known to try and disguise her harsh cockney accent in the past, particularly in company she felt could be of potential benefit to her, but it was a little like attempting to push a rubber ball to the bottom of a swimming pool, invariably it bobbed right back up again. Now that she was safe and on dry land, and following a half decent nightâs sleep, she was all set to put the horror of the past twenty-four hours behind her and turn her attentions to inspecting the luxury state-of-the-art villa that was to be home for the duration of the fortnight.
Billie-Jo King, as she had been before marriage, may have appeared fragile on the surface thanks to her diminutive stature and delicate aesthetics, with which she, ostensibly, manipulated men, but underneath the candy coating lay an inner steeliness that often went quietly undetected.
She was nothing if not one of lifeâs survivors; but then when youâd spent your formative years watching your own father kick the living shit out of your mother every day of your life and had been sexually abused by your own uncle from the age of seven to fourteen you tended to grow skin as thick as a rhinos.
Martin McKenzie, Billie-Jo was convinced, was her fast track to the fame and the credibility she so desperately needed to bolster her cripplingly low self-esteem, an affliction that she would do almost anything to disguise, and she wasnât about to let yesterdayâs events, however much theyâd rattled her, stand in the way of her achieving her aim. She was here to enjoy herself and make a good impression â and she fully intended on doing both.
âNate ⦠Nate !â her voice grew more urgent, demanding.
Nate reluctantly rolled over on the enormous bed complete with muslin drapes and what felt like cashmere sheets. Even he had noted how soft and inviting they had felt on his bruised skin as he had fallen between them in the early hours, exhausted.
âCome back to bed, Bee,â he murmured, aware of the sourness of his morning breath, the stench of his own body.
Billie-Jo pulled a face; Nateâs lack of urgency irritated the fuck out of her sometimes. His emotions were the sonic equivalent of monotone. She could tell him sheâd fucked all of his teammates in a gangbang and she doubted he would even raise an eyebrow, let alone his voice. Still, she knew there was something of his she could raise easily enough. That had never been a problem; after all Billie-Jo had been peddling her sexuality since sheâd been an unfortunately knowing teenager. It was the only currency she had. Occasionally even now the memory of her uncleâs depravities seeped into her subconscious, invading her dreams as she slept; the sour, rancid smell of his body, his hot alcoholic breath against her young neck, those long, stiff, spiteful fingers like hot knives tearing at her most intimate skin...
She had told no one, not even her mother, of the atrocities she had suffered as a child and instead had internalised those feelings, built an impenetrable wall around her emotions, a bog-standard coping mechanism by all accounts, or so the do-gooder social-worker bitch she had seen a handful of times kept telling her, not that it had done her any favours. By that stage her mix of narcissism and co-dependency had formed. Shit happens, right?
Billie-Joâs childhood may have been a fucking abortion but she would make sure that she would never suffer hardship again. If men wanted her, and they most certainly did, well, then, they had to pay to get a ganders at the goods â a simple transaction when you thought about it. Being desired in the eyes of men and envied by women afforded Billie-Jo a sense of power, filling a tiny fraction of the gaping emotional void inside her.
Flashing her clout on camera had proved quite a lucrative gig so far too: calendars, ladâs mag shoots, promotional events â it was all mounting up into a right tidy little sum. But she
Billie-Jo King, as she had been before marriage, may have appeared fragile on the surface thanks to her diminutive stature and delicate aesthetics, with which she, ostensibly, manipulated men, but underneath the candy coating lay an inner steeliness that often went quietly undetected.
She was nothing if not one of lifeâs survivors; but then when youâd spent your formative years watching your own father kick the living shit out of your mother every day of your life and had been sexually abused by your own uncle from the age of seven to fourteen you tended to grow skin as thick as a rhinos.
Martin McKenzie, Billie-Jo was convinced, was her fast track to the fame and the credibility she so desperately needed to bolster her cripplingly low self-esteem, an affliction that she would do almost anything to disguise, and she wasnât about to let yesterdayâs events, however much theyâd rattled her, stand in the way of her achieving her aim. She was here to enjoy herself and make a good impression â and she fully intended on doing both.
âNate ⦠Nate !â her voice grew more urgent, demanding.
Nate reluctantly rolled over on the enormous bed complete with muslin drapes and what felt like cashmere sheets. Even he had noted how soft and inviting they had felt on his bruised skin as he had fallen between them in the early hours, exhausted.
âCome back to bed, Bee,â he murmured, aware of the sourness of his morning breath, the stench of his own body.
Billie-Jo pulled a face; Nateâs lack of urgency irritated the fuck out of her sometimes. His emotions were the sonic equivalent of monotone. She could tell him sheâd fucked all of his teammates in a gangbang and she doubted he would even raise an eyebrow, let alone his voice. Still, she knew there was something of his she could raise easily enough. That had never been a problem; after all Billie-Jo had been peddling her sexuality since sheâd been an unfortunately knowing teenager. It was the only currency she had. Occasionally even now the memory of her uncleâs depravities seeped into her subconscious, invading her dreams as she slept; the sour, rancid smell of his body, his hot alcoholic breath against her young neck, those long, stiff, spiteful fingers like hot knives tearing at her most intimate skin...
She had told no one, not even her mother, of the atrocities she had suffered as a child and instead had internalised those feelings, built an impenetrable wall around her emotions, a bog-standard coping mechanism by all accounts, or so the do-gooder social-worker bitch she had seen a handful of times kept telling her, not that it had done her any favours. By that stage her mix of narcissism and co-dependency had formed. Shit happens, right?
Billie-Joâs childhood may have been a fucking abortion but she would make sure that she would never suffer hardship again. If men wanted her, and they most certainly did, well, then, they had to pay to get a ganders at the goods â a simple transaction when you thought about it. Being desired in the eyes of men and envied by women afforded Billie-Jo a sense of power, filling a tiny fraction of the gaping emotional void inside her.
Flashing her clout on camera had proved quite a lucrative gig so far too: calendars, ladâs mag shoots, promotional events â it was all mounting up into a right tidy little sum. But she
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