A Taste of Passion

The walls and furnishings remained predominantly coloured in the same bland magnolias, oatmeals and beiges that had been there when they moved in.

The floors were hardwood.

The décor was sparse and minimalist and open plan.

It was a stylish area to entertain friends and, most importantly, it was easy to keep clean and tidy. The only problem with the ground floor level was, unless she carefully tiptoed, that the hardwood floors screamed and groaned an announcement of her every movement like some form of security siren.

Trudy checked that her keys were zipped into the pocket of her hoodie before closing the door behind her. It was barely 5:30 am. She had been home this morning for less than three hours. The world outside the door was held in the blackest night between darkness and dawn. Trudy savoured the chill of the icy weather caressing her skin. Then she began to jog steadfastly through the grey morning mist.

Every breath came out as a visible reminder of the early summer morning’s frostiness.

The brim of her black baseball cap was pulled low. Her features were hidden inside the shadows of her black hoodie. Wearing black Lycra leggings and black trainers, she figured she looked as anonymous as the shadows as she hurried along the pre-morning roads. She wanted to blend with the early-morning lightlessness and complete her run without being observed. The way she felt this morning, Trudy wanted to continue the remainder of her existence without ever being observed again. Remaining permanently unobserved, she thought, would be safest for all.

You fucked William Hart.

The soundtrack for her MP3 was set to a list of tunes intended to accompany an energetic workout. There were lots of glam rock pieces, each one heavy with power chords and inspirational lyrics. She turned up the volume so the music had a chance to drown out the catcalls of her conscience.

You fucked William Hart.

Her cheeks burned crimson. She cranked the volume higher and began running harder. Every footfall shook as it landed heavily on the ground. She forced herself to think about each step of the circuit that lay ahead. It was never a good idea to tackle the quad killer with anything less than absolute mental focus. This morning she needed something to concentrate on other than the punishing memories of the previous night. The quad killer – devilish, demanding and dangerous – struck her as the ideal distraction. Not that the memories were particularly punishing. In truth, the majority of them were rather pleasurable. But she didn’t like to dwell on the easy way she had given herself to him.

You fucked William Hart.

She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to banish that thought.

In a moment of typical dramatic flair, Charlotte had labelled this route the quad killer. It was a six mile run that went up some steep hills, over stretches of gruelling fields, and through a couple of treacherous woodland trails. Trudy believed it to be one of the most invigorating and challenging cardiovascular workouts she and Charlotte had ever negotiated. The name quad killer was apt because it always left the front of Trudy’s thighs in an agony of overstretched and trembling exertion. It left her quivering and on the brink of ceasing to function. This morning, more than any other she could remember, Trudy needed the quad killer to distract her thoughts. There were some things that she simply didn’t want to think about.

You fucked William Hart.

After she and William Hart finished having sex, Trudy had felt an almost irresistible urge to apologise or at least explain herself. She didn’t usually have sex with people she’d known for less than an hour. Her only previous lover, Peter, had been her one and only former boyfriend. She’d been committed to Peter for two years before they became intimate. Their relationship had lasted a further twelve months and she’d been devastated when he said it was time for them to go their separate ways.

Aside from one embarrassing drunken fumble with Terry, a blind date that Charlotte had organised, Trudy had never displayed anything like the uninhibited abandon that she shared with William Hart in the kitchen of Boui-Boui.

But she hadn’t dared put those thoughts into words. It was easier to simply cringe from the shame of having made herself so easily available to him and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

A car approached her on the road. The headlights were dusty and faraway in the pre-dawn mist. Even as it sped past her its presence seemed oddly muffled and otherworldly.

It was amazing that it had happened, she thought. The sudden desire she’d had for Bill, as well as the fact that he reciprocated her feelings and they’d been sufficiently fortunate to be in a convenient location where they could do something about their mutual attraction, had been a combination of events that would lead someone else to win the lottery. Yet, despite the fact that sex with him had felt good – incredibly good – she conceded, Trudy did not feel like a lottery winner.

If not for the fact that she was tackling the quad killer, Trudy would have curled into a ball and sobbed bitter tears of recrimination and frustration.

She left the first stretch of uphill climb and leapt easily over a low dry-stone wall. She kept one hand on the rough stone for balance. Then her feet were stomping on the unyielding and uneven surface of a deep-ploughed field.

It was early enough to still count as dark. There was a suggestion of morning sunlight somewhere on the horizon but it was nothing more than a baffled brightness in the wrong part of an unseen sky. A bank of low-lying cloud made the world around her an impenetrable fog of confusion.

She ran more briskly.

A ramblers’ path lead through the field up to the forest. It was a stretch of well-trodden grass that had worn to a thin and sometimes-muddy walkway. The surface was uneven and potentially calamitous. Trudy knew, if she didn’t pay attention to every step, there was a danger she could lose her footing, twist an ankle or fall and cause herself serious injury.

This was one of the reasons why she had forced herself to take on the quad killer this morning. It demanded so much concentration there was little scope for reflection or self-condemnation. She kept her face down and focused on her run as she hurried into the primordial depths of the forest.

The mist was cold against her cheeks. She could feel each icy speckle that touched her as she ran. The moist fragrance of the trees was rich in her nostrils. She could smell damp earth, dewy leaves and the heady scents of pollen and sap.

They were all musky perfumes that she normally enjoyed.

But this morning Trudy wouldn’t allow herself to acknowledge the smells. Her thoughts, when not fixed on the circuit she was attempting to complete, seemed able to focus on only one thing.

You fucked William Hart.

The music continued to thump through her skull at a deafening volume.

She knew each and every one of the power ballads in her exercise regime. Most mornings, when breathlessness wasn’t a problem, she would sing along. This morning, Trudy couldn’t find the enthusiasm to mutter a single syllable.

The muscles in her legs began to ache.

Maddeningly, rather than help take her thoughts away from William Hart, every increasing strain reminded her of the way her muscles had responded beneath his touch. Every glimmer of discomfort made her think of the previous evening when her muscles had been equally well exerted but reacting to far more pleasurable stimulation.

Her stomach folded.

Her cheeks flushed. She shook her head in an attempt to banish the memory.

His fingers had traced appreciatively over the sculpted muscle of her quads. They had slipped upwards, disappearing beneath the hem of her skirt and touching the crotch of her panties. His fingers had teased the elastic to one side as he continued to explore her with the practised hand of an expert lover.

Trudy had savoured every magnificent moment.

Regardless of the regrets she now harboured, regardless of the doubts she had about what she had done, how Hart might interpret her actions, and what her friends were likely to think should they ever find out, the evening had been a sensational experience that she would happily revisit if she was given the opportunity.

William Hart wasn’t just an attractive man.

He was a skilled lover and Trudy wanted to get to know him better. She decided then she would learn more about the man and, if the opportunity presented itself, she would see if he was worth the commitment of a relationship.

Admittedly, he was older than her. She didn’t know his exact age but she was sure he was at least twice her age. She suspected that one of her friends or one of his would likely say something judgemental about the huge disparity between their ages. Trudy cringed from the idea of that potential argument.

There were other potential barriers to their happiness such as their different social situations and world experiences. But it was the difference in their ages that she knew would prove most problematic. Nevertheless, she did want an opportunity to get to know him better and, Trudy thought, if the opportunity didn’t present itself, she would find a way to force circumstances so she could get to know him better.

For the first time that morning she felt a smile creep across her lips.

She realised she was already planning a way to address the matter.

The embarrassment of what she had done was diminished by the prospect of how it could be potentially developed. She tilted her head upwards and felt the weight of unnecessary tension slip from her neck. She’d had no idea that the concerns had been weighing on her like a milkmaid’s yoke.

A hand fell on her arm.

Chapter 8 (#ulink_747ec111-5858-5037-9908-35987aa6e1af)

Trudy shrieked and pulled away. She lost her footing and came close to falling over. A strong hand caught her forearm and stopped her from tumbling to the ground. She felt a wrench pulling on her shoulder harsh enough to make her moan.

‘Slow down,’ Charlotte warned. ‘You need to be careful on this stretch of the run. The ground here is positively lethal.’