Once Upon A (Stained Duet Book 1)

by Charlotte E Hart

  “Oh,” comes out of my mouth as my feet halt in their tracks.

  “Nice opening,” Bree says behind me, chortling away to herself and nudging me in the back, which makes me turn and scowl at her.

  “Ms. Williams?”

  “Yes,” I say, higher pitched than I would have liked, indicating stress levels I wish I didn’t have.

  “Mr. Jacobs asked that you meet him there,” he says, holding out his hand towards a silver Mercedes that’s idling by the side of the road.

  “Thank fuck,” Bree cuts in.

  “What?” I ask, looking back at her.

  “Well, I thought this was him.” Oh, right. Ewww.

  “Bree!” I’m astonished. This chap has to be at least fifty-five. “Really?”

  “How would I know?” Fair point, I suppose.

  “Really, though?”

  “You’re the one unable to describe him,” she replies, an incredulous look on her face as she moves past me, wanders out onto the street and dumps my leather overnight bag on the pavement.

  “Ma’am, if we could get going?” the man says, interrupting our conversation. Right, yes.

  “I’m sorry,” I say out of courtesy, given the fact that we’ve just been talking about him in a less than pleasant way.

  “No problem, ma’am,” he replies, stepping away from me to grab my bag and pointing for his car again as I pick up my dress to follow. Nice. Great way to piss off the driver.

  “You really gonna get in a car with a complete stranger?” Bree asks, her face a picture of distrust as she scribbles the car’s licence plate down and peers in through the windows. I haven’t been given much of a chance to think about it, but now I do. It’s a fair question, one I currently have no answer for as I look the chap over. “And what’s your name?” she asks, aiming the question at him.

  “Stone,” is the reply.

  “Mr. Stone, or Stone something?”

  “Just Stone, ma’am.”

  “That’s not a name,” she mumbles, apparently now drawing a picture of him on her police notepad. I roll my eyes at her as I approach, watching the way her hand creates quite the likeness of Stone.

  “That’s good.”

  “Thanks, I’m doing illustrations now, too.”

  “Ma’am?” Stone coughs, probably at my stalling. “We should really get going.”

  “Where to?” Bree asks.

  “The location is undisclosed.”

  Both Bree and I stare at him, a look of bewilderment on our faces as he drops my bag into the boot and walks to the driver’s side of the car. He can’t tell me where I’m going? That’s not alright. I need more than this. For a start, I expected Blaine here, not a nameless driver who’s been told to take me somewhere.

  “I think it’s best if I don’t go then,” I say, making my way to the back of the car to retrieve my bag. Need him or not, I’m not putting myself in danger for anyone. The thought makes me snort at myself as I imagine what I was thinking about doing in the first place. BDSM does not come in this format, I’m afraid. I’m not writing about the same thing as all those other books. I want the real meat of the situation, not whatever this is. I thought the dress was over the top enough, lovely as it is, let alone being driven somewhere ‘undisclosed’ for surreptitious adventures with people I don’t know. Blaine is what I need, not this.

  When I’m done with my thoughts of intrigue and slight irritation, and as I’m tugging at the boot that won’t open, Stone hands me a phone. I stare at it as it rings, mystified as to why I should answer his phone.

  “It’s Mr. Jacob’s, ma’am. For you.” The only wording on the phone is J; that’s it. Nothing else to indicate who it might be.

  “You sure?” He nods. I’m not sure why I asked in the first place. I take it from him, ready to tell Mr. Jacobs that I won’t be coming anywhere, regardless of how important he is.

  “Hello,” I say, quite sharply given my confusion as I continue tugging at the boot of the car. There’s no real response at first, just a hushed rumble and something that sounds like classical music in the background, or perhaps a band. “Hello?”

  “I have zero patience and you’re already fucking testing it,” eventually comes back at me, very nearly snarled through his normally bored tone. My brow shoots up at this new tone of anger, followed by my knickers considering desertion. How did that happen? He’s not even here. “Good evening,” he says, his voice suddenly brighter and full of charisma. I go to say something, not understanding what it means, but before I’m given a chance, he talks again. “Get in the damn car, Alana.” His tone is full of malice again, nothing like the charming one I just heard. I back up, as if I’m trying to get away from his voice. “Speak.” Yes, speak. Why can’t I speak? I should tell him to go screw himself, or ask him what the hell he thinks he’s playing at. I look at Bree, who’s still busy drawing Stone, then glance at the man whose eyes are trained on me as if I’m the only thing worth dealing with. “Stone will give you thirty seconds after I end this call to make a choice,” Blaine huffs out, the sound of raucous laughter in the background carrying on, along with the start of a new song. “You asked for my help, Alana. Take it or stop wasting my fucking time. I don’t care.”

  The phone goes dead the instant the last word leaves his mouth, and in the same moment, Stone picks up his arm to look at his watch. There’s no emotion, no sense of coercion coming from either Blaine or Stone. No one wants me to go other than me. I was right; this definitely is not a fairy-tale. It’s as much about business for Blaine as it is for me. He might not be making any money out of it, but I’m clearly offering something of value nonetheless. I can only assume that something is me—that I’m something to play with for a while.

  “Okay,” I say as I move a step towards the car, possibly without my true consent. Bree hurries to my side, her hand grabbing my arm to stop me. It’s the right thing to do; we both know that, but it won’t get me my story or his mouth on me again, will it? And I need both now for some reason, much as I might hate to admit it. “It’s okay, Bree,” I say, gently removing her hand and reaching for the car door. “He’s meeting me there.”

  She narrows her eyes but doesn’t try to stop me. She knows once I’ve made a decision it’s usually a sensible one—one that I’ve considered, prepared for. Everything in my life is always that way. It has to be. The chaos of it would be overwhelming if I wasn’t so concise about keeping it tight, irrespective of the occasional meltdown, and the need for drugs to help keep me in order. My decisions, my rules. Only this time, much as she might believe I’ve made this call with sense applied, I haven’t. He just has. He told me what to do and I’m doing it, willingly.

  Chapter 9

  Blaine

  I sigh and turn for the road again, choosing to seat myself on the nearest bench rather than follow the fray back into yet more perfect smiles and deliberations. Games of chance I’m willing to play on occasion. Games that involve pretence and deception are not in the least bit appealing, certainly not in relation to a room full of high-end kinksters. I’ve been there, done that, ridden the waves that push and pull boundaries ever closer to the edge of stability. The only reason I’ve come here is for her to see a new version of the scene, one that should make it abundantly clear that ‘my kind’ are something more than just dirty backstreet clubs.

  Minutes tick by, and I begin wandering the road again, kicking up dust and checking my phone, until eventually I see the car pulling onto the top of the drive. It travels slowly, twisting the corners precisely just as Stone, Delaney’s driver, always does, and finally ends up by my feet. Stone gets out, rounding the car and walking to the back door to open it, and then I get my first glimpse of her leg as she pushes it out. It instantly makes me tilt my head, enough so that I smirk at myself as the rest of her follows, the picture of elegance. Her evening gown clings in all the right places as she straightens it down, highlighting that exceptional chest of hers and elongating already lengthy legs.

  �
�Hi,” she says, a little unsure of herself as she gazes around the area and runs her fingers through her hair to perfect it. She doesn’t need to. Its stark purple stripes are perfectly aligned, rising up into the diamante clip holding it in place. I stare for a while longer, happy to simply watch her move and falter in her discomfort as she continues glancing around. “Is this okay?” she asks, pointing at her dress, presumably trying to break the silence I’m purposely creating. It makes me smirk again, amused at her nerves and enjoying her torment as I gaze at her face. She’s truly beautiful. Not like the others here. They all hold a pretentious lilt to their manicuring, as if they’ve been at a salon for hours forcing beauty and dressing like sluts to achieve admiration, but not her. Alana Williams is a vision of impeccably flawed splendour. A woman who neither denies her attributes nor flaunts them to attract imbecilic men who aren’t able to deal with her. “Are you going to speak at all?” Possibly not if she jitters as a result. The unease is titillating, entertaining, and cock hardening. It reminds me of the slight fear she had earlier as she fell on her ass in my hallway. “Because this is going to be very dull if you don’t,” she quips, digging into her bag for something then starting to apply a new layer of dark red lipstick.

  “Wipe it off,” comes out of my mouth, quicker than even I expect.

  “What?” she says, her hand hovering the lipstick at the edge of her mouth.

  “It stains you. If I want you stained, I’ll put it there myself.”

  “Oh,” she says in response, her face suddenly unsure of what to do. “But I can’t just... Well, not here… I need a mirror and…” I take a step into her, pulling out my handkerchief and offering up my hand to within a foot of her face. She looks as surprised by the move as I feel. Normally, as with other women, I’d have made her wipe it off, forcing the smear and enjoying her discomfort all the more for it, but with her I feel courteous—a suggestion of it, anyway. “Okay,” she says, beginning to take it from me. I shake my head, lifting it away from her fingers and watching her frown increase.

  “Mine to take, Alana, yes?” I ask, moving my hand towards her mouth and relishing the small gasp that comes from it as my fingers brush her skin. I stare at her eyes for a moment, watching the way the pupils dilate, their rim expanding until it almost eclipses the blue iris. “It’s the way this works.” Her eyes flutter closed slightly, an escape of more breath quietly moaning out as I press firmly onto her lips to dab the colour off. I continue wiping, easing myself close enough to wrap my other hand around the back of her neck to hold her head still. “Don’t wear it again.”

  “Why not?” she muses, half unaware the question’s left her lips. It causes me to smile wider as her eyes close completely, remembering a time when women questioned me.

  “I’m a sadist, Alana,” I reply quietly, still musing over her lips and what I can do with them. Her eyes shoot open, her feet nearly falling over themselves to put distance between us both, which makes me chuckle. “There are no borders to our fads. Lipstick included.”

  “Yes, yes of course you are.” she says, her body at odds with itself until she regains her composure and stands her ground again, defiance written all over her frame. “And I suppose all this stuff,” she says, waving her hand at Delaney’s grand hall behind us. “Is some sort of gathering of your kind? A club?” My blood boils at her comment, just as it did the last time she belittled my community. My kind? She’s more my kind than she could ever imagine. She simply doesn’t know it yet. I’ve seen it in the pool, felt it in the way she let me carry her, smelt it on her when she tried to deny interest in the first club she’d been in.

  “Do you know what my kind is?” I ask, rotating away from her and walking towards the building, toying with all kinds of ideas to help her understand what she is. She doesn’t answer, but hurries to catch up with me, her heels clattering against the pavement and distressing my nerves. Fucking sound. “My kind is your kind, Alana.”

  “It’s not,” she snaps out, desperate to validate her regularity in society’s categories.

  “Yet your cunt’s wet again,” I snarl back, stopping and letting her crash into me. She gasps as she rebounds off me. It’s a good look on her—one that makes her seem less superior, which I like, regardless of it not sitting comfortably on her frame. “Should I hitch that dress up and test my theory? Put my hand inside you?” Her mouth stays open, momentarily attempting speech and then stopping again. “Our kind is only a form of honesty most won’t entertain as acceptable.” I back away from her this time, putting distance between us as I look at her. “Be careful who you look down on, Alana. You could be judging yourself without thought.”

  I look up at the building I come to two times a year as I walk on. Delaney’s little gatherings are usually farcical. Comedic even. I come more out of respect for him rather than the entertainment, but this time it feels intriguing to be here, probably because I’ve brought someone to it. And I suppose the building is charismatic in some ways with its insidious little rooms waiting for use, if not a truly archaic version of the new bolder scene that lines backstreet avenues.

  “But I’m not your kind, if I was I would know, surely?” she says, suddenly appearing by my side and sliding her arm through my crooked elbow. I stop and look at it, bemused at her audacity in increasing our proximity again but apparently unable to remove her from my arm irrespective. “I mean, you must have known the first time you had sex—that you were different?” I shake my head, chuckling at her straightforward way of approaching questions, no matter how uncomfortable I might make her feel, and then start walking again. “Because this honesty presumably applies to oneself, as you said, so you must have understood your need early on, right?”

  “You ask questions like a lecturer would,” I reply, ducking to get through the low hanging lights in the arched foyer and remembering standing by my board, this rise of seats spread out before me full of students. “Ever thought of a career change?”

  “No, I like what I do. Actually, why don’t you teach, if you’re a teacher? Or do you still?” she asks, staring around the room as we enter. “What college were you at? I can’t find you on the internet anywhere.” I’m not surprised. I spend a fortune keeping myself off it.

  “I used to teach. I don’t anymore, not psychology anyway. I do—”

  “Is that a jester breathing fire?” she suddenly asks, her eyes focusing on the stage. I feel her let go of my arm, her body turning to step into the fray with little care for her safety. “Oh!” She looks straight back me, her eyes widening as she stares at the rest of the room and notices some already bare bodies starting early. I nod, a smile broadening on my mouth at her quizzical gaze. She really is quite the beauty, especially in her interest. “But this isn’t what I thought.” More than likely not. I still can’t truly understand why I’ve brought her here either. She probably expected another version of the second place we’d met. “It’s incredible. Look at that.” She wanders further in, her body weaving through the throng of couples, soaking in the atmosphere, turning and spinning on occasion. Farcical it might all be, but I have to give it to Delaney; he can throw a party better than most. The hall is filled with black and blue visons, half the guests matching the décor, and the opulence is just as exquisite as it always is.

  I follow her as she keeps mingling, sporadically bumping into someone who won’t appreciate the awkwardness. The third time makes me move in and glare at Robert Harris before the bastard swings his hand at her. It’s probably because she knocked his drink over as she bounced off his sub’s kneeling form, and normally I’d have ignored the response, rightly so, but not with Alana. Not yet. Robert nods and recalls his arm before it engages with her, all of which a still stunned Alana is oblivious to as she keeps moving forward. I snort at her astonished gaze, admiring the way she’s suddenly become so open to what’s in front of her rather than sullying it with reproach. She seems in awe of the venue. Perhaps it’s the architecture, or the sense of showmanship that has been applied to
its structure, changing her opinion of dirty liaisons and making her see sense.

  Vast floral arrangements embellish the old hall’s entrance lobby as we walk through, Alana still several feet in front of me and forging her own path onwards without my help. I find myself charmed by her confidence as she touches objects and stares at the iniquity beginning to evolve around her. On occasion she stops her feet to really mentally engage with an act, perhaps needing to smell the air as she integrates the vision into her mind, before moving on again. It amuses me. In fact, it tempts me more by the second, filling me with thoughts of howling screams, ones that appear clouded with sentiments involving her mind.

  I’ve swiped two glasses of Champagne and caught up with her by the time she reaches the staircase, not the slightest bit ready to disclose such thoughts yet wanting nothing more than to talk.

  “How does it all make you feel?” I ask, watching the way her small smile increases as I approach. She takes the drink, sipping it quietly as she scans again and lifts her dress to walk up the stairs.

  “More interested than the other venue did.”

  “That’s because you don’t believe you’re part of this. In time, the location will mean little.”

  Her smile widens, bringing with it an exquisiteness that holds no place here. Smiles like hers are reserved for moonlight walks and virile encounters, not for venues such as this. It makes me halt my momentum and gaze at her, wondering why she affects me so.

  “You okay?” she asks, her head slightly at an angle. No. Something’s at odds, just like it was when she was beneath the water and begging to be rescued. I can see it again now, warning me of storms that shouldn’t be considered. It forces me to tense my hand inside my pocket, willing the sensation away as Eloise haunts my memories with her screams.

  “Yes.” No.

  A raucous outburst breaks us free of the moment, causing her to swing her eyes to the floor below us. I don’t look. I can’t. I feel bewitched by this moment, her splendour bridging a hole inside me I don’t want bridging as she moves into me to look downwards. She fills the staircase, the hem of her dress dropping three steps down as if she covers everything around us, including me. I can’t stop the urge to touch her skin and run my fingers along her arm slowly, watching her reaction to it carefully.