“Hello?” My voice sounds weak as I try to call out, scratchy, unlike my own, and my throat stops the sound before it really gets to any useful level anyway. It’s dry and parched, as if I haven’t drunk water for weeks. I try again, but this time nothing really happens at all as I continue trying to prise my eyelids open. Nothing works. Why doesn’t anything work?
It slowly dawns on me that I’m sitting, the wood of a chair making my arse ache and my spine tingle with painful spasms. I look around, naturally trying to see where I am until I realise my eyes are still shut. What the hell’s happening? I drag at my arm again, letting the metallic sound clatter around as I try once more to get my fingers to my face. It still doesn’t happen. Perhaps if I moved, shifted my body towards whatever’s holding my arm back then I might be able to reach. At least if I can see I can understand what’s going on.
The moment I try to push on my legs, they give way, their normal ability to lift me seemingly evaporating as my weight sinks back onto the wood again. Something’s not right at all. Where was I before this happened? On a beach? No, in a car. I was in a car, driving. We were driving fast. Where to? I wasn’t driving. There was a man. He was handsome, with black eyes, long lashes. I remember long lashes and stars, the world whooshing by behind them. I shake my head, rattling the metal again and scrunching my eyes. Over and over I twist them about, stretching for a way to get my fingers to my face, until I feel my thigh slip, its strength barely able to stop the fall that follows as I thump to the ground below me.
“Fuck.” That word is barely audible either, the end of it scarcely leaving any sound hanging in the air.
A sigh escapes me as I test the floor with my fingertips. It’s cold, just like my feet. Whatever dream I was having made me think they were in water, but they weren’t. They were just on this cold floor. It’s stone, or polished marble. There’s a glasslike quality about it as I slowly run my hands around, searching for whatever’s holding me in place. I eventually find it. It feels like a hook or ring in the ground, securely latched onto the chain I can feel holding me down by the wrist. Some sort of cuff or lock. I don’t bother looking for the other one, assuming it will be the same as I reach for the chair again and try to remember what’s going on.
“You’re awake.”
My brow furrows, the voice reminding me of something I can’t quite place. Maybe it’s someone I know, or someone I’ve heard before. “How’s your head?” He’s American, but his voice is refined, perfected by schooling probably. I open my mouth to reply but nothing comes out, not through lack of trying. I’m just so weak, tired. Everything hurts. It’s all heavy and laboured, as if my body’s given up trying to move me about.
“I…”
“You what?” There’s a small chuckle attached to the back of his question. He’s amused by me. It seems wicked, cruel even. “Are you ready?” Ready for what? I don’t know where I am, or why I am. I rattle the chain again, trying to remember anything that might help and pushing myself to my feet. The moment my calves give me any propulsion, the room starts to spin, my mind whirring inside and instantly making me feel sick. Try as I might to contain it, I can’t. Vomit races from my gullet, bursting through my throat and out before I have a chance to stop it. It spits out of me as I cough and heave, dredging up the last of it and filling my nose with its putridity as I fall back to my hands and knees again.
“Elegant,” he says, his shoes clipping across the floor in front of me somewhere. A hand catches my chin, forcibly holding it in a certain position as he tips it upwards towards him and pinches into my throat. “Hold your head still. You’ll remember in a minute.” I don’t know what that means, but the voice does sound more familiar, like I’ve spent time with it, laughed with it maybe. And then liquid drips onto my face from somewhere, slowly inching a cool flow towards the corners of my eyes. “Don’t try to open them immediately.” I can’t help it. The water seems to seep into them, a freezing chill attached to it as they start to sting and burn behind my lids. “The more you force it, the more it’ll hurt.” His hand increases its grip to the point of causing pain to rip through my neck as he yanks me to something hard and pushes my head onto it. “Not that it’ll bother me much.” Then, as the last of the liquid seeps further in, he presses his fingers onto my eyes, stopping me from opening them any further. The pain intensifies, feeling as if it’s singeing my eyelids and burning the rims off my face.
“Please,” I splutter out, causing yet more pain to attack my throat, the itch so uncomfortable I shuffle about in his hold again.
“I was going to keep you blind, but now you’ve soiled my floor you’ll have to clean it up,” he says, massaging his fingers into my eyeballs until I finally feel the lids starting to peel away from each other.
The light blinds me as I get my first glimpse of the world and the hard thing leaves my head, followed by his hold. It’s blurry, as if my eyes have never seen before. I go to rub them, then feel the chain holding my hand in place still, and for the first time I get a look at the thing restricting me. It’s not a heavy chain, more like a dog lead really, but it’s linked into a solid square bracket on the floor.
“What…? Why?” I’m still barely able to get words out as I slowly lift my eyelids again, trying to focus on the man in front of me as he backs away. I blink several times, letting the liquid seep through again as the burning sensation seems to peter out into a dull throb.
“Because you asked me to,” he says from above me. Asked him to what?
“I don’t...” Remember. I don’t remember anything other than his voice and some sentiment attached to it. It’s not fear. I’m not scared. Maybe I am a little, but I feel safe in some manner, perhaps as if this is okay. I don’t know. It’s all hazy, obscure, like I can’t quite access the reason I’m here, or cotton onto its meaning.
My hand suddenly skids forward, throwing me off balance, my fingers gliding into something wet in front of me and making me fall forward.
“Careful,” he says, laughing lightly. I raise my head again wearily, wondering what that means. Careful of what? It’s only when I slide my fingers back, finally watching his frame come into full view as my eyes start to focus properly, that I realise I’ve stuck my hand into my own vomit. It makes me heave again, repeatedly. My back arches as I skate myself backwards away from it, trying to flick the sick off and get away from it. He laughs again. It’s a menacing chuckle, not one I remember at all. It brings with it the need to cower slightly, concerned for my safety all of a sudden. “By the time we’re done, you’ll eat it if I ask.” My head shoots up, cricking a spasm through my neck as my brain rattles inside my skull, the thought alone making me heave again. “Seems that gag reflex works just fine.”
I stare in shock, trying to place the man in front of me. I know I know him. I’ve seen him before somewhere, spent time with him. He’s touched me; I know that too. I can almost feel his hands on me now. My eyes drop to them, watching the way his finger and thumb rub together.
“Blaine?” The name pops into my head, but nothing else follows, only the thought of his lips.
“Mmm.”
“What? Why?”
“You’ve said that before.”
“I know, but I…” But I what? I don’t know what. My mouth flails around for words as my own hand rubs against the black material on my body, trying to remember why I’m wearing an evening gown and desperate to get the sick off my fingers. It’s high-end, designer. “We were…” I tug at the chain again, trying to hold my brow to help me glean information. “You were driving, and...” No. Nothing.
“Do you know who you are?”
“Of course I do,” I reply, irritation lacing my tone as I start to find my voice again.
“Do you know what you do?”
“I write books.” I know I do that. I remember it in my dream, or whatever it was that I was doing.
“Helping any?”
No. Nothing’s helping. It’s all just a blur.
“Take thes
e off,” I snap out, becoming maddened with my confusion as I feel my strength return a little. He doesn’t respond, so I look up at him again, putting the pads of my feet to the floor to lift me up. I only get halfway upright, maybe chair level, before the chains stop me from straightening my back fully. “What the hell is this?”
“And there’s my little brat. Welcome back.” Brat? Fuck him. “This is what you asked for, Alana Williams. Or Valarie. Or Peter.” He chuckles again as I stare at him, my anger beginning to turn into real fury. “Who are you today?”
“Fuck off,” I spit out as I tug the chain again, violently. “Take these off, will you?”
He pulls his hand out of his black pants pocket, opening his palm to reveal a small key. I snatch a look back at the lock on the square bracket, realising it’s the right size, but he just holds it there, about ten feet in front of me, taunting me with it.
“Well?” I say, holding my wrist up, offering it to him.
“You’ve done nothing worthy of having them removed yet.” What? I glance around the room, looking for windows or doors, ways out. This can’t be real. Who gets locked up in chains and can’t remember anything? My back screams at me as I try to move again, barely able to gain any leverage against the metal holding me in place. “Perhaps you should sit on the chair again?” I ignore the comment as I scan the room again, checking out my surroundings. It’s a large room, brightly lit with a cool blue marble floor, a Greek emblem running the outside edge. Some pieces of modern furniture are placed accordingly. No soft furnishings, though, not even a sofa or chair other than the plain dark wooden one behind me. A small table sits to my right, about four-foot square, one that seems to be the same carve as the chair. There is one large window, covered with heavy brocade gold curtains, and a heavy set ornate door at the other end of the room, seemingly at odds with the modern cabinets and fixtures.
“How are your fingers?” Why? What’s wrong with my fingers? I look at them, worried something’s happened to them. Nothing has. They function perfectly, if not a little slowly given my aptitude for typing. He does nothing other than chuckle again, and then after a few moments, he crosses to the white sideboard and places the key on it as he draws out a phone and calls someone.
“Bring a cleaning kit,” he says before ending the call and walking towards the door. He looks back at me, scanning my body as I wait for him to say or do something, like take these fucking chains off me. “Clean the floor. I’ll be back in a while.” That’s all I get as he smiles, puts his phone back in his pocket, and then leaves me alone in the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
I immediately drag the chair back into place, giving me something to sit on as I begin yanking at the chains. They don’t budge, even with my full weight behind them. I try levering one against the other, using my body as an anchor to create more power. That doesn’t work either, so I wrap one of the chains around the leg of the chair, hoping the wood has more strength than me, but nothing happens. I’m still locked in place. I end up slumping back into the chair, staring around me for something that I can use to free myself. Of course, the key continues to taunt me from fifteen feet away, glittering against the surface as rays of sunlight filter in behind the curtains.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “FUCK!” That was screamed, but I don’t care. Maybe it’ll get him to come back and take these fucking things off me. It would help if I had the first damn clue why I was in here. It’s still foggy, though. There’s something there, a conversation about a book. A kinky book. He said he would help me. I know that much. I remember him asking me if I was ready for something. What, I don’t know. His smile suddenly flickers in my mind. It had a warmth about it. It’s nothing like the version of him that just stood in this room. Nothing about that smile was calming or trustworthy. It was slightly creepy, if I’m honest. Chilling.
The door opens as I continue pulling at the chains, not really putting any effort into removing myself but continuing nonetheless. A man walks in. He’s tall, not unlike Blaine, but he has none of Blaine’s superiority. He seems non-descript as he walks towards me in a cheap suit, carrying a bucket and a rag, his shoes scuffing the floor loudly. I glare at him then flick my eyes to the vomit still about three feet in front of me.
“Clean it up,” he says quietly, dumping the bucket down by my legs and slinging the rag into it. “You don’t want to piss him off, love.” Love? I’m not anyone’s love. Certainly not this person’s, whoever he is. And why don’t I want to piss Blaine off? He’s just a guy, one who happens to be attractive, but in my books at the moment, he’s a dick who won’t take these chains off.
The smell of disinfectant wafts under my nose, instantly bringing with it a thought of chemicals. I halt the abuse that was about to come out of my mouth and stare straight ahead at him, searching my mind for more answers.
“Chemicals,” I say. “Sweet, like fruit.”
“Huh?”
“There was a chemical.” He shakes his head at me and turns away, showing me his back and forging another vision as I watch the way his suit jacket hangs against his trousers. “And a party.” I look at my dress, remembering my shoes as I glance at my bare feet. “Where are my shoes?”
“Better get your shit together, love,” he says, his head twisting back to me for a second before turning away again. “He’s not a patient man.”
“Jacobs.” He stops, his feet grinding to a stop from his slow lope out towards the door. “That’s his name, isn’t it? Blaine Jacobs. We were at a party.” I remember. There were lights and terraces. A huge party. People were there. Lots of them. Tables decorated with flowers and colours. A band, I think. I can’t see any faces, but it was loaded with money. I remember the dresses and tuxedos. And kinky things, jesters. I was spanked over someone’s knee. Blaine watched it. People were laughing at me while it happened, some applauding and shouting encores. I felt embarrassed. Awkward.
“Clean your mess up, love.” I look up, startled by his interference in my mind musing and frown at him as he starts walking again, his head hanging low and his hand reaching for the door. “Before he comes back and finds you’ve disobeyed him.”
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to stop the blurring and dizziness that keeps coming in swathes, and not understanding a damn thing happening to me.
Chapter 11
Alana
I don’t clean up my vomit, because I’m not a fucking slave. It’s not that I’m not happy to clean up vomit—it is mine after all—but I’m not being ordered to do it, and I’m certainly not being scared into doing it, especially while I’m in chains. I don’t know who that other man was or why I’m here, but the more I remember, the more realise who Blaine is. It’s all coming back now. The party. The way my arse stings. No wonder it’s uncomfortable on this chair, making me twitch about. His friend in a mask, most of them in masks actually. The way he manhandled me into a corner and whispered dirty things, his lips travelling my legs as he did. The chloroform, the car. The fact that I, quite stupidly by the look of my current predicament, covered my own mouth with the fucking handkerchief. What was I thinking? It was possibly one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done. I might want to write a decent book about BDSM, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t the way to do it.
So instead, I’m sitting here waiting. I’m not here to be manipulated or scared. I’m here to learn something, and he said he’d help me. He said all I had to do was ask. Well, it seems knocking myself out with chemicals as he gazed at me was asking. It’s not like he’s really going to hurt me. He’s Blaine Jacobs, the man I asked for guidance. This is all more than likely a rouse, something to keep me on edge and make me believe that fear has something to do with their needs. It can’t. If it was about being scared, no right minded person would enter into it in the first place. Well, I assume they wouldn’t. Although, there have been a few stories about rape and non-consent, which now I’m thinking about it does have my nerves a little on edge regardless of a sight sense of interest.
I scan around again, probably for the thousandth time, and try to get any sense of where I am. There’s nothing to help me, nothing apart from the slight smell of salt still lingering in the air. It’s the same as it was in my dream, reminding me of beaches and holidays. But given that I was in Manhattan a while ago, I can’t see how I can be at the beach. Mind you, I have no idea how long chloroform works for.
I frown, wondering why I’ve never used it in one of Peter’s books as I stare at the key on the cabinet again. I’ve done murders and mayhem, deaths, suicides. Huge complex plots involving crime and corruption. Mafia genres. The thought makes me smirk, remembering The Case series. I always loved that one. It’s full of drama and intrigue, dirty politicians and… Oh. A snort leaves my nose, nearly making me burst into giggles as I replay the soundtrack in my mind, imagining horse’s heads and bloodied hands. Perhaps I’m in it now. Perhaps I’m in the middle of a new book. After all, that’s what he said he’d help me with, isn’t it?
Once Upon A (Stained Duet Book 1) Page 18