Curves For Him: 10 Delicious Tales

by Aubrey Rose

  Red. Somewhere in the crowd a woman was screaming, and cameras flashed from all sides, dozens of them. Eliot shook off the arms restraining him and covered his eyes, but still the lights flashed through the cracks in his fingers. So much red. A security guard pulled the photographer out of the river and out of Eliot’s sight. The roaring in Eliot’s ears stopped as soon as he looked up.

  Brynn stood speechless, staring at him as though he were a monster. He turned toward the exit and ran.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Eliot shoved well-dressed businessmen aside on his way out the door of the restaurant. A plate clattered to the floor as he bumped a waiter hard, but he did not even turn to see what had happened. He knew what had happened. It was the reason he didn’t want to be in Hungary.

  Clare.

  His feet took him down the street, away from watchful eyes, until he turned onto the bridge and stopped there, the icy floes of the Danube some thirty meters under his feet. He pressed his palms to his eyes, willing away the memory, but still it came over him as it always had, a furious, immutable wave of emotion that rolled him into its current and back into the past, a decade back, when Clare was still his wife and he thought fate was on his side.

  They had been driving back from one of Otto’s parties, and the roads glistened with the treacherous dark patches of ice. Clare looked beautiful, dressed in an ivory sheath with pearls wreathing her neck, her hair done up by the stylist Marta had recommended. Eliot couldn’t help but look over every once in a while to take glimpses of his angel, as he called her. A soft fall of snow was swept away quietly by the windshield wipers. Eliot had maneuvered his way around the dark curves of the mountain well enough until the paparazzi showed up. Two photographers on motorcycles shot up until they were just behind the car.

  “Get away from them, can you?” Clare said.

  “I’m trying,” Eliot said. One of the photographers rode his motorcycle up alongside their car, then in front, and began to shoot pictures from through the windshield. The light from the camera was blinding, and Eliot didn’t know how he could be taking any usable pictures anyway.

  “I don’t understand it,” Eliot said. “You would think they would be satisfied with the photos of us outside of the party. Wasn’t that enough?”

  “I can’t stand it. I can’t.” Clare’s voice strained.

  “Aren’t there usually more?” Eliot thought the paparazzi normally traveled in packs.

  “I hate these damned men,” Clare said, shielding her face with her hand as the camera flashed bright white. “Leave us alone!” She began to roll down the window.

  “Clare, don’t—”

  “Leave us alone!” she shouted through the half-opened window, both her hands. Cold wind howled through the car, and snowflakes flurried inside of the car. Eliot reached over to pull her back, and the camera flashed, and then the road slid underneath them sideways although Eliot had kept the wheel straight, or tried.

  From then on the world existed only in flashes of light and sound and terror. He heard the tires squeal, and the motorcycle slammed into the hood, the ear-splitting sound of metal on metal and shattering glass. Eliot slammed on the brakes and tried to pull the steering wheel straight, but the rear end of the car swung back and then they were flying off of the road and there was a tree in front and god, oh god. The crash of branches through the windows came only a second before the jarring shock of impact. The world stopped and Eliot saw the blackness rush over him as he hit the airbag, the force knocking him unconscious for a brief second. He felt something sharp tear across his chest and slice his face as he blacked out. Then his eyes opened. Fir branches covered the interior of the car.

  Clare. A soft whimper made him turn his head, although his neck hurt terribly. Clare.

  The tree branch had come through the windshield and pierced her through the chest at a sharp angle. Her hands touched the bark of the branch over and over again, as though she was unsure how it had gotten there. Blood seeped through her dress, soaking into the ivory fabric and turning it dark red.

  “Clare. Don’t move. Clare.” He coughed and wiped at his eyes, hoping that the scene before him would change, turn into something else. The woman he loved sat next to him, dying, he was sure. So much blood. How could there be so much blood? He touched his face and brought his hand away covered in it.

  Clare looked up at him, but her eyes were glazed over. Her mouth opened as if to say something, but she could not speak.

  “It’s okay, Clare.” Eliot reached over to take her hand. Her fingers slipped against his skin, slick with blood.

  “Eliot...”

  “It’s alright. You’re going to be okay.” He reassured her even as part of his mind rebelled, going into a crazed state. He saw himself in the seat as if from a distance, watching both of them sit next to each other. Watching Clare die. Would he die too? He looked down. His shirt had been torn by a tree limb, his skin opened up across his chest. His stomach turned at the sight of so much carnage.

  A roar of noise from engines made his gaze turn from her to the half-opened window, still intact. In the rearview mirror he saw a half-dozen silhouettes of men on motorbikes. The rest of the photographers. He cleared his throat and cried out.

  “Help!” he shouted weakly. “My wife needs help!”

  A man came to the side door, his helmet still on, and took a step back when he saw Clare. Another man joined him, then another.

  “Jesus,” the first man swore.

  “Please,” Eliot said. “Please help.” His hand shook as he caressed Clare’s face. Her eyes stayed fastened onto his.

  Then the cameras began to flash.

  Clare closed her eyes, and Eliot tried to shield her face from the cameras. His hands dripped with blood.

  “Stop!” he cried. “Help! We need help!”

  Clare moaned, her eyes still closed. Her hand relaxed its grip on Eliot’s hand.

  “Clare?”

  She coughed weakly, and a spray of blood misted the deflated airbag in front of her. One hand at her chest, she drew a shallow, ragged breath. The harsh glare of the camera flashes, one after another, illuminated her face, and Eliot saw in bursts of light her head lolling back on the headrest.

  “Clare? Clare, look at me. Clare!” Eliot squeezed her hand, but there was no response. He panicked, his voice rising to a scream. “Clare!”

  A drop of blood slowly trickled over her lower lip and dripped down onto her chest, which had ceased to rise and fall.

  The cameras kept flashing.

  Dizzy with champagne, I was completely unprepared for Eliot’s breakdown, for his attack on the photographer.

  My head had been swimming nicely in bubbles as Eliot danced with me, and then he kissed me, or I kissed him, I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that it felt right to be held by him, to press my lips to his, and I could feel the need inside of him as he pulled me tightly into his arms. Everything was perfect and right and good, and then he exploded and security guards swarmed around us and Eliot turned and left me alone. I remember the photographer coughing as he helped the man out of the river, his teeth chattering with cold.

  I held out my hand to stop Eliot, but he was already gone. Tipsy though I was, I remembered to get my purse and coat before following him out the door. People around me stared and talked in Hungarian, and I had no idea what was going on.

  I stumbled down the street, my heels slipping on the icy sidewalk, and almost passed by the bridge where Eliot sat crouched fifty feet away, huddled against the cold granite. Shaking his head, he clutched his arms around his knees.

  “Eliot?” I called out to him from across the street, but he did not hear me. I waited until the cars had gone, then made my way across to him.

  “Eliot?”

  Eyes tightly closed, he muttered something under his breath, his head still shaking from side to side. I leaned down, but the words were Hungarian, and I could not understand. I touched him on the shoulder and he started backwards, hitting his he
ad against the side of the bridge.

  “Nem!”

  I knew enough Hungarian to know what that meant—no.

  “Eliot, it’s me.” Eliot’s eyes were wild, terror still written on his face.

  “Clare.”

  “It’s me. It’s Brynn.”

  The light in his eyes dimmed to a frown. He refocused his gaze on me.

  “Brynn.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Brynn, I—” He went to stand up and tottered, his arm shaking under my grasp.

  “Easy, there.” I helped him stand up and looked around. A crowd had gathered at the end of the bridge, waiting. Watching us. I saw a cab turn onto the street and darted to the curb to hold my hand out. The cab pulled over.

  “Come on,” I said.

  Eliot looked back over the side of the bridge, to the icy river below. I came over and took his hand, and he swallowed hard. When he turned back to me, his face was glassy with sorrow, his jaw set in a hard line.

  “Yes,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  The cab driver was silent the entire way back, although when he drove up to the estate entrance he let out a low whistle between his teeth. I gave him a big tip and thanked him as best as I could in Hungarian. Eliot didn’t say a word as we entered the house, but when we reached the top of the stairs where we were to part ways, he paused.

  “Brynn,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, not knowing what he was apologizing for. Running away? Freaking out over the photographers?

  “I don’t—I can’t explain...”

  “It’s okay,” I repeated. “Really. You don’t have to.”

  “This is my fault,” Eliot said. He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “All my fault. To bring you here, to take you out to this party. Brynn, it was a mistake.”

  No. I didn’t know if I whispered the word, or if it was just my mind that was screaming it. This wasn’t a mistake. My first kiss, that I had thought so perfect, broken to pieces. I wanted to cry.

  “Please, Brynn, I’m sorry.” He looked so forlorn, so unhappy. I wanted to take him in my arms and kiss him and hold him and tell him that everything would be alright. I wanted to caress his dark hair and smell his cologne. Instead I wrapped my arms around myself and tried to keep from shattering.

  Eliot reached out and pressed his hand on my shoulder. It was not unkind, but now I wanted so much more from him.

  “Forget this, please,” he said. “All of this.” His face was dark with sorrow, and I nodded. With those words he turned and left me in the dim corridor at the top of the stairs. I saw him turn into his study and look back, and my body ached to scream, to run forward to him, to do anything. Calmly I walked the few steps to the guest room and closed the door behind me. I sat on the edge of the huge canopied bed and watched the bedroom door, as though if I willed it hard enough the door would open and Eliot would be there, arms wide and ready for me.

  Soon I undressed and got into bed. I clutched my pillow hard to my chest and tried not to let my sobs escape. Stupid, so stupid. I was a poor girl, and he was a prince. I scolded myself for all of my desires, telling myself not to think about him. For hours I lay there and listened for his step outside the door and cried, so many tears that I thought there would be no more for the morning, and I could escape back to the apartments, and perhaps leave altogether, leave Hungary, once I had visited my mother.

  Forget this.

  I might never be able to have Eliot take me in his arms again, but there was no way that I would ever forget that kiss.

  The kiss, that’s what changes everything. In fairytales, that is. The prince kisses the princess, and suddenly she is awake after all these years, or brought back to life, or gets her voice back. Or the princess kisses the prince, and he is transformed from a hideous creature into a handsome man, waiting to dash her into his arms.

  I had never been kissed before Eliot. In kindergarten a boy pressed his lips on my ear and nearly deafened me, and it was all downhill from there. I grew up in the most awkward way—sometimes pudgy, sometimes geeky, never popular. In high school, the most guys would do was gawk at my cleavage. One time in college—well, it was the last time I let myself be dragged to a party. I’d say my resume was lackluster in the romantic department, and that was being generous.

  And then Eliot kissed me.

  While it changed me in some ways, it wasn’t as dramatic as being woken up from a coma or transmogrified from a frog, and when he told me it was a mistake, I cursed myself for thinking that it could be anything more. In some ways, his kissing me made me even more withdrawn, self-conscious. I didn’t get my voice or life back; what I got was a crippling sense of unease whenever he walked by, knowing that we couldn’t be together. The kiss didn’t help with our secret. It just made it worse. Here, Brynn: here’s something you can’t have, something wonderful and beautiful and perfect that you can’t keep.

  But it did something else, and maybe that’s the part that they talk about in fairy tales. It woke up a feeling inside of me, an emotion that I didn’t think I had. An emotion I didn’t know I was capable of having.

  Desire. Fiery, erotic desire.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The next day Eliot made me breakfast and told me that the landlady had arranged the apartments to be ready. He looked away when he told me, as though he was ashamed of sending me away. I called a cab and left, feeling like I was losing everything wonderful that I had ever known. Well, everything but one.

  I hugged Lucky inside the cab. He sat peacefully, purring on my lap, as I rode away into the heart of Budapest dry-eyed. After last night, I knew that Eliot didn’t want me, and it tore me apart inside. The first man that I had ever truly desired, and the wall between us cemented shut. I shook the thoughts out of my head and tried to focus on the beautiful, snow-capped city that I would now be living in. I thought about the cemetery that my mother was buried in. I would have to make plans to visit there. Perhaps this afternoon, once I had settled into the apartments and had some time to breathe. I cursed Eliot for not having taken me there during my stay, then forgave him—he didn’t know, and he didn’t know how important it was to me. It was up to me to make that clear.

  The apartments had been cleaned, and heated, and there were already two students there by the time I arrived. The landlady had moved out half of the bunkbeds—to another set of apartments? I didn’t know—and the rooms looked larger, more inviting. I slung my suitcase, heavier now from my trip with Marta, over onto the bunk next to the window.

  “Brynn!” A familiar voice at my back caused me to spin around.

  “Mark!”

  I ran toward him and barreled into a hug. It had been only a couple of weeks since we had last seen each other, but in my mind it felt like forever had passed. He smiled at me, awkwardly, and I thought that he seemed younger than I remembered. Probably, though, it was just the contrast of spending time with Eliot and Marta.

  “How have you been?” he asked. “This place looks cool!”

  “Yeah, it’s nice,” I said. “I haven’t seen that much of the city.” Just the castle that Eliot lives in.

  Mark left to unpack in the guys’ room, and we spent the rest of the evening with the other students who trickled in from the airport. Some carried huge suitcases full of clothes, pictures, and reminders of home. One guy arrived with just a backpack over his shoulder and immediately went to sleep in one of the kitchen chairs. All of the girls in my room seemed nice enough, although one shy brunette shook my hand, said “Hello” in Hungarian, and immersed herself in a book in the corner of the bedroom.

  Chatting with Karen, another California girl, I finally was beginning to find myself somewhat at ease. She reminded me of my roommate, Shannon—artsy as hell, and passionate about her photography. She was in the middle of telling me a story about her freshman linear algebra professor when another girl stepped into the middle of the doorway of the bedroom. Her heels clicked loudly on the floor, and she dropped her suitcase with a loud t
hwack, tossing her perfectly slicked hair behind her. One hand on her hip, a scowl on her face, she reminded me of nothing else so much as a pissed off supermodel.

  “Whose cat is that in the kitchen?”

  “He was here when I got here!” I said brightly, turning to her with a smile of good intentions. “His name is Lucky. I’m Brynn.”

  “I don’t give a shit what his name is,” she said, pressing her lips together and letting me finish her sentence for her in my mind: and I don’t give a shit what your name is either.

  “The landlady said it was okay as long as we keep the rooms clean—”

  “No.” The girl shook her head from side to side so definitively that my hands began to clench in my lap.

  “What do you mean, no?” Karen spoke up.

  “Are you allergic?” I asked.

  “I’m not living with a goddamn cat,” the girl spat out.

  “Seriously?” Karen said. I could have hugged her right then and there for sticking up for Lucky.

  “Okay,” I said. I hated confrontation. “Okay. We’ll find him a new place to stay tomorrow.”

  “Not tomorrow,” the girl said. She picked up her bag and swung it onto the empty bed beside her, turning again to leave the room. “Now. I’m putting him out back in the alley.”

  “What the hell?” Karen said, the other girl’s footsteps echoing through the hallway as she went. “That’s so not cool.”

  “I have to make sure he’s okay,” I said, standing up to follow the new girl to the kitchen.

  I passed her in the hallway as she was coming back from the alley exit. She didn’t even look at me as she brushed past, the scowl still plastered on her dark, beautiful face.

  “Lucky?” The night air outside felt brisk, and I hadn’t put a coat on. A few snowflakes drifted down under the alley streetlights. “Lucky?”

  A plaintive meow came from the other side of the alley, and a small blur of gray and white came dashing over to my feet. I picked up the kitten.