Blue thought it impossible to be any happier after her lewd few minutes in the car with Vincent. Never had she been more wrong.
He’d chosen Italian. The restaurant was small, quiet. She’d worried they were keeping them open when they’d requested their table at a quarter-to eleven, though the staff would never show it. The brickwork was left bare, furniture obviously antiqued. The waiters wore no uniforms. They’d shared a table that seemed almost a little too small for two, knees brushing, glasses often confused. And though their clothes were crumpled, and she wore his blazer, constant reminders of their moment in the car, Blue blushed deeply each time they touched. Shrunk away as his legs leaned to hers. Tucked her hands in her lap when their fingers brushed.
Perhaps it was the fact that the lack of lighting deepened the green of Vincent's eyes in a way that forced her gaze from his when ten seconds became far too much.
Quietly, Blue excused herself. Going about her business, staring into her reflection as she washed her hands, she could admit that she felt rather nervous. She’d never spent the night with anyone before—sure, she’d degraded herself having rather public sex twice in twenty-four hours, but waking up next to a man was different, entirely. Her hair would be matted. Eyelash extensions tangled. Eyes and nose swollen. Lips chapped. It was how she awoke each morning, though she’d never minded. No one had ever seen her so disheveled before. The thought was enough to put her on edge. Staring at her creased dress, she hadn’t a care what her parents would think if she stumbled through the front door in the same clothes she had left in. Instead, she worried what Anya would think. The quiet Polish woman with gentle hands and an encouraging smile—the woman who stared at her so derisively when she gave her her coffee that morning. Or had she be
Vincent’s apartment wasn’t exactly how she’d imagined it. It was large. Open. High ceilings, large windows. The modern kitchen of her dreams. Wooden floor noticeably absent of stiletto marks dotted about the place. Modestly decorated. Sparsely. She’d imagined he’d only have one dish, one bowl. One fork. One spoon. One steak knife. Two glasses—one holding his toothbrush. Had no idea how to casually look to see whether she was right. Suddenly, she wanted to ask why it was so bare. But felt it rather rude. “You haven’t spoken much, is everything alright?” Quietly, she spun to face the man. He slipped a hand beneath her chin in a way that reminded her so terribly of Richard—yet he felt all the more different. Warm. Kind. As though he didn’t have the desire to wrap his arms around her in a tight embrace and crush her shoulders. She’d gotten that feeling from Richard. “Did you want me to take you home?” As his eyes s
“We should get going, Anya will be up soon,” Staring through the mirror and into the waiting emerald eyes behind her, Blue could admit it took a lot of self-control not to turn around and get on her knees rather eagerly. Instead, she made good work of toweling off her hair as though she hadn’t been disturbed yet again by rather intrusive, demented thoughts. Wished she could go back to the few days prior when she hadn’t been dirtied by constant thoughts of being violated. She’d planned her morning carefully. Vincent would park around the corner. Her mother would jog in the other direction at exactly five-thirty. She’d cut across the front lawn to reach the side entrance. Slip inside as Anya sorted that morning’s laundry into piles. Hurry into bed. Anya would wake her at five forty-five for the first time, though Blue wouldn’t respond. She’d hide her clothes beneath her bed, at least until that evening, sneak them in with that day’s laundry before turni
Blue, deciding being of legal age to adopt a whole child meant she had every right to, openly disobeyed her curfew. Staring at the man from across the breakfast table, as she had been for quite some time, some part however reluctant knew she’d made the right choice. He’d dressed as he had the day before, a simple pair of jeans and the same white blouse he seemed to own many of. They had stopped by Calvin Klein. Though she’d pulled out her emergency black card, Vincent insisted on paying for the jeans. She’d borrowed yet another version of his same button-up from him. Tucked the front into her trousers. Stumbled along in the heels she’d worn the night before. Hair drying in delicate curls around her face, skin bare, eyes bleary, he decided it best she kept it. She’d worn it better than he ever could. They’d found some quiet cafe around the corner of his apartment. Citrus and coffee beans battled in the air. Dimly lit. Th
Padding down the stairs as though the price of being caught was her very life, Blue peered around the corner. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t wished Vincent would be sitting at the table as he had been that fateful day before. His shoulders would be squared. Mouth set in the same firm line, curling at the edges like kindled parchment. Eyes so sharp and dark she could swear he’d silently planned to kill them all for spare change. Staring at her longingly. Gaze as warm as it had been gawking at her wrapped in his bedsheets. Her coffee hadn’t kept her full quite as long as she’d hoped. Blue had planned to eat with Anya after her parents had gone to bed—something she had quite often. Yet the smell of the cheap burrito she’d eaten with Vincent lingered on her breath. Each exhale made her stomach roar. Fate was a cruel mistress. Meeting the gaze of her waiting mother planted rather stiffly at the dining table, Blue hadn’t the same sorrow
There was some strange humour in the fact that Bradley Pierce's office, a place Blue hadn't been in since she was ten, had quickly become her favourite place to slip away and lose herself in some intensive tonsil-tennis and pre-marital sex. Almost just as strange was the fact that Vincent, a man she hadn't met 10 days ago, was being invited over more and more by Marian to keep the fast-ageing woman company during the times Bradley and Richard inevitably snuck off together as though they were the married couple. Perhaps if Blue wasn't so occupied, she would find the time her father and the man she was supposedly going to marry spent together strange... but she hadn't even noticed, let alone given it any thought. Blue found herself laughing rather loudly. "You've taken this exact shirt off three times already and you still get stuck on the buttons?" The words fell between lips almost sewn to her own, and though she chuckled with the playful spirits she would soo
Staring back at the man whose eyes shone with something dark and hidden, lips firmed into the same line they always had, face so clear of any hint he’d been joking, Blue laughed rather harshly. “I must really be screwed if that’s all you can think of,” “I’m serious—think about it,” Standing slowly, paper forgotten by their feet, fingers twisting with hers, Blue somehow felt in some strange way that the idea wasn’t as crazy as she had first thought it. His eyes bore down on hers with the weight of deep pressure therapy. Lulled any worries. Embraced her where his arms had not. She stood with him. “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” “You can’t fight crazy with crazy.” “On the contrary,” Wrapping his arms around the woman’s shoulders, Vincent wished—however momentarily—that she’d had a shirt to wear. With her breasts all but falling from her bra and her heart pressing into his chest
As Blue ate, she found it rather difficult to quash daydreams of her night spent with Vincent. They’d spent the better half of their day shopping. He had taken her halfway across town to a cheap diner for a pancake dinner at her own behest. They’d gotten into his apartment late. He’d entertained her desire for a traditional proposal. Vincent took her to his balcony. The wind had swept up through her skirt and billowed through her hair. She could hear the traffic even dozens of floors below. Smell the city. Light from the apartment had poured in through the larger windows, warming the man as he sunk to a crouch before her. He pulled out the ring she had chosen herself, yellow gold, and said the four words so plainly. Yet she’d never heard them quite the same. She’d worn the ring to bed with him, though they hadn’t slept much. He woke up at four-thirty in the morning to drive her home. She’d made it back just in time to sneak in for breakfast. &