Once Upon A

by Charlotte E Hart

  Turning onto Columbus, I head over towards the Plaza, dodging the stream of traffic as it crawls by, honking and blaring sirens at me. One thing I have learnt about Manhattan is that the traffic doesn’t give a damn if you walk out in front of it. It’ll slam you down without thought. It’s half the reason I cab everywhere, but today, well, it’s a beautiful day. The sun’s out. The sky’s blue. Birds are chirping. And me, well, I’m just feeling bright, excited. Ready for life to throw something at me that I don’t know about. New beginnings, or ridding myself of this stagnation I’ve been in.

  By the time I’ve reached Fifth Avenue, I’m ready for anything, new adventures included. Just the thought of this book, or him maybe, is making me ready to take the world on with less venom than I normally would. I want to flow with it again, amble within it, taking in the unusual as I go.

  “That’s a serious smile you’re wearing there.”

  I swing round to see Bree walking behind me, her hand on her hip as she mutters into her phone at the same time. She stares at me, covering the mouthpiece on her phone and smiling. “Yes, your smile, Lana.” I smirk a little at her, trying to fathom the smile that is indeed plastered on my face. “Well, send me the bill and I’ll pay it,” she snaps. I assume she’s talking into the phone this time. “Fuck you.” She stabs the phone, then slips it into her bag, which is the first time I’ve seen it detached from her hand in god knows how long.

  “In your bag?”

  “Yep. What we doing here?”

  “Shopping for evening gowns.”

  “Right. Why?”

  Ah yes, why. I scan over her clothes, noting the way she’s managed to make it all look effortless in a grungy way. Blue ripped jeans, a beige shirt with a cardigan over, baggy on the thigh and a belt pulling it taut. Long brown boots and a tan bag. Her dreads are down, scooped up slightly at the sides with a clip. Fabulous. It makes me look down at my own combination in dismay. It doesn’t look bad, but I wish I had that sense of charisma when putting my outfits together. They just don’t hang well on me, not the way they do on her anyway.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know why. I just need a gown. I’m going out somewhere that needs a gown.”

  “What are you talking about?” Quite. Even to my own ears that needs more explanation. “Who with?” Apparently I don’t need to answer that, because her brows rise, a wry smile tipping her lips upwards as she slides her arm into mine and starts us walking. “Him?” I nod, lifting my chin to show I’m in complete control and this is not something I should be concerned about in any way. “So we need a dress that rips off easy, yeah?” If only she knew. My feet halt, immediately turning me back to her with a look of horror on my face. It’s fake. We both know it, and her smirk at my dramatics only highlights that fact as I break out into another smile. “All for research, obviously,” she says, tugging me to get me moving again. “Tell me about him. I need data for the dress. You got a picture?”

  We turn into Saks as I wonder what I can say, bypassing the make-up brands and chemical layers of perfume to get to the clothes. It’s not like I know anything about him really. He’s fit. Good looking. Around six foot two, I guess. Built like an athlete, one everything looks perfect on.

  “What do you need to know? I don’t really have any—”

  “Dark or blonde?”

  “Dark.” Not that I’m sure what difference that makes.

  “Tall?” I nod.

  “Taller than me in heels.”

  “Naughty?” What? He’s into BDSM. I would think so given the club I’ve already been in, not that I’ve actually seen him do anything. My bemused stare as she picks up a red dress is barely noticed. “Yeah, but I mean, cheeky naughty, as in red, or dark and nasty, as in black?” she says, fingering the material and flicking it away as if it’s cheap tat.

  “I’m not sure.” Her face fills with scepticism as I think about that kiss, and then remember the slight deviation from lovely when he had me backing up the stairs.

  “You’ve been in a kinky club with him and you’re not sure?”

  “We didn’t do anything. He just showed me round and we talked.”

  “But you must have got a sense of his type?”

  “Not really. He’s…” I’m not sure what he is. He’s not cheeky, that’s for sure, but nasty? I didn’t feel nasty when I was under the water. I felt calm. Nasty would denote a real fear I haven’t felt in his company at all, even on those stairs. Uncomfortable, yes. Chastised and belittled maybe. Slightly apprehensive even, but not frightened. There’s a darkness inside him, I’m sure. It lies beneath the surface of his façade, but it’s not madness or criminal, or it doesn’t seem that way to me at the moment. Cheeky isn’t a word that fits, though, not in the slightest. I’m not getting the comedy feeling. “Dark.”

  “Dark? Right, we need black then,” she says, walking away from me and weaving through the brightly coloured dresses towards the back. “And hot.” Well, yes, that would be preferable. “The sort of thing that screams fuck me slowly.” I’m also not getting the feeling Blaine Jacobs does anything all that slowly, and her language in the middle of Saks makes me flick my gaze around, concerned we’re about to be banned forever. Three haughty looking assistants glare back. Actually, they’re not glaring, more looking like dog shit has walked in to demean the place. Screw them. Bree does a typically Bree thing and heads straight at one of them, her eyes refusing to budge an inch from the woman’s face. “Everything black that you have. Evening gowns.” The woman sticks her nose in the air, apparently refusing to acknowledge Bree but walking off to search for dresses nonetheless.

  “Where’s he taking you?”

  “I told you I don’t know. I just got this text,” I reply, handing her the phone and watching her look through the messages.

  “That’s not a lot of info.”

  “No. I know.” She grabs her phone out as we wander over to the sofa area and sit down, waiting for miss haughty to deliver us some dresses, and then starts inputting his number.

  “Better safe than sorry, right?”

  “What?”

  “Lana, you know shit about this guy other than the fact he’s into kink. I mean, who is Blaine? That was his name, right? Blaine who?”

  “Jacobs.”

  “See, never heard of him. He could be a murderer for all we know and you’re going out with him to god knows where.”

  “You’re not filling me with confidence. You were the one who said I should—”

  “Screw him. Yes, but maybe at yours?”

  “Oh no, that wouldn’t work. It’s not the way for me to understand this,” I reply, shifting my weight around on the leather and lowering my voice a little. “It’s his aura, and how could he have the same one if he was put into a new situation? No, it needs to be somewhere he’s comfortable so he acts like him, you know? It’s like when I was at his earlier and he—”

  “Wait, what?” she practically shouts in the middle of the store. “When were you at his house?” Oh, I’d forgotten I hadn’t told her that.

  “The cab crashed last night, after we dropped you off. I woke up in his house. Apparently his brother was driving the car and—”

  “Sounds suspicious to me.”

  “No, it was just a coincidence.”

  “All of New York and he happens to crash into your car? Were you naked?” Yes. Obviously, apart from the g-string.

  “Well, yes, but nothing happened.”

  “How do you know?” Oh for god’s sake.

  “I know if I’ve had sex, Bree.”

  “Yeah, but what about if he touched you?” He did, but that was later. And I asked for that, not that Bree needs to know about our little interlude of near orgasmic proportions. I can still feel that. It makes me muse the moment, staring out into the store and remembering his hands on my skin, the hesitation in them, and the way they tore at fabric like it was rice paper.

  “I’d know.”

&
nbsp; “How?”

  “I’d be bruised.”

  “And you’re not seeing anything wrong with what you’ve just said?”

  Her words make me question why I said I’d be bruised. I don’t know why I said it, but something tells me it’s true. I halt my quick fire responses, wondering what sort of idiot would say that out loud and feel as okay about it as I do. It makes me look at my own knees, for some reason feeling the need to brush the black cotton down, perhaps hoping to rid myself of this odd sensation he delivers rather than smiling about it warmly.

  “I can’t explain it,” is all I’ve got. She tuts at me, not giving away anything other than that as the woman arrives back in front of us, laden with dresses.

  A parade of dresses ensues. Full-length ones. Fish tailed ones. Strapless, backless, two piece. Tight fitting, loose. I’m not even slightly concerned as she walks around, swishing the fabric to show its finery. I’m more bothered about why my mind just got comfortable with the thought of bruising. Most of what’s happening in front of me is a blur of black, matching my sudden change of mood exactly. Black and dark. Foreboding is probably the most accurate description of where I am right now. Half an hour ago I felt like I could float on air, and now, having spoken with Bree about this, I feel lost.

  “That one will do,” I mumble out, watching the way the woman flaunts the silk in front of us.

  “No it won’t. It’s fucking awful.”

  “It’s Yves Saint Laurent,” the woman states, as if this should be enough for me to acknowledge its beauty regardless of whether I like it or not. I don’t. Not really, but I just can’t focus on any of them at the moment. I’m trying to process information, find a bond, a route, anything to help me understand the connection I felt in that pool with his lips on mine.

  “He threw me in a pool and I wanted to drown,” I mumble while I stare at the array of dark fabrics and really acknowledge that fact. She gasps, her hand waving at the woman to tell her to leave. “I gave up, Bree. I just waited for him to come for me.” I feel her slide up against me, her arm linking with mine. It’s not supposed to be comfort. That’s not how Bree and I work. It’s just support. As if even though she doesn’t understand, she’ll hear me out regardless. I turn to face her, my head hanging slightly under my own contemplation. She looks as bemused as me, her furrowed brow highlighting that fact. I’m not surprised. If she’d said it to me I would be dragging her off to the local psych wing.

  “What do you mean you gave up?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t explain it.” I smirk at my own confusion, remembering the way it all felt so peaceful and quiet under there once I stopped fighting for air. And then the way the writing and mapping poured out of me because of it. “I knew he’d come for me. All I had to do was ask.” It still doesn’t make much sense to me, so how Bree’s supposed to understand any of it I don’t know. But I know. Somehow I do. I know something anyway, something that feels factual regardless of logical reasoning.

  “You don’t even know him,” she eventually says, a huff of disdain following the words as she gets up and wanders towards one of the dresses hung on a peg. She glares at the still hovering woman until she backs off and walks to the counter. I’m not sure why. It’s probably her way of feeling in control of the situation, ever the logical choice maker that she is. It would have been my response too, snatching a chance to have a go at someone, making me feel better about myself in some way, but not in this moment, not in this situation. I just want to sit in this haze and let myself want to know more of him, really understand him. It might be stupid given it’s only research, and nothing else is ever going to happen regardless of his mouth, but I don’t care. For now I’m just going to brood on my thoughts and let them invade.

  Chapter 8

  Alana

  W e returned to my apartment after Saks. We just bought a dress I liked, somewhat blindly given I didn’t even try it on, and then headed back here for coffee and a chat. Unfortunately, I may not have spoken the entire way back here, giving Bree plenty of ammunition for more interrogation on matters concerning Blaine.

  “You sure about this?” She asks, deliberately stirring her coffee slowly. She does that when she’s considering life’s abundant flaws and complications.

  “No.” Because what right-minded person would be? He’s moody, temperamental, inexcusably good looking, and somehow able to make me do things that seem ludicrous when I walk away from the situation at hand. “But the book, Bree. I want this to hit home. It needs to be right. You said so yourself. It has to be representative of the facts.” And I want those lips again, I do. It’s annoying.

  She picks up her drink, turning her body around to face me and leaning back on my fridge.

  “I know, but drowning?” I chuckle at her, realising how stupid that sounds in the broad light of day, not that it is anymore.

  “I wasn’t about to drown, Bree. He pulled me out.” And saved my shoes, quite gentlemanly really.

  “Still,” she says, kicking off the fridge and making her way over to me on the couch. “If he can do that with a pool, what the fuck is he going to do with handcuffs and ropes?” This is something I’ve been considering on our route home. “And what reason did he have for putting you in a pool in the first place? Because you swore at him? Sounds slightly psycho in my opinion.”

  I snuggle myself into the cushions, watching the way she waits for me to respond. I’ve got nothing to respond with. How would I know what’s deemed rude or not with these types? She’s right in some respects. When I actually have to explain, it all seems unwise. But, for whatever reason, I’m still smiling at the thought of it all. Him especially. “I imagined it would just be a bit of rough and tumble. You try some pain, comprehend its effects, and then you’re able to write it more succinctly, having fucked someone a little interesting. This, Lana..” she continues, her legs pulling up so that she’s cross legged. “This is fucked up stuff.” She’s possibly entirely correct.

  “I can’t explain it, Bree. And at this moment in time, I don’t want to. Honestly, you should’ve see that table this morning,” I say, pointing over at my small dining area, once again devoid of any mess now that I’ve reorganised. “It was brimming with notes and plots. Not like my normal MO. All neat and tidy, shelves and appropriate boxes, you know? No, it was covered. It’s like it used to be when I started in college. You remember, don’t you? Those first books? Ideas, characters, flow. The way it just takes off without any planning involved.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing, Bree. Just that one experience and I’m back there. Val’s gone. Peter’s gone. There’s something new in here now,” I say, tapping my skull and feeling the excitement build again. “Sparks, you know?” I’m fidgeting now, almost like I can feel the story inside my blood. “He does that. I don’t know how. If I did I’d explain it better, but I…” I can’t. I can’t even find my own sense of rationale in it, let alone tell her. I search the air again for inspiration as I look around, hoping it’ll give me something to cling to other than a feeling. “He’s…” Bolder than the sum of his parts? Good looking, yes. Built, yes. Everything I would normally drool over, absolutely. But that’s not it. It’s in his eyes, in his smirk. It’s in the way he moves, somehow countering anything that normal attractiveness dictates. There’s an energy about him. It might be dark, but it’s healing, too. It’s... “He’s…” Yep, still nothing describes the way he fills a space, announcing his intention to own it without ever moving his lips. “And then when he...” Speaks? I don’t even know if its speech, more likely the anticipation of what might leave his mouth, or what he might do with the thoughts he’s not actually delivering via speech.

  “You scared of him?”

  “No.” My tone is almost offended at her question.

  “Why not?”

  I scrunch my brow at myself and pick up my coffee, staring at it as if it will answer my own questions.

  “I suppose I’m afraid of what he could pull fr
om me, but not of what he could do to me.” That’s about all I’ve got in the way of reason. Not that it’s reasonable or sensible. “It’s about me, Bree. Not him. He said it was me.” I’m smiling as I remember his words. “That was you.”

  Bree laughs, but I’m not sure why. It makes me lift my eyes from my musings to look at her.

  “You’re falling for him.”

  “Oh, don’t be stupid.” No one falls for someone this quick. “He’s just research, Bree. Nothing more.” If I keep saying that enough I’ll remember it myself, hopefully forgetting my need to taste those lips again and lose myself in them. “Besides, he’s not exactly the sort for settling down with.” I snort at the thought, my hand brushing nothing but fluff off my jeans as I muse that image, too. I mean, what a ridiculous notion. Blaine Jacobs, husband. Although, he might be, I suppose. “He might already have a partner for all I know.”