6. Are the rules the same?
Chapter six
Are the rules the same?
Rocking with the tram’s momentum Dylan pressed her forehead against the window, the glass fogging with every exhale.
Disbelief thrummed in her chest like the engine of a plane.
The noise of the other passengers was drowned out almost completely by a piercing tinnitus from the aftershock of the bomb detonated in Greta’s office.
She had kept the details of what she did outside of escorting to a minimum when applying at Scortare; she couldn’t afford or risk a rejection.
A connection between her and Greta didn’t seem possible.
This was really fucking bad. One phone call and it was over.
To Dylan’s shock, the risk of losing her position at the agency wasn’t her main concern.
Despite the pressure pushing down on her within the tiny space, she had wanted so desperately to stay in that room.
Seeing Greta at work, fully dressed, was more captivating than any scenario they had shared in the two years they had been meeting.
Dylan had never once considered that Greta could be a doctor, least of all one in the very field she’d always dreamed of working in.
For some reason, she’d always assumed Greta was a businesswoman.
Normally, pragmatism and quick thinking came easily.
Right now, though, she hadn’t the faintest idea what the fuck to do.
***
The Friday evening traffic had only sharpened Greta’s anger by the time she finally got home.
After pouring a very large glass of wine she sat at the kitchen island, her eyes fixed on the view beyond the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows.
Outside, dusk was descending on Manchester.
This time of day was Greta’s favourite. The short stretch of time where Canal Street almost paused but never quite stilled.
The day’s business had ended, but the night’s hadn’t quite begun.
It was almost an interval, neither busy, nor quiet.
The canal carried the reflection of the last of the daylight along with the festoon lights glowing to life.
The sun was setting over the city, the sky ablaze with a stunning display of reds and oranges.
Tipping her wine glass to her lips, Greta took a slow sip, swallowing hard while she recollected Muriel’s love for sunsets.
These windows were the reason they lived here.
Greta would have been happy in a semi-detached house in the greener suburbs, with a driveway and garden, but Muriel had bigger ideas.
As the architect and designer, Muriel was the one who saw art in brutalism and lived for clean, modern lines.
She wanted the pulsing energy of the city and the prime view of the annual Pride celebrations from their very own living room.
Their lifestyle was funded in large part by Muriel’s career; Greta’s earnings as a junior doctor were barely a fraction of Muriel’s six-figure salary and gratuitous bonuses.
They had viewed the apartment on a day in winter when the low setting sun turned the skyline purple, and the city lights began to twinkle over the commuters below.
Since then, the apartment had become a gallery of Muriel’s taste.
Polished Venetian plastered walls, poured concrete, mid-century modern teak alongside carefully sourced antiques and pieces of art that Greta just lived among.
Although Greta was long past bargaining with the higher powers for one more chance to hold Muriel.
For one more kiss from her exquisite mouth and one more chance to say “I love you, M” and hear back “I love you, Grets”, she missed Muriel more than ever.
It had taken her years to realise that just one more of anything would never be enough.
She had cycled through the stages of grief a thousand times, yet on days like this, the weight of it settled beneath her diaphragm like a jagged rock.
It stabbed at her organs and splinted her lungs, refusing to allow a full breath in.
The resulting hypoxia left her brain starved, making her dizzy and nauseous.
Even now, five years on, the sheer physicality of the emotion was often a destabilising shock to her system.
On some days it still had the power to completely take her legs from under her.
Caught between two versions of herself, Greta stared at her phone.
Professional Greta would report the breach and have Dylan fired but the memory of Dylan was interfering with her thought processes and decision-making.
The way she looked in her casual clothes, her soft voice, the desperate need to stay etched on every inch of her beautiful face.
Greta had felt that same pull, which was a recognition that was as absurd as it was out of the question.
It was an impossibility. Turning the stem of her wine glass over and over, her shoulders knotted with a tension that pushed them toward her ears, she listened to the relentless cycle of questions she couldn't answer.
Perhaps she should have taken her number?
No. Ridiculous. An email? Absolutely not.
Perhaps sleeping on it before sending any messages to Scortare, or searching for a replacement was the best thing to do.
She was too riled and, if she was totally honest, too exhilarated at seeing Remi again, even as Dylan.
With her fingers pressed to her forehead, she recalled the way Dylan’s jeans had clung to the muscle of her thighs, the tiny scar on her eyebrow that she had never noticed before and the marks left by her fingers where they had dug into her own palms. Greta had seen the red crescents when Dylan lifted her hands to try and calm her as though she were a rearing horse.
Soft brown curls had kissed the thick expressive eyebrows that seemed to plead with her, and the green and amber of her eyes cut straight through Greta’s resolve.
If there were a way to have one more night together devoid of consequences, Greta would take it.
But there wasn’t. It was that simple. The stakes were too high.
Everything she’d built was on the line; her job, her reputation, everything.
All ties to Dylan St John had to be severed and cauterised.
A search for a new agency and escort was the only option.
This time, she would make sure they were properly vetted and she would start all over again.
***
Needing the fresh evening air to help even out her thoughts, Dylan decided to jump off the tram in Didsbury and walk home through Fletcher Moss Park.
The green space was bustling with commuters and dog walkers, while the warm white glow from the Alpine Cafe illuminated customers chatting and laughing as they clutched their drinks.
Kids on balance bikes and scooters wove haphazardly through the crowds.
Looking up at a stretch of tall trees, Dylan took a deep, steadying breath.
She tried to make sense of the day, but she couldn’t think past the visceral, aching need to hold Greta.
By the time she reached Chorlton Water Park, the sun was setting.
Sitting on a bench on the edge of the water she watched the sky burn with oranges and reds, a diffuse pink hue stretching along the horizon.
It was breathtaking, but Dylan was too distracted to truly take it in.
Ethanol-soaked cotton wool seemed to pack her skull, weighing down her thoughts, trapping her ability to think with any kind of clarity.
What a mess. How the fuck was she going to fix this?
It was an impossible situation, seemingly with no solution.
Although the enigmatic Margot Grenson was just a client, she had consumed Dylan’s thoughts for months, but now, she needed to know Greta.
She needed to hear the voice that wasn’t the feigned, over-the-top theatrical fem-domme bark Dylan was used to.
It was softer. The edges of her words were more rounded, despite their context.
The sight of her in her blouse and skirt had made Dylan’s breath catch in her throat.
It was a physical pull she couldn't ignore but had to. As Dylan’s head and heart fought to agree, she knew she had to walk away.
Walk away and pretend none of this had ever happened.
Deep inside her chest, her heart was screaming, begging her to ignore the logic in her head.
Surely it didn't have to end like this? The email address was a lifeline, a way to reach out, but the impossibility of that thought brought a sharp sting to her eyes. Perhaps the only option was to leave Greta alone and accept the truth—that it was done. Evening bird song and the sounds of Swifts swooping above her head filled Dylan’s ears as she walked.
With her hands buried in her jacket pockets, she kept her head down, eyes fixed on the grey concrete beneath her feet.
***
Dylan had barely closed the front door when Jordan’s voice hit her.
‘Dyl?’ Jordan’s tone was enough.
Ditching her bag, Dylan ran the length of the hall, swinging around the door frame into the bright light of Margaret’s room. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Her chest ain’t great. I’ve done nebs, some light physio and suction, but she’s struggling with her cough,’ Jordan explained.
Dylan’s gaze rapidly and expertly raked over her mum, assessing every inch of her. ‘What are her saturations like? How much oxygen is she needing?’
As she turned to the dial on the grey oxygen delivery gauge beside the bed, she fought the urge to scream for help.
Even with help standing right in front of her, it never got easier.
No matter how many times they went through this—or how used to it people thought she should be by now—she would always feel herself fleetingly fall apart at the edges before she pulled herself back together and got them both through it.