Black Burlesque

by L. C. Castillo

  I wave good-bye to Bill and wrap Viola in a tight hug when we pull up to Vincent’s building.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Viola. That was truly wonderful of you to call your friends to help me, and on such short notice, too.”

  “Oh, please. It was nothing. Those old broads owed it to me, and besides you did those pack rats a favor.” She winks and pats my shoulder. Bill hands me a card with the address of the storage room where he’s taking all of my new treasures.

  “I’ll mail the key to Vincent’s loft, Miss O’Howell.”

  “Thank you again, Bill. Good-bye.”

  I feel optimistic for the first time since the fire. I now have something to start on, a new task, a vast selection of vintage attire that rivals any shop I’ve ever visited.

  I need to buy a digital camera, I’m sure Kazumi has one I can borrow. I’ll need to borrow a computer as well. I’m deep in thought as I head up a hidden staircase to Vincent’s floor. I wouldn’t dare use the death-trap elevator without him.

  I knock on the door and glance at my phone. I have no new messages. It’s already 2 p.m. I’ll need to give Kazumi, Maggie and Jordan my new phone number.

  Vincent opens the door for me, stepping aside so that I can come in.

  “How did it go?” His exuberance is catching.

  I bounce up and down like a happy child. “Oh, my goodness, Vincent! Your grandmother is amazing! I owe her so, so much.”

  He smilessweetly. He’s hiding somethingwhat?

  “What? Why are you smiling at me like that?”

  “No reason. I just like seeing you this happy.” His eyes shine, he looks down and pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to me. “These are the keys to the loft. This one is for the gate, and this one is for the front door.And these” he looks up expectantly, “are for the new house.”

  I take them from him with trembling fingers. I wrap my hand around the keys tightly, pressing them into palm until it hurts.

  I don’t know what to say or do. Do I tell him I can’t stay here, and have a fight with him, which I’ll no doubt lose? Do I tell him to stop calling this my home? By accepting these keys, does that mean I am agreeing to movein with him? And, wowthe new house? I can’t lie; I would love to live there…but not yet. No. Not yet.

  I could tell him I’ll accept his keys on the condition that this is only temporary. I could rent a place, but it would be difficult without knowing if I’ll have steady income. He looks nervous, trying to gauge my reaction.

  “On loan, right? I’ll give them back to you once I get myself settled,” I say firmly.

  His lips form a tight line, his eyes darken, and he nods his head stiffly.

  I tell him all about my field trip with Viola, and my plans for possibly starting an online shop, I need to do my research. I’m not very tech savvy, and I’ve never sold anything online. Purchased, yes. Sold, no. He gives me some pointers, and tells me he can help me get started.

  “You know the camera on your phone is quite good. You can use that for the time being, I’ll set it up so that the photos go directly to my laptop, though you can post them online directly from your phone.”

  “There’s a camera on my phone?”

  He laughs lightly; he seems delighted with me, “Yes. Here, let me show you.”

  He proceeds to coach me on how to use my phone. I snap a few photos of him and gaze at them to gauge the quality of the camera. It really is quite good, and Vincent is very photogenic. I stare at the image of him filling the screen of my phone. Some nameless emotion seizes me, wrapping my heart in a vice-like grip. I feel breathless as I look at the image of him. His eyes are bright. His smile is dazzling as he tries to put his hand up in time to block me from taking his picture... He is unbelievably handsome, and has been kinder to me than I deserve.

  I don’t deserve him, or his grandmother, or any of this for that matter. I feel inadequate. And again, I ask myself the same question I’ve been asking myself for weeks now. What are you doing, Lenore?

  “What is it? What’s wrong? Is my photo that bad?” He sounds a little panicked by my reaction, and truthfully, I’m also feeling panicked. I switch back to the home screen and put my phone into my purse again.

  “No. It’s nothing. So, where are we going? And how did it go with the realtor?” I ask, attempting to salvage my mood.

  He smiles at me again, exposing his perfect teeth. He tells me he’ll be getting work started on the house as soon as possible. He’s animated and excited as gives me the run down of his plans.

  He met with a team of men who work solely on restoring older homes. There isn’t much to be done, but he plans on having the floors refinished, a few rooms re-wallpapered. They’ll be fixing some of the windows that apparently won’t open anymore, they’ll inspect the plumbing and heating, and clean out the fireplaces. They’ll also be repainting the exterior of the home, as well as replacing some of the exterior trim that has been eaten away by termites.

  We both agree the house should remain white. Keep it true to the original vision the first owner had.

  “You and I can paint some of the bedrooms together. I’ll need your help picking the colors, and the wallpaper,” he trails off as he goes through his checklist.

  I nod enthusiastically, the grip on my heart squeezing tighter and tighter. I’m excited for him, and happy to help him in any way I can. I owe him, and his grandmother. I’ll do the best I can with whatever he asks of me so that I can to get him moved in as soon as possible. But I’m anxious at the same time. I don’t want to send mixed messages. What will it mean for our relationship if I sign on to help him?

  “I think we should begin ordering furniture, too. Arrange for it to be delivered shortly after the team wraps things up. They’ll give me an estimated date. Anyway, we’ll talk about that later. We better get going...”

  Right. I almost forgot about our mysterious outing. I don’t bother putting up a fight. If it distracts me from my conflicted thoughts and feelings, I’m in.

  I follow after him in silence. I feel sequacious, my independence has been robbed, and I am a fish out of water. But it’s hard not to be enthusiastic with him about his new home. Yet, I am filled with apprehension. I’m afraid he thinks that by enlisting my help, I’ll move in with him permanently, which I don’t want to do. I resolve to put it behind me, and worry about it when the time comes. When or if it is brought up, I’ll stand my ground. I hope.

  Chapter 22

  We pull up to a concrete building somewhere in the middle of Downtown. It doesn’t look like much. The parking lot is surrounded by a black iron gate, a lonesome and bored security guard lazily flicks his eyes up as Vincent flashes a parking pass at him.

  Where are we?

  I really don’t like that, as of late, I have no idea what my days will be like. Everything is so unplannedby me at least.

  “What is this place?”

  Vincent beams a reassuring smile in my direction, “You’ll see.”

  I roll my eyes, but excitement unfolds inside of me. It’s obvious we are somewhere he enjoys being. I only hope I’ll feel the same way.

  We get out of the car and I self-consciously tug my blouse down. Vincent grabs my hand, his fingers folding over mine possessively. His boyish exuberance is a wonder to behold. He’s thrilled to be here, to bring me here. He flings open a heavy, gray steel door, and we step through it and into the concrete building.

  It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust; the interior is flooded by florescent light. There’s a large front desk, and Vincent smiles at the young man sitting before us. He has soft wavy hair, bright eyes and excellent posture. His nametag reads Beau.

  “Hello, Mr. Reynier. You brought a guest?”

  “Yes, this is Miss Lenore O’Howell.”

  “I’ll just need her to sign this liability form.” He pushes a paper out toward me.

  I don’t bother reading it. I’m surreptitiously glancing around, still trying to guess where the hell
Vincent has brought me. Liability? I just want to sign and get inside, and figure out what this place is. I scrawl my name across the dotted line and shove it back toward Beau. He flashes a flirtatious smile my way as he presses a button hidden somewhere beneath the desk. I hear a buzzing sound coming from the doors to our right.

  “Have fun,” he smiles at Vincent.

  We enter through heavy, fogged glass doors and at last I understand where we are. It’s a fencing school! The floor is a dark wood. White lines create rectangles across the floor. Students and their teachers in position, swords in hand, waving back and forth. Instructions are being shouted. It’s all very interesting to watch.

  I don’t get very much time to absorb my surroundings. A very handsome, dark haired man approaches us almost instantly. He appears to be in his mid-fifties and is in excellent shape.

  “How you doing, Vincent?”

  Vincent exchanges pleasantries with the man and I am introduced.

  “Lenore, this is Ulysses.”

  I put my hand out to shake Ulysses’ hand. He grips me with rough calloused fingers. Ulysses is very polite, and friendly. He has smile lines surrounding his warm eyes.

  “Ulysses is my instructor. He’s an Olympic champion. He knows his fencing. He’ll be giving you a run down. I’ll meet you two shortly. I’m going to get warmed up,” he presses a kiss against my temple and with that, he leaves me! I panic for a moment. Ulysses smiles; seemingly amused by my discomfort.

  “Come, follow me. I take you to the private room, show you fencing.”

  I can’t place his accent, but he has one. Maybe he’s an islander? I follow him as we weave our way across the room, through another set of glass doors. It’s dimmer in the room he leads me to, but it smells very clean and it’s much quieter. I’m relieved. I’m glad we get a private room. It would be far too distracting for me to be surrounded by so many people. I wouldn’t be able to follow his instructions.

  He shows me where the gear is. I enter a small bathroom to change into a pair of white pants, a fencing jacket and a lame. The uniform is composed of white and grey cotton, and I’m happy to say it fits well, too. I put on the mask and gloves and exit the bathroom. Nervous excitement blossoms within me, I hope I don’t make an ass of myself.

  Ulysses hands me the sword, and explains that I am using an epee with a French grip. I have no idea what the significance is, or why that matters, but I listen diligently as he tells me all I need to know.

  I have no idea how long he has been instructing me. I’ve been completely absorbed. Surprisingly, I am interested in all that I’ve learned today, and am eager to learn more! I didn’t realize how much there is to know about fencing. It has always looked like a bunch of random movements, and sword wiggling. I had no idea how important technique is, how many moves and rules there are!

  Ulysses bows down politely and takes my hand in his.

  “I go now, it was a pleasure meeting you. You a very good student.” He walks out of the room and closes the door behind him. I watch him go and contemplate going in search of Vincent. I wouldn’t be able to find him, given that almost everyone out there is wearing a mask.

  I feel a tingle up my spine and notice a man is in the room with me. He’s leaned against a discreet corner of the room, his posture relaxed, his body looks lithe, robust and athletic. He appears to be me intently. Suited and masked with an epee in his hand. It must be Vincent. I can feel his energy as it completely fills the room.

  His energy is charged, it’s electric...it’s erotic. He saunters over to me, making my blood rush faster. Both of us masked, he circles me, slowly. His weapon is down at his side. I smile inside my mask. Something about this is turning me on.

  He continues to circle me as though I am prey, and he is the predator. He is on superior ground, and he is using it to his advantage. He must be skilled, considering he was on the Oxford fencing team. Viola bragged to me about his accomplishments during our joyride earlier today.

  Ulysses said he’s been working with Vincent for many years, and that the student has surpassed the master.

  I know how passionate Vincent is about everything that interests him. His pursuit is borderline obsessive; he will learn all there is to know, and master every skill possible. That’s what I feel now. I am one of his passions; his pursuit of me will be endless. The realization has just dawned on me, and desire explodes through me.

  I stand on guard suddenly. He appears unflustered but he stops and raises his weapon slowly. He lunges toward me, a false attack. He’s just trying to get a reaction from me. I move back quickly. My feet remembering everything I just learned, though, the exact rules of swordplay are hard to follow. There are way too many for me to remember after just one lesson.

  I’m not sure if the move I’m about to make is allowed, but I know he’ll humor me. I bring my rear leg in front of my front leg and sprint past him. His sword touches mine with a slap, I hold mine as firmly as possible. He keeps his sword against mine for a moment, as he drinks me in. I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel them. He looks divine in his fencing gear. Even in the heavy vest I can see how toned and magnificent his body is.

  He slides his sword up and down, gently strokingback and forth. Coulé. He binds my sword, forcing my blade diagonally in the opposite side. I take a few cautious steps backwards. He lunges forward, Balestrathe term pops into my mind. Attaque au Fer, he beats against my blade. He is totally humoring me. I can see his skill is being downplayed.

  This is merely foreplay for him. I try to counter attack and before I know it, his blade is poking me in the chest. I stop and drop my sword. We stare at one another for a millennium. I watch his chest rising and falling in perfect synchronization with mine.

  I take a step forward, and he puts his sword down to his side, and side steps me. I stay perfectly still as he circles me. Once he is behind me, his sword hand grips my front. His sword pressed against my torso, his arm against my chest. His other hand grips my hips and he pushes himself against me. I slide my hand up and down his thigh. He removes my mask roughly and my hair falls all around me.

  He continues to slowly push himself against me, his hips moving at a leisure pacean intoxicating rhythm. His blade is pressed against me firmly, prohibiting me from turning around. I put my hand up and stroke his mask gently, cautiously. I turn around when I feel his grip on me loosen. I stand facing him, gently stroking his mask. I can hear his breath come out in a hiss.

  I kiss his mask; the mesh presses against my lips. I close my eyes, and continue kissing softly, stroking my cheek against the mask with my hands on either side of his head.

  He drops his sword and rips his mask off and his mouth claims mine. Possessing my mouth with his tongue. I have no idea how to remove our clothing, but I jump him and his arms encircle me tightly. His hands are on my behind, pushing me against him. I twist my fingers into his hair and pull roughly.

  “I want you. Can’t you take all this shit off?”

  I feel him smile against my mouth. He frees one arm and begins to tug on an article of his own clothing, we both freeze as we hear the door to our private room open and then close. We are interrupted, again.

  “Oh, my apologies. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  I close my eyes and press my forehead against Vincent’s. I make my annoyance and frustration obvious to the stranger that has just entered. His voice sounds obnoxious, cocky.

  “I came in for a rematch, Vincent. Are you game?”

  I can feel Vincent stiffen against me. He sets me down and I peer out from behind Vincent to see a tall, blonde, toothy man smiling at me. Vincent turns around to face the intruder.

  Who is he? Can’t he tell he’s unwanted here? First the grocery boy, and now this guy? I scowl as my blood simmers down, Vincent and I won’t be able to continue what we just started. But I do hope Vincent has a fencing mask like this at home. We could really have some fun with this getup.

  Vincent strides toward his mask and sword. He stoo
ps down to pick them both up off the ground. His expression is serious and focused and hot. He slides his mask on, grips his sword tightly, and strides purposefully towards his opponent. Mr. Blonde Obnoxious slides his mask on too, and they both take their place in the center of the room. I make an attempt to fix my hair as they prepare to fight.

  “Allez!” One of them shouts. It’s difficult to tell whom.

  I am guessing this is a friendly match, one where the score isn’t kept. There is so much to learn about fencing. It appears they aren’t playing by any specific rules. They lunge at one another, back and forth. Moving with speed. I watch by the sidelines, fascinated. I don’t think I can tell who is who anymore. I hear the quick clashes of their swords slapping against one another, a series of grunts and assaults. It’s exciting. Who knew fencing is so sexy?

  They are both skilled; at least to my novice eyes. They deflect one another’s attacks like they know each other well, anticipating the others movements. They come into physical contact with one another on a few occasions, slightly pushing one another off each time. One of them slides their sword against the other, pushing it with strength-the other swiftly moves his sword and dives to the right, his sword pinning the other. Masks are removed and the clear victor of this 5-point bout is Vincent, of course.

  I grin triumphantly.

  His opponent removes his mask and smiles at Vincent. Vincent quirks his lip up slightly and they both laugh.

  “Some things never change, Vincent. You’re still the superior swordsman here.” He bows down and they both turn to me. I shuffle nervously. Shy Lenore has reemerged. I swallow impulsively and try not to fidget as Vincent introduces me.

  “Lenore, this is Kyle. He’s the trumpeter I replaced at The Speak Easy a few weeks ago. Kyle, Lenore,” I watch Vincent’s eyes sparkle when they come into contact with my shy smile. “Lenore’s a dancer at The Speak Easy…temporarily.”