Page 15 of Obedience

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.

‘Sats are borderline really, 94%,’ Jordan continued. ‘Her respiratory and heart rate are up a touch, so I’ve started her on a trickle of oxygen. She had a low-grade temp earlier too. I’ve given her some painkillers ‘cause she looked uncomfortable. The medic on call’s coming to see her. She’ll need a chest x-ray at the very least, though, Dyl.’

Dylan nodded. ‘Yeah. Okay. Good.’ She scratched the back of her neck. ‘Why didn’t you text me?’

‘I did, mate.’

‘Shit, Jord, I’m sorry. My phone must still be on silent… I was in the library. I’m really sorry.’

‘That’s alright,’ Jordan smiled fondly.

‘Has she had a coughing bout while her feed was running? You don’t think she’s aspirated again, do you?’

Dylan dragged a chair to Margaret’s bedside. Jordan was right, she didn’t look good. Pressing her mouth to her mum’s forehead Dylan inhaled. No matter the products they used or Margaret’s favourite perfumes, she always just smelled of Mum. It was a scent Dylan wished she could bottle and keep forever.

‘We good, Margells?’ she whispered against her skin. Her mum blinked slowly, nostrils flaring, the base of her throat tugging, in a bid to drag in more air. ‘Don’t you worry. We’ll get you sorted. Won’t we, Jord?’ Dylan looked at the nurse, who offered a kind smile.

‘Course we will,’ Jordan replied, amplifying her cockney accent. ‘We ain’t gonna stop now, are we?’

A couple of hours passed before the on-call doctor arrived and the decision was made that Margaret had to be admitted to hospital. As Dylan had packed her mum’s clothes and essentials, she had felt a familiar dread. She hated the irony of how hospital admissions had the potential to compromise her mum’s care. The years of woeful NHS underfunding, staffing shortages and the never-ending scramble for resources made the process a challenging one. It wasn’t lack of heart or devotion from the nurses, but the system simply couldn't match the level of care Dylan had perfected over the years. Their home setup was a well-oiled machine, and inpatient stays threatened to derail it. These days, however, Dylan knew when to acknowledge her own limitations; she couldn’t do it all, but admitting that she sometimes couldn't handle it all at home felt like a personal failure.

After a long night of waiting, Margaret was finally settled in a bed on the Acute Admissions Unit at South Manchester District General. By some stroke of divine intervention, a bed had become available, sparing them an agonisingly long wait in A&E. Dylan had finally made it home around six in the morning after staying as long as she could. She couldn't be there twenty-four-seven. She had to relinquish control and let the professionals do their jobs. The notion of placing all her faith in strangers when it came to the most precious thing in her life was a struggle she couldn't quite overcome.

The weekend passed in a blur. Even while ravaged by a bone-deep fatigue and consumed by Margaret’s care, Dylan hadn't been able to shake Greta from her mind. Monday morning arrived, the moment Dylan opened her eyes, she reached out for her phone. Swiping open the Scortare app, Dylan looked up at a new notification. She clicked the message, her heart sinking as the booking information loaded.

‘Miss Margot Grenson: Tuesday 6pm.’

‘What the fuck!?’ Dylan blurted aloud, sitting up in bed as if propelled by an invisible force.

She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, certain she was still dreaming. This was a mistake. She’d been waiting to be reported, to be fired, but instead, she was looking at a new booking request.

She couldn't go. She shouldn’t go.