Sneak Peak: Chapter 5, part 2 (Patreon)

Hello!

It's been awhile, and an update is certainly overdue.  Progress continues, in fits and starts - every time I get back into a comfortable writing rhythm, something seems to conspire to knock me out of it.  Nevertheless, I continue to crawl my way to the end of chapter 2.  

As you've all been quite patient, I've decided to share with you the first half (or so) of the chapter.  This is roughly 6000 words, though I estimate the whole chapter will probably hit about 12-15k.  I'm pretty sure I'll be collapsing the 'part 1' previously posted back into Chapter 4, and chapter 5 will be David's ride to his destination, and what happens there.

In any case, enjoy!  I've decided to structure this as a series of flashbacks, David's musings as he travels to his destination.  These flashback will be mostly half-scenes, with the concluding halves taking place at the Clinic.  Does it work, or is it confusing?  Last time I tried an explicitly non-linear chapter, over a decade ago in Season One, reactions were decidedly negative and I ended up re-editing the whole thing into a mostly chronological chapter.  Hopefully I pull it off better here.

Keep in mind this is still in the "rough" stage: some bits will get developed, some trimmed back or cut, some bits moved around, and the whole thing edited a few more passes.

***

 Constant in All Other Things 2

Chapter Five, part 2

by

Fakeminsk (fakeminsk@gmail.com)

“Friendship is constant in all other things

Save in the office and affairs of love:

Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;

Let every eye negotiate for itself

And trust no agent.”

Much Ado About Nothing

The car waited for me one morning before work.

Sleek but understated, slate gray and unmarked, with tinted windows, the car gave an attention-drawing beep as I exited the apartment building. The windscreen flashed my name and destination; my phone pinged in confirmation. The door unlocked and opened smoothly at my touch and closed silently after I sat, swung, and slid into the back seat. With a barely audible whir the car set off, a discrete panel set in the back of the seat indicating the hours and kilometers remaining for the journey.

Dressed for a workday that was clearly not going to happen, I settled in uncomfortably for the duration of the ride. The car was all but silent as it hummed through the suburban streets, last night’s lurid neon glows dispelled by harsh morning glare. Driverless, left to my thoughts, I gazed with tired eyes as the buildings and shops, industrial parks and commercial districts scrolled past, thinned out, turned into scattered suburban stretches of detached homes and cookie-cutter residential strips.

The indicator ticked down, counting me inexorably closer to the Asklepios Clinic.

Could this be it?

God, how I wanted this to be, for this to be my last morning of waking up in Cindy’s shitty little apartment, showering in her dingy, cramped shower, putting on my face in the cracked mirror hanging over the molded plastic sink. No more body-balancing pills with breakfast; no more slipping into panties and bra—complimented this morning by sheer black stockings and lacy suspender belt, Julia’s orders of the day—tight pencil skirt and blouse. No more heels.  No more fucking about with long hair. No more performance: the unending expectations of behaviour and appearance placed on a young and pretty girl in a professional environment, the forced smiles, perky conversations, pleasantness and pleasantries.

No more Julia. And no more Dan.

Could I allow myself the luxury of hope? To the fervent desire that this car trip was a one-way journey with the intent of stripping away this exhausting female disguise? God, how I ached to return to some semblance of my previous life. At this stage I’d take just about anything – fuck it! Leave me short and scrawny, looking like some weedy and weak teenager: I’ll take it! Carve off these tits, filter out these hormones, and just let me be a fucking man again.

Because if this visit wasn’t the end—if the Clinic was just checking up on my health, as the notification that popped up in my calendar this morning suggested—if nothing happened—if I came back in a few days, still Cindy, still living her life…

I sank deeper into the seat, deeper into lethargy and despair. Sealed against the outside world, the deep silence of travel soon became oppressive and so, after indulging in a dramatic sigh, I called out to the car. “Hey, how about some music?” A gentle chime confirmed compliance. I’d intended to request some Longman, but instead called out, “Play Sin-DI.” A moment later the opening track began, volume low, a soothing flow of delicate chimes and electronic notes: an impressionist painting of digital keyboards in a Japanese tearoom. Soon, ominous cellos and muted industrial grind began to swell and tear apart the comforting aural arrangement, escalating into cacophony that abruptly cut into the first vocal track. I’d been listening to her a lot, and the more I listened the more I liked it. Despite the images she projected—neo-Goth sensuality, crazy makeup and nails, skin-tight outfits and tits and seductive glares, oozing forbidden passion—the actual music mostly reminded me of Longman’s later experimental stuff.

Hadn’t heard anything about the guy since waking up Cindy. A cursory look online presented all sort of theories from the aging fanbase: away on sabbatical, at a meditative retreat, secretly inspiring troops in a battlefield abroad, working anonymously in the background of the music industry; dead. Last I’d seen him was at the Clinic: moonlight, cool spring air, rustling leaves. Shivering, drawing closer. Embracing.

Outside the car, urban remnants gave way to countryside, clusters of browning trees and fields of dried out wheat replacing broken, decaying apartment blocks and abandoned shops, the corroded steel and concrete skeletal detritus of another dead town. The window was darkened against the day’s glare and outside curiosity, but I saw myself—saw Cindy—clearly: her made-up face, lipstick and eyeliner, mascara and blusher, colours for a young woman’s working day. One finger gently touched her lip and felt the insistent press, the probing tongue, fingers curling into the flesh of her arm, the stubble that pricked the cheek—the memory of a kiss.

Goddammit.

And in her reflection, I also saw myself from a month ago, a reminder of that first morning after Julia’s. Then, too, I’d been dressed for work, a mix of yesterday’s and Julia’s clothes, riding the bus into work and staring blankly over the unfamiliar route. So tired—but also rejuvenated—mind and body still simmering from the night’s fucking.

A month ago I’d stared into my reflection, searching within exhausted and anxious eyes for a glimpse of myself, for the hint of David, trapped and furious, lurking behind curled, painted lashes; and then, as now, found only barely-repressed anger and frustration at the life forced upon him….

Waking, after a few hours of fitful dozing, into Cindy’s daily routine, abbreviated due to hangover: dropping to the floor next to the bed, silently cursing through alternating sets of push-ups and crunches. Shit, shower, shave: armpits and legs, carving tracks through sweet-smelling, frothy foam with Julia’s flat-handled razor, leaving smooth skin in its wake. Struggling to remain upright in her expansive shower, fighting fatigue and daily despair, arms braced against the ceramic tiled wall, hair a heavy hanging cascade as near-scalding water sluiced away the sex and sweat of the night’s passion. Stinging flares as heat discovered bites and bruises across the pert flesh of my tits, especially around puffy nipples still tender from Julia’s abuses.

In the dim light of early morning, within the momentary tranquility and privacy of ablution, I began to doubt yesterday’s choices.

I hadn’t felt this intensely aware of my enforced femininity since the initial awakening several months ago. Not so much Julia’s words and threats as her familiarity with the man I’d been served to highlight how much I’d changed, how much I’d lost and sacrificed. The sense of the profound alienness of my own body had faded over the months—unnervingly so—but now it felt as though everything that had slowly drifted into normality came crashing back as weird and absurd. Under the pounding water, I felt those physical differences: the pull of long, wet hair; water coursing over the curves of breasts and hips; plumper thighs and rounded rump; even the droplets that hung suspended in longer lashes.  My awareness of these features felt, now, as though I was seeing them from outside myself, imagining how I looked from an external perspective: Julia’s.

These tits, pert and proud, B-cup handfuls of fatty tissue and useless milk ducks topped by coin-sized areola and prominent nipples, a sharp contrast with the hard and sculpted chest of my masculine past. These slim arms, smooth and supple, weak and delicate, so easily controlled compared to my previous strength. A decade ago I’d cradled her in bed and she’d rest so easily in my embrace, head on chest, loving the power and control implicit in those arms that held her close, protectively; arms that had once dominated her, gripped her by the shoulders and pinned her to the bed as we rutted like animals before collapsing in joyous exhaustion.

And now?

Julia had taken drunken pleasure in highlighting each and every one of my now-diminished features last night, with gentle, stroking touches; coy words and mocking insults, surreptitious licks and kisses and sharp bites; at times with painful yanks and sudden smacks.

And it was galling and frustrating and insulting and excruciating and….

I’d fucking loved it.

Sex had been fantastic: Julia’s appetite voracious and vigorous, my own stamina remarkable. I’ve read somewhere that men peak sexually in their late teens, women in their mid-thirties. If so, then perhaps we’d fucked in a way only a psychologically damaged, revenge-fuelled thirty-five-year-old woman could, paired up with an artificially youthened man rocking the body of a twenty-year-old girl: which is to say, passionately, skillfully, repeatedly and exuberantly.

There’d even been fleeting moments during the night, when drunk on wine and sex it felt as I’d reclaimed some lost part of myself, uncovered a precious nugget of masculinity buried these past months under strata of silk and satin and lace. Lucid flashes when I could forget my own jiggling tits and shapely curves and lose myself in snapshots of Julia on her back, moaning in ecstasy, legs over my shoulders, me burrowing deep into her cunt, digging deeper, excavating each precious gasp and grunt and earthy demand that I fuck her, fuck her harder, yes, yes, like that, God, oh God, yes….

I came, wearily and I was back under scalding water.  Semen and soap swirled down the drain. One hand on my cock, the other massaging water-slick tits. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with me? Like, sure, I’d been pretty much jerking off daily since waking up in this body, but the encounter with Julia felt as thought it had awakened a whole new level of passion—and pleasure; it felt as though something fundamental had shifted in my relationship with my body… with this body, I mean. I flicked a protuberant nipple and shivered. Until last night, I hadn’t really played with Cindy’s tit—I hadn’t really dared to. Now, I wondered what I’d been missing out on.

Groaning, I savagely twisted the water over to cold. Pushed back but not quite defeated by the barrage of icy spears, exhaustion and hangover retreated and remained at bay. I endured the assault for as long as possible, delaying the inevitable.

Today was Monday and Cindy had to work.

Trudging back into the bedroom, I balefully observed that Julia hadn’t stirred. The first rays of sunshine were creeping over the horizon, flooding the room with a russet glow. There wasn’t time to head home, change and head to work, so I was going to have to make do with what I already had. Yesterday’s thigh-highs were a lost cause, stained and crusted as they were. The skirt and top were just about acceptable for work – I could swap the shoes over once I reached the office but despaired at the thought of mincing my way into the office in heels of that height. Sighing, I resigned myself to the fact I’d be strapping myself back into yesterday push-up bra and have my tits riding that underwire up in my face all fucking day. But I drew the line at the panties – they were a sodden, stretched mess, and I couldn’t bear the thought of that scrap of silk threading my ass all day, let alone the need to tape my cock back. I’d have to borrow a pair of Julia’s panties, hopefully a pair of tights to help hold back any bulge.

And that’s when it hit me, really: how the fuck had it come to this? Wearing an ex-girlfriend’s panties, silently slipping into a bra in the near-dark, sitting half-naked at her vanity to put on makeup. Exhausted, mentally rebelling against the idea of dragging myself—of dragging Cindy—into work today, knowing how she’d appear to others, the half-smiles, the smirks and knowing glances behind her back. Six months ago, I’d witnessed one of the most powerful men in the world murder his rival. An hour before that, I’d been fucking his executive secretary hard against the expansive windows looking down on the distant glittering city sprawl. And now, somehow, I was the fucking secretary.

The sense of absolute emasculation was nearly crushing.

I rolled my shoulder. Shifted my boobs in their lacy cups into a more comfortable position. Sighed, and steeled myself and repeated the daily mantra: Fuck it, and just get through this, another day. Looking into the mirror—but not too closely, not into the eyes, studiously avoiding my own gaze, avoiding judgment—I reached for makeup.

Moments later, I swore. “Dammit, Julia,” I hissed under my breath. Tiny vanity drawers clapped open and shut as I clawed through her assortment of vials, tubes and jars. “Where’s d’you keep the fucking mascara?”

“I could watch this all day,” a tired, amused voice called out from behind. From the bed, and with an infuriatingly pleased smile dancing across tired lips, she watched my attempt at reassembling my face from the wreckage of last night.

“It’s… that one,” she said, waving an idle hand, and then wincing as I banged another drawer open. “Chrissake, David, just… chill.”

“Fuck you, miss working-from-home.”

“That’s Miss Director of Innovation to you, thank you very much. Rank hath its perks, bitch.” She paused, as if in thought. “What’s your title again? Secretary?”

I paused in my efforts to glare at her over my shoulder. “Administrative assistant.”

She smiled. “So… secretary.”

Turning my back on her, I focused on the pallid face in the mirror. Thanking God for concealer, I popped open the tiny bottle. With swift strokes I began erasing the tell-tale signs of the night’s hedonism, wiping out the rash-like redness across my cheeks, dark patches below the eyes: the evidence of several bottles of wine and hours of pounding each other like beasts in heat. Fucking hell, I looked rough; and I struggled to suppress a little smile.

“What were you back at Neopharm?” she called out. In reflection, Julia began to slide out of bed. “Manager of something or other?”

“Assistant Director,” I muttered. “Global Brand.”

“For Neopharm?”

“Yeah,” I answered.

She gave a little whistle, half-sarcastic, half-real. “Top job.” I watched as she stood, stretched, tossing her long, ebony hair back, tits flattening in an all-too familiar way as she reached for the ceiling. Tired, humiliated and angry, I nevertheless felt a yearning to reach out to her, to take her back to bed. I might hate the bitch, but she was fucking gorgeous.

“Now look at you,” she continued, padding towards me. “How the mighty have fallen.”

I slammed the tube of concealer down with a bang. “Excuse me?”

“Sitting in panties and bra, putting on your face. Slipping into a cute dress, scurrying to your little desk. Sitting pretty, really drawing on that university education, aren’t you?”

“Back the fuck off, Jules.”

She sauntered closer, grinning. “Or what?”

I opened my mouth, said nothing, closed it.

“Exactly,” she said, reaching past me. “So just shut it, okay?” Then she crouched to my level, and with one hand gently cupped my chin.  “You’re pretty good at this,” she said, and there was something grudgingly admiring in her tone. “You’ve only been doing this for a couple of months?”

“I’m a quick learner.”

“A natural, you mean.”

“Fuck you.”

“Shh,” she whispered, putting one finger to my lips, then bringing a lip pencil to bear. “Let me.” With confident, luxurious strokes, she began to draw in my lips, contouring before reaching for the lipstick. “Something a little more daring for a Monday morning.” And there was something undeniably erotic about the attention, the closeness and care, with which she painted my face. An echo of last night’s submissiveness, that sensation of preciousness and being cared for, welled up; so did my cock, tenting Julia’s borrowed panties.

She noticed, smiled, tapped the tip with the pencil. “Easy there,” she said, “I like that pair.” Then she grinned. “Enjoying this?” she added, knowing I couldn’t answer as she dabbed a touch more colour to my lips. “Surely you can admit some benefits of girlhood.”

I waited till she pulled the pencil back. “No.”

“Shame. You could have a lot of fun if you let yourself.” She reached for a lipstick, adding, “though I prefer you suffering, of course.” She reconsidered, took another. “Crimson Eclipse,” she said, twisting the slender metal bullet. And yeah, if I let myself, I’d admit that it didfeel good as Julia slowly, sensually slid the slick stuff across my lips. It felt a little creamy, lighter on the lips than the cheap stuff I wore, and if I wasn’t so goddam bone-tired, so sick-to-the-soul exhausted after months of hiding—or rather, living—this disguise, then yeah, maybe I could’ve admitted the whole thing was kind of fun. Or at least had the potential to be, if my goddamned life didn’t depend on playing a part I despised.

A gentle nudge turned me towards the mirror. Her efforts had transformed the face I saw there–a glossy, darker red shimmering like a veil of early night stars glimmering behind the light of a setting sun, vividly contrasting with the paleness of Cindy’s skin.

“Jesus, Jules, everyone’ll be staring at my lips all day.”

“I know,” she giggled. “That’s the point, right?” She tapped me lightly on the nose with the closed lipstick. “Just imagine what the guys’ll be imaging you could do with those lips”

I groaned.

“Let’s get you dressed,” she said.

Which she did, starting with sheer tights to help keep Cindy’s secret tucked away—“and don’t you dare tear them,” Julia insisted—but yesterday’s skirt and top; she clearly liked the idea of my heading into work a little rumpled, my appearance hinting at late night indiscretion and debauchery under the veneer of makeup. There was no escaping the heels. Nor Julia’s final effort at embarrassing me: brushing my hair out and setting it into a high ponytail dangling down between my shoulders. The final look was somewhere between sexy secretary and naughty schoolgirl. I hated it; Julia loved it; and she was very good at getting her way.

The car hummed with sudden acceleration and looking outside again I saw that we were merging onto the highway. Hugging the ramp, the car smoothly joined the rapid flow of traffic. It wasn’t clear where the car was bringing me: away from the city, obviously, but clearly not to the main Asklepios Clinic which was, as far as I knew, halfway across the country. Presumably we were heading to one of the smaller Asklepios campuses or retreats. There were a half-dozen of these dotted around the country: secluded, gated realms of therapy and research where the rich recovered their health and sanity, and hid for as long as they could afford from the real world.

The morning sun outside was only growing stronger, and I felt the heat against the tinted window. The view outside was pretty boring, seemingly endless stretches of agricultural industrialisation glinting in the harsh light, towering blocks of concrete and steel clawing the sky, interconnected, automated and layered, growing the fruit and vegetables, fungus and fake meat required to feed the inexorable maw of the urban centres.

Drumming my fingertips against the window brought a series of faint clicks against the glass, another gift of Julia’s: matching nail extensions in the current style, one of last weekend’s “girls’ day out” activities.

With humiliating predictability, Julia’s influence over my life only grew greater after that first morning. She took not only pleasure, but a strange responsibility, in dressing me after I spent the night. Not that I stayed over at hers every night, of course. In fact, after that initial effort at humiliating me she completely withdrew—ignored my few texts, and I didn’t bump into her at work. I checked in once at her office a few floors up and discovered she’d taken a few days holiday. I wondered, briefly, if she’d changed her mind and decided against tormenting me; and couldn’t decide whether I was disappointed or not.

But no: by Thursday morning I’d received her first instruction, and several more followed in the days that followed. Initially, she dictated small details of Cindy’s fashion: a text message in the morning picking a colour of lipstick, or a certain skirt she knew hung in my closet. When I stayed the night, she took particular pleasure in choosing and styling my hair for the day—a long, tight braid one day; once and most embarrassingly, twin pigtails for a Friday.

By the second week, items of clothing began arriving at my home, bought online by Julia and delivered to me: the occasional racy underthing, like the suspender belt and stockings I currently wore, but also smaller details: a delicate pair of earrings, or a particularly vivid colour of nail varnish, or a tight, midriff-baring t-shirt, pink and cute, with stylised design of an indolent cat she’d spotted one evening after work.

I was her doll, and Julia delighted in playing with me.

And you know, had she stopped at dressing me up it may have been bearable. It was, in a weird and twisted kind of way, fun spending time with her. Yes, she was a bitch; and half-mad with bitterness and hunger for revenge; and clearly twisted up inside with guilt and remorse over her own vindictiveness; and dominating; and spiteful; and… a hell of a lot of fun, probably because she was such an absolute train-wreck of a human being.

She was also gorgeous—which helped—and the more time spent with her, the more I came to appreciate her beauty—and exciting, especially in bed and far more than she’d been a decade ago. She was meticulous and attentive, showing remarkable patience in teaching me all the finer points of female artistry that I really didn’t want to know. Under her tutelage I’d probably learned more about hair and makeup in the past month than I’d mastered since the start of this insane charade, despite the fact she didn’t seem all that bothered in applying those same skills to herself.

And she’d gotten surprisingly good—disconcertingly so, especially in such a short time—at manipulating me, at knowing how far to push and when to back down. I may have bristled under her grip, but also found comfort in her careful control, in finally sharing my agonies with another human being. And she, in return, finally understood the precariousness of her own dominance. Her threat to turn me in to—someone, it was always a bit vague and ambiguous—didn’t hold up to scrutiny. Hell, I was probably more likely to give myself away than she was, in drunkenness or anger.

The real threat, a month into this weird and renewed relationship, unsaid but understood, was either of us just walking away. These past few weeks with her had been, in their own way, a hell of a lot better than the earlier months spent entirely alone, every night and weekend, stewing in my own impotent anger and frustration.

And so. If she’d stopped at playing dress up, with occasional bouts of humiliation or mockery—yeah, everything would’ve probably been fine.

But she didn’t stop there.

I’m not doing this, I wrote, fingertips clicking and glinting as I tapped away at my phone.

You are doing this, she responded, complete with winking smiley face.

I can’t do this.

Of course you can, Julia retorted. You’ve already been out with him.

That wasn’t a fucking date! That was drinks after work.

You kissed him.

He kissed -me-.

You owe him.

“I don’t owe him shit!” I hissed under my breath. Besides, the jackass was running fifteen minutes late. Who keeps a girl a sexy as me waiting?

Two weeks on from the disastrous Friday night out for after work drinks, and here I was again: in public on a Saturday night, dressed up and on display, a sexy young girl perched at the bar of Chez Lucien, Dan’s choice of venue, Julia’s plotting, the next inevitable step in her efforts to extract revenge from my ongoing humiliation.

Which is how I found myself poured into a classic little black dress: sequined, halter neckline, sleeveless and open back but for the thinnest crisscrossing straps (https://www.littleblackdress.co.uk/black-dresses/honor-gold-harley-sequin-midi-in-black-hg-harley-black-midi), reaching to midthigh over ridiculously sheer and delicate stockings.  Paired with the tallest stiletto heels I could just about navigate for the evening, Cindy cut a fine figure at the bar. She glimmered in the soft romantic lighting—thanks to Julia’s generous application of some kind of shimmery body butter—in a most alluring way.

Consequently, she also cradled a large gin with unbecoming desperation. Glaring into the balloon-shaped glass, the drink’s cherry glow captured the bar’s light in its tumble of ice and tonic. I studiously avoided the surreptitious, appraising glances of passing men, suppressing my own tremulous anxiety fluttering deep in my taut belly. But my own reflection in the glass behind the bar mocked me. Heavy earrings, smoky eyes, dark lipstick, darker thoughts: fuck you, Julia.

No: fuck me, because of -course- that’s what was going to be on Dan’s mind all night. He’d be staring at my lips, deep ruby shine that hinted at flushed passion, and imagine them wrapped around his cock. He’d wonder what I was wearing under this dress, the sexy under-things Julia’d strapped me into earlier, the lace and straps entwinned around my lithe form. Or he’d be eying up those rounded mounds pushing out the front of my fitted dress and picture his hands on them, firm, strong hand kneading, gripping, thumb and finger rubbing through lacy cups. Or the smoky shimmer of stocking-clad legs, his hand on my knee, silky and soft, then on thigh, tracing the lacy trim, sliding across suspender tabs and straps leading ever higher….

I took a deep, desperate gulp of gin to hide the sudden flush blossoming across my face, desperate for the cold drink to cut through rekindled heat. Eyes closed, shaky breath, focused on the sensation of ice and cool glass, I grimaced and fought through the moment.

Hooking up with Julia had triggered something unexpected. I’d have thought that the release of months of pent-up sexual frustration would’ve been a blessed release: four months now – four-fucking-months! living as Cindy, the longest I’d gone without getting laid since getting my ass off the streets. Now I was getting action at least once, twice a week, but instead of bringing any kind of relief I just found myself hornier than ever, my thoughts constantly twisting and turning to sex.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Worse, arousal brought discomforting sensations where I didn’t want them: in tightening nipples, blooming warmth, tremulous tingling flowering in breasts suddenly eager to be touched. At times my whole body felt… tight and tense, taut like a guitar string waiting to be plucked; other times, almost tremblingly weak, hot and anxious, as though ready to fall into strong arms. And it took real willpower to push through those moments, deep breathing and focus, even to just keep my own hands under control. It was bad enough at home, where I could indulge; out and about was harder, with public eyes burning me under their attentive gaze; at work this was pure torture.

This left me doubting myself, distracted and uncertain. At times, it was like being lost in an agonising haze, and emerging I’d find myself somewhere unexpected; in conversation, I’d zone out, overwhelmed by -need- and genuinely appear the pretty ditz so many took Cindy to be. Once or twice I’d even had to hide, locking myself into a bathroom stall until the surge of passion passed.

This… couldn’t happen; I couldn’t meet Dan like this, trembling like gossamer petals in a summer breeze. I opened my eyes and looked at the remainder of my drink and judged I could knock it back in one and get the hell out of here. A pity I’d have to clear my own bill—I’d counted on Dan picking up the tab, Cindy really couldn’t afford this kind of place on her paycheck—but Julia be damned: date night with Dan was a whole level of bullshit too far. Time to go. Big gulp of gin. Pay up with a tap of the phone. Reach down to find my footing, uncertain in these too-tall shoes Julia’d insisted on buying me to wear tonight, and…

“No way a girl like you’s sitting alone,” rumbled a masculine voice at my shoulder.

Rolling my eyes, I turned to tell the guy to fuck off, thank you very much; saw the speaker; and froze, locking up in momentary fear.

Last time I’d seen him had been at a distance, as I crouched behind a dumpster in an alley behind a strip joint, lightly cradling a half-broken beer bottle in my hand. Either he’d been elsewhere these intervening months or—far more likely—had done a better job of keeping himself hidden as he spied on me. Jeff: that was his name. My stalker, some asshole Steele had stuck on Cindy’s ass to keep an eye on her, in the unlikely event she somehow revealed some link back to David Sanders. I’d nearly killed him back then, wanted to twist the jagged edge of the bottle into his neck and watch the blood flow. But I hadn’t.

And now, here he was.

The man grinned, towering over me. At a glance I’d give him an easy 185cm, slender but strong, dressed smartly but for comfort and manoeuverability in black trousers and sharp white shirt, with his dirty blond hair pulled back in a short ponytail. His eyes sparkled with mirth; but there was an aura of threat to him, a subtle tension in the way he stood that suggested a quickness to anger and action. He had every advantage: heigh, reach, weight; clothes, no earrings or bracelet or necklaces to catch or tear. Even so: if I acted -now-, poised as I was, gingerly stepping down from the stool, I could take him. Pivot and knee to the groin. Stiletto thrust down into his foot; smash the glass into his face; grab a bottle from the bar and shatter his skull, at the temple, and fulfill the promise of blood made months ago by thrusting the shattered edge of glass into his exposed flesh.

No.

Instead, I licked my lips; Cindy smiled.

“I’m not alone,” Cindy chirped, and she tossed her long, blonde hair back over the left shoulder, smoothing it down with her free hand, and settling back onto her stool.

“Really?” he said. He made a show of looking around, behind the bar, behind him. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Cindy giggled. “No, silly.” She tapped her phone. “I’m waiting for someone.”

He sank into the stool next to her, signalled for the bartender. “Friend? Is she as cute as you?”

“Nice try,” she answered. “Boyfriend. He’s running late.”

“Surely not.” He turned away briefly, ordered a beer. “What kind of guy keep a girl like you waiting?”

“I know, right?” Cindy smiled. She tapped her glass with one nail, and the hollow sound of the empty glass rang clear. “But he’s a nice guy, so….” She trailed off and shrugged.

“Nice?” The man scoffed. “Girls don’t need someone nice; they need a guy who’s strong.” He grinned. “Like me.”

Cindy rolled her eyes. “Hey, nice is good.”

“Sure,” he answered. “Wanna bet I can guess the name of this ‘nice guy’?”

Sighing, Cindy shrugged her shoulder. “Whatever,” the tone of her voice clearly signaling her disinterest at the man’s game.

The man performed deep thinking, staring upwards. Then he lowered his gaze, and locked eyes with her. “David,” he said.

For several seconds—though it felt longer—too long—we stared at each other, the silence heavy between us, his smile twisting into a smirk at the corner his lips. His eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction. We were locked into the moment, alone in the bustling restaurant, and I saw clearly past the charming veneer to the man beneath. But did he detect anything unexpected beneath my glossier, meticulous surface?

I languorously passed the tip of my tongue over my lips and smiled brightly.

“David?” I said and laughed. “Daves are, like, forty-year old car mechanics. Not my type.”

His expression didn’t change; he maintained the strange look between mirth and mockery; sudden tightness built across his neck and shoulders, and it seemed as though he were about to lash out. But then the tension drained away, and his face relaxed into an easy smile.

“Jeff, then,” he said.

“Bearded guy in his thirties doing the weather report.” I wrinkled my nose. “No thanks.”

He made of show of appearing wounded, holding his hand over his heart. “Ouch,” he said.

“Let me guess, your name’s Jeff.”

“You’re better at this than I am.”

“Well, Jeff,” I said. “It’s been fun but…”

“Let me buy you a drink.” He waved at my empty glass on the counter. “A prize for beating me at my own game.”

“But…”

“My pleasure,” he interrupted, and waved at the bartender. “Another for the pretty lady.”

“Listen, I don’t think….”

“Shh,” he said, and actually shushed me—I started to flush red with livid anger and frustration—and then suddenly his hand was on my forearm, fingers resting gently on my soft skin. “Nothing wrong with a drink and chat while you’re waiting, right?”

And I saw in his eyes, then, such yearning, such need, that my protest died in my throat. Stifling the instinct to snatch back my arm, I stared back at him in genuine shock. “Jeff—”

“Sorry, hey, sorry I’m late, I—”

And then Dan was standing there, mouth open as he looked first at me, then Jeff, and then at the hand resting over my arm. And it occurred to me, suddenly, that I could play both guys off of each other, that I suddenly held a position of bizarre power and with a coy glance, a soft touch, the right words I could have both these men at each other’s throats. It was an insane, fleeting impulse—Dan wouldn’t stand a chance—and then the situation flipped: if I didn’t act, the situation could so easily devolve into something nasty, with me somehow to blame.

So I acted. I flung myself into Dan’s arms, releasing a little squeal of joy. “You’re here!” Surprised, he nevertheless caught me—and I kissed him on the mouth, deeply, arms wrapping around his neck. And as he stumbled and spun me about, I looked over his shoulders at Jeff, who’s brow darkened and a look of anguish passed across his features. He grabbed his beer and walked away.

At which point, of course, I became aware of Dan’s tongue eagerly exploring my mouth, one hand on my bare back, the other cupping my ass. I pulled away, looking down at the floor in a way that I hoped appeared bashful, hiding the shudder of revulsion that tore through me.

He took my hand. “Who was that guy?”

“Just some creep,” I answered, and he led me to our table.

***

There's more, but that seems a good place to cut it for now.  What did you think?