by Suzy K Quinn
He’s not looking at me.
‘You don’t need to take me inside,’ I say, hoping my bruised heart doesn’t show on my face. ‘I can make my own way in.’
Marc looks at me, shivering a little in my jumper, and shakes his head. ‘Let me help you,’ he says softly.
‘No,’ I say. ‘You’re right. We should keep away from each other. I’m fine.’
I get up and march back to the college, not turning to see if Marc is following.
By the time I’ve washed all the mud off and fixed my hair, the whole campus knows Marc is back.
Before our first lecture, I catch up with Tom and Tanya outside the classroom.
‘Where have you been, little miss lie-in?’ Tom asks.
‘Oh, just ... messing around with my plants.’
‘Ah ha.’ Tom raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re usually here before us. You’re not messing around with some fellow we should know about, are you?’
I smile and shake my head. I wish.
The sharp smack of leather on concrete tells us Marc has arrived, and he sweeps past us all into the lecture theatre.
I shiver as he passes, but I’m determined not to look at him. I stare at the floor and try to rub away the goose bumps that have grown over my arms.
We head into the lecture theatre, taking the seats we’ve grown used to at the front of the class. I watch Marc take papers from his laptop case. There it is again – the familiar achy feeling that comes from being close without being able to touch him.
Marc’s lecture that morning is about stage presence. How some people are born with it, but how it can also be cultivated. How we can practise to achieve it. It’s interesting, but my hands are too shaky to make notes. I spend the whole class watching Marc, waiting for something, anything, to show that I didn’t dream what happened all those weeks ago. That he’s drawn to me like I am to him, even if nothing can come of it.
Marc barely glances at me. He doesn’t meet my eye as he passes me a handout. He asks questions throughout the class, and although I’m often the first to raise my hand, he never once picks me for the answer.
At the end of class, all the other pupils filter out, but I stay behind. Tanya gives me a funny look when I tell her and Tom to leave without me, but she’s too nice to ask nosy questions.
I wait until the last pupil leaves the room, and then I walk around to where Marc is putting papers in his laptop case.
He doesn’t look up, but glances sideways at me. ‘We’ve said all we need to say to each other, Miss Rose.’
That throws me. To be so dismissed. It hurts. I pull out the last of my courage.
‘No,’ I say. ‘There’s something I need to say to you.’
He snaps his laptop case closed and looks towards the back of the classroom.
‘Please, Sophia, don’t make this harder than it already is.’
‘This isn’t fair,’ I say. ‘You ignored me all through class. I’m here to take this course just like anyone else. I haven’t done anything to you -’
‘I thought it for the best,’ says Marc. ‘I thought you’d be pleased I’m acting professionally. Properly.’ His voice falters on the last word.
‘I don’t want you to ignore me,’ I say.
‘Yes, you do. You just don’t realise it. Believe me, Sophia – if you had any sense, you’d be running out that door.’
‘Please,’ I say. ‘Even if nothing can happen between us, can’t we just try and act normally?’
‘I don’t think that’s possible,’ says Marc.
‘Why not?’
He looks at me then, and as usual I’m nearly knocked over by his eyes.
‘You really want to know?’
‘Yes. After your talk a few weeks back about managing your emotions, I’d really like to know.’
He gives a curt laugh. ‘That’s exactly what I am doing. Managing my emotions.’
‘By ignoring me?’
‘Yes. And if I didn’t ignore you ...’ He looks out the window.
The words hang in the air.
‘What?’ I ask.
He looks me dead in the eye. ‘It’s going to be hard to stop myself.’
‘From what?’
‘From crossing the line.’
For a moment, I feel like he’s playing a part. I remember seeing him in one movie – a futuristic apocalypse-type film – where he talks like that to the leading lady. But this is no movie. We’re right here in the middle of the lecture theatre, and this is the real Marc Blackwell. Talking to me.
My heart starts hammering away, and I blush from my neck all the way to my forehead. He’s scared he’ll cross the line. I know, as my knees turn to warm syrup, that I want him to cross the line with me. But another part of me objects to his arrogance. The fact he thinks if he crossed the line, I’d be a willing partner.
‘Who says I’d agree to that?’ I say.
A pained look flashes in Marc’s eyes. He puts his hands in his pockets, and leans his head back to look at the ceiling. ‘I do.’
He’s right, of course. I want to touch his lips. To be held in his arms again. To be kissed in that strong, merciless way that left my lips throbbing. Every bit of me wants to be connected to him. And I guess he must know that.
There’s a noise in the corridor – the squeak of shoes – and Marc turns to the stationery cupboard beside the projection screen. He opens it, and I see the shelves of scripts, paper packets and boxes inside.
‘In here.’ I feel his large hand on my wrist. ‘Now.’ He pulls me inside the cupboard and closes the door. ‘I don’t want people gossiping.’
The cupboard is warm and smells of dust. There’s a little white desk and chair against one of the walls. Marc still has his hand on my wrist. He’s holding it tight.
‘Are you trying to torture me?’ he says. ‘Staying after class, making this so much more difficult than it already is?’
‘Of course not,’ I reply.
‘You don’t know what it means to be mixed up with me.’
‘True,’ I say. My stomach is tight, and my legs can hardly hold my weight. ‘But ... maybe I’m willing to find out.’
‘If anything happens between us – it would damage your reputation.’
‘And yours,’ I say.
‘I couldn’t care less about me,’ says Marc, frowning. ‘I have enough money to never work again. People – newspapers – talk about me all the time. I’m used to it. It doesn’t bother me. But you’re not part of that world and I don’t want you to suffer its ugliness.’ He shakes his head. ‘I can’t do that to you. It wouldn’t be right.’
‘But it feels so right,’ I hear myself say. ‘You must feel it too. That there’s something pulling us together.’
He runs a hand through his hair and a thick strand falls onto his forehead.
‘Yes. I feel it. I’ll admit that much.’ His eyes flash with emotion. Anger, confusion, fear – there’s a whirlwind of feelings dancing around in blue, and I’m swept away.
Oh my god.
I feel myself move forward. My hand reaches up and rests on Marc’s shoulder.
He turns his face away, his expression pained.
‘Marc -’
‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ Marc says, still not meeting my eye.
‘Yes,’ I stammer, feeling the heat of his shoulder.
He turns to me, and our eyes meet. He looks dangerous. Hungry.
And then he kisses me. Hard.
I’m lost in him. Totally lost.
He scoops me into his arms and leans me back over the desk, pushing his lips against mine.
Then he slips his hand around my neck and into my hair.
He grasps my hair tight.
I gasp.
Marc watches me, his eyes sparkling. Then he releases his grip.
‘This can’t happen,’ he murmurs against my lips, his eyes pained. He pulls me upright. ‘Sophia -’
‘Why can’t it happen?’
‘Because
there’s a side of me I don’t want you to see.’
Chapter 27
Marc’s chest is heaving and the hungry look hasn’t left his eyes.
I want him so badly. ‘Marc, I’m not afraid,’ I tell him.
But even as I’m saying those words, I realise I do feel a little out of my depth.
My scalp stings where Marc held my hair. I remember the gossip about him. And his warnings to me. About what he’s in to …
‘But Sophia, don’t you understand?’ says Marc, his eyes hard and dangerous. ‘I need to be in control.’
‘You’re scared you’re losing control?’ I whisper.
Marc laughs. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Then what do you mean?’
‘I mean I want to control you. To dominate you. That’s why this is all so wrong. I never should have … Christ. You should go. This shouldn’t be happening.’
I swallow hard. ‘Marc, please -’
‘GO.’ I see Marc’s chest pulling up and down.
As I open the cupboard door, my body is trembling with pleasure but my head is a complete mess.
I walk into the lecture theatre and see Cecile in the doorway.
Oh shit.
‘I heard Mr Blackwell was in here,’ she says. ‘I wanted to talk to him.’
Marc appears behind me, adjusting a cufflink. His loose brown hair looks perfectly in place and his posture is relaxed in that Marc jungle cat way.
‘Mr Blackwell,’ says Cecile. ‘I wanted to speak to you about my performance. But I see you’re busy.’ She throws a poisonous glance at me, then marches off.
‘Marc -’ I turn to him, my eyes wide.
‘She doesn’t know anything,’ says Marc. ‘Look, what happened back there was so wrong.’
‘It didn’t feel wrong to me,’ I say, rubbing the goose bumps on my arms.
Marc lets out a long breath. ‘Sophia, listen. You should be with a nice young student who kisses you on the cheek and takes you out to dinner. I’m not kind or gentle or nice. I’m … I’m a monster.’
‘You don’t seem like a monster to me,’ I say, finding his cool blue eyes. ‘I … Marc I want to know you. All of you. I’m not afraid.’
‘Sophia, you don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘I do,’ I insist. ‘I’ve never felt this way. Ever. I have to know, Marc. I have to know where this will go. I don’t care what you’re into. I don’t care if you’re a monster. I can’t live my life not knowing what we could have together.’
Marc watches me for a moment. His eyes are sad and cloudy. ‘You really want to do this? Do you really want to find out what I’m all about?’
I nod.
‘Then I’ll be in touch.’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
That afternoon in singing class, I can’t think straight. There are so many thoughts running around my head. And against all of them, there’s Marc’s face, Marc’s hands, Marc’s lips.
In the evening, I have dinner with Tanya and Tom – a delicious looking steak and chips that I barely touch – and wander back to my room at a stupidly early hour, refusing Tanya’s kind offer to take me to the campus pub.
I find a film website on my laptop, and watch movies of Marc – one where he plays a martial arts champion out for revenge, and another where he loses his memory and doesn’t know who to trust. They’re both typical Marc Blackwell pictures – moody, atmospheric and intelligent, and without the traditional Hollywood ending.
I watch his lean, taut torso throwing kung fu punches and marvel at the discipline of a man who can learn a whole fighting technique for a movie. His eyes are hard and powerful, and his performance leaves me breathless. Even so, I find myself thinking of the younger Marc I saw in the war movie. His eyes were softer, then. More afraid and more vulnerable. I liked them better.
I watch Marc’s movies until one in the morning, then make myself a hot chocolate and sit on the balcony with my duvet wrapped around me. A cold breeze blows against my bare feet.
The campus is beautiful in darkness. Soft, yellow lights pick out shadows on the red bricks, and the ivy looks haunted and alive. I turn and see my mother’s face through the glass – her picture resting against the window. She’s smiling under a large sunhat, and looks far too summery for this winter weather. I head inside, take off my scarf and wrap it around the picture frame to keep her warm. Then I come back onto the balcony.
Everything is totally still and quiet.
Then I hear a knock at the door. The sound takes me by surprise, and I grip my hot chocolate mug and look back into the bedroom. I’m guessing it must be Tanya or Tom, or maybe both of them. I hope they’re okay.
I kick off the duvet, put down my mug and walk into the bedroom.
The knocking is a little louder now.
‘Tanya?’ I call, but there’s no answer. ‘Tom?’
I put my hand to the door handle, then hesitate. It’s late at night and I’m all alone. If it’s not Tanya or Tom, maybe it’s not sensible to open the door. But the college has excellent security. All the gates are locked at night and manned by security guards, and no one can enter the accommodation block without an electronic key.
I open the door, and am totally unprepared for what I see.
Marc Blackwell is standing in the doorway, shadows cast over his taut, pale face. His hair is uncharacteristically ruffled by the wind and his eyebrows are pulled together in a frown.
He has one hand against the door frame and is leaning against his forearm. ‘I saw your light on.’
I stare at him, open-mouthed.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course you can.’ I open the door wider, and stand back.
As he walks into my bedroom, I notice the mess of clothes and books scattered around the place. The hot chocolate carton is open, and a milky spoon sits next to it. I hate the room being a mess like this, but I didn’t have the energy to tidy up today – not after what happened with Marc. Now he’s going to think I’m a total slob.
I hurriedly pick up clothing and stuff it into the wardrobe.
Marc glances at the crumpled duvet on my bed, then marches through the open French windows onto the balcony. He looks out over the campus.
I follow him. ‘What ... what are you doing here?’
‘You kept my flowers,’ he says, glancing at the dried bouquet on the table.
‘Yes. They were beautiful, so I let them dry out. The card was beautiful too.’
Marc nods, looking distracted. ‘Believe me, Sophia, I had no idea when I sent those flowers ... I hate myself for feeling this way about you.’
I feel that tug again. It’s so strong. Being with him wakens all my senses. I smell him in one great rush. I see him in so many colours and from so many angles, it’s like I was blind before I met him. And I hear him all over my body, right down to my toes.
‘If we’re going to … go further there are things I need to know,’ says Marc. ‘Have you had boyfriends before?’
I feel myself going red. ‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about them.’
‘Nothing big. Just a couple of boys at college and university. Nothing serious. Just, you know. Teenage stuff. I’ve been working too hard to have time for a social life.’
‘Did you have sex with them?’ Marc asks.
‘Yes,’ I say, going redder. ‘One of them.’
‘What kind of sex?’
Chapter 28
I blush again. What kind of sex? ‘I suppose the usual kind,’ I say. ‘How many kinds are there?’
‘Lots and lots of kinds. I told you I needed to be in control. In charge.’
‘Yes.’
‘That means in the bedroom too.’
‘And what if I don’t agree to that?’ I say, the words a little shaky.
Marc shrugs. ‘Nothing would make me happier. It would mean we could go our separate ways.’
‘You’re saying that unless I let you take charge of me, we can’t have a relationshi
p?’
‘Are you beginning to see why you’re better off without me?’
I swallow. Having him so close to me … ‘I can’t be without you,’ I say. ‘I just can’t. Not without knowing what we could have together.’
Marc’s eyes cloud over. ‘I was afraid you’d say that. But do you understand what I’m saying to you? For this to work you have to accept that I’m the one in charge. With your consent, of course. But at all times.’
At all times …
I think back to that afternoon. It was probably the hottest few minutes of my whole life. The way he took charge of my body. I’ve never experienced anything like that before. I want it again.
‘I need to know more,’ I tell him. ‘What exactly do you mean by taking charge of me?’
‘Control you. Dominate you. Discipline you.’
‘Discipline me?’
‘If you step out of line, you’ll be punished.’
I swallow hard. ‘I’m not sure I like that idea.’
‘If you want hearts and flowers, walk away right now,’ says Marc. ‘You’re a beautiful, innocent young girl who any man would kill for. If I were you, I’d run a million miles from a man like me.’
‘What do you mean by punishment?’
‘Maybe I’ll spank you. Maybe I’ll tie you up and fuck you until you can’t bear any more. It really depends how you step out of line.’
Oh my god. I squeeze my knees together. How can I be turned on by what he just said? It’s so strange. So cold. But my god, it’s so hot.
‘Come inside. It’s cold out here.’ Marc strides into the bedroom. He pats the mattress beside him and I follow him in, closing the French doors and sitting beside him.
His nearness is doing things to me, and I put my head in my hands. This is too hard. It sounds like Marc wants some kinky, spanking type relationship that I am in no way ready for. But at the same time … I want to know him. All of him.
I’ve always sensed a darkness inside him, battling with the light. And I want to see it. Everything. Light and dark.
My head tells me to run away. Fast. But my beating heart says stay.
I look up. ‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘I want to try. I want to try what you’re asking.’
