Taken

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

In conversation with Jacqui Rose (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Titles by Jacqui Rose (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

‘Soho’ – derived from a 17th-century hunting cry

CHAPTER ONE

‘Dean Street please.’

Casey Edwards sat in the back of the black cab and sank her body against the grey faux leather seats. She was exhausted but knew it was pointless trying to get some sleep; she was too wired and decided after she’d settled in, she’d dump her bags and go for a well-needed drink.

‘Here on business or pleasure, love?’

It was a simple question from the cab driver, who stared intensely at her with his watery blue eyes in the driver’s mirror, but it was one Casey didn’t know the answer to. She wasn’t here on business and she certainly wasn’t here on pleasure; the driver was as much in the know as she was. Not being put off by Casey’s silence, the cabbie continued to talk whilst weaving in and out of the traffic on the invariably busy Euston Road.

Casey gazed out of the window, watching the passing cars absentmindedly as she thought about the events of the morning.

Casey opened her eyes and looked down, wondering who the naked man fast asleep on her leg was. She moved her body slightly to the right and groaned audibly as her head began to pound and the sticky residue of semen between her legs betrayed the fact that once again, she’d had sex with a complete stranger.

Her life had become a series of alcohol-fuelled sexual encounters and now for the first time last night she’d added cocaine to the mix.

Getting off the small double bed, she took a second look at the man, who momentarily opened his eyes before turning over and letting out a loud fart. Casey grimaced, trying to remember the events of the previous night, but her head hurt and trying to think made it ache even more.

Vaguely she recollected getting ready; unwashed skinny jeans, a white Gap t-shirt and black leather jacket, before heading to Luigi’s wine bar on the corner of Station Road. She recalled ordering an overpriced scotch on the rocks – the first drink was supposed to give her the courage she needed, but instead it became the first of many. The taste of the burning whisky on her lips was as far as her memory took her; she couldn’t think how she’d ended up in a shabby hotel room having had sex with a man who had a clear case of flatulence.

Going over to where she’d thrown her clothes, Casey saw the remaining cocaine cut neatly into lines on the tatty brown dresser. Picking up the rolled-up twenty-pound note, she bent over, greedily snorting up the fine white powder and feeling the coke immediately cutting the back of her throat, leaving an acidic taste followed by a tingle as the buzz hit her head and body.

Looking round the room, Casey noticed her suitcase was slightly open and her eyes were immediately drawn to the battered red journal which lay amongst her crumpled clothes.

‘Any left for me?’ The unidentified man came up behind her and put his hands round Casey’s naked waist. He leant forward and kissed the back of her neck, sending shivers of disgust down her body. She could feel his erect penis pushing hard onto the back of her legs as she bent down again to snort some more cocaine, hoping to numb herself from what was about to happen.

‘How do you want it, baby? Slow and hard or quick and rough?’

He was laughable; did he really think any woman would be turned on by him sounding like he’d just stepped out of a cheap American porn movie? What she really wanted to do was tell him to fuck off, but instead she sighed and answered him in a slow drawl, mirroring his cheap and corny line.

‘Anything you want, honey; as long as it’s quick, baby. Just make it quick.’ She knew this would be the last time; it had to be. There could be no going back now, and somehow she needed this feeling of self-loathing; this debasement of herself to remind her if she didn’t make it, couldn’t make it, this was what was waiting for her. With tears stinging her eyes she’ll let the man’s rough hands wander over her body.

After it was over, Casey dressed and walked out, leaving the man hungrily finishing the last of the coke. All she wanted to do was get out of there. Get on a train and head for London, the place she’d been avoiding going for so many years. But it was finally time.

‘I didn’t know they let blind people drive,’ the taxi driver yelled as he overtook a white Fiat, jolting Casey from her thoughts. After getting blocked in by three double-decker buses outside the fire station in Shaftesbury Avenue, the cab driver finally managed to turn right – after much hand gesturing and swearing – into Wardour Street.

‘Do you want me to drop you here or go right round, love? It’s one way so I can’t go down.’

‘Here’s just fine.’ He pulled over without signalling, causing the cyclist behind him to swerve onto the other side of the road, very nearly hitting an oncoming car.

After handing over a ten-pound note for the nine-pound fair and watching the taxi drive off, beeping the horn violently, Casey made her way down Dean Street. She caught glimpses of her stooped, tired looking reflection in the windows of the bars she walked past. She was only thirty-two, but felt much older – each passing day seemed a lifetime. She continued down the street, noticing the mix of Georgian houses once occupied by aristocratic families, and the contemporary shop faces and restaurants, feeling the knots of anxiety in her stomach.