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https://textbookfull.com/product/lets-talk-business-stuff-yourboss-wishes-you-knew-1-2019-08-26-edition-don-jones/ Let's Talk Business: Stuff Your Boss Wishes You Knew 1 (2019-08-26) Edition Don Jones
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
Trigger Warning:
This story contains subjects of abusive relationship, mental illness, suicidal tendencies, and loss of a child. It's intended for an adult audience of eighteen years or older, only.
GABRIELLA
"I don't understand why you just can't make it stop or go to a fucking doctor, Gabby! I mean, shit, you go to your regular monthly ones. Just tell him what's up, so you can get on something. This shit is affecting my sleep!"
I don't have the strength, mentally or physically, to say anything back to him. My lack of reaction causes him to huff before the slamming of the door vibrates the pictures on the wall. He's late for work, again. Myfault. Likealways. I had another one of my episodes last night.
At least since I've started to show, he's stepped back from hitting me. Not all the way, but enough to ensure he has a viable incubator. I'm sure I would have been smacked down hard for how mad he was this morning. I saw his hand ball up into a fist on more than one occasion since the start of the day. It was his tell for when he was about to punishme. According to him, I tore out all the bath towels and blankets from the hall closet, and no matter how many times he stopped me and put me to bed, I just went right back to it. Of course, I only remember glimpses of it. Grab. Pull. Grab. Pull. Repeat. I don't remember him stopping me or getting in or out of bed. I just know that I woke up from what felt like a ten-second nap with my heart thundering so hard I could feel it in my throat. I felt disoriented for a couple seconds, but his screaming and clothes being thrown around the bedroom brought me back to reality fast enough and I immediately knew what the problem was. This is normal for me now. No sleep, and when I can sleep, I sleepwalk. So really I feel like I’ve gotten no sleep because whatever I end up doing, is enough to make me feel exhausted the next day.
It's better for me when I stay up for days at a time instead of sleeping. Then I don'tsleepwalk, and he doesn'tget mad.
A large thud over a carpeted area sounds from behind me, followed by a scream and I’m snapped from my zombie-like stance. I look away from the door he slammed and shake my head to help my tired eyes focus, before grabbing my coffee on the way through the kitchen to Sam’s room.
My sweet little boy sits on the floor, holding his head in a silent cry in front of his dresser. It’s clear that he was trying to climb it by the drawers half open. He went from walking to immediately trying to climb up on everything in his path.
"Shhh.Shhh. Oh baby, come here." I coddle as I set down my cup on the offending dresser and pick him up just as he finds his cry. I guide his head to my shoulder and rock him for a bit. When the screams die down, I lift his head up to inspect the damage. Yup, he'd have a goose egg. There was already an angry purple bruise forming. My nerves and adrenaline finally wake up from the hellish night I had, if just for a second, as I head to the kitchen.
"Owey. Owe. Ouchy," Sam whines as I get a frog-shaped baby ice pack from the freezer.
"I know, baby. I know."
I glance at the oven clock on the way out of the kitchen. Ten minutespasteighta.m. I let out a miserable sigh. It's still four hours until nap time for him andme. I need it. I'm bone tired. So much so that I, too, am on the verge of crying right alongside him. My chest hurts and the coffee only serves to churn my stomach. Of course my doctor would shit if he knew about the caffeine, but really, he'd probably shit if he knew I wasn't sleeping either.
It was just another day in Hell.
But also another day with my sweet baby. Well, babies. So, despite how much I hate my life, I love them and they are really the only things that keep me going.
I get Sam settled with a program on, his blanket and sippy cup of juice and look down to my belly. Another boy. Much to my husband's delight. The gender reveal appointment was the only one with this pregnancy he’s bothered to come to, and the only time I’ve
seen him genuinely smile since he started hating me. Of course I would be happy with either gender, but I would have loved to have a little girl around. A tiny flutter graces my lower belly and I sigh as I rub the spot. Normally, I love the feeling of my baby boy wiggling around but now it just exhausts me further. My lower lip trembles as I head to the rocking chair near the corner of the room to look out the window. Sam’s all-day baby shows occupy the TV and we have little internet service on my phone so there isn’t much to do. I’ve taken up bird watching and reading. My former friends would have snorted and laughed about how lame I’ve gotten in these years.
When did this become my life?
I think back to the fairy-tale start of all this.
Isaac and I were high school sweethearts and have been together since we were freshmen. He was the quarterback and I was the captain on the cheerleading team. So cliche. So unoriginal. But when you grow up in a small town, there isn’t much else to anyone’s story really. Most of our classmates hooked up with each other and got married as well. On our graduation day, he proposed at my party, much to my parents' disdain. They hated him. They still do. Maybe I should have taken the hint?
I, on the other hand, was ecstatic by the proposal. I thought I was in love. We had a fairy-tale wedding with pretty much the whole town in attendance. We got married under the dripping willow trees as the sun set, and then he whisked me off to a week-long honeymoon in a little beach cabin. Living in Alabama had its benefits. It was the week we returned from the honeymoon that we learned I was pregnant. Everything was perfect. He was the love of my life. And for the first little bit of our marriage, he was a devoted father coming to all my prenatal appointments and super supportive when we found out I had a rare condition that required bedrest. He loved me. He did everything and anything for me. Surprise birthday parties. Presents and more, even outside of a holiday or birthday. It was all I could have ever dreamt of.
But isn’t that what they all say?
Now I just play the part of a lonely, depressed, and abused housewife. No friends. Family fucked off after the wedding in silent
disagreement with our marriage. No neighbors. Just me and Sam, and our goldfish, Elmo, all day…every day. Until my husband comes home drunk or almost drunk and starts his shit. Which is usually, the house isn't clean enough or I didn't cook the chicken quite right. Beratements and sneers are his usual go-to about how much of a shitty wife I am and if he could find someone better in this town, he would have already left me.
I pray every day he will. Find someone. Leave me. Or just not come home. Maybe a car crash? Maybe a work accident. Sometimes I daydream he will just leave without a word and only send a pile of cash each month to support us. I don't dare wish for a knight in shining armor to come save me. I had one of those and look how that turned out.
I can't even remember when it turned into this.
Was it when I started asking him permission to go out with my friends or go out in general? I had done that out of courtesy. Honey, can Igo out withAshley?It was always yes but then it turned into why? Or no. Then it turned into, I don't like you hanging out with her, and then after that, I don't like you hanging out with them. I slowly lost my friends one by one, because I was so in love with him I would have done anything he asked.
Or was it when he said I started to slack in my house chores due to being on bed rest and eight months pregnant? When he pointed it out, I slapped him. And that was the first time he raised his hand back. I got slapped in return. Hard. He knocked me unconscious when my head slammed into the oven. Was that it? Was that the gateway to him hitting me? Because since then, it has only increased and never fully stopped.
Sam was born, and bills increased. I still couldn’t work because of the heart condition I developed with my pregnancy, and Isaac started drinking excessively because of money problems. We fought more and more and our sex life died. I could tell he resented me for not working. It got to the point that I just wanted a job and to get out of the house just to be away from him. I applied but when the condition was disclosed, I was almost immediately fired or not even considered. It pissed him off. It pissed me off. It even pissed me off
when he tried to touch me or show affection. I hated his touch. His face. And then it turned into me wanting a break, so I called my mother and told her the truth. She didn't feel sorry for me and after a lot of, Itoldyou so’s, she asked me to come home. Sitting in the car before leaving, I decided to send him a goodbye text. And that’s when he pulled in. Was that when I gave up and accepted my fate?
The soundoftires squealing into thedriveway moved my eyes to the rear-view mirror where I watched him pull in, fast. He had damn near put his truck on two wheels. Rain pattered the rooftop andwindowsofmyJeep Wrangleras I watchedhimslamhistruck intoparkandtheheadlightsgo out.Before heevengotout,Iknew he was drunk and I was shaking,trying togrip the steering wheel. Why hadn’t I hurried more? Why hadn't Ijust left when I had the chanceandsentthetextlater?
I looked back at my sweet six-month-old baby boy bundledup inhiscarseat,fastasleepandreadytogo. MaybeIcouldjusthave takenoff?Itwouldhavebeenouronlychance.Myheartspedupas Iputashakyhandonthegearshift.Hehadn'tgottenoutyet.Ihad time to put it in reverse and leave. But what if he followed in his truck? I couldn’t put Sam at risk. Maybe I should have called the cops?
Thetruckdoorslammedmeoutofmydebate. Hewasout.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," I whispered. My only chance was to lie. I driedmytearsandactedlikeIwasfine.
Two fast raps on the window and then the doorpoppedopen. "Gabby, where thehellareyougoing?"Thesmellofwhiskey flowed intothecarandIheldmybreath.Itsmelledlikehedrankthewhole bar . His blonde hair was disheveled and sticking up in random places, and hiseyes were half shut as he swayed in hisspot. The smell of a woman's perfume, his open zipper , and the makeup smudgeon theshoulderofhiswhiteshirt...wasn'tloston me either . There was a time this would have destroyed me but it only cementedthefactthatIneededtoleave.
"I, uh..." I swallowed down my clogged throat and tears, and smiled the best I could before clearing my throat. "I'm off to the
Fuckhim,Ithought.My fear turnedto rage. Ihadtostop this evenifhedidgetafewswingsin.I'dhadenough.Hewenttoreach for the backdoor handle where Sam was and I quickly locked the door before turning andkicking out to get him away from the car, buthewasfastforbeingdrunkandcaughtmyankle.
"Gabby, fucking stop this and get your ass out now!" He squeezed my ankle tight and I screamed as he started to pull me from the car. The sound was loud enough that Sam awoke and startedtocry. I heldonto thesteering wheelandtriedtofighthim butitonlymanagedtopisshimoffmoreandbeforeIknewitIwas halfwayoutthecar .
"LETMEGO!"Icriedout.WehadnoneighborswithinmilesorI wouldhave screamed.Tears came andspilleddownmy cheeksas I screamed over and over while kicking out but it was no use. With one final pull he wretched me from the car. On the way out, the backofmy headslammeddown hard,firston thefootrailandthen thecement.
It caused the world to sway for a second, only to have come intofocuswithhimovermeashescreamedinmyface,"YOUWERE FUCKINGLEAVINGME!WITHMYCHILD?"HestraddledmebeforeI could get up, and shoved my lit phone screen into my face. I couldn’tholdinmytearsnowatmyownstupidity. Ihadleftthetext message up on the screen that I had been writing when hepulled up.
"Isaac,I'msosorryithastobethisway."Hestartedtoreadmy text out loud. I tried to buck him off with my hips. But he was too heavyanditonlymadehimgrowlbeforeputtingmoreweightonme causingmy alreadypoundingheadtofeelfuzzy. Ilookedatthetire onthecarandtriedtokeepfocusonit,insteadofhisstupidfaceas theraindroppeddownontop ofus. "Lookat me."WhenI refused he grabbed my chin hard and forced me to look at him while he read."Ithinkit'sbetterforustohaveabreak.Maybethingscango backtothewaytheywere before itturnedbad.Ilovedyou atone point butnow, I'mnot so sure. Pleasegive us some time. I'llbe in contact."
Ionly saw the flash of lightning behind him for a split second beforetheforceofhisfistknockedmyeyesclosed.Ithurt.Bad.
"You thoughtyou couldjust take my son away from me and I wouldbeokaywithit."
Another hit, which was a slapinstead, and I could feel my left eyestartingtoswell.Itwasn’tenoughforhimsohekepthittingme repeatedly. Atsomepointheplacedhisotherhandonmythroatand squeezed,leavingme barelyconscious."Fuckyou."Ibarelygotthe insult out when he finally stood before stumbling back from me, breathinglikeabull.
"Fuckme?I’llshowyoufuckme!"Therainhadlongdiedandif hehadbeendrunkbefore, atthispointhewas stone-coldsoberas he unbuttoned his pants. I snapped out of my dazed state and startedtositup.
"Isaac, don't,"Iwhimperedandthenleanedto thesidetospit the building blood out of my mouth. It felt like he knocked a tooth loose.
I scooted back as he took his hard cock from his pants. Everything in me ached and was in pain. Sam had stopped screaming, but I still was worried without having eyes on him. I neededtogo. Igoton my kneesandtriedtoclimbintothecar but suddenly he grabbed me by my hair and white-hot pain raced againstmyscalp. Iscreamedashepulledmetoastandingposition. Slamming me up against Sam's door , Igot a quickglimpse of him beingawake,suckinghisthumbfromwheremyfacewaspressedup against the window. I closed my eyes as Isaac ripped down my pantsandunderwear."Thiswillhurt.Alot."
It was the only warning I got before he raped me over and over again. That night when he was finally finished, I collapsed and passed out on the concrete. He left me there for the night, and I awoke the next morning to Sam screaming in the car. I never tried to leave again. That night resulted in me being pregnant along with having to go to the ER the next day for anal bleeding and vaginal tearing. He tore me in both spots, it was the first time I’d ever had anal sex, so maybe that was normal, but the vaginal tearing was worse than when I had Sam.
Now, I don’t fight anymore. Instead I put a numb smile on my face and go through the motions. Another pregnancy. Another bedrest diagnosis. Another day comes and goes where I’m trapped seeing his face.
Maybe it was all of it combined, the abuse, depression, loneliness. Or maybe it was brought on from the pregnancy? But I couldn't sleep with him. He forced me to physically lay in his bed but I couldn't allow myself to sleep safely around him. So I didn't. I would go days at a time with no sleep and then hit such a deep sleep at times, not meaning to. I would wake up in the kitchen pouring milk all over the floor, or with Isaac beating the shit out of me until I would come to my senses. Sleepwalking. It was my new thing he thought he could punish out of me.
I had a feeling it was brought on by my bouts of insomnia. But I was too far gone to sleep now, even if I wanted to, and it was no
longer because I feared him. I was only numb to him. To everything. It was like my emotions just left me and I didn't have any more left. Sam would do something that before would elate me but now only produced a smile on my face. Big events didn't excite me or pull anything from me, emotions-wise. Weddings or funerals. And I used to cry at both. I was just here living in Hell and acting fine on the outside.
I don't know why I can't sleep now, or why I won't stop sleepwalking when I do.
The doorbell ringing snaps me out of my thoughts and I leave Sam on the couch to answer it. The peephole reveals a handsome guy, who's either a murderer or an alien, because there was nobody in this shit hole town that looked as good as him. It was almost enough to make my heart stutter, like it had long ago. Almost.
Murderer or not, I answer the door, my common sense gone along with my emotions. The man, who looks in his mid-twenties and is insanely tall, looks shocked for a second but recovers fast.
"Excuse me, Miss or Mrs.?" He corrects in a British accent when he glances at the ring on my finger. His accent does boost my heart for a second. "I was looking for an Alaric Michael." He lifts an eyebrow and looks me up and down. I'm so shocked by how sexy he is, I can only stare.
"Miss?"
"Oh, umm. Nope. Just me. Well, me and my husband's family. I mean our family." AaandI was bumbling like an idiot. How long had it been since someone had gotten me this flustered?
A real concern draws his eyebrows together and he tilts his head in a way that highlights his strong jawline. "Are you okay?" His voice is genuine. Great. I’m about to go from a bumbling idiot to an almost crying idiot.
I clear my throat and put on a small smile. "I'm fine. Sorry, but there isn't an Alaric here and the last homeowners have passed away. About five miles down the road to the south is the Weston household. They might be able to help?" My heart slams at the thought of sending this handsome stranger away but I know even in my sleep-deprived mind that this isn't a fantasy or a fairytale. He
isn't here to sweep me off my feet, no matter how much I want to kiss him and see how it feels to be swept up in romance again. Where the heck were these thoughts coming from?
He gives a polite smile. "Well then, I will head that way. Thank you...Mrs.?"
I gulp and smile back. "Just Gabriella is fine."
He tests the name on his foreign tongue, making my heart palpitate and butterflies come out of hiding from within my stomach. "Gabriella," he repeats again before lifting a corner of his mouth into a sexy smile. He winks and then turns away. That's when I notice the Cadillac Escalade with blacked out windows. It looks brand new and his clothes look fancier than anything anyone wears here. I look down at my own three-day wardrobe of leggings and an oversize shirt. Sigh. My hair probably looks like a bird’s nest as well.
He gives me one last look before getting into his SUV and backing out of the driveway. I sigh again in defeat of what could have been if I hadn't been so blinded by love at the age of sixteen. My headstone would say: Here lies Gabby, that didn’t end up with a prince but a villain as her soul slowly decayed into a never ending darkness. I shut and lock the door and head back to my rocking chair. The life of Gabby was a mess for sure.
ASHTON
2010. The year I became a Bitten; almost ten years ago. I was twenty-five.
Vampire, as pop culture would call me.
At the time I was in a small, no-name town, somewhere just north of the Alabama coastline. Some buddies and I went for a holiday to America. When you’re in line for the crown, you have endless time and money so popping off randomly to wherever isn't a big deal. Thought it would be a good time, and my best mate had an internet friend here that said the parties were lit and the girls fine. The internet buddy's name was Alaric Michael. And the parties and the girls were lit, but only for the first two hours.
AlaricMichaelandhisfriendshadus downatthebeach,sitting around the bonfire andimmediatelypushed bottles of whiskey into ourhands.Soontherewasahappybuzzamongusenoughtoignore some loud yank playing what they thought was a popular country song. The Americangirls were fine. Tannedup and drunk. Partiers throughandthrough,andexactlywhatwecamefor. I’dbeeneyeing a brown, curly-hairedgirl with short shorts when a scream pierced throughthenight.
Derrick.Itcame from thetree lines. Iboltedupalongwithmy friend,andwemadeourwaythroughthewoodstowardsthesound. I found it weird how no one else flinched at the scream. No one looked around or reacted to it. But Mike and I both heard it, and tookno timedroppingour bottlesandcheckingthesoundout. The light of the moon was the only thing that lit our path as the light from the bonfire faded behind us. Mike was the first one to push throughthetreeline.
A figure blurred in front of me, tackling Mike and taking him withit.
Iwasdrunk.Hadtobe.Whatkindof…
Suddenly thefigure was in front of me. A man. Alaric Michael. Bloodcoveredhismouthandteethashesmiledawickedsmile,and IstumbledbackonlynoticingthenthatMike andDerricklaidat his feet.Dead.
“THEFUCK!”Iyelled,before stumblingbackandlandingon my assinthesand.
“Weneedyou.You’rethestrongestofthem.”
“For what?” I stuttered. Never mind, I didn’t want to know. Beforehecouldanswer,Iturnedandbolted.Fuckthisplace.
Right as I rounded a tree, I heard someone laugh that almost sounded like they were right beside me but that can’t be right. “Leave him.Ilike thechase.”Agirl'svoice,itsoundedlike thegirlI was about to hit up. I glanced back as my foot finally found road pavement.AhornrangandIsawawhitelight.Thennothing.
It’s been ten years since I’ve been back here. Ten years since Alaric turned me into a Bitten after I was hit by a truck on a random Alabama highway. But this life was too hard to live, and I wanted out. I needed my humanity back. Day after day, I could feel my life slip into madness. Immortal is what they said I was. How could I survive this torment every day, craving the blood of those around me? After I killed most of my loved ones upon returning to London, I then tried to kill myself plenty and nothing sticks. I’m still here. So, I need him. I need him to tell me how to die.
I go back to where Alaric once lived. The place he took us before driving to the beach that night. But I immediately know something is off when I pull in. I can hear an annoying cartoon show playing as I pull up, even before I get out of my vehicle. Super hearing was a bitch sometimes. I can hear a rhythmic creaking. It sounds like a… rocking chair? The smell is off. Too human and that bastard's white beat-up car is not in the drive. I ring the doorbell
and while I wait listening to the light footsteps to step towards the doors, I notice the flowers planted everywhere outside the house. Odd. Definitely not Alaric’s handiwork.
The scent of jasmine hits me right as the door opens and it’s enough to almost knock me down. Or is it this creature's luscious, pouty lips? I ignore the faded bruise I see above her eye or the bags under her eyelids, and force myself to speak. When was the last time I smelled something other than blood when looking at a beautiful woman? And that’s what she was. Beautiful. She also looked destroyed. But by the way her heartbeat reacts to my voice, I know that she isn’t totally lost. At least not to me anyway. Was someone hitting her? A second heartbeat, tiny, faint, graces my hearing and I know she’s pregnant. And married. My undead heart seems to sink at this but the determination in her eyes as I leave and her skipping heart tells me, married wife or not…she’s just as interested in me as I was in her.
I pull down the road but I don’t go to where I’m supposed to. Instead I back my SUV into the trees away from any prying eyes to catch that may see me and wait until dark. I was too intrigued with her to leave. The asshole, Alaric, could wait. For now.
I STAY HIDDEN and stalk Gabriella for a whole month until I make my move.
I’m not entirely sure why I stayed. But now I’m too far gone watching her, to leave.
I know her husband abuses her and it doesn’t take long for me to learn of her multiple mental illnesses, which I’m sure are caused by that abusive prick. Does she know that she only sleepwalks and destroys the stuff in the house that he’s previously yelled at her about? I watch now from behind my sunglasses in my parked SUV as she makes her way with her son, Sam, into the doctor's office. He’s a very well-behaved boy. For a child, it surprises me. I’ve never been able to stand children but a part of me is glad that he is
behaved so the husband doesn’t turn his rage towards him. Today she is wearing normal clothes and makeup. Her hair is down and curled, and she looks like she has a bit of life in her. It’s probably from getting out of that depressing house. She looks gorgeous. Why hasn’t she left the prick yet?
I write down the time and date she does anything new because normally she is lifeless, sitting in that rocking chair. Well, unless it’s to take care of her son. Even her own needs are ignored until her husband demands her to shower. She hardly eats. Her pregnancy worries me, as it should her husband. She never sleeps until her body forces her and then she is still using up energy to act out in her sleep. Little Sam trips, his knee scraping the concrete and within a second the smell hits me. Usually it would be enough to bowl me over with hunger but now I’m only concerned about him and her.
“Uh oh. Come here.” She comforts and picks him up as he cries. Right as she tries to coddle her son, the door opens and hits her back. It’s a man escorting his own pregnant wife from the doctor.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
She gives a polite smile and I watch as he holds the door open for them to go through. It makes me antsy. I wish I could hold the door for her.
Fuck. When did my thoughts go from intrigued with her life, to wanting to be in her life?
Then again, I am stalking her.
Gabriella.
I say it out loud, loving the way it feels on my tongue. Loving the memory it produces of how much she loved it when I said her name.
Maybe I could find a way to help us both?
Kill her husband. Easy.Simple.
Commit myself to her, her children as well, when I came here to kill myself?
Notsosimple.
I needed to learn more. Watch. Obsess. Because she wasn’t something I could walk away from now.
GABRIELLA
I didn’t have to tell Dr. Martin that something was wrong when I went in for my six-month appointment. He took one look at me and immediately demanded I tell him why I looked so sickly. It all came flooding out. All of it. I decided it was time to come clean to him when I started to see things. Well, not thingsexactly but peopleand not really people, but just one person in particular. The sexy man that knocked on my door a while back ago. Ever since then, I swear I see him everywhere. In a reflection of my water glass at the dinner table. In the corner of the room watching me as I “sleep.” On and on, I think I see him everywhere. Outside. Inside. Doesn’t matter, he’s always there. Always watching and always sexy as hell. He obviously had some big impact on my sleep-deprived brain but either way that wasn’t good. I needed help. Sleepwalking was one thing, hallucinations was a whole other ballfield.
So, I came clean. And after that, I spent the next twenty minutes convincing him I didn’t need the women’s shelter for the beaten and abused. A lot of concerned looks later, he finally dropped it and moved on to a solution. He put me on a medication that would help both me and the baby to cure me of sleepwalking. I doubted it. And although it was the help that I most likely needed, I wasn’t one for taking medication. But I would try. At least for the baby. Especially after he outlined all the dangers I was posing to my child by just denying my body the sleep it needed. He did assure me that hallucinations were a danger in a sleep deprived body and mind. It sucked to know that I didn’t have a sexy stalker and that I was now at the concerning level of my mental health. He also explained how dangerous the sleepwalking could be if not contained.
I could wander outside and get hit by a car, although we are in the county, but I knew what he meant; fall down the stairs, or try to eat and choke. He kept rambling on but in my heart, I knew he was taking the extra time with me in my appointment to get it through my head that this was serious and needed to be taken care of.
I set Sam down in the grass and follow behind him as he teeters along, exploring the yard with wide eyes. The sun’s warm rays cast down on us through the trees, and the spring weather has a nice breeze blowing around us. One big inhale of this weather almost makes me feel normal, if just for a second. I watch as he rips up some blades of grass and throws them in the air with pure delight, and giggles. It’s adorable and I can’t help but smile as well. “Sam, you silly baby. The grass stays in the dirt.” He squeals and attempts to run away.
“Oh, that’s it, you handsome man, you're gonna get it!” I pretend to chase him, making him squeal louder.
The sound of a car pulling up into our driveway has me looking back to see the black Cadillac Escalade from a few weeks ago. My heart picks up. Him again? Either he really was a murderer or someone had big jokes to flaunt this beautiful man in front of me. I’ve been on my medicine so this wasn’t a hallucination, although I still wasn’t sleeping. I hoped it was real. “Car!” Sam points, and I kiss his cheek. Okay, so it’s real. I scoop him up, adjust him around my growing belly, and head to the car as the man gets out. It’s like the sun knew where he would walk because the light reflects off his sunglasses as he takes them off in a way that turns him into a GQ model. His posh clothes and fancy car scream money. What was he doing here again?
“Gabriella.” He greets, putting his hands in his pockets.
“I’m sorry, I never got your name the other day.” I lift Sam, trying to contain his wiggling. He wants down and as hot as this man is, he’s still a stranger and could be dangerous to us.
He smiles and the sun gleams off his teeth in a way that almost makes them seem longer for a second. I don’t dwell on it because the damn butterflies are back. “Ashton Rush.”
I’d roll my eyes about how perfect his name is if he weren’t right in front of me. Of course, everything about him is perfect. Damn Brits with their gorgeous voices, looks and names. I shove my thoughts aside. “Ashton.” I can’t help but smile as my stupid crush expands. His name sounds familiar but I ignore the weird déjà vu. “What can we do for you? Did you find your friend you were looking for the other day?”
“Ah, yeah. Apparently he moved away but that’s not why I’m here.”
I’m taken aback, but I take the bait as I tilt my head in confusion. “Why are you here then?”
He steps forward, and suddenly he is super close. The scent of Acqua di Gio cologne by Giorgio Armani hits me with a fresh, irresistible scent that has my hormones instantly reeling. He’s so close Sam reaches out and tugs on his shirt, babbling as he tries to put the fabric of his white shirt in his mouth. I immediately apologize but he just laughs it off. Lifting his hand, he gently caresses my cheek. I’m not entirely sure why I let him because I flinch when anyone touches me, doctors included, but his touch feels…safe. His touch gives me delightful shivers all through my body and the baby kicks in my stomach. “I won’t beat around the bush about this. I want you.”
“Excus—” I’m in shock as I step back, away from his velvety touch. Warning bells are going off but something is keeping me from not running in panic.
“I don’t give two shits about your abusive husband, how you have a son and are pregnant.” I don’t mean to gasp out loud but I do solely, because my heart is racing, and I don’t know if this is real or some made-up fantasy. I mentally count how many pills I’ve taken so far. He slides his hand down my arm until he reaches my hand and grasps it as his brown eyes darken. Here stands any woman’s wet dream and he wants me? But why? This isn’t right.
I take my hand back and put distance between us as I adjust Sam. “No!” I scoff. “This is crazy. This doesn’t make sense. I don’t know you. You don’tknowme!” He’s hot but what guy in their right mind would admit to wanting a married woman with baggage. And
how did he know that I was being abused? I shake my head as I continue to step back toward the safety of my house. Well, kind of safe but at least Isaac hasn’t killed me, yet. This guy was obviously a psychopath and could very well be a killer for all I knew. “I’m sorry, this is crazy and you need to leave before my husband gets back.” I know he catches the shake of my voice when his lips tilt up in an evil smirk.
Never turn your back on a predator but I ignore that saying and turn to head into the house, fast. He doesn’t have to stop me physically because I’m grounded to a halt when he calls my name. “I know that asshole doesn’t get home until he at least has a good buzz going and that’s well past 5 p.m. I also know you like it when I say your name. Your heartbeat picks up and I can smell the heat that starts within you. I know you can’t stand to look in the mirror for more than necessary because that asshole has made you believe you are ugly, when in reality you are anything but. You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You love watching Sam’s show that has the duck and the elephant but pretend not to watch, even when it’s just you and him in the house. You hate butter on your toast and will only eat it with raspberry jam at least an inch thick. You fear the dark but sleepwalk every night and when you do, you only get into things your husband has previously yelled at you about. And when no one is around and Sam is asleep, you like to sing, softly, to yourself in comfort, for the child you carry in your belly.”
I turn around as goosebumps coat my arms but I’m not cold. He moves to me at an inhuman speed that makes my jaw drop. One second he’s by the car, and the next he’s right in front of me. He had been a good six feet away. I’m in shock but before I can ask what the Hell that was, he continues on, “Iknowyou. I’ve been watching you ever since I first came here. Call me a stalker. Creep. Or whatever you want. I finally found the one thing that makes this shitty life worth living for, and it’s you. And if there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I have all the time in the world and I always, always, get what I want.”
Sam is now falling asleep with his tiny head on my shoulder and my arms are way past being numb from holding him. Ashton just
told me he’d been stalking me. That he wants me. Were my hallucinations actually real? This whole time I thought I was crazy, had he really been in and out of my house? How did he move so fast and why would he just assume it would be so easy for me to leave Isaac or that I would want to? I tried once before and it didn’t end well. Unless Ashton planned to kill him, I would never get away. Ever. And then how would we survive without a place or money if this crazy fantasy with a stranger didn’t work out?
“Why would you think that any sane woman would be okay with what you just said. This is insane. I need to put Sam in bed.” This time when I turn around I make it into the house, locking it behind me before I rush to put Sam to bed. My nerves are lit and I’m shaking as I grab my phone, prepared to call the police but something is stopping me. I peek out of the window to find him still here. Now leaned up against his car. Shades back on his handsome face, and it seems like he is looking right at me. I close my eyes and swallow hard. What the hell do I do?
What the hell do I want? Should I call the cops or should I take this as a miracle, take him up on his offer and get out of this nightmare with Sam while I have the chance? I have been taking my medicines for a week but maybe I should have started it sooner. Was he actually here? If he was, I obviously hallucinated seeing him move that fast. For my children, I needed to get my head right and get healthier for any chance at escaping. A knock on the door breaks me out of my dilemma. “Gabriella, open the door, sweetheart. I’m not a figment of your imagination.” My heart pounds harder. How did he know what I was thinking?
I walk up to the door and despite my self-preservation, I open it. He runs a hand through his black hair. “I can help you, Gabriella.”
“How?” I ask bravely, but it feels like my heart is about to pound out of my chest.
I watch as he takes his sunglasses off and his eyes bleed from their normal color to a dark red. When I start to back away out of fear, he reaches out and grabs my hand holding me in place. This couldn’t be possible. People’s eyes didn’t just turn colors and certainly not red.
“This is how I can help.”
I shake my head as I pull my hand away. “Whatever this is, it won’t help.”
“Just listen.” The tone of his voice holds me in a weird trance and I can’t look away from the crimson color of his stare. Somehow I break through the sudden fogginess of my brain. “How?”
The sky darkens as he once again reclaims my hands and all at once pulls me toward him. I’m back in the trance of his eyes that I can’t look away from and that makes my body feel like I’m floating on air.
“Because I’m a vampire.”
I PASSED OUT.
He apparently caught me because I don’t feel anything hurt or broken. And I woke up feeling a cold washcloth on my head where I lay on the couch. “Ashton? Oh my God, Sam!”
I try to sit up but he stops me as I look around. “Gabriella, Sam is fine. I haven’t heard him stir once. You need rest.” His concern is palpable since I did just pass out but then again I swore he just claimed to be a vampire. And why did I trust him about Sam? How long was I out for?
“I need to see him.” He nods and helps me off the couch. He guides me to Sam’s room, and I can’t help but feel a little weird about this. He is a stranger. Sam lays sound asleep in his crib and after I confirm he is breathing, I make my way back to the couch where he follows. Dizziness strikes and I lay back down.
“Are you—” I reach out with a shaky hand and touch his arm. He’s real. Or my imagination is highly creative.
“I’m real. And what I told you is a fact.” I laugh.
And I keep laughing until tears spring into my eyes.
“Gabriella.” His irritated voice sobers my laugh.
I clear my throat and he helps me as I sit up. “Right. Sorry. It’s just that you offered your help, right? I mean…” Shaking my head I try to gather my thoughts. “And you’ve been stalking me?” I don’t give him a chance to answer. “And then you say you’re a vampire. Which if you have been stalking me, you’d know how messed up I already am. I don’t know how someone who is just as crazy, if not crazier, could help me in any way? Do you realize how absurd this whole situation is? You are in my house right now, and if you are a vampire, why haven’t you killed us yet? And you aren’t from around here. Were you ever really here for a friend? So much just doesn’t add up. I don’t understand. Prove something to me that makes sense.”
“I don’t think you're ill, Gabriella. I think your husband terrifies you so much, you don’t want to close your eyes when he forces you to sleep next to him at night. That causes your sleep problems. If you were happier, you’d be fine.”
I scoff. “I already know that. You aren’t proving your case to me.”
“My vampire case?” he asks, and two long sharp fangs slide down as he does.
I jolt back, more in disbelief than panic. I start to raise my hand. “I need to…”
“Touch them?” he asks in a deep voice that further excites me. “Go ahead, Gabriella.” He lightly takes my hand in his and starts to raise it, making me realize it's no longer shaking.
“This is insane,” I whisper as he guides my finger to slide down one of his fangs. I shiver at the same time he does.
“Do you need more proof?” He sets down my hand gently back on my lap. He moves from his spot on the coffee table to sit beside me. I can’t ignore how close we are or how much his warm leg pressing up against my own leg is affecting me. Should I push down my dress that got hiked up? I look into his eyes that have significantly darkened since I’ve touched him, and bite my lip. He leans closer to me and looks down at where my hand is toying with the edge of my dress with a smirk. It makes me realize his fangs are no longer there. I’ve never seen such full, attractive lips on a man. I
continue to stare at them while I feel like I’m lost in a trance. I swallow hard.
“Feel that, Gabriella?” he whispers.
“Feel what?” My voice is breathless.
“It’s called compulsion.” I’d seen enough vampire movies to know what that was and honestly wasn’t the least bit angry that he was using it on me. Call it stupid and dangerous but this dark, otherworldly and beautiful creature in front of me was everything I’d ever wanted.
“Close your eyes.” They flutter shut like they obey him and only him. “Now...” He gently lays his warm, strong hand on my upper thigh. I gasp softly. “Kissme.”
Before I can open my eyes, his lips slam onto mine. I suck in a shocked breath but the taste of mint along with his silk tongue assaults my senses, and I can’t fight him even if I wanted to. I’m so lost in him and it should be concerning because I kiss him back instead of acting like the married woman I am. I’ve never been kissed like this and especially not by my husband, not even in our good days. I’ve never felt someone’s tongue skillfully play over mine like his does. Conquering, breathtaking, while at the same time sexually compassionate. All this from his mouth, I can’t imagine what the rest of him can do. He squeezes my thigh gently making me whimper into his mouth from the pleasure ramping through me. He growls at the sound and nips at my lip. My hands fly up on their own accord into his hair because somehow this thing is turning from a windstorm to a tornado. We are out of control. Was his compulsion making me act like this or was this just the heat we generated from our rampant attraction? Just as fast as it starts, he suddenly pulls away from me, and I’m panting hard, trying to catch my breath. Did that really happen?
I touch my lip as I look up at his smoldering stare.
“Does that feel real enough for you, sweetheart?”
HE KISSED ME.
Ashtonkissedme.
Goosebumps coat my arms and my nipples tighten under my bra as I think back to his strong hands squeezing my thigh. After he kissed me, he left. No further explanation to his ‘I need you’ speech, he shows up with a mind-blowing kiss and then leaves. His words replay over and over in my mind. Doesthatfeelrealenoughforyou, sweetheart?
It’s been a month since that kiss, his seduction, and his words. Since then he has come by every day while Isaac is gone. He spends the day with both me and Sam. He doesn’t try to kiss me again. We talk about nonsense really but it’s amazing. Not only is he extremely pleasing to the eyes, but he hasn’t tried to rush his statement that he wants me. I told him I felt guilty about the time we spent together. Whether this is just a friendship or something more, I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder, worried that Isaac could come any second. He assured me not to worry because we were technically not doing anything wrong. I wasn’t sure my husband would see it as that.
But we had done something wrong. We kissed. We shared looks only lovers did. And Ashton was all I can think about so even mentally it was wrong. On top of it all I wanted him to kiss me again so bad, I physically ache when I think about him. He knows it too. I can see it in the way he accidently brushes up against me when moving by or how he stares at me like I have hung the stars. My butterflies and silly giggles haven’t calmed either but have got worse. Now I actually get up every day and do my hair and makeup. If Isaac has noticed, he hasn’t said anything. I’ve started to smile again as well and my sleepwalking is non-existent. It might be my medication but I swear it’s him. It’s like he brought me back to life and even though I’m still stuck in this abusive, loveless marriage, he’s starting to thaw my decision to run away with him. I just feel like I really don’t know him well enough for that, to risk Sam’s wellbeing. Not yet.
“GABBY! What the fuck is wrong with you!” I spaced out again. I shake myself out of it as Isaac snatches the spatula out of my
hand. A small wisp of smoke rises up from the pork chops and a burned smell fills the air. I rub my belly to calm the baby who’s doing backflips, and step back.
“Sorry,” I mumble, waiting for him to take his anger out on me. But other than an angry glare, he doesn’t move to strike me.
“Anyways.” He grabs his beer off the counter and takes a swig before going back to cooking, which was what I was doing. He seems to be in a crazy good mood for some reason, excited even. He never wants to talk to me. Just yell and now all of a sudden, he’s blabbing about work? I’m confused and a little frightened by this so I stay quiet. “I told that motherfucker, I was the site manager and if he had a problem with how I ran things, he could get the fuck out. Then thought better of it and fired his dumbass after lunch. I hate the idiot kids in this town. All the kids these idiots are raising around here are worthless. Just fucking worthless. I can tell you something though.” He looks at me and points the cooking utensil my way. I flinch, not meaning to, but he ignores it or doesn’t notice because he continues, “Neither of my sons are going to act like that, I’ll make damn sure of it. And so will you.”
I just nod. I want to scream at him but instead I stay calm. I want to tell him he won’t have anything to do with raising our sons and influencing them to be the jackass he is. I wish I could stand up to him. The hate I feel for him grows and grows. When he doesn’t get a rise or reaction out of me, he scoffs before throwing down the spatula on the counter. “Finish cooking this the rightway and bring me another beer.” Then he walks out of the kitchen and I let go of the breath I didn’t know I was holding. Dinner finishes without incident but I can’t get Ashton off my mind even to the point I’m catching myself looking out the window, wondering if he is there watching me like he claimed to have done. I try to ignore the thoughts of him and head to bed. I’m not sure if it’s the new meds or the growing baby but I pass out with no delay. Isaac will leave for work and I will get to see Ashton. It’s the thing I let my mind wrap around on repeat as I drift off to sleep. So far the thoughts of him have kept the manic sleepwalking at bay.
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CHAPTER IV.
A the table was sitting a matronly lady in black, with a stodgy and inexpressive face. She was writing letters at a neat little morocco desk; and on the entrance of her pupil followed by a good-looking but perfectly unknown gentleman, she drew herself up from her occupation, and rubbed her nose with her ivory-handled pen in evident dismay.
“Dear me!” she ejaculated softly, in tones of abject consternation, “who has she picked up now?”
Before the elder lady had time to give any other indication of the manner in which she intended to receive the stranger, the young girl flung her uninjured arm from behind round the neck of her less impulsive fellow-woman, and cried:
“Mammy Ellis, you see—you see I was right. This is the gentleman who saved me from being burnt. He has come to say he is sorry.”
And with this introduction, uttered in a tone of the utmost triumph, she made a step back, as if she expected that a full and uninterrupted view of him would remove all lingering doubts as to the perfect eligibility of her new acquaintance.
It was rather embarrassing certainly. For the elderly lady, who had risen from her chair and was taking a good look at the midnight intruder, continued to glare at him with cold British stolidity, and Lauriston had none of the aplomb given by a long and varied course of flirtations.
“I am afraid, madam,” he began humbly, and with a good deal of hesitation, “that you—that you will not forgive my—er—my appearance here, I mean my last appearance, in fact my first appearance.” He paused to gather an idea to go on with, and continued his explanation more calmly, taking care, with all the signs of conscious guilt, to avoid the lady’s stony eye. “A comrade of mine (his name is Massey—we are lieutenants in the same regiment, th Hussars) gave me the address ‘36, Mary Street, West,’ as that of his brother, who is an old friend of mine. He told me to go right in and
up to the first floor Of course I must have come to the wrong Mary Street, but I knew of no other, drove straight here, and carrying out my instructions, had the misfortune, as you know, to intrude upon this young lady, with the unhappy consequence of waking her and causing the accident. I cannot express my regret. I have been ashamed to call. I would bring my friend to back me up if I thought you would believe him more than me. But you would not. I am a gentleman, madam, an officer. I hope you will believe me.”
Whether the eloquence of this speech would have been strong enough to melt the rigid lady is unknown. But there is magic to feminine ears in the word “officer”; and as the young fellow brought his explanation to an end with much brusque fervour, she softened visibly, and glanced from him to her charge in a wavering and uncertain manner.
“Well, really I don’t know,” she began vaguely, when the girl cut her short, slipping her slim hand between her guardian’s plump arm and matronly figure, and resting her head, gently tilted back, on the lady’s breast in wheedling and seductive fashion.
“Yes, yes, you do know, Mammy Ellis, you know your own husband was an officer—you’re always telling us so, and you’re only being dignified for fun, and you must shake hands with this gentleman and thank him for saving your little Nouna from having her arm burnt off.”
Thus adjured, Mrs. Ellis, still doubtfully murmuring and of rather distressful visage, did end by holding out a crumby hand, which George Lauriston shook with reverence and gratitude. He had got his cue now, and he at once made respectful inquiries about the husband, was fortunate enough to be able to tell the widow certain details concerning the regiment to which he had belonged, and soon succeeded in obtaining the lady’s confidence to such an extent that she entertained him with a long and minute account of the late officer’s distinguished though bloodless services to his country, and of the niggardliness of an ungrateful government to the hero’s family
George was becomingly overwhelmed with indignation, though the monotony of the narrator’s delivery, the pleasant atmosphere of the half-darkened room, the window of which was shaded with thick blinds, and the sight of Miss Nouna stretched comfortably in an
American well-cushioned chair, waving a palm-leaf lazily to keep the flies off, and looking at him half shyly, half mischievously from behind it through long black eyelashes, all tended to lull him into a drowsy state, in which he half imagined himself to be in some tropical country where passions spring up in a day to a fervour never felt in foggy England, where life flows on without energy or effort, and where woman, instead of being the modest partner of our joys and sorrows, is the passionate, voluptuous and irresponsible source of them.
The apartment, though far smaller, more commonplace and less gorgeous than the room which he had seen on his first visit, helped the illusion. Tall narrow glasses from floor to ceiling on each side of the door, reflected a long, two-tiered stand full of large-leaved hothouse plants which ran the whole length of the windowed-wall of the room. Half-a-dozen of these plants were little orange trees, their round yellow fruit giving pretty touches of colour to the dark green mass, while the white blossoms gave forth a faint, sweet perfume. The glass over the mantelpiece was draped with dark tapestry curtains, caught up here and there on each side by palm-leaf and peacock fans, of the kind with which a freak of fashion has lately made us all familiar. The curtains came down to the ground, while the deep valance which hung from the mantelpiece over the empty fireplace was caught up in the middle by a bronze statuette of a Hindoo girl, whose right arm held high above her head a shaded lamp. A pair of black Persian kittens were curled up asleep on a cushion at the feet of the statue. A harp stood in one corner, and a guitar lay on a chair. The rest of the room did not harmonise with these fantastic arrangements. The best had been done to conceal a bilious “high art” carpet by means of handsome rugs, and the table was beautified by an embroidered cover; but the chairs and sideboard breathed forth legends of no more interesting locality than the Tottenham Court Road, and the walls were made hideous by an obtrusive and yet melancholy paper
George Lauriston noted all these things, and his curiosity about this queer little household grew more intense. Who was this fascinating young girl? Why was she living in this dingy corner of London with the garrulous middle-aged lady who must evidently find
her impulsive charge “a handful”? The buzz of Mrs. Ellis’s tedious monologue began at last to madden him, and he followed the young girl with eager eyes as she slid off her chair and rang the bell.
“I’m thirsty, Mammy Ellis,” she explained. Then, tired of silence, she swooped down upon the table, thrust the pen her governess had been using again into the astonished lady’s hand and said, coaxingly but imperatively: “Write—write to mamma. This gentleman does not wish to interrupt you. I will entertain him. Tell her what you think of him. And then I will read the letter, and see if it may go.”
Mrs. Ellis laughed gently, and obeyed with a protest. Evidently that was the usual order of things between them. Nouna improvised herself a low seat beside the plants by piling on the floor the cushions from her American chair, then she crossed her hands round one knee, and looked up at Lauriston.
“You have not told us your name,” said she diffidently.
“Nouna,” protested the lady from the table.
“Don’t you want to tell us your name?”
“Certainly. George Lauriston.”
“That is a pretty name. Mine is Nouna.”
“Nouna! That is not an English name.”
“Of course not. It is an Indian name. Do you like Indians?”
“I have only known one West Indian lady.”
“West Indian! That is not Indian at all. I come from the land of the Rajahs. My grandmother was a Maharanee. She was the most beautiful woman in all India, and she wore chains of diamonds round her neck that flashed and sparkled like a thousand suns, and she lived in a marble palace that was called the Palace of Palms, where the floors glittered with gold, and soft music came like wind through the halls, and a great tall tower with a minaret and a spire rose up into the sky over the room where she slept, to tell all the world that there was the spot where the Lady of the Seven Stars was resting. And she had a thousand slaves who knelt and bowed themselves to the earth when she spoke to them, and her palanquin was all of ebony-wood inlaid with pearl, and it was hung with silver fringe, and the inside was satin, the colour of the opening roses; and she travelled on an elephant whose trappings were of gold. Ah, that is the beautiful land; where the sun is scorching hot on the fields, and
shines bright and glorious, and throws golden darts through the chinks of the blinds. And yet there the ladies of high rank—like my grandmother and my mother and I, lie still and cool in their apartments, or step down soft-footed into their marble baths where no hot glare can reach them, only the sense that it is warm and bright outside. Oh, that is the place to live in, to be happy in. How could my mother leave it to come to a land like this!”
She had worked herself up as she sang the praises of her own country to a pitch of glowing excitement, which changed suddenly to an almost heartbroken wail with her last words. Mrs. Ellis looked up from the table reprovingly.
“You forget, Nouna, that India is a heathen country, and that your grandmother probably never had the chance of seeing so much as a single missionary, and seems to have been very ignorant of her higher duties.”
“There are no duties out there,” sighed Nouna, with a most plaintive look into the dream-distance from her black eyes; “at least for the high-caste women. You have only to live, and love, and grow old, and die, and nothing to learn but what you breathe in from the flowers and the sweet scents, and love-songs to please your lord the prince.”
Mrs. Ellis looked scandalised.
“Dear me, Nouna,” she bleated out nervously, “you really don’t know what you are talking about. You never talked like this before. I don’t know what Mr. Lauriston will think!”
Mr. Lauriston thought the look of passionate yearning in the young eyes inexpressibly fascinating, but he did not say so, merely murmuring something about the allowance to be made for a tropical temperament. And, Nouna being reduced by the interruption to a silent trance of regret, the conversation became an intermittent duologue between the other two until tea was brought in. The manner in which this was served displayed the same inconsistencies as the furniture of the room. Sundran, Nouna’s ayah, in her native dress, placed upon the table an ordinary black and battered tray, on which stood a chased silver-gilt tea-service of quaint design, cups, saucers, and plates of a common English pattern, and tiny silver-gilt tea-spoons with heart-shaped bowls and delicately enamelled dark-
blue handles. A great watermelon lay among vine-leaves in a shallow silver dish.
Mrs. Ellis laid aside her writing materials and poured out the tea, but she could not forget the young girl’s alarming outburst.
“I’m sure, Nouna, I don’t know what the Countess would say if she could hear you, so very particular as she is about your religious education. I am afraid I have given way to you too much; I ought never to have let Mr. Rahas fit up that room for you; it fills your head with all sorts of heathen notions, not fit for a Christian young English lady.”
“Mamma always lets me have my Indian things about me, and sends me Indian dresses, and she said herself I might have just one room without the horrid stiff European chairs and tables,” said Nouna, her voice taking a particularly sweet and tender inflection at the word “Mamma.” “But I’m going to give it up; I’ve told Mr. Rahas I don’t want it, and I’ve pulled down half the things. I will not accept gifts from one I despise.”
Springing in a moment from languor into life, she put her cup down on the table and went to the door.
“Come and see what I have done,” said she, beckoning to the young Englishman, her eyes dancing with mischief.
“Really, Nouna, I must say you are very ungrateful,” said Mrs. Ellis in despairing tones. “Mr. Rahas is always most considerate and gentlemanly, and when you said you longed for an Indian room he put it so prettily, asking whether he might fit up one large sitting-room as a show-room for his things; and then never showing anybody up into it! I really think you ought——”
But Nouna had flown out of the room, and she was haranguing only Lauriston, who had risen obediently at the young girl’s imperious gesture, but did not like to leave the elder lady alone so unceremoniously.
“She is a wilful little thing,” he said smiling.
“Oh, Mr Lauriston, what we English people call wilfulness is lamblike docility compared to that girl’s! She’s like an eel, like quicksilver, like a will-o’-the-wisp.”
“Or a sunbeam,” suggested he.
“Ah, of course, you’re a young man, you think her charming; and so, I believe, at the bottom of my heart, do I. But give me a good, sensible, solid, matter-of-fact English girl to look after, rather than this creature who is shaking with passion one moment, flashing her teeth, stamping her foot; and the next suffocating you, and crushing up your bonnet with kisses. As if kisses could cure the headaches her wild fits give me, or as if you could squeeze resentment out of a person, as you do water out of a sponge!”
“Has she been in your charge long?”
“Ever since she left school, six months ago,” said Mrs. Ellis with a sigh. “Her mother, one of the kindest and most charming women I have ever met, with all the high-bred ease that nothing will give to Nouna, wished her to have finishing lessons in music and dancing and languages in London. Music!” ejaculated the poor lady in a contemptuous manner. “Nothing would ever induce her to learn the piano, as every well-educated English girl should do. At school, after her first lesson, she crept down stairs at night, and undid all the strings of the instrument; so that had to be given up. I believe she wanted to learn the tom-tom, or some hideous Indian thing with jampot covers at each end, and they had to compromise by teaching her the harp and the guitar. Then languages! They only managed to get her to study French by telling her it was one of the dialects of India. As to dancing, that came to her like magic, from a waltz to a kind of wild dance of her own, more like the leaps and bounds of a young animal than the decorous movements of a young lady! I dare not think what the Countess would say if she could see her.”
“Why doesn’t she live with her mother, then, who would surely have more influence over her than any one?”
“You must not blame the Countess,” said Mrs. Ellis, as if he had been guilty of blasphemy. “A more loving mother never lived. You should read the beautiful letters she writes to her daughter. But she has married again; and her husband, the Conde di Valdestillas, a Spanish nobleman much older than herself, is a great invalid, and she is obliged to travel about with him wherever he fancies to go.”
“But surely the daughter ought to be considered as well as the husband.”
“The Countess feels that; and next year, when her daughter’s education will be finished, she intends settling down either in London or in Paris, and introducing the young lady to the world. If I can only keep the girl out of serious mischief so long,” sighed the lady, who seemed delighted to have a confidant; “but really it is too trying. The first thing we do after we have left the school (I was a boarder there, and as Nouna had taken a fancy to me, the Countess requested me to undertake the duties of chaperon) and come to London to look for apartments, is to pass this house on the way from Paddington to the Countess’s lawyers, from whom I draw my salary and Nouna’s allowance. There is a card—‘Apartments, furnished’—in one of the first-floor windows. Nouna catches sight of the Oriental names on the board outside, sees Indian lamps in the windows down stairs, and nothing will satisfy her but to come back to this house and settle here. Then, of course, the younger gentleman, Mr. Rahas, falls in love with her and——”
At this point Mrs. Ellis was interrupted by the flinging open of the door, and Nouna re-appeared, her face distorted with anger, and her eyes flashing with contempt: like an enraged empress she held open the door, keeping her head at a very haughty angle, and disdaining to look at the visitor.
“I know that nothing I can show my guest can have any interest for him,” she said icily; “but yet I think it would have been more courteous to me to disguise that fact.”
She made one step towards her American chair, when Lauriston, with an amused glance at Mrs. Ellis which he might well suppose to be unseen, hastened to the door, and held it open for her with a bow.
“I beg your pardon,” said he humbly, “I am very much interested in whatever you like to show me. But you left the room so suddenly that, before a clumsy man could hope to get up to you, you disappeared like a wave of the sea.”
She looked up at him with a very intelligent and searching expression, and was sufficiently mollified to lead the way out, turning sharply just in time to catch an exchange of glances, amused on the one side, apologetic on the other, between the visitor and her guardian.
She affected not to notice this, however, but opened the door of the next room without speaking, lifted the heavy curtain, ushered him in, and then shut the door and drew the hanging close. Lauriston looked about him in astonishment. The thick blinds, which were plain canvas on the outer, and rose-colour and gold puckered silk on the inner side, were drawn down, and made the room very dark, except for the chinks of sunlight that crept in at the sides. But there was quite enough light left to show what a wreck had been made of the luxurious beauty of the apartment since the night when it had burst on his eyes like a vision of fairyland. The silk and muslin hangings had been half torn from the walls, showing the ugly paper underneath; the spears and weapons had been tossed down on the ground as if they were so much firewood; the sandalwood screen had been folded and pushed into a corner; while of the smaller ornaments—cushions, daggers, Moorish table—a great pile had been made in the middle of the floor, and covered up with the tiger skins turned inside out. Nothing but the plants was respected; she had not had the heart to hurt them. Lauriston could scarcely help laughing; but when he glanced at the girl, and saw that she was standing against the dismantled wall, leaning back with an expression of as much triumph as if she had sacked a city, he felt really rather shocked, and clearing his throat he shook his head at her gravely.
“I did it all,” she said, nodding proudly and glancing round, as if anxious that no detail of the noble work should escape him. “Rahas said that Englishmen were cads, that you were a cad, and so I pulled the things down. Yes, I saw you and Mrs. Ellis laughing at each other, as if I were a silly little thing, and couldn’t do anything; but you see I can.”
It was harder than ever not either to burst out laughing, or to catch her and kiss her like a spoilt child; but Lauriston resisted both temptations, and said seriously:
“I think it was very silly and very ungrateful of you.”
She brought her head down to a less aggressive angle, and stared at him in surprise. He quite expected another outburst of anger, but none came. She only said “Oh!” reflectively in a soft undertone.
“He has been very kind to you, has he not, this Rahas?”
“Ye—es, he has been kind,” slowly, thoughtfully, and reluctantly “He wants”—she laughed shyly—“to marry me!”
“Oh!” Lauriston was disconcerted. A sudden flash of jealousy, acute and unmistakable, flamed up in his heart at the intelligence, communicated with this provoking coquetry. “You are going to marry him then?” he said rashly, on the impulse of the moment, unable to hide from her sharp eyes an expression of pique.
By quite impalpable changes of tone and attitude, she grew upon the instant a hundred times more seductive, more bewitching.
“Marry him!” She moved her hand to her head languidly “I don’t know. One ought to marry the person one loves best—in England, ought one not?”
“Certainly,” assented Lauriston, wondering at the power this mere child possessed of moving him, an altogether unsusceptible mortal, as he flattered himself, to impulses of passion.
“Then I must wait a little longer and be sure,” she said, twisting her head upon her neck with the daring, instinctive coquetry of a girl of five.
“You would rather have a—a—an Oriental like this Rahas, wouldn’t you?” he said in a low voice, his tone bearing more meaning than he wished.
“I don’t know,” she said, and stooping, she picked up a string of beads from among the débris on the floor.
He had come a step nearer to her, and as she stooped, by accident or design—with such a coquette one could not say which— she stumbled upon a rug and fell forward against him. He seized her with a gasp, and held her as she looked up with a laughing, provoking, irresistible face. She felt him shiver as he withdrew from her with such suddenness that she, leaning upon his arm, almost staggered.
“What is the matter?” she asked, as he drew out his watch with fingers so unsteady that he detached the chain.
“I—I beg your pardon,” he stammered, “but I have a most desperately important appointment with—with my colonel, in fact, which I shall miss if I don’t fly in the most unceremonious manner.”
Her face changed. A glow, not of anger, but of passionate disappointment, flushed her face, and the tears welled up into her
eyes. Lauriston grew very hot, and, all in a fever of excitement, wondered at this.
“When will you come again?” she asked breathlessly, raising her beautiful face with parted red lips. “You will not come again. Ah, I know you, you cold Englishman, you will forget me, forget the poor little girl whom you saw in flames. Oh, no; you must not!” With another passionate change, her face grew tender and caressing, as she cooed out the pleading words like music to his unwilling ears. “Promise you will come again within a week. No, no, a promise won’t do,” as Lauriston, glad to be let off so easily, opened his mouth. “Swear, swear that you will come here again—within a week.”
“But—”
“You shall not go till you have sworn.”
The little tigress, with one spring towards the door, locked it and drew out the key; with another, she had reached the nearest window.
“No, no, don’t. I swear!” cried Lauriston, who saw with stupefaction that she had raised the blind, and was about to throw the key from the open window.
She turned round, tossed the key in the air, and caught it in her hand with a laugh of triumph.
“Now,” she said, “I know you must come. For an English gentleman always keeps his word.”
She raised the curtain before the door, and put the key in the lock; before she turned it she twisted herself back towards the young fellow and said:
“Kiss me!”
He could not hesitate. If she would flirt it was not his fault. He put his arm round the lithe, bending waist, and pressed a passionate kiss on her red lips.
“Now I know you will come again,” she whispered as she let him out.
When Lauriston had taken a decorous leave of the innocent guardian in the next room, and found himself once more in the street, he was inclined to think that he had changed his identity. Some new power, horrible in its strength, seemed to have fastened upon him, and to twist and turn him like an osier. He walked on quickly and firmly, trying to recall his old, calmer self.
“I will keep my oath and go there again,” he said to himself with clenched teeth. “But by all I hold sacred, I won’t see that demon-girl again. Heaven help the man who may ever trust his happiness in her hands!”
CHAPTER V.
I was not so easy, after this second interview with the mysterious lady of Mary Street, for George Lauriston to keep the image of the little black-eyed enchantress out of his mind. Her prompt and passionate advances to himself raised strong doubts as to the result of the education which Mrs. Ellis declared to have been so careful, while on the other hand, against his better judgment, he would fain have believed that it was the romantic circumstances of their strangely made acquaintance which had broken down, for the first time, the maidenly reserve of the passionate and wayward girl. In spite of himself, a small, slim, supple form, dark sun-warm complexion, April changing moods, kisses from fresh young lips that clung to your own with frank, passionate enjoyment, had all become attributes of his ideal of womanhood. It came upon him with a shock therefore, when, a few days later, he suddenly discovered that he was expected to find his ideal in a lady who was destitute of any one of them.
It came about in this way. Chief among the houses where George Lauriston was always sure of a welcome was the town establishment of Sir Henry Millard, Lady Florencecourt’s brother, an uninteresting and rather incapable gentleman who had raised himself from poverty and obscurity by marrying, or rather letting himself be married by, an American heiress who was the possessor of a quite incalculable number of dollars. They had three daughters, Cicely, Charlotte, and Ella, all of whom would be well dowered, and who were therefore surfeited with attentions which custom had taught them to rate at their proper value. Lady Millard was a lean, restless, bright-eyed little woman, who had acquired some repose of manner only by putting the strongest constraint upon herself, and who was consumed by an ardent ambition to be the mother-in-law of an English duke. Sir Henry’s whole soul was bound up in a model farm in Norfolk, which his wife’s fortune enabled him to mismanage with impunity. He had never got over his intense disgust with his daughters for not being
sons, and he left them and the disposal of them entirely in the hands of his wife and of their uncle Lord Florencecourt, who, having no daughters of his own, took an almost paternal interest in his nieces.
Lord Florencecourt had made up his mind that a marriage between his favourite, George Lauriston, and one of his nieces would be an admirable arrangement, giving to the young officer the money which would do so much to forward his advancement in the world, and to one of the girls an honourable, manly husband, who might some day do great things. The match would, besides, strengthen the bonds of mutual friendship and liking between himself and the young man.
It was one evening when the two men were driving in a hansom to dine at Sir Henry’s, that the elder broached the subject in his usual harsh, abrupt tone, but with a generous fire in his eyes, which showed the depth and the quality of his interest in the matter.
Lauriston, taken by surprise, betrayed a reluctance, almost a repugnance, to the idea which filled the elder man with anger and disappointment.
“I see,” said he, with a short dry laugh. “You have picked up with some pretty chorus-girl, and are not ready for matrimony.”
“You are mistaken, Colonel, I assure you. I have picked up nobody. But it is hardly surprising if your constant jibes at love and matrimony should have taken root in me, who honour your opinions so much.”
He spoke somewhat stiffly, because he had to choose his words, feeling rather guilty. Lord Florencecourt broke in brusquely:
“All d——d nonsense! Jibes at love only take root in a young man to grow into intrigues. There’s an end of the matter; don’t refer to it again.”
They were at their destination. Lord Florencecourt sprang from the hansom first, out of temper for the evening; Lauriston followed very soberly.
Sir Henry’s town house was one of the big mansions of Grosvenor Square. It had a large dome-like arch over the entrance, and was painted a violent staring white, which made the smoke-begrimed houses on either side, with their rusty iron lamp-frames and antiquated extinguishers, quite a refreshing sight. The interior was
furnished handsomely, in the prevailing upholsterer’s taste, without any distinguishing features; for Lady Millard, though she still cherished certain luxurious and unconventional notions which in her native country she would have indulged, was too much bound down by the prejudices of her present rank, to dare to infringe ever so little on the rules which governed the rest of her order. So that while she inwardly knew an indiarubber plant by itself in a bilious or livid earthenware vase to be an abomination, she had an indiarubber plant in a bilious yellow vase in front of her middle dining-room window, because the Countess of Redscar had one in a livid blue vase in hers. And in spite of her feeling that to strew a litter of natural flowers over a dinner-table, to fade and wither before one’s eyes in the heated air, is stupid, inconvenient, and ugly, she yielded to that, as she did to every passing fashion set by her higher-born neighbours.
She followed a more sensible English fashion in having two most beautiful girls among her children. Cicely and Charlotte, the two eldest, were tall, fair as lilies, limpid-eyed, small-mouthed, innocent, sweet and rather silly. Dressed as they were on this evening in white muslin dresses, which looked to masculine eyes as if they might have been made by the wearers themselves, though they were in reality a triumph of a Bond Street milliner, they made the dull minutes before dinner interesting by their mere physical loveliness. Unfortunately for her, fortunately perhaps for them, the youngest of the three girls was a foil, not an addition to the family beauty. Small, sallow, and plain, Ella Millard did not attempt to make up for her deficiency in good looks by any special attraction of manner. To most people she seemed shy, abrupt, and almost repellent; such a contrast, as everybody said, to her charming and amiable sisters. But with the minority for whom fools, however beautiful, have no charm, Ella was the favourite; and George Lauriston, an habitué of the house, had got into the habit of making straight for the chair by her side at every opportunity, with the distinct conviction that she was an awfully nice girl.
On this occasion he took in to dinner the second sister, Charlotte, and he found that her placid, amiable face and wearisome gabble about the Opera, the Academy, and Marion Crawford’s new novel—
(Charlotte prided herself on having plenty to say)—irritated him to a degree he had never before thought himself capable of reaching.
When the gentlemen entered the drawing-room after dinner, George Lauriston, seeing Ella in a corner by herself, made at once for the seat by her side. She made way for him almost without looking up, as if she had expected him.
“How cross you looked at dinner,” she said; “I was glad you took Charlotte in and not me.”
“No, you were not. If I had taken you I should not have been cross.”
“That is quite true. Charlotte is sweet-tempered and will put up with a man’s moods; I should have turned my back upon you and let you sulk.”
“Yes; you are a hard, disagreeable creature.”
“But such a relief after my poor Charlotte. Now tell me what is the matter with you.”
“Nothing except ill-temper. At least—to say the truth, I hardly can tell you.”
“Nonsense. You can tell me anything, after the stream of nonsense I have heard at different times from you.”
“But this isn’t nonsense. Lord Florencecourt wants me to marry one of your sisters.”
“Well, I dare say you could get one of them to have you, if I backed you up. You see I am so out of the running that they think a good deal of my advice.”
“Don’t tease. He really has set his heart upon it.”
“And pray, my lord commander-in-chief, don’t you think you might do much worse? They are both as pretty as peaches, perfectly sweet and good, and either would worship you meekly and mildly as a god and a hero; besides which they have other and more substantial advantages, and you would have the satisfaction of cutting out many better men.”
“You are very cheeky this evening.”
“Do you know I used to think you rather admired Charlotte?”
“Admired her! How can one help admiring them both? Only they are such a perfect match that one couldn’t love, honour, and obey—
that’s it, isn’t it?—the one without loving, honouring, and obeying the other.”
“That’s an evasion,” said Ella, piercing him with her brown, beadlike eyes. She continued to look at him fixedly while she counted slowly on her fingers. “One—two—three—three weeks ago you were not in the same mind.”
Lauriston started and grew red, and the brown eyes twinkled.
“Three weeks ago, if my uncle had made you this suggestion, you would have taken it differently.”
“What do you mean?”
“That something has happened in the meantime to divert your admiration into another channel. Oh, I know. I am not a ‘silent member’ for nothing; when I am called upon to give my vote, my mind is a good deal clearer on the subject in hand than those of the active debaters.”
“Well, supposing I told you I wanted to marry you?”
“You would not dare to come to me with such a story.”
“Why not? You like me; you have always shown it. You are nicer to me than you are to almost anybody.”
“I like you certainly, though I think at present you’re rather a prig; but perhaps that is only because it is a case of sour grapes.”
“Sour grapes!”
“Yes. For if I had been handsome I would have married you; I like you enough for that.”
“Then why in heaven’s name won’t you marry me?” asked Lauriston, much excited.
“Simply because you would take me to avoid something worse; and that I have no attractions strong enough to keep you if the ‘something worse’ should try to get hold of you again.”
Lauriston was amazed and shocked at this penetration on the part of a young girl. He gave her a shy look out of the corners of his eyes, and leaned forward on his knees, his handsome brown head bent, playing with his moustache with moist, nervous fingers. She laughed as she looked at him, with a sound in her voice which struck him, though he could not quite make up his mind whether it was tender or bitter.
“I have some astonishing notions for a girl, haven’t I?” she said quietly. “But after all it is not so very surprising if you will consider the facts a little. Here am I, a girl too plain, too unattractive to be worshipped like my sisters, too proud to be married for the only attraction I share with them, and not at all inclined to do homage to a sex that prefers a beautiful wax dolly to—well, to a faithful and intelligent dog.” There was no mistaking the bitterness of her tone now, while the half resentful, half plaintive expression of her eyes made her face at least interesting. “So I have had to carve out a life for myself, with peculiar pleasures and peculiar interests. I read and I study to an extent which would almost disgust you perhaps; and I watch, and listen, and think until I know as much of life and of the people I meet as Charlotte and Cicely know of their ‘points’ and the colours which suit their complexions.”
“I shall begin to be afraid of you,” said George.
“Why?” asked Ella, folding her hands and sitting up stiff and straight as a school-teacher. There was a jardinière full of pretty flowering plants near the ottoman on which they were sitting. Charlotte or Cicely would have taken the opportunity to lean forward and play with or gather some of the blossoms, to show off their figure and the pretty curves of their wrists. But Ella, when she chose to talk, always became too much interested in her subject to have thought for petty coquetries, and so she sat, with the calm intent face of a judge, prepared to give an impartial, yet kindly, hearing to George’s answer.
“Because you are so clever.”
“And so are you. But even if you were not, you would have no need to be afraid of me. It would be as reasonable of me to be afraid of you, because I know that if you liked you are strong enough to kill me with one blow of your fist, as for you to think I would use my wits to do you harm. One does not turn one’s strength against one’s friends.”
“That is true,” said George, touched by the girl’s tone. “Ella, why won’t you marry me? Only two women in all my life have ever woke any strong feeling in me: until this evening I could have said ‘only one’—a little wild girl whose influence I dread, though I have only met her twice. You will think me a weak fool, perhaps, but a woman,
however clever she may be, cannot in such a case judge a man. There are influences at work in a man’s coarser nature that no sweet and innocent girl could understand. To-night you have given me the first glimpse I have ever been able to catch into the depths of your warm heart and your noble mind; I see in you the type of all that is best in women; and I know that if you would have me all that is best in me would grow and expand until I might in time be worthy of the affection of a good woman. Ella, will you try me?”
The girl was looking away from him, still sitting very upright, and drinking in his words with an intent expression on her face. At last she turned her head slowly, and her eyes, mournful and earnest, gazed full into those of the young man, who had poured out his appeal with passionate excitement, and now sat, flushed and eager, awaiting her answer.
“Can you wait for my reply till to-morrow?” she asked, with a curiously searching expression.
“Why to-morrow? What would you know to-morrow that you don’t know to-night?”
“You are going to see the girl to-night!” said Ella, with a sudden inspiration.
“If you will not have me—yes. It is a promise. If you, now that you know everything, will take me, I hold myself absolved from a promise to another woman, and before Heaven I swear that you will have nothing more to fear; I will never see her again. Only a woman can drive another woman out of a man’s head. Ella, no one has ever crept so near to my heart as you. Will you come right in?”
If she had not cared for him so much, she would have said yes. But the tenderness she had long secretly felt, without owning it to herself, for the handsome young officer, made her timid. If she were to marry him, she, with the fierce depths of unsuspected passion she felt stirring at her heart, would adore him, would be at his mercy, bereft of the shield of sarcasm and reserve with which she could hide her weakness now She knew that the feeling which brought him to her was not so strong as, though it was probably better than, that which impelled him away. She dared not risk so much on a single stroke. Yearning, doubt, fear, resolution, all passed so quickly through her mind that she had kept him waiting for his reply very few
moments when she rose, and with a face as still and set as if she had not for a moment wavered, she said:
“I can give you no answer now. If you are in the same mind a month hence, ask me again.”
George gave a hard laugh as he too rose.
“It will be too late,” he said coldly. “But I thank you for hearing me. Good-night.”
He shook hands with her in a mechanical manner, not even noticing in his agitation the nervous pressure of her fingers. If he had looked again in her face he would have seen that she relented; as it was, he was at the other end of the room taking leave of her father and mother before she had time to realise the decisiveness of the step she had taken. Scourging herself with reproaches, remorseful, miserable, Ella Millard got little sleep that night.
George Lauriston had hardly got half-a-dozen yards from the house when he heard Lord Florencecourt’s short, youthful step behind him, and a moment later the Colonel had slipped his arm through his, with a friendliness he showed to no one but his favourite.
“Well, George, which of the two is it?” he asked in a much more genial tone than usual.
“Which of the two!” repeated Lauriston vaguely.
“Yes, yes, you were talking to the sister all the evening; now there is only one subject which makes a young man so utterly oblivious of everything else. Come, you can confess to me; which of her two sisters were you trying to get her influence with?”
“I was trying to get her influence with Ella Millard.”
The Colonel stopped, pulled the young man face to face with him by a sharp wrench of the arm, and looked up into his face with his most steely expression.
“Are you serious?” he asked in a grating voice.
“Most serious, I assure you, sir.”
“You asked that yellow-skinned, swarthy little girl to marry you?”
“I think, Colonel, the most important thing about a wife is not the colour of her skin.”
“There you’re wrong, entirely wrong. Your fair white woman may be cold, may be irritating, she may henpeck you by day, she may
