The Opal Blade (The Ashen Touch Trilogy Book 1)

by Kristy Nicolle

  “Well, if you call our main office and tell them that I sent you, I’m sure we can arrange some kind of discount… if you’d be willing to let me be on my way of course. I have places to be, running a company and all,” I sigh, watching him eye up my outfit with those very same besotted, blue, lovesick puppy eyes. I catch a stir of something like desire behind the glassy surface of his irises, and he hands back my documentation.

  “Well, there’s no point giving you a ticket. It’s not going to teach you anything; you have more money than most people see in a lifetime.” He looks at my car now, backing up a few paces and examining the sleek outline of the Quantum Grey DB9. I place my license back into my bra and throw the registration papers onto the passenger seat.

  “Well, give the head office a call and tell them I sent you, okay?” I remind him, and he nods.

  “Drive carefully,” he warns with a final stern stare, and I turn away from him as my face falls slack and I press the button to start up the engine again.

  The car roars to life and I waste no time in pressing my foot down on the gas pedal, returning without second thought to my prior high speed and racing down I-94, hoping to make it to Retropolis in under my record time of only twenty minutes.

  Approaching the city as I swerve in and out of slow ass drivers, the Chicago skyline rises and shimmers against the star-spattered, comforting black of the late hour. The moon is gloomy and crescent, and the traffic is slowly becoming sparse as most people are now back at home, living their normal boring lives with their normal boring spouses and children.

  I, however, am not, and the anticipation of dancing my ass off and filling my veins with fire water builds as I put the stereo on loud with Night Fever pumping out in full force around the interior of the car.

  I leave the window rolled down and enjoy as the leather of my heated seat vibrates with the bass, my face becoming chill with the wind of the cold Chicago evening. It’s times like this when I never want to sleep. Never want to slow down. I just want to keep driving, keep dancing, keep running, keep partying. It’s times like this when I feel most alive.

  Downtown, I park outside the sculpture centre and shove a bunch of gift cards in my pocket. I hate leaving my car close to the club, worried it’ll be the target of vandalism or worse, and so I always park here, especially as I’m often too drunk to drive home and end up taking a cab back to Forest Glen. Jules will come to collect my car tomorrow morning, long before I’m awake and usually on his way to show out my latest male companion.

  My heels click against the sidewalk as I make my way down South LaSalle Street and then turn onto West Monroe. The tall buildings of the urban jungle rise high above, casting shadows across the world below and giving nothing less than an utterly oppressive feel. There is nowhere more resonant of corporate oppression than American cities, with skyscrapers that shed darkness upon those of us below and CEOs who watch over us like gods. I should probably be less anti-corporate, especially considering how I’m now the CEO of one of the biggest in America, but something about how calculated it all is, about how the rich only work to benefit the rich, makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little bit.

  “Hey, Sephy.” I hear the familiar tones of Jono, one of the many homeless individuals I often see on my way to party. He’s sat among a pile of dirty blankets and his dog, Snapper, is at his feet looking cold and tired.

  “Hey, how’s the city treating you these days?” I ask, rummaging in my back pocket for a gift card.

  “Nights are drawing in, so I’m enjoying the last of the light as much as I can,” he explains, looking up at me from the ground as his ragged clothes and dishevelled hair blow around his jagged skeletal form in the light yet chill breeze. I pass him the gift card, bending to pet Snapper as I do and his face lights up momentarily before his eyes glaze over with guilt.

  “You know you don’t have to…” he begins, but I stare at him with a pissy expression, causing him to fall silent.

  “Once a week – we talked about this. I have more money than I will ever need, especially now, and you need looking after. Besides, it’s for services rendered. You and your family keep my pride and joy safe.” I remind him about the fact that he and the other homeless, who I frequently help with grocery store gift cards, keep an eye on my car while I’m otherwise occupied.

  My father had always been wary of the homeless, telling me never to give them my change as they would only spend it on drugs. So now, I give them gift cards instead, ensuring they have the means to stay fed and warm.

  Giving Snapper one last pat on the head, his dark fur brushing my fingers, I rise, balancing expertly on my heels and smiling at Jono as he waves at me.

  “Have a good night. I’ll go and check on Spectre for you in a few,” he calls as I walk. I smile, glad to have been able to help him out tonight. Usually, I pass more homeless, stop at least three or four more times, but tonight the city streets are pretty empty.

  Taking strides down the sidewalk to my own rhythm, I pump myself up for dancing, and as I arrive outside Retropolis, the anticipation for the night ahead about ready to burst in my chest like a balloon full of sparkly confetti. I’m determined to make signing those stupid papers worth it if I have to screw every guy in Chicago to do it.

  “Name?” A bald headed African American bouncer in a black suit, with a Rubik’s cube style tie, demands with a grin as I cock my hip.

  “Come on, Barry, it’s me.” I give him my most dazzling smile, and he laughs.

  “I’m only kidding with y’all.” He winks at me, flashing his gold tooth as he smiles before pulling aside the bright blue velvet rope and letting me through, much to the disgruntled cries of those waiting in line.

  Barry and I go way back, almost a whole month now, but it definitely doesn’t hurt my case that on our first meeting I’d pulled out a wodge of cash from my bra and handed it over without another word.

  Inside the electric violet glow of the lobby are, I check my jacket before climbing the stairs, which wind around the edge of the building’s boxy interior, my long legs making short work of them. I reach the club upstairs, and am greeted by a familiar Saturday Night Fever style dance floor. It’s crowded with people crushed together, and the air is filled with the scent of booze and cheap cologne, which I inhale fondly. The squares of the dancefloor alternate, blinking multihued and illuminating the place intermittently as I walk over to the bar. My first task, as always, is to get my drink on.

  “Whiskey, neat. You know how I like it.” I raise my voice above the sound of yet more Bee Gees tunes as the bartender, Simon, who I had slept with my second night here, spins on his heel. He’s wearing a black shirt with a Rubik’s cube patterned bow tie too. He’s totally hot, and of course, was a great time, but we’re just friends now. Besides, he has a girlfriend.

  “Unfortunately for me that’s true. Evening, Seph, how’s shit down in rich town?” Simon asks me, referring to Forest Glen with a faux posh accent as he sticks up his pinkie finger.

  I remember the night we’d tumbled through the gargantuan double doors of the estate, how he’d been too wrapped up in my kiss to notice the size of the place until he reached my bedroom, and I got him into the bathtub. He’d gaped at the luxuriousness of the bubbles pouring from the jets in the floor sunken tub, but then quickly became distracted once more.

  The next morning, as he left with a guilty look on his face, I watched him gazing at the house around him in surprise. I know he hadn’t expected that of me, mainly because I don’t like to discuss my inheritance, and I certainly don’t dress like I’ve got money either, despite the car I drive.

  As my drink arrives, I shrug.

  “I’m officially an Heiress.” I raise my glass to him with a grimace, and he looks confused as to my reaction.

  “You seem thrilled,” he chuckles, shaking his head as though I’m crazy.

  “Oh, I am,” I say, sarcasm dripping from my words as I begin to chug the searing dark liquid like it’s the last glass of wh
isky I’ll ever lay my hands on. I hang my head back as I down the dregs of it in one gulp, feeling my long waterfall of fiery hair tickling the base of my spine as I sit, leaning back slightly on the glowing neon lime barstool.

  “You know I’d give my left testicle to be an Heiress…” he sighs at me, exasperated, and I gesture for him to pour me another drink.

  “You’d have to… and the right one, not to mention your joy stick.” I remind him, making him snort as he raises the whisky bottle again and expertly delivers more burning nectar.

  “For your fortune, I’d throw in a kidney too,” he kids, and I sip the newly poured spirit, slower this time, as my mind begins to relax under the familiar smoky haze that comes from the woody, chocolatey notes of my favourite brand.

  Yeah well, the grass is always greener on the other side… especially if your neighbour is a dealer, I think, making myself smirk and turning away from the bar, swivelling on my stool to face the room before beginning to eye up tonight’s potential candidates.

  The music switches to Easy Lover by Philip Bailey and I shake my head slightly, letting my hair fall down over my shoulders before flipping my head back and fluttering my eyelashes at the first man my eyes find in the crowd. He’s blond with glistening sea green eyes and a slim but well-muscled body. He’s dancing with someone else, but as my attentions fall onto him, he abandons her, moving toward me and gesturing with one finger for me to join him. I smirk, knowing I won’t be won over so easily. He’ll at least have to come over and offer to refill my glass first.

  He gets the message, strutting over like a male peacock in heat.

  “Hey there.” He shakes his head back, brushing a few rogue blonde strands from his damp forehead, which reflects the retro lighting, muted, back at me.

  “Hi.” I take a sip of my whiskey and swallow deliberately, leaning slightly forward to make sure he can see down my cleavage.

  “Are you…” he begins in a raised voice as the song’s chorus reaches fever pitch.

  “Am I?” I ask him, looking at him over the curved rim of my glass.

  “An Easy Lover?” He smirks, and I cringe internally at the tacky line on par only with the ‘someone call 911- this girl fell from heaven!’ ploy.

  Oh Jesus, this was a misfire. Abort! Abort!

  “Not with that line.” I swivel once more on the stool as my interest dwindles quicker than a single candle in a hurricane. I wait a few moments before I hear the blond exhale, “What a bitch!” in a voice barely audible above the music and smile to myself, proud that I’m not one of those doe eyed women who would fall for a man’s face and nothing else. After all, if he’s uninventive when trying to pick you up, he’s probably uninventive everywhere else.

  I take another sip of whisky, my heart pounding to the rhythm of the song. I love it in here, particularly because I like to think I have really good taste in music. My mother and father had brought me up on the classics; Michael Jackson, The Bee Gees, Dusty Springfield, AC/DC, The Conchords, Guns N’ Roses, White Snake and Foreigner, to name a few, and this club is the only one in the city where retro music is the only thing on the audible menu. I mean, the classic music probably doesn’t draw in this most attractive crowd of men, but I’d rather dance to Night Fever than Wrecking Ball any night of the week.

  As I cross my legs again and Simon pours me another glass of whisky, I catch the eye of a dark-haired man standing at the other end of the bar. He’s leaning upon the illuminated counter, his face changing through a multitude of glowing hues as the bar changes colour in time with the dance floor. He smiles at me, revealing a collection of pristine white teeth. He’s gorgeous, almost celebrity level gorgeous, and I immediately feel saliva flood my mouth as I give him a small wave and timidly take another sip of my drink. We gaze into one another’s eyes, assessing the goods like predator and prey as the music seems to fade into a purely distracting din, and I feel myself locking onto him like a man seeking missile.

  His expression, however, becomes suddenly anxious, and his eyes shift to look over my shoulder. He turns after only a few moments, walking away in a sudden and unexpected darting motion before he disappears into the crowd.

  I almost get to my feet to go after him, but then realise his gaze wasn’t on me right before he left. I spin on my stool fast, coming face to face with Xion.

  “Hello.” He smiles, cocky, as he slides onto the electric blue stool next to me.

  “Oh, my god. What did you do? That guy was hot!” I complain as he gestures for Simon to serve him.

  “I’ll take a water,” he requests and I snort at his softcore order. “Oh, and I didn’t do anything. Just a little stare down. Pretty standard. You should be grateful; any man worth your heart would have stayed.” He locks his fingers together, staring straight forward to his reflection in the mosaic mirror behind the bar, stoic, as Simon’s gaze shifts between us rapidly like he’s watching a tennis match.

  “Just a stare down? I thought you were going to make him burst into flames!” he interrupts us, unable to help himself, and my mouth falls open.

  Simon becomes the object of Xion’s next scorching glare as he quickly delivers his drink and then scurries away to the other end of the bar.

  “My heart? What the hell has that got to do with anything? I just wanted to screw him!” I explain, my eyebrows rising high on my forehead as my skin becomes clammy with my unexpected fury. This guy is getting under my skin far too easily.

  “Either way, he’s not worth your time,” he states, taking a pointed sip of water and not meeting my gaze.

  “Oh, and you are? You just basically forced me into accepting over a billion dollars! You bastard!” I slam my fist down on the counter, making my whisky jump in its glass. Xion smirks.

  “Oh, excuse me while I go and find my tiny violin to play for you.” He shakes his head. “Don’t flatter yourself either. I prefer my women with a little more….” he begins but trails off as I stare at him incredulously. This guy is cheeky as hell.

  “More what? Tits, ass?” I demand an answer as he leans back and stares me dead in the face.

  “Class,” he retorts, smirking, and I roll my eyes.

  “Nothing wrong with my outfit.” I push up my breasts inside my shirt, trying to make a point and he coughs slightly.

  “Nope, not a thing, but I wasn’t talking about the outfit. Clothes do not a classy lady make,” he delivers this infinite wisdom, and I finish my drink off again, my head becoming seriously fuzzy. I’ve had a lot to drink, having gone through several glasses faster than I normally would because for some reason, my relaxing evening has become unexpectedly stressful.

  “Well, you would know I suppose. You’re certainly one classy lady.” I look sideways at him as I gesture for another refill. Simon comes over after serving a few customers at the other end of the bar near the bathrooms.

  “That guy over there wants your number…” Simon whispers in my ear, trying to be discreet, but Xion immediately squares his shoulders, staring down the length of glowing surface which is scattered with dirty, clean and half-filled glasses.

  How the hell did he hear that?

  I sigh, knowing that with Mrs. Beefcake sitting beside me that there’s no way any modern man in this club will even bother trying to approach me.

  “It’s cool, Simon. Thanks though. My Dad is here, as you can see, so I best behave myself.” I gesture to Xion, hoping he can hear me and hoping that he gets the message. Why the hell is he here?

  “Your Dad?” he whispers to me, “Really? After what you said about sleeping with me earlier?” I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end, and he smirks.

  “You’re hot. A blind man could see that. I’m not apologising for having eyes. I just call it like I see it. Unfortunately for me though, I wasn’t carrying my asshole detector when we first met. My mistake.” I inhale more whisky like it’s air, trying to ignore the sensations creeping over my arms at his heated proximity.

  “You couldn’t handle me
anyway. I assure you,” he murmurs under his breath, leaning back so he’s bolt upright on his chair as my head snaps toward him in surprise.

  “Is that a challenge?” I narrow my eyes, puckering my lips.

  “No. Not at all. It’s just the truth. I, too, call it as I see it.” He cocks his stupidly beautiful eyebrow and finishes the glass of water he’s holding with a smirk plastered on his face. “Anyway, let me know when you’re finished and I’ll get you home.” He slips down off the stool, and navigating the space with far too much swagger for a man of his size, he takes up residence in a booth behind the dancefloor. His molten irises glow in the dark, making me continually aware of his presence.

  I can feel his gaze burning into the back of my neck as I sit, at a loss for what to do, and so just scowl at my broken reflection.

  I suppose I won’t be picking up a guy tonight after all… not with him watching my every move. So, I’ll just have to settle for drinking myself stupid instead.

  XION

  I sit in the multicoloured booth with checked upholstery, a table topped with a giant, fake, vinyl record in front of me as I continue to watch her from the corner of the club.

  She’s got her back to me and is talking to the barman, who I’m most certain has seen more of her than I want to picture mentally, but she knows I’m here. I can tell by the way she’s purposefully not looking over her shoulder in defiance, which amuses me a great deal.

  I slide my jacket off, the humidity of the air around me which is full of tainted sweat and pheromones causing me to overheat, and when that happens, nothing good ever follows.

  I fiddle with the obsidian pendant which hangs on a thick steel chain around my neck, feeling it cool as my irritation grows. For some reason, whether it is some kind of ridiculous possessiveness from seeing those same cognac eyes in the past, wide and child-like, or because bantering with her gives me some sick sexual thrill, every time a man so much as approaches her I feel myself having to pull back the darkness, which makes up half of who I am.