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Pulp Friction II
“I take it you must be missus Pierce,” Blue met the man’s eyes, and though she had wondered what color they had been, staring at the deep green framed beneath dark, sinister brows, she was far more concerned with her desire to be swallowed by the ground.
Staring in complete disbelief, she watched as he shook hands with her mother using the very same one he had had in her underwear a mere twelve hours prior. The blood drained from her face. Suddenly, she began gulping down her coffee.
“To what do we owe the pleasure?” The humor of Marian's apparent nervousness was lost on Blue.
“Vincent is our newest CEO, he was kind enough to move a big meeting for us to come this morning, inviting him was the nice thing to do,” as he spoke, Bradley offered the man the same stiff smile they’d all thrown at each other. Blue wondered if they were speaking in code.
"Blue, I presume? Happy birthday from
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Shady Blue Pulp Friction III
Following as carefully as he could, trying rather earnestly to mask his footsteps and holding his breath for whatever reason, Vincent rounded the corner and pressed into Bradley’s study. Blue had stood silently, staring through the window as though she wished she’d disappear completely, only moving to meet the man as he silently closed the door behind himself—and rearing at him instantly. “My god! can’t you leave me alone?” Her approach was quick, and while the man had at least five or six inches on her, she squared her shoulders and raised her chin as though she hadn’t a fear in the world. As she did, Vincent couldn’t help but feel he was being attacked by a toy poodle suffering small dog syndrome. And smiled. “Is this all a joke to you?” “Your father invited me, Blue, do you expect me to turn down all invitations that may involve you just because you told me we can’t see each other again?”
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Staring back at the man she wished so desperately was Vincent, Blue found it rather difficult to force a stiff smile. Cocking a warmer, thin-lipped smile of his own, hair so covered with gel, Richard gently kicked at her foot as he had one time too many and smiled as though the gesture somehow sexually pleasured her. Blue wondered if the mug she wanted to club the man over the head with so desperately would shatter from his hair alone. Wondered if he could find the clitoris even with a map. Carefully sipped her green tea. She’d long since given up eyeing the clock across from her. It had been precisely eight fifty-nine for five minutes by then. As the longer arm ticked over, she found it would make a gentle retreat each time she glanced away. Or so she felt. She had to give her mother some credit for not springing a chaperoned date on her at the very last minute. And while dinner with Richard wasn’t exactly what she’d consider an ideal night, she’d ha
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Climbing from her open window, Blue suddenly felt she was sixteen again. She hadn’t a care who could happen past her window and stare up her skirt as she sliced her finger on a rather jagged vine—had already forgotten the Wikihow article on climbing from a second-story window she’s studied like the bible. It had only been a mere day ago she’d hung from her balcony half-naked. A mere twelve hours since she’d been dry humped in her father’s study. It was safe to say she hadn’t the self-respect to care, not after the night before. Darting down her own driveway as though fleeing from a crime scene, the thought hadn’t occurred to Blue that they hadn’t so much as organized a meeting place. Suddenly, she found herself feeling quite anxious. In all her sexual frustration, she hadn’t the mind to ask for even crucial information. Was he picking her up? Was she meant to call a car? Were they meeting at the restaurant? Where were they eating? And as she pulled
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“How am I supposed to get over there?” “That’s an issue, not an ish-me,” Suddenly, Blue found she had no other argument. “Fine. A little privacy please?” finally slipping her purse from her shoulder and kicking it to the floor, she broke from the man. He watched eagerly with a smile that needn’t betray a trace of his excitement; wordlessly sunk back in his seat. Watched as she flattened a hand over the front of her skirt and began to climb over the center console rather gawkishly. Vincent couldn’t help but chuckle. “After last night, I don’t think you need to worry about me seeing up your dress, sweetheart,” smiling gently, he tugged the woman into his lap. As he did, she became rather aware of the erection she hadn’t yet noticed. “Now, how well do you think you can keep quiet?” “Well enough, thank you,” “I’ll take your word for it,” speaking with a certain abruptness, he braced the woman’s back with one hand, the other slipping beneath the he
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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.
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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
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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
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“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
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