer to the wall, presses his back firmly against it and tips his head towards the door.
He hears a gasp and then the woman lets out a series of vile little mewls.
Maybe he has no right to judge. After all, Lisgoe is no saint. He has slept with many, many people over the years and he hasn’t been particularly picky about it. He would pounce on any opportunity for an easy lay but, ever since he and Ross had struck up their business arrangement, Lisgoe had become virtually monastic. Surely a coincidence.
He doesn't need to listen especially hard to hear the noises now. The woman is growing louder by the second. Beneath the racket, Ross groans softly and, suddenly, some of Lisgoe’s anger dissipates. It transforms into a different kind of restless energy. A traitorous flood of arousal coalesces in his core, tightening his suit trousers and, as Ross groans again, Lisgoe has to sink his teeth into his bottom lip to hold back a ragged sound of his own.
He shoves a hand into his pocket and cups his cock through the lining, giving it a rough squeeze. He isn’t sure if he intends it to be a reward, a distraction or a dissuasion. Somehow, it is all three at once.
As Ross’ breathing grows heavier and the sound of his thrusts becomes even more overt, Lisgoe’s hand, still gripping tightly through the fabric, begins to move in time. His jaw, once so tightly clenched, slackens for a moment. The thrill of eavesdropping has clearly ignited something within him, but he's not far gone enough to think that what he's doing is okay.
He feels like a creep – a disgusting, perverted little creep – but it was more fucked up of that snivelling little bastard to have invited someone home for a shag when... well. It doesn’t matter now. Anyway, Lisgoe’s transgression seems to him to be the lesser of two evils and, as he continues to stroke himself in time with each rough thrust... God, does it feel good.
It is, without a doubt, the most intense wank he has had in years. Furtive, desperate and illicit. The adrenaline has him feeling like a teenager again and live entertainment certainly beats the grainy X-rated VHS tapes of his youth, even if this is purely an auditory experience. Heat mounts deep within him and a bright halo of light surrounds his red-tinged vision.
Even as he tightens his grip, he is disgusted in himself.
“Is this what gets you off, you sick bastard? Listening to your boyf- business partner rail some cheap whore?” This thought is closely followed by another, “Fuck, I’m close.”
He slows his hand, pathetically desperate to finish at the same time as Ross, and waits, his breath shuddering with each slow stroke.
The woman is the first to come. She announces it loudly and then shrieks like a wounded animal. He tries to block her out, focussing on any noises that Ross might make now that he has somebody tightening around him, constricting around his cock in pulsing waves.
Ross remains stoically silent for now but speeds up to an impossible and certainly unsustainable pace. For another few seconds, he pounds into her. It’s a selfish rhythm, simply taking what he needs. In a strained, desperate voice, he murmurs something that Lisgoe can’t quite make out and then, as he slams into the woman hard, a loud, visceral moan escapes him.
It’s enough to finish Lisgoe off.
Shivering heat courses through his body. He presses his lips shut to stifle himself as the fabric of his trousers begins to soak through, just below the belt, and he almost doubles over with the pleasure. Tipped forward, the force of repressed moans pounding against the inside his skull makes the blood rush to his head so that, as soon as the shuddering stops, a lightheadedness sets in.
He draws a few deep, slowing breaths into his lungs and straightens up shakily.
Silence.
It descends upon the flat, awkward and thick. He has to leave. The vile stickiness running down his thigh urges him on but he finds himself lingering for just a few seconds more. He wants to hear what Ross has to say for himself.
There is a cold, calculating nature to Ross' voice that, in any other situation, Lisgoe would have admired. Not like this though.
“You do realise I’m gonna have to tell him?”
Lisgoe’s chest tightens. At least it proves that Ross has some sort of conscience, that he's planning to come clean, but Lisgoe doesn’t want to hear the confession Ross has in store for him. He would have to plaster a thick layer of surprise on top of his anger and shame and can’t see himself being a very convincing actor.
Silently, he snatches up the briefcase and slips out of the door, buttoning up his oversized suit jacket with one hand.
As he walks towards the high street, sounds of the town swirl around him but they feel so distant, almost as though he is still listening to the world through a closed door.
A sudden clutching sensation materialises in his chest and he stops, tilting his head back to take a single deep breath. Then he resumes walking, aimless and empty.
If somebody were to bump into him, they might pass straight through. He is ephemeral, on a different plane, and the only thing that keeps him grounded is the dull nausea radiating out from his stomach – A malady that pervades his entire body. Is this lovesickness? Or broken-heartedness? He feels fucking weak and, for the fourth or fifth time in his life, swears that he will never let something as frivolous and fragile as hope find its way into his heart again.
With gritted teeth, he resolves not to spend any more time feeling sorry for himself. It’s fucking laughable that he feels so shaken when Ross is... nothing. Just a weedy, pretentious, smarmy little rat. He has to pick himself up, dust himself off and turn vague, useless feelings into action, just like he's always done. He stands up a little straighter and his strides become more purposeful.
As his gait changes, so does his mindset. He is now out for revenge and, with a whole savings account to blow, he could really do some damage. He begins to mull over his options. A new car? A swanky office? Fuck it, as many escorts as he can handle in one night? He tries to be enthusiastic about the last option, he really does, but the idea of sleeping with anyone other than Ross repulses him. And he hates himself for that.
With a glance down at the briefcase, he locates the closest ATM and helps himself to £200 - after all, if Ross had been willing to take advantage of their mutual trust, he may as well do the same - before heading into the corner shop and blowing it all on a spool of scratch cards and a handful of lottery tickets. Then he goes back to the ATM and withdraws another £100 for good measure. He tucks the money away in the briefcase, nestling it in alongside the cards and lottery tickets (finally using the briefcase to its full capacity) and continues to stride down the high street. He doesn’t really know where to go now, he just walks and adds to his mental list of ways to get revenge on Ross. That is, until a van comes careening around the corner.
Just ahead, a woman with red hair stands stock-still, frozen in the middle of the road, directly in the path of the van. A man dives, she screams and the van swerves straight towards Lisgoe.
He barely has time to register what is about to happen. In that fleeting moment between commotion and stillness, all thought of revenge is forgotten. He only wants reconciliation. One more chance.
Then comes the moment of impact.
Lottery tickets and £10 notes flutter down from the sky, settling around a shattered briefcase.
Silence.