Not looking back, I yelled, “Fuck you, Mick! And stop with the cutesy names. You’re not fooling me, and I’m sure as hell not your damn princess!”
His sleazy chuckle and reply followed me down the narrow hall. “I’d like that, bella; you know it.”
5
Pushing through the heavy fire door, I stepped out into the black tar darkness of Mayfair’s well-heeled opulence. After working at the “gentlemen’s club” for just over two years now, it always amazed me what was hidden behind posh, closed doors. Although no intercourse happened within the walls of the club that I knew of, it always smelt of sweat and dirty sex. The kind of sex performed on rubber sheets involving many participants, eager for their turn.
I shivered from the sudden blast of fresh, icy air as it seeped through the fine material of my coat, teasingly pinching at my nipples and awakening them with its playful presence. I stooped my head, quickly fastening the belt of my short trench coat, denying the breeze any further foreplay.
Trotting away from the smell of pent-up frustration, I skimmed across the road and around the shadowy corners. The soft yellow streetlights glowed above me, embracing me in non-judgmental fashion. The wind continued to caress as it blew over my body, nipping at my heels. My long, toned legs stretched out, suddenly finding their rhythm in urgency to make it back to the train station on time.
I don’t know whether it was all the alcohol I was consuming at work, or just my grand delusions finally taking over. Either way, I always thought train stations were utterly, hopelessly, romantic; that is, if you took away all the criminals and homeless beggars.
I had always been a romantic, and although my parents’ marriage crashed around me, I always believed, hoped, crossed every darn finger that one day, I could have the happy ending I always dreamed of. I guess I wanted to prove to myself that they weren’t a myth, and I could have something wonderful that would last throughout the ages.
My parents never divorced even though they should have. They hardly spoke to each other, and when they did, it was not the language of love—only constant insults. My father would stay out late most nights, often never coming home at all. When he did make an appearance, he always reeked of cheap perfume, his belt undone from fuck knows what.
Because of him, my mother was over anything to do with love. I remember her snorting when she saw a couple in their seventies walk past holding hands. “What’s that all about?” she sneered as she shook her head in disgust.
“Mom… they’re happy,” I insisted. She didn’t believe me.
My feelings have never changed. Every time I see an old couple holding hands, I think how beautiful that is, and I hope that one day, that will be me.
By the time I arrived at the train station, I was pretty sure I was going to be late. There was still a chance that I could possibly make it on time, if I could push my way through the remaining obstacles in front of me and suddenly grow a set of wings! Hey, I was optimistic. Alcohol tends to do that when you’re up against the wall.
I ran through the swarms of people as fast as I could in my ridiculous red heels. I had instantly fallen in love with these shoes and bought them only a week before at a little boutique not far from the club. As a treat, I thought it might be nice to wear them for the first time on the way back home, see what the moonlit shadows thought as I danced around with them, blissfully breathing in the cool air. That vision was so much nicer than the reality, which started to rub with raw, stingy doggedness as I raced to make it to the train on time.
My platform was at the far side of the colossal station and down a long escalator. It clonked and whirred to the waiting trains below at a leisurely pace, which was way, way too slow. I squeezed through and elbowed past the people patiently enjoying the ride. Just as I reached the bottom of the stairs, I spied my train. Regardless of the delay and blisters, the darling thing was still there—waiting even—obediently, just for me.
But its patience must have come to an end. Even with my final dash and shove through the crush, the metal doors closed defiantly just as I reached them, and off it zoomed, not caring about me or my seeping blisters.
Breathless and frustrated, I turned and took a few steps away from the gap. I leaned back against a concrete pillar covered in half-ripped posters and sticky pieces of paper advertising lost or found items and dropped my head forward in disappointment. My dark loose curls instantly surrounded me in empathy as they tried to comfort my body from the chill and annoyance of the evening.
Pulling into the platform across from me, a new train arrived in the station with deafening noise. It blasted its horn in rowdy announcement, its wheels coming to a halt with an almighty screech. I blinked my eyes stinging from the cold as I watched the train doors open, releasing the people into the evening insanity of rush hour.
In those following seconds, time stood still. Through the multitude of people I saw him for the very first time. Standing on the train—waiting, watching.
It was one of those moments that you only dream about—an unexpected, random thing, all because I had missed my train. That was something that I hadn’t done in ages, but that evening I did, and this was how we discovered each other.
I’m so grateful for those burning blisters now and my stupid red shoes – if it wasn’t for them, our paths may never have crossed, and I can’t bear to imagine how my life would have turned out without him.
I can still picture him in my mind, as if that chilly night was only yesterday. He was tall—just over six feet I guessed, with a medium build—not weedy, not steroid-filled rippling, but sexily carved—athletic. He had a strong, chiseled jawline, with a slight cleft at the tip of it, and bone structure any woman would kill for.
His hair was a deep sandy brown, longish on top, and styled in an old-fashioned kinda way, I guessed he was somewhere in his early thirties, but it was hard to tell from his expressionless face if he was hiding lines or just didn’t have any at all. Although from his manner, it did seem that he was quite a bit older than me.
He looked like some sort of artist, model, or, perhaps, a cashed-up druggie? I couldn’t decide. But it was his eyes—haunting, dark, wounded eyes—that never left my mind from the moment I looked into them. Even from a distance, they captured me.
He looked angry, broken, and vacant. He looked exactly how I felt.
Those eyes of his burned through me, and I felt a sudden wave of heat ripple through my body with that single look. A woman with long, red hair cascading down her back was facing him. She seemed to be passionately pleading for his attention as she nestled closely into his chest. She kissed his neck gently, pushing her fingers through his, but he seemed completely un-interested in her. It was like she wasn’t even there but was merely a fleeting shadow falling across his glorious body as the sun went down.
No matter what she did to get his attention, he stared at me—straight over her head and into my eyes.
I felt awkward. It felt wrong to engage in his stares. Yet I never once wanted to look away, for fear I would lose whatever this was. Through the noise and bustle of all the bodies who pushed past me on the platform scurrying home for their dinner, and the scores of passengers young and old who nudged and forced their way onto his train, his eyes fixated on me. It was as if the rest of the world was erased, and it was just the two of us, alone, discovering the missing piece of ourselves for the first time.
The way his cold eyes looked at me, right through me, filled my core with glorious tingles of burning desire. He was awakening sensations between my legs that I hadn’t felt since I was eighteen. Somehow, he was doing this to me with just one look. How was that possible? Who was he, and why was he looking at me like that? I was about to be left pondering those thoughts forever, as the train’s last call rang through the station. The doors closed, concealing his icy stare behind the glass of the window, and seconds later he was whisked away out of sight—but never out of mind—and into the darkness of the tunnel.
Ten minutes later, a trai
n arrived that could take me home, if that’s where I wanted to go, but suddenly, I wasn’t so keen to leave the station.
I couldn’t shake his memory or his beautiful, dark eyes and the coldness that filled them from my mind. Who was he? And why, out of the thousands of people who flowed around me day after day, would he all of a sudden stand out?
Would I ever be able to shake his face from my mind and not wonder who he was?
The way he looked at me, even with another woman wrapped around him, was now firmly etched within me. Sadly, I knew that’s how my memory of him would stay. He would continue to be Mr. Unknown, a fantasy from the train station, someone I would never get to know anymore about, no matter how intriguing those fleeting, steamy moments between us were.
Reluctantly, I stepped onto my train, knowing that doing so would be the absolute end of any possible chance of ever seeing him again. The moment I arrived in London, people constantly told me, “One thing’s for sure—once you’re in the big city, you’ll never see the same person twice.” I had no reason not to believe them, as up until then, that statement had always rang true.
6
My home wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t a shoebox either. After I moved countries, I knew I wouldn’t be able to afford anything ritzy, but I did want something with a little space, as I didn’t want to start crawling the walls like a caged animal.
I ended up moving into Mile End. It was a little shabby—I’m not gonna lie. But it was fantastically cheap. The downside to “cheap” meant it wasn’t exactly posh—but in saying that, it wasn’t the worst area, either, especially when compared with Peckham, Homerton, or good old Brixton. In Mile End, if you were out looking for trouble, you’d find it; if you were a thug, they’d find you; but if you kept your head down, for the most part, you’d be fine. So as long as you weren’t expecting Bloomsbury or Chelsea, if you could get over the initial shock of its first impression, you may even come to like the place.
I lived above a busy restaurant, well, a bar, really, that included a small selection of Asian food. It wasn’t a strip bar, just a normal bar without any nudity, and only occasional wild, grinding sex in the toilets. The bar wasn’t too loud, as it closed each evening just after midnight, and due to my frequently changing shifts being any time of the morning, day or night, I was often so exhausted whatever hour I got home, a little bass wasn’t going to disturb me.
My flat was clean with an open floor plan—a kind of grown-up studio, I guess, that sprawled across the top floor of the building. It was finished with industrial black carpet, high concrete ceilings, and big steel-framed windows. When the sun decided to shine, the place had a lot of light, was fairly secure, and fitted with everything that I needed for the necessities of living. A girl has to start somewhere, right? Just having my freedom, away from my bastard father, took away any tendency to be picky.
Every single wall was painted white, except for one at the very end of the room, which was painted a deep red. I liked that wall. I never bothered hanging anything on it; it was better plain. It seemed to portray many different moods, depending on how I was feeling. Deep endless love, which I hoped one day I would find; anger when I thought of my father; sadness for my mother’s death; and positive hope that things could only get better now that I was living by my rules.
I stepped through the front door and fumbled to find the light switch, exhaling in relief to finally be home from yet another very long day. Slipping off my coat, I chucked my keys across the countertop and watched them slide across the granite and disappear off the edge of the bench. I heard a rattle when they hit the ground on the other side, and simultaneously, an annoyed meow came from behind the counter.
“Oh!” I gasped and peered around the corner to see the keys resting beside a very disgruntled Merlin. “Sorry, kitten” I whispered, bending down to give his furry, black body a welcome pat as I scooped up my keys and set them carefully on the bench.
Merlin was a rescue cat that I had fallen for a couple of days after I moved in. He had been a stray that hung around the downstairs restaurant looking for food each night. Apparently, he had been born under the bar’s rubbish skip a couple of years before I arrived. The moment I heard that story, I had to rescue him. If I didn’t save him, who would?
Merlin jumped up onto the counter, leaning his furry head into my arm for another pat. I smiled, tickling his chin as he began to purr. I loved that cat; he was such a gentle soul. Okay, I admit he may not have been the best looker in town. One section of his fur always stuck out, and his right ear looked like he’d been in a fight with Mike Tyson, so he was a little disheveled; but he was my disheveled kitty and always a welcome face to come home to no matter what shift I was working.
Normally, I was a shower girl; I didn’t see the need for baths. They seemed unnecessary when the whole purpose of bathing was to wash off all the oil, glitter, and slimy handprints that came home with me from work. I didn’t like the idea of soaking in that kind of filth, so a shower and washing every bit of scum down the drain was always my preference.
Tonight, however, I didn’t want to wash my memory down the drain. I wanted to lie in it, soak it all up, and turn it into something that it wasn’t, but maybe could be, if I just let my imagination take hold. Tonight, I wanted to fantasize.
Pulling off my clothes, I stepped into the bubbly bath water and sank down, letting the hot water lap over my skin. The image of his face re-appeared in my mind, the haunted look in his dark eyes as he watched me from across the platform. There was something deeply sexy about his coldness; I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, but it made me almost ache for him. Ache like that redheaded woman did… ache for his attention.
Sinking further into the steamy water, I curled my toes up and spread my legs apart to rest on either side of the porcelain tub. Gently, my fingers traced down my stomach, over and across the tops of my thighs, and then up and between my legs. The water softly lapped over my breasts, my nipples quickly hardening in anticipation to be taken and sucked by his bee-stung lips. Lightly, I brushed in circles around and over my clit, moaning quietly to myself as I imagined what it would be like to have his weight on top of me, pinning me down against the floor, and entering me.
Desperate to indulge in the warm release of instant endorphins, my fingers rubbed faster in circles, teasing my sex as I tugged on my nipples with the other hand. She was still all over him in the fantasy, but he had no interest in her—it was me he wanted.
Within minutes I exploded into orgasm, shaking under my fingertips and exhaling with a sigh of relief as my legs splashed back into the water, and I slipped further down in the tub in blissful satisfaction.
He was delicious, and instead of dinner, tonight I wanted to eat all of him up. One cold, unattached, moody body part at a time. Whatever had happened to him, whoever he was, I wanted to melt his frozen heart and make love to him hour after hour until his heart melted and he came back to life within me.
7
David
Alexander,
Even though I can’t see you anymore, I wanted to write because I know somehow you’ll be able to read these words the moment I scribble them on paper. Surprisingly, I’ve still got enough faith (whatever that means) to know that you’re around me—looking out for me, guiding each of my steps, and travelling with me through life, even if only now in spirit.
Jesus, I miss you so much. I miss the times we spent together laughing about how fucked up our parents’ expectations were. I miss how you always tried to keep me grounded by laughing at what an arrogant ass I could be, and I miss how you loved me unconditionally even though at times I tried to shut you out. To this day I don’t know why you were taken away. I still wish it had been me.
I discovered the most beautiful creature tonight. It happened so randomly; it completely caught me off guard. I was waiting for the train to leave, and as usual, Sophia was all over me—constantly grinding and groping—you know what she’s like.
I wish Sophia were
just a little more interesting. The more she clings, the more I want to run. I feel smothered by her, Alex, and I think she knows how I feel. Christ, I’ve tried telling her to back off, but she doesn’t listen. It’s like she thinks I’m playing hard to get or something, which, I’m not. I don’t have time for that bullshit. Who does?
I wish she’d have some self-respect. The more she acts like this, the less I think of her. Of course she’s beautiful—I see that. And yeah, I acknowledge that she bends over backwards to do everything she can for me. But is it wrong for me to say that beauty isn’t enough? I need more—a woman who gets me, doesn’t idolize me, hell, someone as fucked up as I am. Someone who’s also broken. Maybe then, we could heal together—piece together our wounded souls and somehow find a new happiness through each other? I know you were lucky enough to find that in your life, and now that I’ve thought about it, that’s what I really want in mine—someone who gets me, baggage and all.
Departed (Unbearably Gifted Book 1) Page 2
