Once Upon A (Stained Duet Book 1)

by Charlotte E Hart

“What about going back to teaching again? You could.”

  I snort in disgust, frustrating myself further with the thought of what I should have been doing for those in my care. Those days are long gone. I’m not worthy of any accolade currently bracketed on my own walls. Line after line of them, taunting me with what could have been had I not been so reckless with her. I just teach in a different way now, for some reason still needing the feeling of guiding regardless of my inability to control myself. Perhaps that’s the point, though. Perhaps it’s the necessity to ensure it doesn’t happen to others. Who fucking knows anymore? It’s all just a haze of dalliances, barely interspersed with interest unless something is screaming. Time just goes on, its interest as mundane as its lack of absorption. I simply dawdle in comparison to my past, neither fulfilling a requirement nor accepting its demise. I don’t open up futures for people anymore, offering them career paths and ensuring fresh thinking slides in to the methods of psychological evaluation. I don’t discuss years of study, guaranteeing that students learn the old ways, too, so they can mingle new innovation into the system’s archaic ideas. No, now I hinder. I halt progress, or at least tame it. That’s how it feels. I take sadists and Dominants and domesticate them into a mould, helping contain the anarchy inside their minds. Delaney calls it direction. Drake Contas, the guy who owns the club I’ve just been in, calls it safety enhancement. I call it monotony, which at least pays me handsomely for the only option of teaching I have left.

  Time just moves on. That’s all it does. It moves on.

  Chapter 4

  Alana

  A fter a dull evening of socialising with New York’s finest literary agents, I find myself inebriated and completely in Bree’s hands as she totters us out of the entrance to get to our waiting cab.

  “Val,” is called somewhere behind me. My head swirls as I turn towards the sound, wondering if he’s got another drink to offer me, because that has been the only thing of interest happening for the last four hours of my life. Jesus, I wish it was like it used to be. It was fun then.

  “It’s Scuttler,” Bree whispers, catching my arm and trying to tug me forward again. Fuck. Barringer Scuttler the Fourth—an irritating fuckwit who is completely focused on getting his hands on my goods. Annoyingly, he’s also someone of importance in this literary world, his father being owner of Valerie’s publisher.

  “Val, wait up,” he calls again, as I attempt to hurry my footfalls and avoid an uncomfortable conversation for the third time tonight. “Please, Val?”

  Bree giggles, causing me to join in, too, as we clatter our way down the steps in unison.

  “I mean, he couldn’t even reach your tits if he stood on a box,” she hisses at me, snickering again as we keep travelling. “You think his dick’s as small as his hands?”

  The thought of Barringer’s penis has me immediately convulsing with laughter, drowning out the sounds of his continued calls behind us. I’m not even calling it a cock. I can’t.

  “That’s really nasty. He could have a lovely penis,” I respond as I chuckle around the thought, still desperate to get away regardless of whether it’s lovely or not.

  “As nice as Blaine’s?”

  My feet crash to a halt, tripping over themselves at the mere thought of what Mr. Jacobs might have to offer down there. She tugs me again, trying to keep our momentum going. Unfortunately, this, combined with both my thoughts of Blaine’s cock and my lack of stability, causes my feet to give up on composure. My left heel tilts, flinging me sideways away from her, and regardless of my hopes of rebalance, I feel myself tipping uncontrollably towards the ground. My hands splay, my bag thrown into the air so I’m ready to break my fall, but before I actually hit the deck, a pair of hands pinches at my waist and hauls me back upright.

  “Careful,” he says, his nose resting in my chest as I finally put my feet back onto a solid surface. “We wouldn’t want you breaking yourself, would we?” No. Absolutely not. Although, the thought of that rather than him near me is reasonably appealing at the moment.

  “Oh, Barringer. Thank you so much,” I reply, trying to unwrap his hands, which are still firmly braced around my hips as his mouth hovers far too close to my boobs for comfort. “Really, what a saviour you are in my moment of need.” He smiles at up me, or rather leers.

  “Anything to help you,” he replies, at last removing one of his sticky paws, but then, in the same moment, wrapping his other further around my waist to pull me closer. Bree laughs again, near abandoning me in my hour of need as she disappears off down the remaining steps to get to our car. “When are we going to have dinner, Val? You promised me months ago,” he asks, at least allowing me to begin walking down the steps now. Never. We are never going for dinner.

  “Oh, you know me, Barringer. It’s just so busy all the time. Go, go, go,” I reply, just hoping if I fluff it enough I’ll get away with it again for the fourth time tonight, probably thirtieth time in the last year. It’s getting tedious to say the least. “It’s your father’s fault. You know how much he pushes me to get these books out for him.”

  “Perhaps I should have a word with him then. You do work awfully hard. We all need a bit of R and R every now and then. Some downtime. A massage. Weekend away?” Ewww. I’ve screwed my nose up before I can stop it, prising his hand away from its descent to my arse as I keep moving towards Bree.

  “Barringer,” I say, feigning shock. “You know how your father despises fraternization in the company.” I pick the front of my dress up, hoping to speed my bloody legs up. “Surely this is inappropriate? And what about Anna Maria?”

  “Father will be dead soon enough, Val.” Real shock actually freezes me to the spot as I turn to him, for once on the same level now that I’m two steps beneath him. “And divorce is easy enough.”

  What little respect I had for him just disappeared out of the window, making my insides not only hate him because he’s a sleaze ball, but also because he’s a misogynistic pig. “Come on, Val. When are you going to let me have a go at your ass?” My eyes widen, stunned by his sudden lack of the refinement that I’m so used to from him. “Don’t give me that look. I’ve read your books. You’re a little slut really, aren’t you?” I’m so dumbfounded by this statement that I just stand there, open mouth gaping at his boldness as I stare into his piggy eyes and watch his smile broaden. “You want me dirtier, Val?” No. No, I don’t. I don’t, in any way, want more than this attempt at dirty. Most definitely not from Barringer shitty arse the Fourth. However, Blaine Jacobs, quite unfortunately given the context of dirt, pops into my head with astounding speed, diverting my thoughts from unsuitable meanderings to downright unspeakable acts. It’s enough for me to gasp, my hands flying to my lips for fear that Barringer thinks it’s him that’s caused the reaction.

  “I think that’s entirely inappropriate, Barringer. I’m appalled,” eventually manages to push itself out of my mouth, thankfully replacing the diatribe that would have come had I not kept it in check.

  “Val, you coming?” Bree shouts, breaking me from my staring match with Barringer, who is still endeavouring for sexy and intriguing. I swing my head between them, watching the way his smile is still firmly in place and wondering how the hell I get myself away from him without ruining my financial security.

  “I’m a little drunk, Barringer. Perhaps we could pick up this conversation another time?”

  “Perhaps you should think about your career a little more, Val. Brushing me off every time I ask nicely, like you’re better than me, is pretty unwise for someone in your situation.” Fuck.

  Who the hell does he think he is? I take a step up to him, rallying my own set of balls from somewhere and grip my skirt to stop my hands slapping something.

  “You think I couldn’t sign with someone else tomorrow if I needed to?” He chuckles, lifting his hand and running his fingers across my cheek, which causes me to quickly back away again.

  “I think you couldn’t do anything without my father releasing you from
contracts you know nothing about,” he says, still smiling and putting his hands in his pockets like he hasn’t got a care in the world. Fury bubbles in me, not only because of his not so quiet threat, but at the fact that, to a degree, he’s right. I have neither the knowledge nor power to big myself up here at the moment. I might have become savvy about publishing, but even I’m not able to fight a major publishing house with legal contracts. So I plaster on a fake smile, giggling a little and pretending to stumble again, thus proving my drunkenness in the hope that he realises I don’t know what I’m talking about.

  “Oh, silly me,” slips out of me, as I fake stumble one more time to get me further away from him. “Look at the state of me. Too many bubbles, I think,” I say pathetically, still giggling and faltering every next footfall. “Was lovely to see you, Barringer.” I continue on, my arm reaching for the safety of Bree as I get closer to the cab. “’Til next time then.”

  The moment I’m in the cab, I’m screaming, expletives of every kind coming from god knows where as I swear repeatedly at Bree in the hope she’ll take it.

  “Who the fuck does he think he is?” My tirade goes on as I kick at the seat in front of me and the cab rounds a corner. “I mean, fuck him, right? Little shit. How fucking dare he threaten me?” The stream of obscenities keeps coming, all the time helped along by Bree’s nods of approval and joining in. What a wanker. I can’t believe he would try to get me in bed by threatening me. It’s not the first time that sort of thing has happened in my life, but from a senior executive at my own publishers? Now what? I’ve got to go and work with him and pretend it didn’t happen? Make it seem like his behaviour is okay? Arsehole.

  I can’t breathe for the continued rant session. It’s probably fuelled by the amount of alcohol in my system, and pills, but I couldn’t care less. Barringer the Fourth. The fourth what? Dickhead in his family to treat women like muck to be walked over. “I’ve a good mind to go back there and tell his father to shove his contract up his arse,” I shout, at Bree really because she’s doing well at taking my venom.

  “You go, girl. Screw the publishers, right?”

  “Quite. Fucking little tosser.”

  I’m not sure this amount of expletives has ever come out of my mouth since college, not all at the same time anyway, but screw him. I’m on fire. More discourse pours from my mouth with little care for whether anyone else can hear it on the street outside. What? I’m supposed to fuck him if I want to keep my contract? Or renew it?

  “You could always go all out indie, anyway.” Bree cuts into my irritated ranting, making me acknowledge this as an actual option. It’s not like I need my publisher. I could do this without them. I could. I might not make as much money, but what do I need that for? I’ve got my apartment. I can pay the bills without them. And if I can get this new pen going, I’ll make more anyway, won’t I? I don’t have to have a publisher, especially one that appears to now have a fucking clause attached to it that I was unaware of before. “You’ve got me, and all your contacts. Fuck ‘em.”

  She’s right. I don’t have to be scared of this crap. I’ll ether go down to their offices in the morning and demand an apology from the little bastard, or I’ll flat out refuse to write for them until I get one. I don’t even like the crap they’re making me write, or the little time they give me to write it. It’s become a fucking nightmare in all honesty, making me question reality every day of the bloody week. I’m so damn tired of it all, It’s constant, and now this? No. Enough. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

  I’ve calmed a little by the time the cab starts to meander through traffic along Bree’s street. Or maybe I feel pumped by the fact that I really don’t need them. I don’t know, but the rain that’s started coming down helps my mood no end. Its gentle patter on the roof lulls me into a sleepy haze, more than likely because of the alcohol, sheer fucking exhaustion at all the never-ending nights trying to achieve deadlines, and my rant.

  “You wanna come in?” Bree asks, just before I see her apartment block come into view.

  “No,” I mumble out, half asleep and just wanting my bed, which I will get into on my own, as usual, and gratefully so. “I’m going to have a long lie in tomorrow and a day off, I think. Maybe go for a day out somewhere if you fancy something different.” Because screw all of it. I’m so done.

  The cab comes to a stop by the bottom of her building.

  “Me? Something different? I don’t think so. I have releases to prepare for. Marketing, you know? All the stuff you, with your publisher, don’t have to think about too much.”

  I nod in reply, knowing that she would never have said yes anyway, and lean over to kiss her cheek goodbye. Bree never does anything outside work. Unless there’s a chance of it potentially making her money, she doesn’t do it. I used to be the same, but nowadays I’m just exhausted by it all. I just need a break, a change. Something.

  “Okay. I’ll call you,” I say, watching her get out and hand me twenty bucks. Another thing Bree does all the time. She refuses any financial gain out of friendship. She’s fiercely independent, never even allowing me to just pay for a cab. I don’t know why. Not that I mind, but it’s not like I can’t afford it.

  “Bye.”

  The cab waits until she gets to the door, like any good cabbie in Manhattan should do, then pulls away. So I lean back after I’ve told him my address, enjoying the few minutes it’ll takes us to get there. I could have walked, I suppose. It’s only a few blocks really, but it’s late, I’m drunk, and my heels are killing me.

  I end up just closing my eyes and letting the cab lull me further into sleep. It seems ages since I’ve slept properly. A good night’s rest is what I need, certainly after that little encounter with a person whose father is the one who pushes me to meet deadlines permanently. It’s the reason for the speed in my system, the same stuff that has obviously given up now, and probably yet another reason why I’m so fucking uninterested with my stories. There’s no time for immersion in them anymore. It’s all just so…

  The sudden blare of a horn has me turning in my seat to see what’s happened, barely registering anything but lights as I’m flung sideways and brakes are slammed on. And then the sound of metal colliding explodes in my eardrums, ricocheting around the car and sending me closer to the door with its shunt. My head bounces off something, the thud resonating as I try to protect myself from more harm, and wrap into a ball. I peer out from beneath my arms, realising the car is spinning as I try to steady myself and keep from being crushed into the window, but the screeching of tangled metal just gets louder, grating my ears as I try to find a way to stay alive and grab for anything. My legs push at a seat back, bracing me away from the window for fear of smashing through it as we keep spinning uncontrollably, and then everything happens in slow motion as I take a final gasp of air and watch the corner of a building coming at me. My head turns, desperately trying to stay away from the oncoming impact, my fingers reaching for the other door handle in hope as I scramble across, but all I see through the window is a pair of eyes staring back at me. They’re as fear filled as mine as he grips his wheel and tries to get his car away from ours. It’s lodged against us, the metal continuing to grind and grate, the cars battering on each other and pushing us closer to the building. Nothing’s stopping this now, no matter how hard my hands brace this window. We’re just spinning. Out of control. Both our eyes filled with terror at the thought as we go and there’s not a thing either of us can do about it. I know it. He knows it. We’re all going to die, and all I can do is watch it coming at me.

  ~

  Sunlight blinds me as I squint my eyes open and try to move, my head pounding the hangover from hell into my brain. Oh good god how much did I drink last night? I clamp them closed, wondering if I should ever touch the dreaded stuff again, and reach for the glass of water that’s always by my bed. It’s only when I find nothing there, after several attempts of fumbling around, that I dare try again. It’s a slow appraisal of eye opening, one
I do with considered care this time given the amount of pain that came last time. The room slowly blurs around me, instantly reminding me to never mix vodka and Champagne again, but eventually I start to see shapes.

  Unfortunately, they’re not my shapes. None of them.

  I stay stock still, knowing I’m on a bed and unsure whose it is. The dark grey walls climb around me, occasionally interspersed with a painting or two. Modern ones. Quite nice ones actually. Still, they’re not mine, which means I’m not in my apartment. Thankfully, there doesn’t seem to be anyone else in the bed with me—at least one good thing about this situation.

  Gently turning my head a little, I notice a door at the end of the room, another one on the other side, both closed and giving me privacy. And then, out of the blue of that thought, I realise I’m naked apart from the scrap of a g-string still riding my arse. Holy fuck, I’ve slept with someone. It takes me no time at all to roll the covers further around myself, luxuriating a little in their texture regardless of the fact I have no idea who they belong to. Unfortunately, with this movement comes the realisation that not only does my head hurt, but most of my body seems to agree with the sentiment. My thighs ache, my right shoulder twinges every time I try to move it, and my back seems painful through my shoulder and up into my neck. It’s painful enough that I stay still again, gently trying to move muscles about to ease the discomfort as I gaze around looking for clues.

  There’s still no form of enlightenment by the time I’ve lain here for a while longer. It’s a masculine room, no doubt, but there’s no sense of who he is or why I’m here. I’ve noticed my dress and shawl lying across the back of a small black sofa, my shoes neatly placed beneath them. It hardly looks like a stripping scene from some wild night of passion, like one of my normal one night pick-ups from somewhere.

  Oh, my dress. I was at the Publishers’ do. And that fuckwit Barringer threatened me. I crick my neck up at the sudden realisation, causing a bolt of pain to shoot through the rest of me and bring an agonised groan from my lips. My hand comes up to brace it as I heave on my tired legs to get them out of the bed. It’s time to get out of wherever this is. Regardless of whether I’ve had a good time here or not, or who I may or may not have had sex with, that little shit is out for ruining me. I remember him now, standing on that step and sneering through his piggy little face, threatening me unless I slept with him. I can’t quite remember what happened after that, but whatever it is it’s done now and there’s not a lot I can do about it, I suppose.