I finally decided, after weeks of shilly-shallying, to order something from a clothing website I’ve been obsessed with lately. They sell the most beautiful, most shocking, most scandalous underwear and I covet it all, but I’ve never dared buy any for myself.
Until last week, after finishing the bottle of wine that was left in the fridge from a house dinner party. The Dutch courage chose me a pair of the most exquisite little barely-there panties – a scrap of flimsy lace, held together with satin ribbon. They’re a little like boyshorts and a little like French knickers. When I put them on, they don’t quite cover my bum cheeks, and you can see everything through the filmy patterns of grey-black lace. You can see where I’ve shaved myself especially for you – something I’ve never done before, and the Ladyshave was shaking in my hand. Next time I’ll try wax. So I’m bare and smooth and my knickers feel so light I think they might dissolve at any second. But I can’t forget I’m wearing them, even if I put something on top of them. It’s like having nothing on, and yet it’s also like being marked in some way. The thought of the wind blowing up my skirt and them being seen on the street has made me so excited I can hardly keep still.
So I’m sitting here at my computer, wearing nothing else, and wanting to touch myself through the lacy nothingness. Can you see me? Can you see my nipples and my thighs and the satin ribbon running over my hips? Can you see how ready I am?
I’m so very ready.
Look at me.
Underneath were several line drawings of her, from neck to knees, in the knickers. One a front view, one from the back and one of her sitting spread-legged on a chair. They were erotic in a classy, alluring kind of way, and I couldn’t take my eyes off them.
That night I ordered the same pair of knickers and to hell with the expense. My ballgown came from eBay and had a cigarette burn in it the vendor hadn’t declared.
But it was worth it.
And so was Mia. I minimised the screen, my fingers trembling on the mouse. I loved the girl. She was me, but with the ability to write and draw. I couldn’t let her fade away, I just couldn’t.
Chapter Two
‘Ella, what the hell’s up with you today? If I’d wanted a zombie I’d have hired one.’
Dean, the chief sub, had reason to bark at me.
My copy was littered with typos and I’d put the wrong name in an article about a pensioner’s massive premium bonds win. The truth was, I hadn’t slept at all the night before, spending the darkest hours trawling Mia’s blog for clues about the identity of J and the whereabouts of The Academy or her flat. But I hadn’t turned up anything I didn’t already know. Her flat was in the city somewhere; The Academy was a short distance outside it; J was an older man in ‘a distinguished profession’ that remained nameless.
Contrite as I was to have made such an uncharacteristic slew of errors, I couldn’t help resenting Dean’s timing. His reprimand coincided with the departure of the journalists from an editorial meeting, and they filtered out into the open-plan office, looking curiously at us. The last to saunter into my line of sight was Tom Crowley. I ducked my head, but the damage was done. I’d seen his glorious gorgeousness in tight jeans and a biker jacket, and now I wasn’t going to be able to concentrate on anything else.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered to Dean. ‘Didn’t get much sleep last night.’
‘So it’s true.’
The voice was Crowley’s. The vibrations of my skin told me that he was standing very near, near enough to smell the leather, and the divine aftershave he wore. Fuck. My head was swimming.
Don’t look at him. Don’t answer him.
I knew I was blushing and I hated the heat that suffused my cheeks, my forehead, my neck, my bloody chest – where would it stop?
‘You are a vampire,’ he finished.
God, I hated him. But at least he’d said it only to me, lowering his voice so that nobody else would hear it. He could easily have played it for the cheap office laugh. So he was vile, but not super-vile.
‘That’s right,’ I said tightly, tapping at my keyboard and keeping my eyes glued to the screen. ‘I shrivel up at the sight of fake tan.’
He laughed, and I swallowed as his hand materialised on my desk. What lovely long fingers they were, splayed out elegantly next to my Slytherin mug. Where those fingers had been…
‘Well, that’s what I wanted to hear,’ he said, and I couldn’t stop myself from looking up at the hint of something promising in his tone.
Electric-blue eyes caught me in their beam. It was appropriate that they reminded me of one of those fluorescent fly-zappers in fast-food restaurants. I was the fly in this scenario.
‘Did you?’
He reached into his inside jacket pocket, drew out a folded piece of paper and handed it to me.
When I unfolded it, I found it was a flyer for the opening night of a new bar.
‘The Crypt,’ I said, deciphering the gothic font.
‘Yeah. I’ve been invited to the grand opening. Thought it might be up your street. Up your graveyard path,’ he corrected himself with a flash of dazzling teeth.
You’re asking me on a date? I stopped myself saying the words. I didn’t want to give him an opening to tell me it was just that nobody else wanted to go.
‘So you want me to go to this thing with you?’ I said instead. Once again I’d missed my opportunity to showcase an effervescent, cynical wit. When I thought of all the amazing repartees I’d perfected over the last few weeks, for use in just such a situation, I wanted to weep. Wasted hours.
‘Well, why not? Could be fun. Don’t you think? I might need you to do my eyeliner for me though.’
Mm, Tom Crowley in eyeliner.
At this point, I should have given him one of two responses. (A) The aforementioned effervescent, cynical wit, deployed in the delivery of a devastating putdown. Or (B) A ‘who the hell do you think you are?’ rant.
So which did I choose? I chose (C).
‘OK then. What time?’
‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down! Eight thirty? Outside the bar. It’s in Pitman Street, used to be Silvio’s nightclub.’
‘I know where it is,’ I said.
‘Of course you do. You’re a sub. You’re omniscient. See you there, then. And don’t forget the eyeliner.’
I watched his tight backside slink out of sight, leaving me free to spend the rest of the day deconstructing his ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down’ comment.
As the marketplace chapel clock struck eight thirty, I still hadn’t decided what he meant by it. Did he mean that I was just a reliable type of person in general? Did he mean that he was staking a lot on my consent to his request? Or did he just mean that I was easy? A sure thing?
I’d accepted the last explanation, and it was giving me a nasty weight in my chest that provided a more than adequate counter-balance to any excitement I might have been feeling.
I consoled myself with the knowledge that I looked fucking amazing. I’d used a whole can of hairspray and most of the contents of the Barry M section in the local goth shop. Black velvet, fishnet, spiky heels, ultra-violet manicure and a spritz of Femme Fatale body spray. The body spray was fighting with the hairspray to see which of them could make me cough the most. On balance, the hairspray won.
I didn’t often get glammed up like this – mostly I was a Doc Martens and band T-shirt kind of girl – but the occasion seemed to demand it. It was not for Crowley’s benefit, oh, no. Not a bit of it.
I stopped for a sneaky peek into a shop window at the corner and reapplied my vamp-red lipstick. Would Tom meet me inside or outside? It was November and a spot of blustery wind threatened other, less rigid, hairstyles, but mine was tornado-proof.
I strutted down the street, channelling Siouxsie Sioux, unfortunately turning an ankle on one stiletto heel just before I reached the door.
‘Fuck!’ I gasped, handing my flyer to the doorman.
‘You all right?’ he said with some concern.
‘
It’s OK…just a bit of a wrench…ta.’
I got my breath back and tried to put some weight on it. The pain nearly killed me. I flailed wildly, ending up clutching the doorman’s arm.
There was no way I was going to be able to style this out. I was going to have to limp into the bar.
‘What have you done to yourself now?’
There was laughter lurking in Tom Crowley’s voice as it crept up behind me.
‘Nothing,’ I said crossly, all the blood rushing to my cheeks. So much for my white face powder.
‘Done her ankle in, innit?’ said the doorman, ceremoniously handing me over to Crowley, who put an arm around my shoulder and held me upright.
How delightful this would have been under other circumstances – but all I could feel was hot and flustered and completely idiotic.
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘You can lean on me.’
It took absolutely ages to get down the stairs that led into the basement bar, but Tom was suspiciously kind and sweet about it, helping me to a dark little booth and seating me gently on the black wrought-iron and blood-red velvet banquette.
‘Anaesthetic?’ he asked politely, patting his jacket.
For the first time, I saw what he was wearing and nearly swooned away. I could have blamed the pain for it, but dear God! He looked good enough to sink my fangs into.
He wore a long black Victorian-style frock coat and a ruffle-fronted white shirt over tightish black dress trousers with a satin stripe. Pointy-toed polished boots and a ruby-red collar stud completed the look, as the fashion pages might say.
‘Vodka,’ I said faintly. ‘Love your outfit.’
‘Thanks. Kind of Jack the Ripper meets Dracula, isn’t it? Anything in the vodka?’
Bromide, perhaps.
‘Oh…tonic, maybe,’ I said vaguely. My mouth was watering indecently.
‘Coming right up, milady,’ he said, with an elaborate little bow that made matters about ten times worse.
I put my foot up on the opposite banquette and took a look around. It was dark enough that passers-by could loom up at you like graveyard bats, but there were lights here and there among the fog-effect dry ice and I could see that I was not the only way overdressed person in the vault. Which was good.
Loud music – Nine Inch Nails, I think – was being played quietly, which didn’t really suit it, but the night was young. And it meant Tom and I would be able to have a conversation. Not that that was necessarily a plus point. My chest collapsed with nerves. What would we talk about?
Everything, anything, but that night we spent together.
In the six weeks since it had happened, I had been telling myself it wasn’t that good, but now, here, with the perfumed fog swirling around me and his frock-coated back leaning over the bar, I couldn’t spin myself that line any more.
It was that good. It was…
Think about something else.
‘Thanks,’ I said, as he put the drinks down on the table. My elevated foot meant that he had to sit beside me rather than opposite. I wouldn’t have to look him in the eye, which was a relief. On the other hand, his elbow and knee were in constant dangerous proximity.
‘No running from zombies for you tonight, then,’ he said, taking a sip from his bottle of lager.
‘I’ve never had trouble with zombies,’ I said. ‘It’s the incubi I have to watch out for.’
‘Incubi,’ he repeated with relish, apparently oblivious to the little dig at his expense. ‘I love you subeditors. So precise. So correct.’ He paused and flashed me a devilish grin. ‘Of course, you wait an hour for an incubus, and then three turn up at once.’
‘Ba-doom-tish,’ I said, lifting my hand to his for a weary hi-five.
‘You’re not classing me as an incubus, though, are you?’ he said.
Dread knotted in my stomach. He was going to talk about That Night.
‘I mean,’ he continued, ‘you definitely weren’t asleep.’
‘Wasn’t I?’ I said guardedly. ‘Oh. My mistake.’
Damn. He moved an inch away from me and nursed his pint with a faint, sickly smile.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Fair enough.’
Gah, now I felt like a bitch. It wasn’t on. He was the one who hadn’t called. Though…come to think of it…neither had I. A change of subject was definitely in order.
‘So, how are you going to review this place?’ I asked with an unconvincing display of casual interest.
He brightened a little.
‘I thought you could help me out,’ he said. ‘It can be a joint effort. I mean, this is probably much more your scene than mine, so my personal opinion might not be all that relevant.’
‘What is your personal opinion?’
He shrugged. ‘Bit dark. Can’t see anyone’s face. How do I know who to chat up?’
‘Right,’ I said, feeling that I’d asked for that one.
‘I mean, half the blokes are prettier than the girls. Speaking of which – eyeliner!’
He produced a stick of kohl from his inner pocket and presented it to me, point uppermost.
‘You really want me to do this?’ I asked, taking it from him.
‘Why not? I felt a bit naked up there at the bar. I need something to make my eyes flash villainously.’
‘They already do,’ I said, looking right into his heart of darkness. ‘OK. Hold still then.’
I started at the inner corner and began to draw a sweeping line across his eyelid, but his lashes flickered so madly that I had to keep giving up, laughing at his obvious panic.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But God, that feels unnatural. I keep thinking you’re going to poke me in the eye.’
‘I won’t if you just keep still.’
‘Hold my face, then.’
The invitation sounded absurdly intimate. I held his chin and lower face in one hand, giving him no chance to jerk it back and away from my pencil, and started again. He was in my power, leaning down to me, his eyes half-closed and twitching. His skin was a little bit velvety, a soft growth of new stubble in my palm. He smelled of alluring spice. If I moved just an inch nearer, our lips would brush.
The memory of how they had done so before broke into my body, stealing inside with my breath. It wrapped my lungs, then my heart, then it flowered in my belly, its bloom descending between my legs. I lived and breathed desire for him. My hand faltered and the black line went beyond his eyelid, smudging the side of his eye.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered.
My sigh mixed with his. Lager and vodka and a trace of something sweeter. It felt luxuriously daring, to be so close to him, knowing the danger.
I wetted my thumb and rubbed at the smudge.
He caught my wrist, so quickly I almost screamed. He was wearing black leather gloves and his fingers felt cold and slick on my skin.
‘Did you just share a bodily fluid with me?’ he whispered.
I opened my mouth but the words had packed up and gone home.
‘Want to share some more?’
His mouth was getting closer, a lush-lipped omen of doom coming right for me.
What was I going to do? I knew you wouldn’t let me down. The words popped into my head at the critical moment, giving me the impetus I needed to escape from his glorious, wicked clutches.
‘Tom, can you work out a person’s physical location from their IP address?’
He halted in mid-smooch-approach and jerked his head backwards.
‘What?’
‘I mean…I’ve heard you’re good at a bit of cyber espionage. You worked out who that whistleblowing blogger was at the council, didn’t you? Would you be able to do something like that?’
‘Jesus, Ella,’ he said, looking almost fearful in his incomprehension. ‘Do you think this is really the moment?’
‘Sorry, but it’s been on my mind,’ I said. The implications of telling Tom about this had thrown themselves into the forefront of my mind, and they were messy. In fact, I didn’t want to think about the
m at all. But I’d said it now.
The kiss would probably have been the easier option, after all.
He shook his head and rubbed one eyelinered eye, making it look as if he’d been punched in the face.
‘What’s been on your mind? Are you being cyber-stalked? Ella? Is somebody hassling you?’
‘No. Actually. Forget I mentioned it. I don’t think you’d be able to help anyway. Oh, is that The Cure? Fancy a dance…oh.’ My foot on the table reminded me. ‘No. Scratch that too.’
Tom failed to erase the memory of my words from his expression and reset to his normal drinking-and-flirting-in-bar setting.
Instead, his stare lingered on and on and on until I wanted to hide under the table.
‘You look like I’ve given you a black eye,’ I said. ‘There’ll be rumours.’
‘Well, you have, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘Ella, talk to me. What’s this about? I have to admit, I was surprised when you accepted my invitation. You obviously want my help with something, though I was hoping it was just your desire for my body.’
‘Can you do it or can’t you?’ I said, seeing that he wasn’t going to let things drop. ‘The IP thing, I mean.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not unless I can convincingly pretend to be a police officer, which I’d rather not, to be honest. The council whistleblower was different. He had a particular style that I was able to identify just from familiarity.’
‘OK. Well. Thanks, anyway. It was worth asking.’
Would that be enough for him?
‘Oh, come on, El. Don’t leave it there. Why was it worth asking?’
‘I can’t tell you. Not without several more of those vodkas inside me, anyway.’
‘Oh, well, if that’s the key…’ He stood up, took my empty vodka glass and headed back to the bar.
Oh, God. Why had I even brought it up? Surely there had to be other ways to deflect the Crowley lips? Why had none of these suggested themselves to me at the crucial moment?
If I told him about Mia Culpa, then he would know that I read her blog, and if he knew that I read her blog, then he would know…argh! It couldn’t be done. Not if I didn’t want an eternity of Fifty Shades jokes in the office.
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