by Ashley Black
“Thorn did this!” Aaron’s voice was cracking as he stared at my body, aghast. “Did you even feel any of it?”
I waved my hand, “Some, and honestly I know you’re not going to believe me, but it felt amazing at the time.”
My friend looked incredibly angry with me as he held up a finger. “So let me get this straight. He stuffs you full of spirits in that piece of shit bar in his little lair, and then gives you a pre-planned drug-spiked drink so you could join him in his demented hallucination, and then he fucks you up in the forest.”
“I know how it sounds,” I sighed, cringing again over the media footage. “But it really wasn’t that way.”
“Phantom of the Opera ain’t so glamorous when you go through it in real life,” Aaron snapped.
I glared at him. “What happened was not Phantom of the fucking Opera,” I shot back. “Everyone knows that poor bitch was under the thrall of Rohypnol.”
Aaron started humming, The Prodigy’s “Baby’s Got a Temper”, and I glared at him.
My phone beeped again. I switched it to silent, but the appearance of Thorn’s masked face had already drawn my gaze down to the message.
Your phantom pussy is still wrapped around my cock right now. I can’t get you out of my heads.
He wanted to flirt with me now? After what had happened last night? And then I saw he was still typing.
When will I see you again?
“How about never!?” Aaron snatched the phone from me, and I blinked at him in alarm.
“What are you doing?” I protested. “Give that back!”
Aaron thumbed a message, and tossed the phone back to me. “Thank me later. Which you will be able to do because… ALIVE!”
I groaned when I saw the message: Never. “Do you realize what you’ve done? Seriously?” I shouted. “He is going to freak the fuck out at that.”
“Good, spoilt brat rock star needs to understand he hasn’t gotten away with his antics from last night.”
My messenger notified me, SEEN.
I resisted with everything inside of me not to elaborate further on Aaron’s message, and then I received this from him.
You were a dream after all. But when you decide you want us to be REAL, you know how to reach me. I don’t indulge in or FEED delusions. I meant what I said, Elena, I don’t fantasize. What I think about, which is YOU by the way - A LOT - I make happen. Or move on. I’m not ready for us to not be REAL. But I respect your wishes. Cellrager xxx Never it is.
Seventeen
As Aaron drove me back home (after some fairly badgering insistence – I wanted to be alone, to be honest), I decided, on reflection, that I didn’t want to go to the Brett’s art show at Clarissa whasserface’s gallery after all. Aaron was right. It was a hideously bad idea. What was I trying to prove? What would it achieve? Nothing.
I just wanted to write. I had so many ideas. Plus, a new book now. I had to resolve the energy of the vampire biker book, and then I could move onto romancing the next.
When I explained this to Aaron, he sighed with relief. “If you change your mind, call me immediately and I will talk you down from the ledge,” he smiled, guiding Daniel’s sleek black BMW four-wheel drive up the familiar private access road to my house.
Both of us freaked when we saw the rather festive lanterns and fairy lights hanging off every tree that flanked the drive, and then people parked all the way out onto the road itself – dangerous! A ridiculous amount of people. Dressed very glamorously. A party seemed to be in full swing in my house. I had brought the fucking thing after all with my first advance from my publisher when Brett had still been a struggling artist.
“Didn’t know your house threw parties, how clever of it,” Aaron muttered as he guided the car around some laughing folk I thought I recognized from one of Brett’s art events.
I froze when we came to the tree-lined rise near the small utility shed. “Holy shit.” My eyes were on a sign, a cheerful proclamation of my now very ex-fiancé’s art show.
“Ok,” Aaron started reversing fast. “What an asshole to hold his little piece of shit show here of all places. Let’s split.”
I loved my friend at that moment. But fuck that. This was my house. I wasn’t going anywhere. I felt my hand flash around Aaron’s wrist. “Wait,” I said calmly. “Let’s just find out what’s going on.”
Aaron waved his hand in front of my face. “Hello? You sure you’re still not drug fucked? We already know what’s going on, hon; Brett is being an asshole, let’s go.”
“I’m heading in.”
Aaron stopped the car and smacked his head against the wheel in frustration. “Well, this should be good,” he groaned. “Want me to film this shit? It would make great material for a reality TV series - how to fuck your life. Hey you should do that sometime; I haven’t seen an erotic author do that before. That could find you a new audience, I like it!”
“It would be so boring,” I laughed. “No one would watch that.”
“Absolutely!” Aaron agreed. “Even still… you should see yourself right now, you wear the part of the tragic, rather unhinged looking ex quite well. We just need to stuff a half-empty bottle of vodka in your hand, and the look will be complete.”
I blushed in severe mortification at his observation. I was wearing a dress that was too small for me; it was black and may as well have been spray painted on. I wore no underwear beneath it. Daniel had it mixed up in his clothing with a few other numbers from models he'd worked with.
When I walked in the door to this shindig on Aaron’s arm, I saw my gorgeous Brett wearing his dark blonde hair in that pompous ponytail of his; as his gaze met mine, his face flamed red. He had always been a hopeless blusher. I loved that about him. He hated it. Such a weakness, he ranted. Every fucking time someone sees a flashing beacon of me being ill at ease, aroused, or both. I had laughed at that. God. I loved that man
My gaze slid to the right to take in my reflection in the gold oval framed mirror in the hallway – Aaron was right, I did look like the tragic unhinged ex, that or some extra from a bad 90’s grunge music video. My hair was a bird’s nest, my makeup messy and streaked, I had dried black tears frozen on my cheeks, and my lips were a sort of bruised purple colour.
Brett excused himself from the elderly man he had been talking to, and I arrogantly assumed because my head was quite literally up my ass sometimes, that he was going to welcome Aaron and I as I had seen him cordially do to every other person who had crossed MY threshold to his little show he had taken it upon himself run here of all places. But no, he was at a tall blonde’s side. Her hair was wrapped up in a huge bright ball upon the top of her head; I supposed it was a bun, though I thought it looked ridiculous, and her lips were fuller than my own, her eyes hazel with insanely long lashes. He had leaned in, and was speaking into her ear. She was throwing daggers with her eyes at me, and I realized in horror that she was wearing my dress. Ok… she may well have had the same dress, but this was a favourite of Brett’s, black velvet with a plunging neckline glittering with some crystal finery around it.
“I don’t think he’s happy to see you,” Aaron remarked. “Or that bitch. Sweet Jesus, she is gorgeous.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, buddy.”
Brett, now with blonde bombshell backup (fucking wussy little shit I ranted), approached us with a forced smile. He was still blushing, I noted, and I saw his gaze drop momentarily to my breasts, the erect nipples pressing against the fabric of the flimsy dress and signalling my lack of a bra rather decisively, before immediately returning to my face. “Elena, Aaron, how wonderful you were able to make it tonight.”
He sounded like such a conceited, fake asshole. This was not the Brett I knew. What kind of virus or plague had this Clarissa pussy given him?
I forced a bright smile. “As you know, Brett, I am an admirer of fine things, and your art be a fine thing. Besides all of that, this is my house, dear.”
“Wow? Are you really a writer?” Clarissa’s
hazel eyes narrowed on me. “I do hope you write better than you speak.”
“Hey,” Aaron interjected with nervous laughter. “No need to be mean, the lady got date-raped last night, have a heart.”
I slammed a hand to my forehead and mentally groaned.
Brett choked on the glass of champagne I had seen him pluck off the tray of a passing waiter, and start gulping it down urgently, I presumed to inoculate himself against me.
“Oh.” Clarissa’s eyes widened in horror. “Elena… I’m…so sorry if that happened to you. My sister went through the same thing once. You have got to be careful of these death metal rock star types, there’s so much substance abuse,” she gushed, sounding oddly sympathetic.
Meanwhile, Brett appeared to recover himself, but he too was now staring at me with a look of horror. His hand sped into his hair, mussing it up. “You sure looked like you were having a good time,” he muttered.
“So did you,” I returned icily, and flashed the picture of him kissing Clarissa.
Bless him, he blushed harder.
Then I dropped my phone when a booming voice smacked me in the back of the head. “Hello, boys and girls – if you are looking to buy some art at this shindig then I am sorry, you’re too late. I bought it all up. I had to relieve everyone from ever owning that overpriced shit.”
That voice.
Holy shit. Thorn was here.
But why? My mind was reeling.
I whirled around. He was on the threshold wearing his mask. Some in the crowd recognised him as Cellrager and approached excitedly, but most were hanging back with their mouths hanging open.
“What the fuck?” Brett freaked at Clarissa. “Please tell me he wasn’t the one who bought everything of mine?”
She nodded. “I think he was. I’m sorry – he used a different name, but that voice. That was definitely him.”
“Then… refund him!” Brett spluttered. “I won’t have my soul owned by that fucktard. Get them to take all the art down. This-” his hands flailed wildly. “-is over.” Then his eyes, now filled with tears, flashed toward me. “Fuck you, Elena. Everything you come near turns to shit for me. Get the fuck out of my life. Please.” His voice broke over the word ‘please’. He sounded like he meant it. Shit. I staggered backwards, and fell against a wall of warmth and intensity. I groaned softly. I couldn’t even begin to deal with Thorn right now.
“No,” Thorn removed his mask and came to stand by my side. “This isn’t over. The party’s only just beginning, buddy.”
Brett, despite being a little shorter than Thorn, cut a rather imposing figure as he stepped right up chest-to-chest with my rather insane rock star. “Get the fuck out of here before I throw you out myself.”
But Thorn wasn’t looking at him; he was staring straight at Clarissa, and I saw with a little shiver of unease that a dazed expression had come over her beautiful face.
“Let’s go upstairs and have a drink!” she suggested cheerfully. She grinned so hard it looked like it hurt her face.
Brett blinked and stepped back from Thorn, looking confused. “That is a terrible idea.”
“It’s an incredible idea,” Thorn disagreed. “Come on, I mix a good cocktail.”
“Again,” Brett gave Thorn a shove. “Get out of my house.”
“He stays,” I objected. “This is my house.”
Aaron groaned beside me.
“Nice one, Elena.” Brett looked particularly ferocious now, then I saw his hand reach for another glass of champagne without looking at it, but this one had a slice of strawberry spliced on the edge of the glass. Brett was severely allergic to strawberries; he had nearly died from eating them once. Horrified, I knocked the glass out of his hand.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Brett stared at me, aghast.
“It had a strawberry on the glass,” I shot back.
“I would have realized that,” he glowered, bending down to pick up the glass, then he snapped his fingers at one of the wait staff to attend to it.
“I didn’t realize you were allergic to strawberries!” Clarissa cried, dismayed. “Thank God I didn’t put them in the cake I cooked for your big celebration tonight.”
I sniffed the air. Really? She was cooking in my kitchen now? Not that I ever used the fucking thing to do that. I was hopelessly undomesticated.
Thorn was observing this exchange with amusement flickering in his dark green eyes, his body pressed close to mine as he stood beside me, invading all personal space. I stepped away from him, but he closed the distance again immediately in a sort of eerie glide. I sighed.
“That cake smells delicious,” Thorn complimented Clarissa, then he lowered his voice, leaning across to her. “Perhaps we should discuss the terms of my refund upstairs, away from all of these folk. It could get a little awkward.”
She nodded and took my rock star’s hand, leading him upstairs.
“Clarissa!” Brett was outraged. He stared after her as she went up the stairs with Thorn.
That bitch was certainly looking very familiar and at home in my house, I realized with sickening dread (how long had they been going on exactly again?). Brett threw an anguished look in my direction before following them.
Aaron gripped my hand tightly, holding me back. “You are not having another drink with that man. Stay with me. Please don’t go. Let’s get out of here. Let’s go for a walk. Anything.”
I wriggled out of his grasp. “How can I leave Brett alone with him after that dream you told me about?” I was horrified. “No way, I’m going.”
Aaron bit his lip. “Then so am I.” His arms folded across his chest. “And by going, I mean leaving your house. I am sick of you doing stupid shit like this.”
“Protecting Brett is not stupid shit,” I bit out angrily.
“You being anywhere near Thornton Darko is stupid shit.” Aaron turned on his heel and stalked away from me; on the threshold, he yelled over his shoulder, “Call me when you make more sense.”
I stared after him in shock. Wow. I had clearly pushed my friend too far this time, but there was absolutely no way I was going to leave Thorn alone with Brett. I moved into the kitchen and grabbed my bottle of vodka from the freezer, and poured myself a shot to calm my rather jangled nerves. I needed to deal with my drinking issue some time.
I took a deep, shuddering breath, aware that conversation from the party goers had fallen silent and what felt like a million pairs of sympathetic eyes were upon me. I heard their whispers and speculations, and if I heard ‘date rape’ one more time, I was going to lose it.
Then I sniffed the air. Shit. Holy shit. Brett’s cake was burning. Part of me wanted to see it burst into flame and incinerate like our engagement had. But I found some oven mitts and opened the door of the oven as smoke poured out of it. It smelt worse than it looked. Exasperated, I removed the thing and shoved it carelessly onto a large chopping board I had discovered, then slammed the oven door shut.
“Oh, dear.” Thorn’s voice beside me made me jump. He was staring down at the cake in amusement. “Let me order a new one… I know this wonderful little gourmet cake shop, the owner makes the most divine cakes – because it would be such a pity if Brett can’t have his cake and eat it too, yes?”
I stared at him. “Why would you do that?”
Thorn shrugged. “I refused to give him back the art I purchased. It’s the least I can do to recompense the inconvenience of now owning his soul, as he calls it.”
“Why are you even here?” I asked quietly.
“I thought that’d be obvious.” Thorn sounded hurt.
I just stared at him.
“You!” he breathed. “Always… you.”
Eighteen
Thorn held up a finger as he turned away from me for a second, phone to his ear, and ordered a celebration cake for Brett. It was sick and utterly demented that he thought Brett would celebrate anything about him unwittingly selling his blood, sweat, tears and very soul as he had called it, to Thornton Darko,
but there it was.
“Besides,” Thorn continued after he finished the call, fixing me with a gaze that pinned me to the wall. “I figured you could use some support. I have some friends in the art community, and I had heard of Brett’s plans to hold the art show at your place. It was a senseless act of revenge. I thought it was cruel and unnecessary, and so…” he spread his hands. “Here I am.”
“I think you should go,” I said coldly. It wasn’t that I was unmoved by his slightly misguided intent to ‘support’ me as he put it. I just wasn’t ready to see, much less talk to him right now. I didn’t trust myself around this man at the moment, and I was still processing last night.
“Oh,” he said flatly. “Of course.”
“First smart thing I’ve heard come out of your mouth tonight,” Brett interrupted us.
Thorn brows swept down in a frown. “Don’t speak to her that way.”
Brett hefted a canvas and shoved it into Thorn’s huge chest, driving him back a pace. “Here’s your fucking art, you piece of shit. Then in a blur or rage and adrenalin, I watched in shock as my enraged ex-fiancé flung one canvas after the other into Thorn, backing him up against the fridge. Thorn just let him, and made no move to resist or fight the barrage of paintings pushed onto him.
“Brett!” I freaked. He was the angriest I had ever seen him. “Stop it!” I reached for his shoulder, but he shrugged me off, grunted, and pushed the five heavy canvases against my rock star, pinning him. He pushed even harder, and I thought I heard a sickening crunch. I couldn’t tell if it was the art, Thorn, or Brett; this was the most insane thing I had ever seen.
Thorn groaned and pushed back, his arms and intimidating large torso burst through the canvases, and took Brett around the waist as he threw him to the floor. Shaking, he freed himself from the frames of the ruined works, and glared furiously down at Brett for a moment. “Do me a favor. Stop punishing Elena. She did nothing wrong. Take your little show and get out of here.”
Thorn’s gaze found mine. “Don’t put up with his shit. You know how to reach me if you need me. I am truly sorry I came here tonight. I only wanted to support you, but I see that my being here has only hurt you. Goodbye.”
