Once Upon A

by Charlotte E Hart

  “Sometimes,” he grunts in reply. I don’t know what that means. What a strange reply. How is somewhere your place sometimes?

  “Strange response…” I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s all me. Why can’t I just shut my mouth?

  He doesn’t answer at all, just keeps striding along the hall as I grasp hold of my dress to keep it scuffing on the floor, my heels clipping loudly. We turn at the end, the wooden stairs funnelling us off down to the next level as I keep following and looking around. The house is sparsely decorated, masculine in appearance, not unlike the bedroom I was in, but it’s more than that. It’s like it’s had stuff removed from it. The spaces are unbalanced, as if pieces of furniture have been taken away or moved to new locations, leaving a huge hole behind and nullifying whatever warmth used to be here. Perhaps that’s what he means by sometimes. Maybe he’s moving somewhere else.

  My feet hit the hall floor as we reach the ground, and once again my heels seem to echo through a large kitchen space. It’s strange given the fact that I can’t even hear his. I look at his legs moving, watching the high-end brown brogues stride along making no sound at all.

  “Your shoes don’t make any noise?” Oh my god, could I sound any more desperate for conversation?

  His head swings around to me, the angle tilted and questioning. He’s right. That was a stupid statement. I instantly stare down at the floor, wondering if I could perhaps make myself any more ludicrous as we keep moving.

  “Yours do,” he says sullenly, as if my shoes making a noise is a problem. Well, there’s nothing I can do about that, I’m afraid. They’re shoes, expensive ones actually. They’re supposed to make noise and flash their red bottoms about. Most men would find them damned attractive. Why is he so bloody grouchy all of a sudden? He’s making me feel like I’ve done something wrong, when he’s the reason I’m even here in the first place.

  “Yes, there’s this thing on the bottom of them called a sole,” I snark back at him, irritated by my own pathetic response to this odd situation. I mean, whatever that thing was in the bedroom doesn’t suddenly mean I’m someone to be walked over. “Why don’t yours make any sound? Is it a kink thing?”

  He stops so abruptly I crash straight into the back of him, my feet scuttling around the wooden floor for stability and hands grabbing out at the wall as I bounce off his frame. He doesn’t even attempt to catch or help me. Instead, he watches me stumble until I grasp hold of a side table and regain steadiness.

  “Your balance is abysmal,” he says sharply, a slight smile forming around his mouth. “You spend too much time sitting down. Walk more.” What the actual fuck? I glare at him, wondering if there’s a gentlemanly bone in his body.

  “You didn’t think helping me was more polite than criticising?”

  “Critique is what garners perfection, therefore—helping,” he replies instantly, turning on his heel and walking back in the direction of the door. “You’re a writer, aren’t you? You should know that if you’re any good.”

  “Fuck you.”

  The speed with which he turns and gets back to within an inch of my body is too quick for comprehension, and the sudden lifting of my body from the ground and the change of direction have my head spinning.

  “Put me down.” I wish my words came out with the sense of mild infuriation I’m feeling, but they don’t. I’m more surprised than infuriated. Possibly excited in all honesty. “You will put me down.”

  He won’t, it seems, and the fact that, in his eyes, I clearly weigh nothing at all doesn’t seem to be helping my cause at all as we glide into the kitchen again. He gets to the back door, leaning on it with his elbow and clicking it open, then takes me straight out into a garden come patio area. I’m not hanging on. In fact, at some point I started trying to push him off me. Nothing helps, though, and the moment I realise what’s coming I start screaming in the hope of a saviour. That doesn’t help either as he keeps going, somehow managing to wrap his hand so that it covers my mouth.

  “You’re about to learn some fucking manners, Alana,” he says, his arm hitching me into a different position and his hand tightening around my mouth again. “You’re a stuck up bitch.”

  Manners? Me? At what point was I rude? And stuck up? Oh my god. I scream into his hand again, possibly attempting apology for swearing at him and kicking out for dear life.

  Unfortunately, the feeling of leaving his arms is not as harmonious as I’d like. That’s mainly because of the small pool coming at me. It doesn’t matter that I’m clawing at his neck, or at his arms. His strength simply propels me into the cold water with little thought for my wellbeing. I hit it with such force I squeal at its impact on my skin, desperately trying to get out even before I’m fully submerged. It’s glacial, as if it’s had ice cubes lying in it for weeks, and as I splutter about, the water drenching my dress as it flaps around me, I can hardly get air into my lungs.

  “Fucking arsehole,” I manage to spit out, absolutely furious with him for doing such a thing. “How dare you throw me into fucking pool?” My arms slather me around, reaching for the side. My mouth gulping in breaths as the temperature decreases my core rapidly. But the water keeps sluicing around in my frantic fight, making the trail of my dress wrap around my legs and tangle me up. It gets to the point where I can’t move, my arms stretching for the edges with little hope of reaching them as I begin to go under again.

  His hand grabs my hair, physically ripping me up until it’s just my mouth above the surface and then he just holds me there. I gasp out as I finally make eye contact, freezing and truly feeling thankful for his help even though he caused the problem.

  “Speak,” he snaps, holding my hair tightly and keeping too much pressure on me for me to be able to move. I’m still gasping, hardly able to verbalise let alone know what he wants me to talk about.

  I reach my hand forward again, the other one trying to get the dress from around my ankles so I can separate my legs. “What do you have to say?”

  Nothing, nothing apart from ‘help’ as it sputters out of me and I keep trying to untangle the dress. My head slips under again, water sliding down into my windpipe and making me choke a little.

  “Help,” I cough out as he pulls on my hair again and inches me closer to the side. It’s not close enough to touch, though, and my arms thrash madly again, trying to grab onto it. “I can’t brea—”

  He lets go of me before I can finish the word, gently pushing me away into the water and then backing away from the edge. “I can’t…” Breathe, I can’t breathe.

  I’ve never seen my death. I doubt many have. But in these few seconds, I see it. My thrashing doesn’t work. It only makes the green of my dress undulate around my legs, wrapping ever tighter and pulling me down. And then my legs begin to give up their fight for life, as I let myself float, hoping that will work. It’s doesn’t, and I feel the water slipping over my mouth again as I dip below the surface once more and hold what little breath I have left. Nothing works, not even my last attempt at a struggle for life. I find myself just looking up at him through the murk and reaching, as if he’s the only lifeline I’ve got. I don’t even know him, but he is my only hope, isn’t he? It’s just him—him and the hope that he’s not a killer, because he can save me, can’t he? Or he can let me drown. No one knows I’m here. I’ll never be found. It’s just me and him and this pool of bottomless water.

  The vision of his hand delving down to me is worthy of angels. It seems to take minutes to get to me, as if travelling through space to find me in the depths of murky waters. I don’t even reach for it as my arms splay at my sides, somehow knowing I don’t need to. It’ll find me on its own, hauling me from this anxiety as it does. It’s almost spiritual as it descends another inch or two and promises rescue, its form blurred as the water distorts its movement. But the second it reaches me and begins to lift me free, I know I’ve just felt something beyond usual. I don’t know if it’s the drowning, or the cold, or even if it’s him, but this is closer
to godly than I’ve ever felt before. And the climb up is treasurable, every split second longer just making me want to enjoy its tormented pull more. Perhaps stay down here even, linger in it all.

  I’m dragged to the side slowly. There’s no gasping or flapping about as the water calms. I’m not even sure I’ve taken my eyes off his hand as it hovers in front of me and he crouches behind it. I’m just breathing again, slightly shakily given the fact that I’m freezing, but I am breathing, and it feels like the first time I’ve ever taken a breath. Deep, long cleansing breaths pull back and forth through my body, reminding me what it’s like to be alive as the sun belts down above me, birds chirping in the sky as they fly by. I just stare at his hand hanging from his knee, the water droplets gliding from his fingers as they take another eternity to drip down onto the poolside.

  “What do want to say, Alana?”

  His voice shocks me, as if I’d forgotten it was there, or that there was a real human attached to his arm. I look up, suddenly gasping for air again and broken from a moment of peace. There’s not a hair out of place. His body is still perfectly put together as he frowns down at me and offers me no help in getting out.

  “You have to ask. It’s all about you asking me.”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about. I’m just here in a pool of freezing water, having nearly drowned because he put me in here. I thought he wanted an apology, but now he wants me to ask him something? I inch my way along the side of the pool, hoping to reach a point where I can touch the floor, all the time barely looking away from his focused gaze. Deep brown eyes, a frown covering them, his wet fingers now reaching for his chin and rubbing at it as he keeps looking. There’s no smile, no amusement. He’s deadly serious about this, whatever it is.

  “I don’t know what that was,” I chatter through clenched teeth as I keep sliding away, still hazy but as focused on him as I ever have been on anything. It’s unnerving. Strange.

  The moment my foot hits the step of the pool and I start to climb out, I realise I’ve got no shoes on, my expensive shoes. If there’s one thing that won’t be happening because of this, it’ll be me losing my shoes. My beautiful shoes. The one piece of loveliness I allowed myself to spend stupid amounts of money on. I stare back into the water, watching the way the two black Louboutin’s gleam at the bottom, reminding me of myself a few moments ago. Before I know what’s happening, I hear a small splash, then notice him lowering himself into the water and straight under it. He doesn’t falter or shiver as he comes back up again. He just walks the length of the pool, slowly pushing the waves out in front of him until he reaches me and holds up my shoes.

  “I…” He’s wet. Beautifully wet. His usually roughed dark hair is slicked back, sharpening angles on his jaw I’d not noticed before, and his muscles are suddenly all on display beneath his white shirt, possibly announcing how he creates pain. I can’t speak. Floored. Not only at this god who has appeared before me, but… he throws me in the water, nearly drowning me because I’ve been rude, and then he goes in to rescue my shoes? “I...”

  “Unless you’re going to ask me for something, don’t speak.”

  “But I…” The apology, and thank you. That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? I don’t even know why any of that happened anymore. He holds a finger up to his lips, staring at me so boldly and with absolute intention to cause harm that I blush, regardless of the glacial temperature.

  “You looked so beautiful,” he says, his body rising from the water as he walks forward. He just stops there and looks at me again, his body beginning to lean in until his fingers reach for my face. I can’t move, I’m fixated on his gaze, my mouth still chattering a little as I consider his words. Beautiful when? When I was drowning? And then he just leans in further, his lips coming down to mine slowly, the look of them more inviting than anything has ever been in my life. “Ask me, Alana.” Oh god, I can’t focus on denial any more. I just want them on me. I do. I need them. And they’re so soft as they land, barely any force attached. They tease the edges of my lips, creating the same feeling I had under the water, furthering it even as I hover beneath them recklessly and let him lead me wherever he wants. They’re like a summer breeze across me, whisking me off somewhere as his hand holds me firmly, guiding me perhaps. I’m mesmerised, my lips matching his, trying to create more intimacy than his softness allows. It’s a moment I fall into without care to any repercussions, desperately hoping that he’s going to take me further away. Fly me like a kite maybe. But then he just stops and backs away, the feel of his lips leaving me far too quickly for my liking as I watch him rise up. I just gaze back, longing for him to continue as I see his frown descend, until he absentmindedly wanders past me, my heels still in his hand, and then heads up to the house without another word.

  Eventually, having sat here for a few minutes rubbing my lips, constantly flicking my gaze between the pool and my shivering fingers in utter confusion, I turn to see if he’s still there. He’s not. I’m alone. I’m actually alone and bloody freezing, enough so that I crawl to my feet, picking up the weight of my soaking dress as I do, and then head for the door to the house, too. What I’ll find in there, I don’t know.

  The air is thick with tension as I finally push the door wide and look around for him. He’s nowhere to be seen. It’s just a kitchen full of the usual bits and pieces with a long, dark wood, beaten up table in the middle, completely juxtaposed to the high end furniture about. Yet I can feel him here. I can feel his presence somewhere. It’s like those few moments in the pool, and the kiss, have changed us, transforming the air into a connection he seems to murmur at me.

  “Blaine?” I whisper, barely able to say the name out loud for fear of it being too personal, perhaps solidifying something I don’t understand. No response, only the sound of silence. “Blaine? I need...” I trail off when I realise I don’t know what I need. It makes me turn to look back out through the window, noting the perfectly calm water again. Something happened out there. Something inexplicable. I nearly drowned, and for some unknown reason I allowed it to happen, enjoying it in some odd way. It’s all so unlike me. It was spiritual. Calming. A bolt of something sent for a purpose I don’t comprehend. So instead of speaking, I just stand by the window, letting the water drip onto the floor as I shiver and muse over what the hell happened in that pool. It floods me with thoughts, plots, and images of sex scenes—love, the promise of a story untold. Even paranormal stories begin driving through my mind, ones filled with heaven and hell, vampires and demons. Angels and their muses, lost in a world obsessed with despicable acts and atrocious behaviour. If only I had my notebook. I’d be writing things down so fast I could hardly keep up with the visions. Notes, dates, times. Venues and countries. I can see them all so clearly. Even the names of the characters are beginning to creep in. They’re talking to me loudly, telling me who they are and what they want. I fling my eyes around wildly, searching the countertops for paper and a pen. I need to write this. I have to. It’s bleeding from me like nothing has for months. It has to come. It’s actually desperate to come.

  My bare feet run around the kitchen, sluicing water everywhere as I open drawers and cupboards in search of paper, until I eventually find some in a small bureau just before the hall. I grab at it, snatching a pencil as well and then heading back to the table. Oh my god, so many stories and visions. They’re pouring from me as I sit and start scribbling down notes. It’s all there, making me smile and giggle as my pencil scratches harsh lines to amplify points.

  “Here,” he says, breaking me of my moment in thought. I wave my hand at him without lifting my head, so focused on my task that nothing is breaking my train of thought.

  “I just need to get this down,” I mumble at him, annoyed at the interruption as I continue scribbling, drawing mind maps to enhance my little new world of sin. “It’s amazing, see?” I don’t know why I followed through with that. Perhaps I want him to see what he’s helped me create. No one’s ever helped me create anything. Well,
maybe some have. The occasional person in the street as a character, or a sentence a random woman said at a shop, but no one’s ever given me this. This is astounding. It’s a whole world of inspiration. There’s a series here. A big one. A trilogy at least. I push the second piece of paper to the side of the first, joining the sprawled writing so I can double its path. “Look, see what you’ve done,” I say, smiling again and furiously doodling more words and plot alternators.

  I feel his body rather than see it as he comes to the side of me and looks over my shoulder. I’m still too engrossed in my new lead man, who happens to look reasonably similar to Blaine. It’s only after I half hesitate at that thought that I realise the real version is naked, short of a towel wrapped around his waist and another one in his hand.

  “Fuck!” The expletive drifts from my lips as I try not to look at him. Naked is not fair, and something I can’t deal with at all, regardless of my scribbling and being lost in my own little bubble. His hand reaches for my paper as my pen hovers above it, suddenly unable to scribe a bloody thing because of his nakedness. He turns the paper, running his fingers over my words and following the mind map with astonishing ease given the fact he’s not a writer. And all of that would be so much easier to comprehend if I wasn’t desperately intrigued about his cock, which is hiding just to the left of me, practically begging me to do something with it.

  “Clara?” he says, his finger tapping the name of my new lead character. I nod, my only response to the very real threat that I might do something stupid any minute now. Like fuck. Which is plainly the most stupid thing possible, regardless of the pool scenario. I mean, we’ve already discussed me leaving. I should. He chortles to himself then unhooks my halter neck so swiftly I can’t stop the material from falling before I catch it. “You’re wet.” You don’t say. I swing my head to him, clutching my breasts, remembering the last time he said those words as my eyes travel along the ridges of his body before reaching his face.