This is a total rewrite and relaunch of an earlier series that will remain available on my profile. I wanted to use the same characters and world, keeping them consistent with what I did previously while taking a new approach that I hope reflects my growth as a writer and avoids some of my earlier pitfalls.
While the below definitely has its flaws, I hope you'll find it a thrilling adventure interspersed with riveting action, intense sex, and just a little bit of hope. If there are little hiccups, please forgive them. I'm an amateur and don't use an editor. Plus, this is a really big chunk of text to work with and little typos are inevitable.
This first part contains scenes of incest between cousins as well as other sex scenes between men and women and/or between women and women.
All characters engaged in sexual activity are 18 or older. Any resemblance to real persons or events is purely coincidental.
Please enjoy!
Chapter 1
The January cold stung my face as I pulled my coat over my shoulders and inhaled the vague familiarity of London. Clutching my carry-on, I journeyed across the wind-slapped tarmac, past the glassy eyes of airport staff.
We were being stared down by the whale-heads of jumbo jets, their engines thrumming.
That morning, there was neither a working bridge nor a functioning bus at Heathrow. After spending half an hour parked on the runway, it was decided that we would have to proceed on foot. People cursed and groaned. I overheard a group of returning businessmen complain about London's decline. They rattled off their gripes, and I responded by putting in my AirPods and pressing play.
About halfway through the walk, I noticed a gentleman ahead of me. He was about 80 and moved at a measured pace, taking careful steps in shoes made of leather that must've predated my birth. He had a stewardess shepherding him, making small talk to distract him from the cold. While the two moved steadily, I could tell the man's thin woven jacket made a poor shield against the chill. He was shivering, stopping every few metres to regain his strength.
I removed one AirPod and let the music cut out. "Excuse me, sir. May I offer you my coat?"
"I couldn't--"
"Please," I pressed. "Consider it a favour. The thing's not my style."
With a moment's hesitation, the creases on his face softened.
The stewardess and I helped the man put on the coat, which hung off his shoulders and fell over his fingertips. This buoyed his spirits, and she gave him a little hug to help warm him up. "You're quite the gentleman," she remarked. "What brings you to London?"
I had to be discreet. "I'm on business but would love to see a few of my relatives while I'm here."
"Well, if you need someone to show you around..."
The old man gave me a wink, but I let her offer hang in the air. She was beautiful, but only in the way you'd expect from women in her profession. No, maybe a little more than that... Either way, it wasn't the kind of thing that meant much to me, so I let it float away.
The man furrowed his brows. "If you don't mind me saying, you look a little troubled."
"My sisters' birthdays are tomorrow," I revealed. "I won't be there to celebrate with them because of this trip."
The stewardess offered a sympathetic smile, having undoubtedly missed special occasions because of her job. Now a little warmer, the man started telling us about his family. He was three generations deep when we arrived inside the terminal. The artificial light overwhelmed me. Memories made me shiver. An errant tear rolled down my cheek. I wiped it away and took a deep breath, keeping my head down to avoid glimpses of the past.
The man returned my coat and we said our goodbyes. After collecting my suitcase and passing through the arrivals lounge, I only made one stop. Grabbing a free newspaper and scanning the front page, I saw the general sentiment was as frightening as usual.
MARKET UNEASE PERSISTS AS CITY SUCCESSION CRISIS CONTINUES
I suppose I was in London to deal with that crisis -- to keep the wheels of commerce spinning. As I paused to read the first few paragraphs, I sensed I was being surrounded. About eight colleagues I'd travelled with were stuck in place, waiting for me to make my next move.
We were a pack of young lawyers (dressed sharply but looking a little worse for wear). It dawned on me that we weren't the crowd who usually got to travel for work.
I took the lead, using a vague sense of direction that was a decade out of date. On the other side of customs, men in black suits were waiting to whisk us away. As the chauffeurs took our luggage, we settled into our seats. A few people fell asleep as soon as possible, but I was intent on devouring the headlines.
It was a personality flaw: the desire to never miss a beat or, perhaps, to one day change the world's rhythm.
I'd barely started reading my newspaper when the guy next to me dug an elbow into my side. "This is it, Oliver," he declared. "The big time. It's make or break, and I'm the one who'll make it."
I guess that made me the one who'd break. You see, Richard Douglas was a contemptible human being for whom I held a foolish soft spot. Armed with nothing but a sharp tongue and a sense of superiority, he tried his best to play the office bully. He was neither as smart as he claimed, nor as good-looking, and certainly not as rich. He seemed sad and shallow, but he also had a few redeeming qualities. He could be witty and make you laugh; he was also happy to give his victims a shot at payback. In my case, that amounted to one-sided sparring sessions in the boxing ring.
"You're still convinced you'll get that promotion, huh?" I teased. "I admire the self-confidence."
Dick sighed, adjusting his sleeves (he was the only man in the firm who wore cufflinks). "I've been thinking: who is Oliver Orwell? Brains, brawn, good looks, charm and an expensive foreign education. The youngest associate ever at Dallaire-Singh--"
"Jealous?"
"Thankfully, your career has stalled, but I guess you could say I'm perplexed," he confessed. "If you get promoted ahead of me, I'll croak. It would violate the laws of nature."
Dick's mood changed. He ground his teeth and bored the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other. "Why do you think they sent us down here on such short notice?" I asked, trying to change the subject.
Richard didn't respond. We had nothing left to say to each other, so I turned my face to the passing sights of an overcast London. The old imperial capital seemed to have lost much of its splendour as the years dragged on. But nothing worth looking at is perfect, and the city still radiated charisma.
We drove past Hyde Park and through the financial district. Tower Bridge straddled the Thames with a kind of dread and elegance you don't often see in combination. I remembered looking at it when I was younger.
The city unfolded around us like notes on sheet music. It was a nasty tune, discordant, almost jazzy but not quite, yet beautifully unashamed of itself. The light smell of rain was concordant with the rest of the place and didn't deter the dozens of pedestrians from diverse walks of life, their footfalls and chatter like the gentle timbre of drums. They moved past grey brick buildings alongside narrow streets. Others assembled outside pubs and restaurants, undaunted by the weather. Here and there, the sight of scaffolding revealed the city was still alive despite its troubles.
Alive but tired -- damaged but not yet broken.
My reflection in the window was that of a stranger. The lines on my skin spoke of long nights and anxious days, yet I'd managed to get some sun and didn't look too vampiric. My hair was as black as the ink on my newspaper, falling in waves and curls, with new whispers of grey that extended to my beard.
Alive but tired.
