Driftwood Deeds

by Blake, Laila

  Emerging from the ground with a flat, almost circular shell, Paul Archer smiled again. “It’s where I get most of the raw materials I need—for stories and anything else I like to do.”

  “Like your furniture and all the decorations?” I remembered the knotted driftwood coat hanger, the strange wood and sea-glass lampshade and all the other things I’d seen in his cottage. He nodded and gave me a revealing smile.

  “I like ravaged things. Things with history—and I don’t mean a history of standing in someone’s house for years before some antiques dealer snatched them at an estate sale.”

  “A history a little... darker?” I asked with a half-smile, wishing he’d let me take the tape recorder.

  “Something like that.”

  Trying not to grin, I picked my way through the rubble towards a small ship lying half on its side in the rubble. Her name had faded into a sunset of rust, a color-spectrum from white to deep, dried-blood brown. My hand found its way into the rough surface and a little rust came off with my touch. In a hundred years, it would be covered in it, in a thousand the decay would have scattered all these little atoms around the beach, into the ocean, around the world in a gargantuan circle of entropy.

  “That’s why I picked you,” he went on and I turned around. I rubbed my fingers on my blazer and frowned. “For the interview, and why I brought you here.”

  I nodded, confused, and aware that my face likely betrayed it. Of course. The interview.

  “It is quite clear from your reviews and the way you write about characters that you have that same appreciation.”

  There was a sudden impulse to deny it. I hadn’t seen anything, had just forged ahead down onto the beach to prove him right about me. But then I looked back at the ship and then down at my feet and shrugged. On the ground, just in front of my clownishly huge boot, lay something shiny, just distracting enough to spare me an answer when I bent down to pick it up. It was a piece of glittering metal, light, thin and about the length of my thumb. Fixed to its base was a three-pronged hook, curving upwards in still wickedly sharp looking, barbed points.

  “Careful with that,” Paul said quietly, “they can give you nasty infections.”

  With a little rubbing, dry sand and earth came off revealing the makeshift fish-eye on the side. It proved all too easy to turn me into a fellow treasure hunter on no-man’s-land beach.

  III

  Back in his cottage, he served more tea and led me into the small living room. It smelled like wood and leather and the ocean. I couldn’t see any of the living room features or furniture I had come to expect in post-student living arrangements, though. There was no couch and no television, no game console hidden away in some IKEA sideboard. There were more stacks of books instead, a small fireplace and art on the walls, none of which was framed or really went together—more inspiration board than comfortable living room walls. In the center stood a low coffee table on a threadbare oriental rug, around it were placed a couple of leather ottomans to sit on. Paul Archer pulled one out for me, I slipped out of his boots and two layers of socks and then lowered myself down, careful to keep my skirt over my thighs and not to open my legs too wide. When I looked down on the table, I could see through the glass surface into an array of beach treasures he kept in the metal box below. There was more sea glass like the pieces in my pocket we had found between the rubble, but these had special shapes or colors; there were old coins and shells, corral and shark teeth.

  “I would have brought you a cookie too, but they turned out a little too soggy to serve.” He grinned as he sat the simple mug down on the glass table in front of me.

  “I’ll survive,” I said, still trying to rearrange my legs in a way that would be both comfortable and not altogether too exposing. “Thank you.”

  I inhaled the tea and allowed myself to enjoy the feeling of my legs resting. After the train ride and the long walk, I felt comfortably tired, just woozy enough to shake the veneer I trained onto my face and into my voice for business conversations. Instead, I breathed in the smell of the place and took careful sips of tea while he watched me, sitting on his ottoman with a cool ease that made me not only jealous but also incapable of not watching him in return.

  “So you think I like broken things?” I asked after a long time, voice warm and tinged in this quiet, restful moment. Paul Archer looked at me over the rim of his cup, which he held in both hands as though it was an Asian bowl.

  “I think you understand them, notice them,” he corrected, then tilted his head, put the cup down and pulled his glasses from his face. It made him look strangely characterless while he wiped the hot water condensation from the lenses before resetting the glasses on his nose in that charming gesture. “And maybe, you feel drawn to them, too.”

  There was something in his eyes, a shadow maybe or a sense of foreboding, and I looked away. I realized too late that my heart was thrumming in my chest with the speed of a runaway train. I cleared my throat and looked at the table. My eyes focused on a small collection of shark teeth, small and gray around a single huge one: a tooth that might lodge itself in a limb with the strength of an industrial claw. He seemed to understand my need for retreat; and didn’t speak again for a long time. I, in turn, didn’t look at him until I could control my senses. And maybe that was just what he wanted, to let me feel safe just for a few minutes.

  “Can I call you Iris?” he asked out of the blue and my eyes were dragged back up to his face. He was smiling—possibly with an apology edged into his features.

  For as long as it took me to inhale far too much air for a simple answer, I wondered what would happen if I said no. I could have fetched my tape recorder and my notebook and we could have done this interview. There was still time, and afterwards I’d have called a late taxi to that B&B and in the morning, I would have taken the first train home.

  But I didn’t say no. I nodded.

  “Iris,” he repeated and the old-fashioned name I hardly ever had any true emotional bond with, suddenly sounded warm and colorful.

  “I did not ask you here because I wanted to sleep with you, but I do now.”

  I had time to appreciate the cliché of my reaction when my jaw dropped. His words traveled through my entire body at the speed of lightning, leaving it sore and tingling, fearing and longing for the fire to come back. I couldn’t take credit for not stuttering something in return though. He didn’t give me much time to collect myself before he pulled his glasses off again in a deprecating gesture and continued. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shock you. I just believe it’s best to be honest about these things. I know that puts you in a difficult position but I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t think there might be a possibility you’d feel the same.”

  A pause. I still didn’t know what to say.

  “I am not an asshole, Iris and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I don’t want you to wonder what will happen to your career if you tell me off. I won’t hold it against you, Iris, not in any way. You don’t even have to say no, if you’re too nice or polite or... British.”

  I can’t claim much memory of these moments past his words and his eyes that were gentle and kind and yet, at the same time, seemed to bore themselves deeply into my head, stirring secret centers of pleasure where I’d never even thought to look for any. Warm shivers ran down my spine and it was as though every hair follicle was turning into a raw nerve that tingled in the open air.

  “I will excuse myself into the kitchen,” he went on, still smiling a non-threatening smile. “And if, when I come back, you are sitting here with a notepad or a laptop, I will give you an interview that your editor won’t find any less than deeply insightful.” He gave me a crooked grin at that, before his face grew surprisingly earnest again. “But if you sit here, like you are, with your palms on the table, then we will go on with our evening as two people who just met and want to know more about one another without an audience in mind.” He paused and raised his eyebrows.

  I reali
zed that I hadn’t said anything and he was looking for a sign that I had understood. I nodded; he smiled and walked out of the room. It came as a relief and an aching lack at the same time. I could breathe again, deeply into that calming region in my lower stomach, and I could move and brush a strand of hair out of my face.

  He had been right. I did feel a sense of hesitation against saying no—but the same fear of saying yes. Maybe a greater one and that was the fear he hadn’t alleviated—the fear that made no sense at all. Because if he’d think badly of me for wanting to sleep with him too, what exactly would that make him?

  I took a deep, shaking breath and got to my feet—just to see if I still could. It wasn’t difficult at all, they felt a bit tired from the walk but the socks were soft and giving and I could easily have walked down the hallway, made narrow by book cases, and fetched my bag. I even saw it through the door he had left open, lying there at the bottom of his driftwood coat-rack.

  I sat back down and placed my palms onto the glass. They were shaking a little, puckering around the joints and warm enough to leave a trace of moist condensation. I heard his footsteps before I could question the positioning at all, and my hands were the first place his eyes landed on. He smiled, then he walked around me and just like that I could feel my cunt pulse against the leather ottoman.

  “Why did you put your hands on the table?” he asked quietly and I stared at them too. Because he had said so. The realization made me quiver, my mouth opened but no sound escaped. Paul Archer squatted down next to me. He ran a finger along my jaw and smiled.

  “That’s okay, we’ll find out later. I remembered.” From his other hand, he produced a small dish of biscuits, simple digestives with a chocolate coating. “I had some hidden away.”

  He retreated to his side of the table, smiled and sat down again. I took one conscious breath, trying to remember the last time I had spoken as much as a word. I managed a smile and reached for a cookie.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly.

  “Paul,” he suggested and then his mouth curved into a crooked, attractive smile. “Or... Sir.”

  I was back to having trouble breathing with the sudden wash of pulsing need between my legs. My eyes went wide, and he reset his glasses, smiled pleasantly and reached for a digestive himself as though nothing of consequence had been said.

  IV

  “It’s okay, I’ve read your review of Secretary,” he said after a while, and I looked up from my biscuit, revealing the blush that colored my cheeks as I made my lips curve into a vaguely mocking smile I didn’t really feel.

  “And you made choosing me sound like such a sophisticated research process...” I said, casting my eyes down as I managed a chuckle that picked up life when he joined in and his eyes sparkled with mirth.

  “Oh, it was. This was a bonus, just information to store away somewhere in the back of my mind.”

  I bit my lower lip and our eyes met over our mugs of tea.

  “It was very insightful,” he continued. “I liked how you expressed your disagreement about its placement under comedy.”

  His praise was like fire in my veins, too. I must have smiled and agreed and just like that, we talked about movies and I felt safe again because it was my chosen subject, something I could talk about at length without feeling inferior, younger or silly with those hot flashes reminiscent of my teenage years. And yet, at all times I was under the impression that he knew this very well and gave me a few minutes’ respite to gather myself quite deliberately. It felt natural at the time, but when I had finally relaxed and was speaking more animatedly, with my hands in the air, gesturing and laughing, we found our way back to Secretary and this time, it didn’t make me blush. He extolled the characters and their portrayal, and while I was still nodding in avid agreement, he tilted his head just an inch or so.

  “Did it make you curious when you watched it?” he asked and where repetition made the shock easier to bear, it still soared through me with unexpected force.

  I nodded, only once. Then quickly recovered. “I think... That’s the charm, it would make most people wonder, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure, actually,” Paul disagreed openly for the first time, his brow was wrinkled in thought before he smiled. “A lot of people think it’s comedy.”

  I had to laugh and his eyes shone. I don’t know how long we looked at each other like that but when I blinked, he raised his brows.

  “Come here,” he said in that quiet voice that carried easily and seemed to fill the entire room. It wasn’t a question and I didn’t answer. Drawn up by the force of his will, I got to my feet and walked almost numbly around the table. He had not moved and he only looked at me once, before he indicated the spot on the floor next to him. I felt my face pulsing heat into my cheeks, and my cunt contracted and swelled against the panel of my knickers.

  “You know what to do,” he said and I felt strangely humbled by his quiet and friendly confidence. It was this more than anything else that had me sink to my knees. Because it made him smile like that. He reached over and smoothed his hand over my cheek, freeing it from any stray strands; then his thumb found my lips and he traced them slowly, taking his time with his careful exploration. I couldn’t quite suppress the way my thighs trembled and my hands fidgeted in my lap, but he didn’t seem disturbed by it.

  “Tell me what made you most curious, Iris.”

  I swallowed and thought about it, the images mixed with the warmth of his body right next to mine, the rough texture of his hands and fingers—worker’s hands even though he was a writer.

  “I...” my voice failed me and I looked down at my own hands. For the first time, he seemed momentarily displeased. He clicked his tongue and then moved the knuckle of his index finger under my chin, lifting my gaze back up at him. My cheeks felt on fire.

  “When he... bent her over the table,” I breathed. It must have been an unintelligible mass of whispered consonants but he let me get away with it, smiling and patting my cheek.

  “There you go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  I shook my head, even though it had been, and my heart was still drumming in my chest as though trying to burrow its way out like a sledgehammer. And before I could compose myself, he went on, “When he spanked her or when he came on her ass?”

  My breath caught audibly in my throat and this time I know my eyes were wide as saucers. A few times, my mouth opened and closed without expelling any sound at all, but when he raised his brows, I quickly whispered, “Both.”

  “Good girl.” He smiled, and his hand tightened gently on my cheek. It felt like a long time that he let me rest there, but maybe it was just the pressure that started to bear down hard on my knees. However long it was, I did calm while he stroked my hair and face.

  “Do you want this?” he asked after a long time, and where his voice had been demanding before, so much so that the mere tone had been enough to make my cunt ache, he was quieter now. He was the man with the charming way of resetting his glasses, the one who loved broken things. “I won’t go on if it’s not what you want, what you really want...”

  I stayed on my knees and watched his face.

  “If I ask you something will you tell me truth?” I asked. I realized that my throat was raw from silence.

  “Of course,” he replied without any hesitation. He reached over the table for my tea but it was empty and so he handed me his. I cradled it between my hands and sat back on my heels, watching him. He was so handsome, his strawberry blond hair falling into his face just at the height of his prominent cheekbones, his strong jaw slack and without tension. I took a deep breath, gulped down some tea and when I spoke again, it was a little easier.

  “Did you manipulate me here?” Our eyes were locked and I trusted he knew what I meant: on my knees by his side. He narrowed his brows in concern and then raised them.

  “I don’t think so,” he said quietly. “I hope I did not. Do you feel like I did?”

  “I don’t know.” If
anything could still shock me, it was that this strange and jarring exchange should make me want him more, should make my breasts and clit tingle and should make me lean in closer as though I could land on his lap by sheer force of need.

  “How could you know? You don’t know me.” He reached over and brushed a finger over the bridge of my nose. He touched my lips and a tiny, nasal sound filled the air between us as I whimpered.

  “As it happens,” he went on, still thinking about it, “the qualities I look for in an interviewer easily coincide with the ones I find attractive sexually. Dedication, honesty, open-mindedness... intelligence. Curiosity.”

  I swallowed.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  My mouth opened but I needed a moment to gather my thoughts and then my words. I drew up my shoulders and bit my bottom lip. “I suppose in the end, it only matters in my head.”

  “Everything only matters in your head.” He smiled. “That’s why it matters. If this weighs on you, you won’t enjoy all the rest we could do the way I want you to enjoy it. It matters.” Put that simply, I found myself staring at him again and then I nodded.

  “I’ve never done this before—I mean, this... like in Secretary,” I knew the right words but I couldn’t say them yet.

  He nodded, smiling still. “It does require a certain amount of trust, which because I haven’t earned it yet must feel a little bit like a loan you are asked to hand over to someone you hardly know. But especially the first time, nerves and fear may heighten the sensation—it isn’t all bad. And like with everything, you start slowly and… if you allow me to be frank, Iris, I can see how much you want to try.”

  I blushed but he didn’t seem perturbed at all. He just smiled and brought his index finger to my nose.

  “This little thing was almost a foot further away a few minutes ago.”