Taken. Jacqui RoseЧитать онлайн книгу.
when they all hung around the clubs of Soho desperate to make a name for themselves. It was Vaughn who’d shot up the ranks first with his fearlessness; never shying away from anyone or anything. When everyone else including himself had been reluctant to go to certain places, Vaughn had gone in controlled and precise, his presence as menacing as the weapons he carried.
Vaughn had taken on the older faces, people like Mad Boy Collins and Leroy Andrews, who even by Oscar’s standards were merciless in their quest to get justice for anything they saw as disrespect or wrongdoings.
Rumour had it Mad Boy Collins had been owed less than two grand by Eddie Williams – a small time crack dealer with a big time gambling habit – but Collins had taken exception to the fact he’d had to wait for the money whilst Eddie had gone on a weekend trip to Amsterdam. Pissed off by what he saw as disrespect, Collins and his men had stormed into Eddie’s house while he was away and raped his wife and two teenage daughters, before chopping them up into tiny bits – but not before Mad Boy Collins had made himself a cup of tea and a ham sandwich.
Taking on men like Collins without fear had gained Vaughn respect and he’d earned his place amongst the top faces. He’d stayed at the top ever since.
Along the way Vaughn had earned vast amounts of money; everyone had wanted to do business deals with him, knowing they’d never be turned over by Vaughn, who had a reputation not only for being an untouchable but for having integrity; a rare and strange quality in their world.
Oscar had never done any business with Vaughn, although he’d have liked to – he’d heard whispers that Vaughn thought of him as untrustworthy. It’d fucked him off no end to think Vaughn Sadler went around thinking he was better than him, but not nearly as much as it fucked him off to have to sit and listen to him recount his tedious tales of his latest trip abroad. It was either that, though, or risk getting on the wrong side of Vaughn – and no one wanted to do that.
Finally, he’d been able to make his excuses when his phone had rung and he’d pretended it was his mother.
‘You know how it is, Vaughn, got to go and see me old mum. She’s on her own now and she hasn’t been very well.’
‘That’s what I like to see; sons looking after their mothers.’
Thankful to get out of the bar on Glasshouse Street, Oscar had thought about his mother. There was no way he ever wanted to lay eyes on her again or even speak to her; moreover, if he ever saw her lying in the street he’d cross to the other side. She was nothing more than a drunken slag and if it wasn’t for the fact he’d promised his father before he died that he’d look after her, he would’ve put her in the ground a long time ago.
Thinking about his mother always brought on one of his headaches so he’d decided to do the five-minute walk to Whispers to see what was going on. The club had been empty besides a few nervous and very bad comedians. He’d watched as they took their turns at the open spot and he’d struggled to raise even a smile. Oscar couldn’t see the point in a comedian’s existence; to him, it was a fucked-up kind of life if you needed to spend it trying to make other people laugh.
He’d heard Alfie’s stand-up routine many times and by far he was the worst comedian he’d ever seen; it verged on the embarrassing. Oscar guessed owning the club was the only way Alfie would ever have the chance to go on stage; nobody else in their right mind would let him. But however bad a comedian Alfie was, Oscar had to admit he was a savvy businessman and the club was a perfect smokescreen for their projects; especially the one they were just buying into.
As Oscar had stood eyeing up the barmaid, he’d felt one of his migraines coming on, making him doubly grateful Alfie wasn’t performing. It was one thing listening to Vaughn talk about his holidays but an entirely different one listening to Alfie Jennings on stage.
Oscar had left the club when a female comedian had come on stage talking about periods and the menopause. He’d headed back to his flat in Holborn, feeling the pain in his head travel down behind his right eye and the taste of metal on his tongue.
He’d picked up the phone when he’d got home and spoken roughly to the person at the other end.
‘Bring me one.’
‘Which one Boss?’
‘Any. I want to have some fun.’
The girl had stood looking at him nervously and Oscar had guessed she was about twenty, though it didn’t really matter how old she was; he’d no interest in knowing anything about her. She was very slim with dark hair but when she’d taken her clothes off, he’d been annoyed at the size of her tits; they were huge and it’d made him feel sick; it reminded him of his mother.
She’d lain back on his clean slate-coloured sheets, naked, and as his headache had got profoundly worse, Oscar had heard her mutter something inaudible, then she’d leant forward and started massaging his penis; first softly and then hard, using her tongue in rapid motion on his shaft.
Nearly blinded from the pain in his head, Oscar had stared down at the woman working away on his limp penis. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a hard-on and the useless bitch with her colossal tits certainly wasn’t helping.
With a lunge of his arm he’d thrust his hand between her legs; she’d screamed loudly, accentuating the pain in his head. He’d punched her; hard enough to daze her but not hard enough to knock her out.
Grabbing hold of her hair, Oscar had dragged the girl further towards him; manoeuvring her underneath him, ready to show her he was a real man. He’d prised her legs wide open and attempted to enter her but he hadn’t been able to get an erection.
The humiliation and frustration he’d felt had turned into anger, and in a flash he’d started to kick out at her in a frenzy.
Oscar had looked down at the slate-coloured sheets which had turned into a pool of crimson blood and suddenly he’d felt very tired. It was then that he’d realised his headache had gone; and his pleasure at being pain-free was only slightly marred when it dawned on him he now needed to sleep on the couch, rather than in the blood-soaked bed.
Stepping out of the shower, Oscar hoped Billy had finished cleaning up. He was happy now he remembered what’d happened; all day it’d troubled him. Not what he’d done; she was only a cheap whore anyway and he doubted she’d ever be missed; it was the not remembering he hated.
Whistling, Oscar continued to get ready for his meeting. He was in a good mood and even Alfie performing his stand-up act couldn’t change that.
CHAPTER FOUR
Emmie Jennings sighed as she looked in the mirror for the umpteenth time. Her room was dusky pink with cream silk wallpaper – ordered from America – bordering the bottom part of her walls. Her mother insisted on her having Ralph Lauren silk bedding at all times and her new fifty-inch flat screen TV sat on the far wall with MTV on mute.
There was a pile of clothes on the floor and a walk-in closet full of designer outfits, but nothing she’d tried on so far looked right. Her friends at school had always complimented her on her tiny figure, but no matter how many times they told her she was slim, Emmie always felt fat.
Her dad, Alfie, was up in town and her mum Janine was going up to North London to see some of her friends so it gave Emmie the perfect opportunity to go and meet Jake.
Justin Bieber was blaring out on her iPod station when her mother opened the door and walked in. Emmie had put a sign on the door last year saying No entry without knocking but neither her mum nor dad had taken the slightest bit of notice of it since it’d been there.
Emmie watched her mother eating a king size Mars Bar as she sat on the end of her white leather double bed. There was no denying how much she loved her mother but she couldn’t help feeling ashamed of her; and having those feelings made Emmie feel ashamed of herself.
She was always mortified when her mother turned up at school and it’d been especially difficult