Strung

by Costa, Bella

  Chapter 9

  I have spent a few hours checking through the, thankfully small, pile of post and messages, which have built up over the last few days. At the bottom of the pile, I find the invitation for tonight's dinner. Excellent! It is a themed event and I don't have a costume. At least I now have a brilliant excuse not to go!

  I head to the kitchen to make a pot of tea, feeling a little better knowing I do not have to face the same tired humdrum of fake sociability. Lighten up, gosh! As I finish stirring my tea, Grace bursts through the door. Her arms are brimming with parcels and shopping bags and her considerable breasts are heaving with the effort.

  "I obviously pay you too much," I tease as I rescue a handful of the bags, threatening to drop to the floor.

  "Oh don't you worry. A lot of this is yours, and yes, you will be paying me for it. Paying me and thanking me." She dumps the remaining parcels on a stretch of free counter and sinks warily onto a breakfast stool to catch her breath.

  "Well?” I ask.

  "Well what?"

  "Well what have you spent my money on?" I roll my eyes at her.

  "Costumes for tonight!"

  "Grace no!” I groan, "I'm not going."

  "Honey, if you think, for just one moment, that you can get out of tonight's dinner...think again! You're living under my roof now and I'm going to make sure you go!"

  "Technically it's my roof!” I reminder her but she pretends not to hear.

  "Besides," she grins, "If I have to squeeze these gorgeous hips into a little scrap of Burlesque costume, then you have to as well." She plants her hands firmly at the top of her hips and runs them down, shimmying as she goes.

  "How bad?” I sigh, trying to keep a straight face. Grace is very hard to say no to.

  "They won't be able to keep their eyes off you," she promises, with a wink.

  "That's what worries me!” I grumble.

  Grace starts shooing me out the room as though I'm a chicken. "Trust me! Now hit the showers girl. Time is flying!"

  ~.~

  I am pleasantly surprised as I give myself a last once-over in the mirror before Grace and I leave the house. For a Burlesque outfit, my costume is surprisingly modest and beautiful. Grace's outfit, by comparison, is in keeping with her gregarious personality. She has chosen to flaunt the Moulin Rouge look to the maximum, comically and intentionally slutty.

  The top half of my dress is a tight, ribbed corset of black lace over a base of ultramarine blue satin. The swag layered skirt, longer at the back than the front, brushes against my legs, just exposing the lace tops of a pair of silky black stockings. Under the crisscrossing black ribbon, my back is bare. The dress is sleeveless and the tightness of the corset has pushed my breasts up. I will have to make sure these puppies fall out!

  I have kept my make up light and twisted my hair up in a French twist, holding it in place with a comb adorned with a soft blue feather and I have a blue satin ribbon tied around my throat. A pair of modest black heels completes the ensemble and my ankle feels surprisingly comfortable in them.

  Okay. I think I might actually be looking forward to this. I walk out the office, straight into the chest of Edward.

  "Oops. Sorry" I smile apologetically.

  "I um, no. It's fine, my fault. Wow!" he eventually finishes, getting a good look.

  "Um, yeah, we’re off to a weird themed party." I explain, crinkling my nose. Very professional Acacia!

  "Oh!" he sounds relieved. "That would explain Grace," he thumbs over his shoulder.

  "Oh goodness, yes Grace too!” I exclaim, realising how ridiculous we must look to the ordinary folk, going about their day. "Um, we should be back by around eleven. You have our numbers?"

  "Sure. Enjoy yourselves. May and I are going to couch potato with some films and consume copious amounts of junk food."

  "Okay. Thanks.” I grin. I can hear Grace sitting on the car horn and scurry out.

  ~.~

  We have been at the Seattle Mansion no more than five minutes and Grace is already dominating the dance floor. Richly decorated, the room is draped in miles of deep maroon velvet swags with gold trim. The tables overflow with elaborate flower arrangements, candelabra and crystal. It is how I imagine an upper class, turn of the century brothel might look and it suits tonight's theme perfectly. I wonder if it usually looks like this.

  I am seated at our table, which Grace and I are sharing with two elderly couples. Both couples are old-money industrialists and easy to talk to, but even easier to sit quietly and listen to. I sit with them for half an hour, answering occasional questions, slowly starting to relax.

  A lively old tune starts up, and my companions excuse themselves politely, heading to the dance floor. Alone at my table, I sip on a glass of champagne and glance around at some of the very brave costumes on display. Gosh, most of the costumes should be banned, the wearers arrested! I spy Grace on the dance floor trying to do the Can-Can. It is hilarious and I hope someone stops her before she hurts herself.

  Feeling a pressing need to pee, made more urgent by the pressure of my tight corset, I grab my purse and weave through the tables and merriment to find the little girls room. I find an empty stall, listening to two older women, discussing the adorable 'buns' of a particular young waiter. The theme, costumes and alcohol appear to be loosening the inhibitions of Seattle's wealthier senior citizens, I muse.

  I leave the powder room five minutes later and stall, causing a near collision with a waiter. No! Blood drains from my head, leaving me feeling faint. This can't be right, can it? After everything, he is... A wave of nausea hits my stomach. This morning's unreleased anger, unfurls somewhere deep down in the pit of my stomach, and my fingers start to tremble as it spreads through my body like a runaway freight train.

  Anger is good. Feeling something is good. Instinctively, I'm angry at myself. I take a deep breath. I am angry that I have trusted the wrong person, again. I am angry that I put myself in this position, allowing myself to get hurt, again, but the anger feels wrong somehow, confusing me.

  'Passive Self-Aggression.' I hear Victoria's words echoing uncomfortably in my head. FINE! I am not angry with myself. I am fuming mad - at him. How dare he! Who, the fuck, does he think he is?

  The rage is building to explosive levels and my whole body is trembling. I don't think I have ever felt anger this raw, this overwhelming, and this scary. I am still rooted to the spot staring, probably red faced, at Robert and Chayton deep in conversation on the other side of the room. Chayton's eyes scan the room idly as they chat. They look relaxed and at ease with each other, even laughing. His gaze finally sweeps towards me and his eyes lock on mine. Briefly, just one fraction of a second, I think I see a flash of guilt flit across his face.

  I can't bare it anymore. I need air. I need to escape. I glance around frantically and spy a doorway a few feet away labelled Private. I turn brusquely, ignoring a jolt of pain in my ankle and push my way past two waiters, to the door. I burst through and close the door behind me, leaning heavily against it with my eyes squeezed shut.

  Breathe. In – out. In – out. Slowly. Shit! The tears are threatening to overwhelm me and I choke back a sob.

  Opening my eyes, I find I am in a study or a library of sorts with dark panelled walls and rows of bookshelves. A thick, plush carpet covers the floor, absorbing white noise and the resulting silence is deafeningly after the buzz of conversation in the main hall. The only furniture is a large desk and chair, to one side of the room. I dart across the space to a large set of open French doors leading onto a balcony. Air!

  I stand there, staring out into the dark moonless night gasping in huge icy gulps of air that burn my lungs. I lean heavily against the handrail. My legs don't feel very steady and the tears are still burning at the back of eyes. I feel his presence rather than hear him, the thick carpet absorbing the sound of his footsteps.

  "Acacia? Are you alright?"

  I glance over my shoulder at him. Am I alright? Am I alright? I have just see
n you all smiley and sociable with my ex- husband. My ex-husband, who destroyed my life. And you! Here! Sexy and hot as hell in a...a...whatever the hell you call that! Who, the fuck, are you? I shudder and look out into the night again, focusing on my breathing, rather than answer. There is no telling what nastiness will pass my lips if I choose to speak right now.

  "You look edible tonight," he whispers and steps up close behind me. He doesn't touch me but I can feel the heat radiating off his body in contrast to the chill of the still evening air. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

  Oh my God, is he really that clueless? I spin to face him and glare into his eyes.

  "What are you doing here?" I try to keep my tone neutral. I think I succeed but it's at odds with my murderous glare. His eyes search my face, mystified. He really has no idea.

  "Showing my support for a charitable cause?" He volunteers, searching for the right thing to say and I continue to glare.

  "Acacia, you are going to have to enlighten me,” he sighs.

  "Who the hell are you?" I hiss.

  "What do you mean?" he asks, confusion marring his beautiful face.

  "I mean, who the hell are you? One minute you're a recluse, who prefers to spend his life in a log cabin without electricity, then you're an investor and now you're..." I flail my hands up and down at his attire and the room behind him, unable to articulate my words.

  "What, you don't like the hat and tails? Am I not allowed to party with the rest of the rich, famous and influential? What's really eating you?"

  The rest of the rich, famous and influential? Investor who lives at Donavan's Pass. Private man who rides a bike worth more than the average American home. I pale as the slow realisation dawns painfully.

  "Christ, I am so stupid. You're a Donavan!" I gape at him in horror.

  "Oh come on, Acacia," he sneers, "I find it really hard to believe you didn't know that." His normally soothing voice has taken on a hard edge. "This is quite a little show."

  "What the hell is that supposed to mean. And since when were you such good pals with Robert Jones?" My anger is boiling over again. "And..." Chayton skims the fingers of one hand up my bare arm. "...don't touch me!"

  I lash out, trying to push him away, to put some space between us. I'm trapped between him and the handrail, the hard concrete, pushing into the small of my back. He is unyielding and I end up beating my hands against his frozen chest in frustration. I want to hurt him. I want to hurt all the people in the world who think that it's okay to play with others like puppets.

  I run out of steam and find my forehead resting against his broad chest as I suck in air. His arms wrap around my shoulders. I am so confused and angry and hurt and angry and confused and... He smells amazing.

  I steady myself and try to pull out of his embrace but he holds me tighter.

  "Let. Me. Go!” I grunt as I try to twist and push my way out of his arms.

  "Why?"

  "Because I don't want this. Because I'm angry. Because you lied to me." I spit through clenched teeth.

  "When did I lie to you?"

  "Probably all the time!"

  "Acacia, there are a lot of things you probably need to know and will eventually, but other than by omission, I have never lied to you," he says softly.

  He gazes down at me, his face a mask of sincerity and pity. His arms relax and I take my cue, twisting out of his embrace. I sidestep and making a beeline for the French doors. He makes a grab for one of my hands and I swing it out of his reach. He is just too fast for me and in a heartbeat; he has me up against the nearest wall, just inside the doorway.

  My hands are pinned above my head and the full length of his body is pressed against mine, trapping me in place. I gasp, remembering his similar assault earlier in the day. His chest is heaving against mine, his gaze burning as heated and bright as my anger.

  "Stop before you hurt yourself."

  I shake my head and push away from the wall with my hips but he only pushes back with his own and I feel his growing arousal pressing against me, stirring up new sources of heat for my already burning blood.

  Chayton lowers his face to mine seeking out my lips and I turn my face, frantically trying to free myself again. If he kisses me I will be lost and I'm not ready to give up this fight just yet. I hear his groan as he pushes me harder against the wall, his hips flexing against the soft of my belly, his erection stiff and prominent and I gasp as my body reacts powerfully.

  "Acacia, you have to stop before I do something we might both regret," he whispers into my hair and suddenly I know exactly what I want. What I need. My body has been crying out for it all day. Release! I twist my head up catching him by surprise as my lips latch onto his and he responds ardently. My hands are still clasped in his, above my head, and my body is deliciously encompassed. His mouth crushes mine with bruising intensity, our teeth clashing painfully, as our tongues punish and twist.

  I groan and bite down on his bottom lip and feel the shudder run through the length of his body. He spins me suddenly and I'm facing the wall. Both my hands are now pressed side by side, flat against the cool surface and held there by one of his while his other hand feverishly slides down my arm, my ribs, my waist, over the curve of my hips and down my thigh to the hem of my skirt. He hooks his fingers into my flesh and scraps them painfully and slowly up the back of my thigh raking my skirt up. His teeth are grazing my neck, his breathing as harsh as mine are as his fingers reach the curve of my exposed buttocks.

  "For all that is holy!" His voice is heavy with need and it does things to me - Sweet, delicious, forbidden things. I grind my backside against his hips as his hand slips around to my front and his palms rubs against me, none too gently.

  I lean my forehead against the wall and growl loudly in frustration as a random thought flits across my conscious, reminding me that I'm angry. Angry at him. I struggle again, taking him momentarily by surprise but it's useless.

  "Christ Acacia!” He murmurs against my neck and his hips grind into my backside. "I have never been so aroused by an angry woman before. This is insane. I want you – now!"

  "I want you too and I hate that,” I groan.

  I feel his hand fumble against my backside and hear the sound of his zipper. Frantically he spins me again. His eyes bore into me with vehemence as his fingers sweep my panties aside, and two deft fingers find their way in, making me clench. He captures a thigh, wrapping it around his hips and thrusts once, hard and deep, holding himself there, breathing hard against my clavicle.

  "Ahh." I feel so wanton. He is going to be rough. I don't care. Maybe I want him to. Maybe I need him too. All my frustrations and insecurities, needs and wants have been concentrated into a tight ball inside me, waiting for release.

  He withdraws suddenly and spins us away from the wall and I find myself bent face down over the large desk, legs wide, arms twisted and held against the small of my back as he thrusts into me again. Deeper this time, jolting me forward on the polished wood. He withdraws slowly and his breath hisses through his clenched teeth. Then he really starts to move. His hips thrust against me in a punishing rhythm, the brutality of it matching my anger and we both groan loudly. I can feel the ball of energy, tightening and spinning and pulsing as he pounds on, and I surrender. The ball of energy explodes in a powerful release of tension and frustration. Chayton thrusts once more and finds his own release, freeing my hands and collapsing on top of me.

  "Feeling better?" He mutters through clenched teeth, against my shoulder.

  "Maybe.” I answer begrudgingly, my breathing harsh and ragged as my cheek presses into the polished wood.

  "Angry sex is novel. We should do this more often." I can feel his mouth smoothing into a grin against my skin. "Especially when you're dressed like this."

  "Bastard."

  He gently withdraws, straightening my panties, before sitting me on the edge of the desk.

  I frown at him as he does up his fly.

  "I'm still mad at you! Mad and con
fused!"

  "Did you seriously only just realise I'm a Donavan?"

  "Yes. Why should I have known?"

  "Most women in the State of Washington know who I am. It gets tiring."

  "Well I'm not most women."

  "No Acacia. No you're not." He sweeps a thumb across my bruised lips.

  "You were talking to Robert earlier."

  "Yes." It’s a statement of fact but I glimpse a hint of wariness in his eyes.

  "Robert, my ex-husband! You know – arsehole supreme?" I remind him as though he were an imbecile.

  "I know. That's what you're really mad about, isn't it?"

  "Yes. No. I suppose."

  For a long while, we are both quiet. Me, perched on the edge of the desk looking down; Chayton, standing in front of me, his hands in his pockets, watching me warily. I finally look into his eyes, the silence growing uncomfortable. He watches my face carefully, as if trying to decide something. "Come for a drive with me."

  "But Grace, the auction and the speeches..."

  "They will happen with or without us. We can call Grace from the car. Come, I'll give you all the answers you need."

  We are outside in the drive and Chayton presses a button on his phone, mutters a single word and puts the phone back in his pocket. A huge Bronze Maserati SUV pulls up and a very young chauffeur leaps out to open my door. The vehicle is luxurious and an array of small monitors fills the space between the two front seats. TV? Perhaps, computer? Probably both, I decide.

  "Nice car!"

  "Yes, I suppose it is." He says blandly.

  "I didn't know Maserati did SUVs."

  "It's the Kubang. It should be available to the public later this year."