“Yeah, right. I believe you.” She picks up her phone, ending a sudden buzz before it even really begins. “And you know what? You’re right. You need the info for research purposes.” Indeed. That’s all it is. Research and technical data, regardless of slightly dream like happenings. “And anyway, I’ve got his number now so I’ll just give him hell if I don’t hear from you by tomorrow night, right?”
“Right.” The thought of Bree giving anyone hell is enough to make me feel concerned for his wellbeing, to be honest.
“So, shoes and shit?”
“Got them. He saved them from the pool.” She rolls her eyes, probably at the inane smile that’s suddenly attached to my face.
“Hair?”
“Up.”
“Bag?”
“Gucci.”
“Jewellery?”
“My pearl choker,” I reply, amused at my own thoughts as I giggle around the words. “It should give him something to focus on, don’t you think?”
“You’re not wrong there,” she eventually says, having spluttered most of her coffee out onto her top. “Fuck’s sake, Lana. You’re really gonna do this?”
“I think I really am.”
~
The afternoon ends up turning into the evening as we exchange coffee for wine. Apparently I’m in the mood for a little loosening up. By the time it comes to actually getting dressed, I’m a little looser than I ever intended to be. I can tell this mainly because every time I try to apply make-up it ends up on the wrong part of my face.
“What proof is this shit?” Bree says, holding up a bottle.
“What’s that?”
“Gin, I think. Or vodka.”
“I thought I was drinking wine?”
“Yeah, we ran out of that so I changed it, or mixed it. Not sure.”
“Jesus Christ, Bree.” I try to move my drink out of the way, wondering if I should have more coffee in the hope of countering its effects. Unfortunately, I end up taking another sip rather than applying sense. “I seriously don’t need to be lathered for this.”
“Lathered?”
“Pissed. Drunk. Off my head.” Fits of giggles ensue as she trips over her own feet, bypassing the dresser, just, and then collapses on my bed as she snatches up her ever present phone.
“I think that’s precisely what you need to be for big dick Blaine.”
“I’ve not seen his dick.”
“Bet it’s big. In fact, I’ll ask, shall I?” She’s attempting to type. It’s worrying.
“Bree...”
“Or maybe it’s a weasel dick. Maybe I shouldn’t put him off his stride.”
“Bree...” She throws her phone on the bed again, thankfully.
“Or maybe its immense and he’ll whip you with it.” I’m nearly crying, attempting to keep my face straight to stop my make-up falling off any more than it already has done. “Maybe that’s what he does with it.” For fuck’s sake. “Whippy dick.” That’s it. The snort that leaves my nose forces out gin, or vodka, bringing it up from the depths and almost making me sick.
“Bree, shut up.”
“Why?”
“He has not got a whippy dick.”
“How would you know?”
“I...”
“See. Whippy Dick Blaine Jacobs. Master in cock floggery. That’s what they call it, isn’t it?”
I shake my head at her, having never heard of the term cock floggery before, and turn back for the mirror in the hope of finishing my dark and sultry look. I’m thankful for the amusement in some respects. That she’s managing to keep all this light-hearted and funny is perfect. If I thought about any of this too much, alcohol or not, I might well call him up and say thanks but no thanks. It’s crossed my mind several times as we’ve fussed about. Should I, shouldn’t I? Is this really the sane thing to do? How far should I go in the pursuit of the perfect story? I’m guaranteeing other authors haven’t decided to go under the hands of a Dominant just to get the right groove going on. Well, maybe some of them have. A light caning potentially, but not what I’m considering, not that I quite know what that is yet, but I’m doubting there will be anything ‘light’ happening. “Is this him?”
“What? Who?”
“This?” she says, practically falling off the bed as she makes her way over to me and holds up her phone.
“Ewww, no,” I reply, pulling my eyes away from the sixty-something man looking back at me. He might be reasonably handsome for his age in some respects as he stands at some function, an equally attractive older woman on his arm, but he isn’t my Blaine.
“It says it is. Archibald Blaine Jacobs. Look.”
“Well, it’s not my Blaine.”
“Your Blaine, hey?”
“Oh, fuck off.”
She doesn’t fuck off. She spends the next hour revving me up into a mass of hysterics and more near vomiting situations. She even puts on some music, opting for the relaxed tones of the Gangnam Style because, apparently, the dance moves should offer me an insight into sadomasochism. I’m not entirely sure why until I see her parading her body around the lounge, her arm swinging in the air calling whippy dick at the top of her lungs.
Eventually she collapses on her arse, barely managing to land on it as she skims the corner of the sofa cushions and grabs hold of the arm for support.
“I’m trashed,” she coughs out, her legs splaying around as if she has minimal control of any limb.
“Yep.”
I, thankfully, am not. At some point in the last hour, regardless of my gigglesnort sessions, I’ve managed to contain the fuel she was force-feeding me to a minimum of sips and tasters. It’s not like I’m not in the mood. I am. She’s definitely made me feel like a good drinking fest is in order, but the very thought of Blaine’s whippy dick has suspended the need to feel completely blotto.
I find myself watching her and running my hands over my dress for the tenth time, checking that I look okay. Everything’s in place, and luckily the dress fits like a glove as it glances my calves and then fishtails out, but for some reason I feel nervous. Overly so.
I feel the sigh leave my lungs, effectively loosening the midsection of the dress as it does. Bree didn’t have any problem at all lacing up the back of it, ratcheting the thing in too tight as she did and forcing my boobs out of the top. She did it as she sang, or rather attempted to sing ‘Smack my bitch up.’ I’m still not sure where she found that track, or has even heard of the Prodigy.
“You look great, Lana. S’up?”
I’m not sure what to answer her with, so I don’t. Instead, I stand by my kitchen table and stare at the door to my office, willing it to give me another kick of inspiration that might leave me able to end whatever’s happening tonight before it starts. It doesn’t. It just hangs there, taunting me with nothing at all as it stays stationary and empty without his guidance.
“You know, you don’t have to do anything, right? You have the choice to say no.” She somehow manages to pull herself upright as I look across at her, her top falling back to cover her exposed stomach as she does. “I’m pretty sure all this BDSM stuff is all about consent.” She’s right. He told me that the first night we met. In fact, it was one of the first things he said. I nod at her, still unable to remove the nerves regardless of her soft smile. I could have some more happy pills; they might shift these nerves or at least sort my head out into some sort of practical and logical order again. “So that means you have to say yes, yes?”
“Uh huh.”
“So, really, Alana Williams is in complete control of anything that goes down,” she calls, as I dig two tablets out of my bedside cabinet and sink them down with a quick sip of gin, or vodka, or whatever it is. “As long as she’s not too fascinated with whippy dick to not think straight.” My snort at the term forces one of the tablets back up, making me cough out and swallow again rapidly to send it back down. Fuck. But fascinated - it’s a good term for how I feel. Spellbound is better, rapt, even.
“Can we
please not call him whippy dick,” I say eventually as I right myself and walk back out, hoping for controlled and sensible again. “I need to be on my game for this. The last thing I need is that term flying round my head all night.” She leans back on the arm of the sofa and taps her head, smirking at my predicament and sipping her drink.
“You need analytical and controlled Lana, yeah?” I nod as I watch her steadying herself, somehow rallying the Bree I need back into the room, just as she always does. “Then you’re gonna need an espresso or two before he gets here.” Jesus. Wine, gin, vodka, happy pills and coffee? This could go spectacularly wrong. But she’s right. This whimsical version of me he creates is useless for this sort of encounter. It’ll only force emotions forward, ones I can’t afford with him, making me nervous and edgy, lost. I do need my serious game on, or at least my less fanciful one. “What’s the time?”
“Eight-thirty.” I know this because I’ve been watching the minutes ticking away for the last thirty-six of them. It’s been excruciating, frankly, reminding me of the nerves I do not like. I nod at the offer of coffee anyway, flicking my hand at my own thoughts and assuming no harm can come from yet another drug in my system. It’s not like my body’s not used to them by now.
“How’s he know where you live, anyway?”
It’s a good point, one I’ve given up trying to work out. Similar to how he knows about Val and Peter, too, the latter being something I haven’t told Bree about. She’s a stickler for anonymity. She’s built her whole career on it. There’s only her sister and me who know anything about the fact that she writes. If she knew he knew who I was, she would be telling me not to go. She’d find it too personal. Tell me I was being rash and thoughtless. Believe me, there’s nothing thoughtless about any of this. Quite the opposite, actually.
“I told him in the text.”
“That was stupid. Why not meet him there?” Shit.
“I wanted you to meet him.” I didn’t, but it’s the quickest answer I’ve got to get her off my back. She screws her face up and folds her arms across her chest, clearly suspicious.
“Why?”
“Safety, right?” She stares, narrowing her eyes and suddenly sober as a judge. “If you’ve seen him then it’s another thing we’ve got in case things go wrong.”
“Like you drowning,” she says, her head tilting at the image in her mind. “Or being whipped to death by large dick blunt force trauma.” The thought makes my guts churn, or maybe that’s the pills. Lord knows. Whatever it is, it’s enough that I ignore the fact that my thighs tremble, too, followed by my crotch clamping on air beneath this dress, highlighting a slight problem.
“Yes, Bree. Like me drowning,” I reply, rather than explaining any of my current state.
Having stared some more then looked over my dress and shoe ensemble, she pushes off the sofa and moves towards the kitchen with a huff.
“You know, he better at least be good looking,” she calls back, starting to clank things around in my pristine space. Oh, he is.
“He’s okay.”
“Fuck off with your okay. For you to even be considering this he must be hot. Tell me about him.”
I blow out a breath and meander over to her, trying to think of enough superlatives to describe Blaine Jacobs. By the time I reach the chair beside her and sit on it, gratefully resting my vibrating legs, I still haven’t got any. Most times it’s easy to describe a man—height, weight, eye colour and all the things that usually define a look—but with Blaine it’s about something other than that. It’s about the way his hand hovers, the way his body moves, and the way he manages to delve into my mind without doing a damn thing. “You know,” she says, having watched me not finding any words at all. “I was in love once, Lana.” Was she? I look up at her, noting the slow stir of her coffee as she puts mine down in front of me. “Drink.”
I pick it up, sipping it and waiting for her to deliver what small snippet about her past she’s willing to give. “She was indescribable.” My smile widens, glad to finally hear her talk about being bi, or gay. I don’t care either way as I watch her dark lips stretch into a grin. “I could never find the words to explain how she made me feel, or even what she looked like.”
“You could have talked about this before, you know?” I reply, sensing a shyness about her thoughts creeping in as she gazes out of the window.
“Hmm. I know, but it was a long time ago. Hardly worth talking about. And she was white. Her parents wouldn’t…” She stalls, looking back at her coffee and sighing to herself. “Well, I’m black, right?” She chuckles in contempt. “Gay was okay, but mixed race wasn’t. Go figure.”
What was a broad smile slips into a grimace of sadness. Who would do that? Why?
“How old were you both?”
“She was twenty-four and I was twenty-two. I thought she was it. First time I’d really acknowledged being gay and gone with it. She was everything that love should have been.”
“I’m sorry.” It’s all I’ve got. There’s no point attempting a long and meaningful conversation with Bree because it won’t happen. She’s given what she’s prepared to, and probably only done that because she knows I’m going out and can’t prod any more than ten minute’s worth. “We can talk about it again if you want?” She shakes her head, brightening her mouth back into a normal smile and crinkling her eyes as she shrugs off any thought of love. I can see it visibly leave her, as if it’s the only way she knows how to deal with it. “What was her name?” I ask, sipping my coffee and letting the rush of caffeine do its job.
The sharp sound of the intercom buzzer going off in the room startles me, causing me to stand up so abruptly the coffee cup falls from my hand and smashes to the floor.
“Fuck,” I cry, my breath shaking around the word as I stare at the splintered shards of porcelain and watch the dark brown liquid ooze on the beige linoleum. It doesn’t take me long to notice my hands as I step back. They’re trembling, too, as I check my dress for any splatter.
“You are scared,” Bree says immediately, rounding the surfaces to get in front of my face and making me look at her. “You tell me you’re going to be okay or I’m going down there and telling him you’ve changed your mind.”
“I’m fine, Bree. The noise just surprised me.”
“Did it fuck! Look at you, you’re shaking.”
I turn away from her and cross the room for my bag. Whether I’m shaking or not is completely irrelevant. I’ve got information to find and a book to write, and the man downstairs is the answer to that challenge. Like it or not, I need him. I need his mind. None of this is anything to do with the feelings or emotions I’m having. It’s work. That’s it. My trembling hands will just have to sort themselves out. I grab at my gold Gucci clutch, checking its interior for all the necessary items, keys included, and then turn for my shawl.
“Come on, Bree. I’ve got to go now. He’s here.”
She narrows her eyes in response, slowly taking hold of her bag and slipping her things inside it one by one as she continues drinking her coffee. I push onto the intercom, telling it I’ll be down in a minute and waving my hands at Bree to hurry her up. She’s clearly not in a rush. “Bree, come on. I don’t want him waiting.”
“Why not?” she says, putting her bag down and leaning on the countertop.
“What?”
“Why don’t you want him waiting? The Lana I know always makes men wait for her.”
Her words halt my flapping hands, making me question what I am doing as I panic about the situation. I do make men wait. I always make them wait. There hasn’t been one meeting, one rendezvous, or one encounter at a bar where I haven’t made them wait. It’s almost always been that way. I scan the floor for thought, wondering why my normal reaction isn’t there, then grab at the notebook by my door, scribbling thoughts and feelings down onto it so I don’t lose them.
“Research, Bree. Business,” I mumble out, furiously scrolling the pen with no real inclination to make sense of th
e words at this time. This is nothing to do with research. This is sensation, one he’s somehow created in me without even being here. How’s he done that? “I’m never late for business meetings. It’s rude.” Rude it might be, but that’s not why I’m never late for them. I’m never late because I’m too organised to ever be late for anything. “Come on.”
I open the door, flapping my hand at her again and smiling to get her moving, eventually going back into the room to drag her out instead of waiting for her.
“I call bullshit,” she says, pulling her arm away from my hold and chuckling about something as we get outside the door. I slam it to and shove my overnight bag at her. “You’re hooked on him.”
“I am not,” I protest as I lock the damn thing and fumble with my keys.
“You can’t even lock the fucking door.” My huff of attempted disregard doesn’t go unnoticed as I swing my black, silk shawl around my shoulders, artfully trying to arrange it. It doesn’t work, something to do with my still shaking hands as I head for the stairs.
“Besides, it’s not possible, Bree. This isn’t one of Val’s books. I’m writing factual this time.” I wish I meant that with as much definition as it sounds like, as I quicken my steps and hurry down towards the main door. “Well, fictional factual. “ She giggles behind me as I lift my dress, worried for my own safety given the height of my heels and the angle of the staircase we’re descending. “Honestly. You think this heroine’s about to get whisked away in a high-end car towards her knight in shining armour? You’re mad, Bree. This isn’t a fairy-tale. He’s no prince charming.”
“You sure about that?” Yes. No. Oh god, I don’t know.
My hand reaches for the door, the other still attempting to position my shawl in some semblance of elegance as I fiddle with it and swing the door wide to find him.
Rather than Blaine, I’m greeted with a small portly man who’s dressed in a suit and smiling at me.
Once Upon A (Stained Duet Book 1) Page 14
