The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Dark Writing – An Angel Story [[Completed]]
00:44 Jan 30 2011
Times Read: 886

Introduction:



He found it difficult to explain the compulsion that drove him.

It was impossible to describe to another, yet through his many journals he had tried, countless times.

There was a desire within that he needed to communicate to another, who understood.

His writings had been part of that endeavour; scribbling down words that told of his passion, that few could understand; and those few who could, rarely read.

He wanted to explain, why he did as he did: existing, rather than living, always on the periphery of everyday life, finding it hard to reconcile his present existence with that of his past life.

Then he had been human.

But, that had been before he had been made.

So, he had gone to the trouble of finding an old typewriter that suited his needs.

There was much to say and he knew this.

Angel sat for hours before the typewriter with his fingers dancing over the keys, telling his story, only referring to his journals when his memory would not recall certain dates: he remembered faces; he’d always remembered their faces – his victims, his food.

So, he poured all that he knew into his fingertips and they told of everything he had learnt, since encountering she who had made him into what he was.

But, man is by nature a social animal and no matter how we seek our own company, there are occasions when we might find that we need the company of others.

He had the soul of a man; and no matter how much he tried to ignore his compulsion to seek their company, the feeling grew, until one night, he found himself drawn to a bar.







Chapter One





His elbows on the beer-slick surface; right hand clasping the left, he rested his chin upon his hands, as he sat on the stool at the end of the bar, facing the entrance.

“A whiskey,” he asked, with his voice and taste in drink still betraying a hint of his Irish heritage, even after all these years.

Briefly, there was urgency to his gaze, as he looked round the room, to ensure he was safe.

‘Each of us has our demons within and for some of us there will always be an inner-turmoil, of which is good, or evil.’

This was his curse, he considered, not that he possessed a soul and so by definition he was part of humanity: rather that he had the capacity to dwell on that.

With a look of sadness he looked at his whiskey, muttering,

“Everyone wants to be understood…”

His glass was half empty, but he wanted it to be full, so drank what was there and then asked for another.

He sipped at this drink, before setting it down, musing; “I came here, to be alone and be around people, yet I sit here in silence. That doesn’t make sense, does it?”

After he’d considered this, he ordered his second drink, his eyes drawn to the long-legged short-haired blonde who served him: she was fast and efficient he noticed, always chewing gum; and, constantly on the move, hardly still for more than a minute.

The young woman, whom he’d heard called Jane, fascinated him.

Although mildly androgynous at first glance, she was, he quickly concluded, decidedly feminine.

She interested him, from her long slender neck, which initially attracted his attention, down the long, curved line of her back, leading down to where the denim she wore fit the tightest.

“There is a sight to behold,” he said softly to himself, admiring the woman’s derriere and watching her walk away to serve another customer, thinking to himself: ‘Some women are truly meant to wear blue jeans.’

Angel had a third drink, as he watched patrons enter the bar; mostly burly men, tarnished by brutal city life; and a few ladies, some white, some black, some half-caste; wearing ultra-tight denim shorts and little up-top, but, what there was, was brightly coloured.

He noticed that Jane had a pierced navel and when this began to interest him, he decided to look for other things of interest, to stop him thinking of himself; like, the two dimples at either side of the base of her spine, just above her jeans waistband.

Angel observed all that happened: and as hours past, little by little, he found a modicum of acceptance from the bar’s clientele.





Chapter Two





The next night he left his motel room, to walk the back streets, to locate the same bar he’d chanced upon.

He entered with his coat-collar drawn up and his hands sunk deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, as if against the ills of the world.

As Angel walked into the bar his body became a little less tense; and he lifted his head.

Again eyes watched him warily at first, as he sat staring forward, seemingly into nothingness, his gaze fixed; aware of all that happened around himself, whilst maintaining his guard against possible threat.

This became a pattern. Angel would finish his writing for the day with the shutters drawn against the light; then come evening, as the twilight passed into night-time, he sought the bar once again.

He’d sit on what had become his stool and over the nights, then weeks, until he became a fixture in the bar.

One Friday evening, as he surveyed his surroundings, Angel continued to watch the slim blonde, with flicked and layered shoulder length hair.

Finally she threw her hands to her sides, crying out to the crowd before her, of five faces, “That’s it, I can’t take anymore!”

Although it was difficult for Jane to stomp in heels of more than two inches, she stomped from one end of the bar to the other.

She clenched her fists at her sides, roaring aloud her frustration;

“Aaarrgghhh…”

Then gripping the counter tightly, Jane looked at the customer in front of her, saying, “Sorry, I had to…”

She turned to another customer, to the right of the first and asked, “Have you got any gum?”

He shook his head.

“I’m bored,” she declared, walking up and down the bar.

“And, when I’m bored, I want chewing-gum, a weed, or wild sex.”

Jane knew a weed was out of the question, as she was working; she knew wild-sex also wasn’t an option – as she was behind the bar, it’d be inconvenient, especially if someone wanted serving.

“Aw c’mon,” She began, looking to either side of the bar, “anyone got any gum for me? I’m cracking here!”

She looked to every customer, including Angel, to ask if they had gum, when a young woman, wearing tight tie-die jeans walked up to the bar, a pack of Juicy Fruit in hand.

“Here sister, take one, I know the craving.”

The remark brought a splash of yellow to a world normally black, causing Angel to smile briefly: someone understood ‘the craving.’

Yet this was unusual, for although he had found a measure of acceptance in the bar, Angel was still a curiosity to most of its clientele, simply because of his generally dour expression.

But, this night, the few regulars who knew his face acknowledged his entry – two with a nod of the head; and, one with the flick of a match against his front teeth. In return, Angel had given a nod of his head as he had mounted his stool, to watch and learn.

So he had sat, watching, as Mandy had walked in.



*



Mandy, looked like a Navaho Indian, he thought, with her long-dark hair, parted in the centre, reaching half-way down her back.

She had walked in, to join Jane for the Friday late-shift, which was in theory very busy, yet hadn’t been this night.

“Sorry I’m late, buses and a fella, you know how it is?”

She was dressed in tight–fitting, ribbed, black-tee shirt, coal-black jeans and heavy boots. In comparison to her work colleague, she was dressed sombrely.

Jane was dressed in a simple, but garishly pattered, lime-green and bright yellow waist-coat, over a pea-green tee-shirt cut short, so the lower swell of her breasts were more that hinted at as she busied herself sweeping a damp rag over the bar-top.

She had been working since three that afternoon and now her tiredness was beginning to show a little.

“No, I don’t know how it is…” The blonde muttered, as she stared briefly at her toenails. Being on her feet most of the time, she wore sandals, with toenails that were painted blue, this Friday: they made the standing up bearable, at least.

“These double shifts are killing me…”

“Yeah, I suppose the pay packet’s too heavy at the end of the month, isn’t it?”

“Ha, in my dreams!” Jane expressed, laughing mockingly.

She had been working one day less a week and a double shift on a Friday since term-time begun. Sometimes she wondered whether it was worth it.

“So, how is the world of Media Studies?” Mandy asked, as she stashed her personal belongings on a shelf below the long bar; “Have you decided to stay on?”

Jane lifted the counter-flap to access the other side of the bar.

There she stood, the hatch lifted, cigarette in her mouth.

She drew the acrid smoke into her lungs and held it there, for several seconds, before exhaling: “Lord, I needed that…!”

Briefly she looked at the No Smoking sign over the bar, musing whether the owner was actually a sadist, or not.

Then as her colleague began washing glasses, she saw who was in the bar and smiled:

“I see laughing boy is in.” Mandy sneered, noticing his intent gaze, fixed on Jane.

Jane looked to where she was staring, frowned momentarily and hissed to her, “Shush, he might hear you.”

“Doubt it,” the brunette espoused, “he’s got that faraway look in his eyes, that says, ‘Hey folks, I’m not on this planet!’”

For the first time that day Jane smiled.

“That’s cruel,” she whispered, turning the stereo on.

“Ah, cruel but true…” Mandy responded in a knowing, sing-song voice, drying one of the six glasses before her.

He had been drinking there for several weeks now: always arrived as the sun had set and always sat so that he could see the entrance to the bar.

Both women found him a cause for amusement.

He watched everything, spoke little; drank a lot, yet never seemed to get drunk.

There was something very strange about him, they’d both decided, at different times.

They both turned to look at him, staring down at the double-malt, held in two hands.

“He is interesting.” Mandy told Jane, walking to the end of the bar nearest the stairs and away from his hearing, she thought.

“Yeah,” Jane responded smiling, “In a dark and mysterious way… But…”

“But? Go on, what’s the ‘but?’”

“Well…” Jane thought. “He’s…” She began.

Then thinking of how often she had heard him talk, she said, “He’s so introverted, I’m surprised he’s out at all…”

“I think he’s spooky.” Jane stated simply.

“Why?” Mandy asked.

“He sits there… staring… sort of… well, brooding…”

“I used to know a fella like that,” Mandy told her, smiling.

“Like what?” Jane asked, distracted, noticing that he appeared to be listening to every word spoken, even though he was at one end of the bar, they were at the other and between them there were a few people talking.

‘No-one’s hearings that good,’ she thought: ‘it’s impossible, isn’t it?’

“Brooding… No, it was broody. He was definitely broody… Not at all like mister talkative over there…”

Angel was sat where he usually did, on his stool facing the entrance, his brow furrowed.

A large man, dressed all in denims, walked down the stairs.

He appraised the stranger to the bar, before his gaze returned to the two women.

“He’s looking at you Jane…”

“Don’t say that.”

“He is…”

“Ladies, don’t wanna spoil your conversation, but any chance of a beer?”

“Yeah, sure John,” Mandy told the customer, going to the pumps and pouring one for him, leaving Jane standing alone, feeling vulnerable.

“An ‘ave summat fer yerself.”

“Cheers John.” The young woman responded, turning to face Jane again.

“It’s them eyes,” Jane expressed, right forefinger and thumb together, forming a circle and held over her own right eye;

“They just seem to follow me everywhere!”

“He’s looking over this way, again.” Mandy told Jane, who noticed that he was.

“Well, go on…” she goaded Jane.

“Go on, what?”

“Go and ask him how he is…” Mandy dared.

“Well, I…” Jane began, turning and taking a couple of paces toward where Angel sat.

“Hi!” Jane said brightly, “How are you doing?”

He looked to her, from the nothingness he’d been staring into.

Yes, she was talking to him.

“Oh, hello.” He responded lamely, looking up slowly from his drink, to the woman before him that he had learnt was called Jane.

“You’ve been coming her several weeks now and I’ve been meaning to say ‘hello.’”

As she spoke, the blonde swept a damp rag over the bars surface by where he sat, as if to suggest that was why she had walked over in the first place.

“Why?” He asked.

“To be sociable. You know sociable?”

He wanted to tell her that he didn’t any longer. Instead he just looked at her.

“So how are you?” Jane continued just as cheerfully, although she wondered why she was doing this. He seemed such hard going.

“How am I?”

“Yes, how are you?”

“I am well,” he answered, adding, “Thank you for asking.”

“That’s okay,” she told him, then asked, “Penny for your thoughts?”

“You seem a nice person,” he told her, “you don’t want to know…”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked, now would I?”

Then she offered her hand, saying very formally, “Hello, I’m Jane.”

“I know… Jane Bresnen. I’m Angel.”

She appeared querulous at his use of her surname.

“I overheard someone use your fist name and another time I heard someone use the surname, so…”

“I get it.”

“Hmmm… Is it right that you do Media Studies?” He asked Jane absently, considering that as she had spoken to him, perhaps it was acceptable to do so…

“Yes,” she replied hesitantly, her curiosity piqued.

“Tell me,” she asked, “why mention Media Studies?”

“Your friend mentioned your course,” he answered.

“Hang-on, we were at the other end of the bar. How did you hear what she said?” Jane asked stupefied.

“Well, I suppose that there would be some who night say that I have extra-ordinary hearing, for a human.” He smiled, almost, at what to him seemed a funny joke.

“Would you say literature is still part of the media, even now?” He asked, with genuine curiosity she sensed: this wasn’t a line.

“Er… yes,” she replied, a little hesitantly.

“Well I have written something, would you look at it?” He asked of her, his brow furrowed.

“I don’t know,” she responded, “I don’t know you.”

“I know, he replied, that’s the beauty of it. You don’t know me, so who better to ask what they think of my work, than someone who doesn’t know me?”

“Hmmm…” she considered, thumb and forefinger gently supporting her chin, the elbow supporting the palm of her other hand.

“Yes, okay then,” she told him after a little deliberation, “I’ll read it. But, you only recently started coming here? So tell me, why are you here?”

“For company,” Angel replied, already having thought of the same question and its answer.

Then he added, “Sometimes I find I need to seek out humanity.”

She was puzzled by this and somewhat intrigued by his response.

“Strange sort of place to choose…” She said in response, looking around.

“It’s just a place, like any other with people in it…” Angel answered dully.

“It seems like you’re talking about the nature of existence?”

“I don’t know about that,” he responded. “But, I am talking about my own.”

There was a silent pause and then she asked, “So, when do I get it?”

“I’ll bring it tomorrow,” he told her, finishing his drink and leaving the bar.

The next night he took her his manuscript, which he had been working on for so long and handed it to her nervously.





Chapter Three





Then the night after, he did not go to the bar, hesitant of facing her while she was looking at his piece, instead chose to walk the dark streets, aware of all that could be lurking in the shadows.

He could’ve walked toward the main thoroughfare, but he didn’t,

Instead, Angel had chosen to take the side-alleys, where the shadows were the darkest.

He hated waiting: but he had to, there was no other option.

So he walked, listening to every little sound, whether it be a rat scurrying, or a dog nosing for scraps amongst the trash.

All the sounds were rendered louder by the quiet of the alley and its distance from the crowded streets; heightened further by his aural sense.

There was nothing in sight, or within earshot; that was reassuring he had thought, as it meant there was no threat to him and, for a moment Angel could almost imagine that his curse was something of the past.

Then, from ahead, to his right, came a noise, that didn’t belong, not in a quiet alley – the gasp of a woman, perhaps young; but definitely scared, very scared.

Angel stopped walking and stood still, his head to one side, as he listened to the sounds intruding upon the quiet.

“C’mon give it here and ya won’t will get hurt!” A mans voice.

Then there was a second voice, again male and again it sounded aggressive: “So, hand it over will you?!”

Angel didn’t want this: didn’t want to feel compelled to intervene – but he knew that he would.

After all, he reasoned quickly, ‘If you have a human soul – and you have, then you’ve got to be prepared to relate to the needs of other humans.’

The thought took seconds, the action several seconds longer.

Angel ran ahead, turning right, to find himself standing in the mouth of another alley, looking at two men threatening a young woman for her shoulder-bag, which she clutched tightly.

“It’s got the shop takings. You can’t have it!” She yelled at the man approaching her as if ignoring the other, who had a knife to her throat, one arm round her waist.

The bloodlust rising within, Angel thought of Darla’s rancour at his choice of victims. He could feel his aspect changing, which he did not want.

Yet, his options were few. There were two of them and he could see the fear in her face, as she struggled to get free.

“Enough,” Angel hissed, his appearance not what it had been and he looked at his adversaries, a smile on his face.

Now he would kill, if he needed to.

The thug who had spoken second was still approaching the couple, knife in hand. He turned as Angel spoke – just in time, to see him leap through the air, his right foot and fist weapons.

The foot hit the man squarely in his chest, the fist landing on his jaw and then he fell to his knees, crumpling to the floor, many of his bones broken.

Angel snatched the knife that the other man held, his movements a blur, hissing at him, “Now, go… or, die… it’s all the same, to me...”

Snarling, the young man cast the woman to one side, so that she landed on some cardboard boxes, groaning loudly.

Angel heard the noise she made, turned to face the ashen male and smiled broadly: “You shouldn’t have done that!”

“Why? You pug-ugly…” Mock bravado sounded hollow coming from the young woman’s adversary, so Angel ceased any further words, as he brought both hands down onto the man’s collarbones, shattering them instantly.

For a moment he held the limp form by the windpipe, in one hand, before dropping him and turning toward his victim.

Angel walked across to the woman and offered her assistance in standing. She took his hand and stood, looking closely at his face as she did. Then she screamed, “You’re not human.”

Angel looked at her – she was all right.

Then, as he walked away he looked back at the thugs, both quite unconscious and he reminded the young woman, “But, they were!”





Chapter Four





Two weeks later, Angel entered the bar and sat where he did, soon becoming oblivious of his surroundings, as fresh thoughts entered his head; thoughts that confused him with their simple complexity; such as to why was he there?

And, what was he seeking?

All these were thoughts that he could not answer immediately. But, that did not matter. He was here now and he wanted to know what she thought of his work, which was important to him.

And he waited, fairly patiently; pleased that Jane had smiled when she’d noticed his face at his entrance to the bar.

As usual, she had been serving a customer, the turned round… and then, there he was… And, as he asked for a whiskey she was entirely unaware just how nervous Angel actually was.

Although he had encountered much in over two hundred years: here he was, facing a truly harsh enemy – invited criticism.

Finally, when the few customers in the bar had been served, the lithe blonde walked across to the customer sitting on his own: “Hi Angel.”

In response to her greeting he looked down, sweeping his left hand through the tufted fringe he found in his eyes.

Angel looked up to face the young woman slowly, then fixed his gaze on her.

“A whiskey please and then tell me, what did you think of it?”

“Of it?” She asked, teasing.

“The story, my story…” He responded, feeling very uncomfortable.

“Oh, that?” Jane responded in a light voice, turning to the stand of optics, to pour his drink, asking, “I assume it’s a whiskey?”

“Yes, thank you,” he replied, almost quietly.

She turned, placed his glass on the bar, smiling warmly.

“You surprised me, y’know?”

“Why?” Angel responded.

“Well, you wrote of being a vampire?”

“Yes and?”

“Well, that can’t be true, can it?” She asked with an eyebrow arched.

“Did you read it properly?”

“Yes, of course!” She replied, a little affronted that he had needed to ask that.

“So, you know…” He said, slowly.

“But, it read like fiction?” She asked, doubt in her voice.

There was a pause, as Angel thought of a suitable response.

Finally, he said, “Don’t you think that sometimes life is stranger than fiction? Come to that, I’ve heard it said, often…”

With her right fore-finger resting on a lightly-dimpled chin, Jane thought carefully about this for a moment: “Yesss… perhaps! But, its all so incredible, all of it…!”

“For instance?” He queried.

“Grief, right from the start. I mean, a vampire… that’s… unreal!”

Angel smiled.

“Just think Jane, a hundred years ago man wrote about walking on the moon. Now he’s done it. A hundred years ago there were those who would have said that Jules Verne’s story was, unreal!”

The blonde persisted, “But what about all the stuff about stakes and coffins and stuff like that?”

“Part of it is myth; some of its fact,” he stated simply.

She thought a moment, then asked, “A stake through the heart?”

Angel smiled: “A stake through the heart will kill anyone!”

“And the other stuff?”

“Other stuff?”

“Y’know,” the young woman queried, “stuff… Like, sleeping in a coffin. Stuff like that!”

As if he were a teacher and she a child, Angel slowly explained,

“There are vampires who believe in the legends, just as there are humans who write of them.”

She smiled at his response: that sounded reasonable.

Then a thought occurred – “All you wrote, it was really real?”

He smiled, “That’s what I’ve been telling you…”

“Yes, I know. But, it all sounds so…” Momentarily, she was silent, looking for a suitable word, that wasn’t ‘unreal.’

Jane thought back to all that she had read in the manuscript –





*





Liam, known as Angel - and later, as Angelus – had been made in Galway, Ireland, in 1753.

A friend and Angelus had been thrown out of an inn; and as his friend lay drunk on the cobbled streets, Angelus had looked with bleary eyes toward a stone archway, where he saw a beautiful blonde lady.

“What’s a lady like you doing out on a night like this?” He had asked her, in a cultured Irish brogue.

“I can show you the world,” She’d responded.

Then seductively asked him, “Do you want to see?”

He’d told her, “I want to see.”

They had embraced and she bit his neck, drawing his lifeblood. Then she etched a talon-nail across the flesh of her breast-bone, drawing a line of blood which Angelus drank from.

Once he was as she, Darla showed Angelus ‘her’ world, teaching him her ways and of the hunt. To impress her, he killed his family, his father last.

It was his younger sister who had greeted him, prior to this killing, who had named him Angel, ‘her Angel.’

This was also how she had greeted him at the door, before he had committed bloody fratricide.

Very soon Angelus had been introduced to ‘The Master’ of The Order Of Aurelius, Henrich Joseph Nest.

It was he who made Darla in 1609 in the Virginia colony, as she had lain dying, riddled with Syphilis.

Angelus had scorned The Master for his ways – living in squalor in the sewers and, Angelus had taken Darla away from that.

Then for 150 years they had existed together, taking the lifeblood of whomever they had chosen.

In 1898 Darla had brought Angelus a present, which he’d found waiting for him, lying on the carpet, before the open fire.

He’d pushed up her long skirts and pressed his teeth into her thigh and taken the girl, only to find out awhile later that she’d been a Romani gypsy of the clan, Kalderashe.

A curse had been issued from her family that rendered Angelus a vampire like no other, a vampire with a human soul.

Considering he stank of humanity, Darla had chased him away.

Then, in China, in the year 1900 during the chaos of a religious war, Darla was calmly packing, whilst outside fighting took place, when suddenly she had felt hands on her face.

Angel had surprised Darla, seeking redemption from her.

“You never could resist a religious war...” He’d said.

“Is that why you’re here? So I can end it all, remove that stinking soul? I can still smell it you know. And, that’s not all… You reek of vermin. Is that what you’ve been living off? ” She had asked, as she stood in front of him, a sharp blade to his throat.

Then she’d asked, “What do you want?”

“A second chance.” He had replied, adding: “I want things to be like they were, you and me together. I want the view.”

“Impossible. You have a soul.”

“I’m still a vampire.” He assured her.

“You’re not,” Darla replied:

“Look at you. I don’t know what you are anymore.”

“You know what I am. I’m Angelus. You made me.”

“You almost made me believe you.” She replied.

“Believe me…” He’d told her, “We can have the whirlwind back.”

They’d embraced and kissed.

Awhile later, Angelus, now Angel, was out on the streets, amongst the fighting.

He saved some missionaries, then met up with Druscilla, Spike and Darla.

She had scorned his choice of victims, being mindful of the fact that since the curse of humanity bestowed on him, he had only taken the lives of those he considered unworthy of life.

“Since the curse,” she had to him, “you have only drunk from… evil doers”

The she alleged: “You said if you came back you’d prove yourself to me.”

“And I will,” he’d replied.

“Good,” she had told him; “Now’s your chance.”

Darla revealed her gift for him, a young baby, the child of the dead missionaries that Angel had attempted to save.

“I went back before dawn… they were still praying… not knowing their only saviour was down on the waterfront, dining on rats!

I won’t be made a fool of Angelus, not by you… While Spike was out killing a Slayer you were saving missionaries, from me!”

“Sorry.” He had told her.

“No, no more words…” Darla responded.

He had looked intently at the child, as it looked back at him, with wide innocent eyes.

Angel stared at the child, then at Darla.

Then she had told him to ‘Act’ and he had.

Darla had offered Angel the life of an innocent, wanting it to be Angelus who took that life.

Realising he could not be what he was not, Angelus had taken the child with him, as he’d left Darla, again.





*





Jane thought long and hard about all she had read and having served another customer, she returned to where Angel sat and said to him, “Much of what you’ve written is about regaining lost humanity, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he replied simply.

“Tell me,” Jane began, “Is that what you feel?”

“Yes,” he answered, then swiftly added, “But anyway, it’s my problem, not yours…”

“Hey, don’t say that…” She snapped: “You say it’s your problem… But, when your problem affects others, it becomes theirs…”

Angel looked at the young woman intensely for a moment, before saying,

“I don’t know what you mean?”

“I think you do…”

Angel peered into the nothingness ahead, before turning to look at Jane.

“So, how do my problems affect others?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

“In your manner and the way that affects others.”

“And?”

“Well, look at it this way, you came here to be around people, didn’t you?”

“Hmmm… yes.”

“Well, knowing what I’ve seen of you, why?” She asked of Angel.

As he considered the question, the blonde was called away to serve another customer.

Smiling, she returned to face him, saying, “Go on then, why?”

Finally, he spoke: “Recently I’ve found a restless spirit within, a need to communicate – as if there’s a desire, or compulsion… to connect… If you know what I mean…?”

Jane looked hard at him, she knew what he meant: “Like I said, I’ve read it. I know what you mean. You want to, well, validate your own existence.”

“Hmmm… maybe,” he considered.

“Well… yes. And that explains why this is so important to you.”

“And you did like it?” He asked, seeking further reassurance, over her opinion of his work.

“Oh, I like it…” she told him, “but, if you want to know more about the style and quality of the piece, then you should take it to a literary agent and see what they say about it…”





Epilogue:





So it was that Angel found himself sitting in a large leatherette armchair, facing a small man, behind a very large desk.

“Normally I wouldn’t stay in the office at this time,” he muttered, “but she asked. And your only niece doesn’t ask things of you too often. So, if she asks, you…”

He very briefly looked at the clock on the wall, before returning to what he was reading.

The ashtray full to overflowing, he lit another cigarette, offering one to Angel without even looking up.

Finally he looked up from the manuscript, his eyes boring deep into Angel’s, eagerly awaiting hearing what he had to say.

Instead of talking though, he coughed into his right hand.

With furrowed brow, Angel looked to the man behind the desk, asking, “Why? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

The little man in the lightweight grey suit sat back steepled his fingers together, so the tips pointed upwards:

“Let me put it this way,” he began, drawing breath, “Just who would believe that there is a vampire walking amongst us here in twentieth century New Orleans? There isn’t even a Gothic setting for much of it…”

He paused a moment, then hissed through his teeth and said: “Shee… it, you’ve set in the modern day. Vampires are dead, if you’ll pardon the expression son?”

Angel was quiet.

He hadn’t expected this – and, for the first time, in a long time he wanted to taste a man’s blood, this man’s blood.

And still he spoke – the artery in the side of his neck pulsing with the movement of his lifeblood, as it flowed through his body.

Angel’s eyes were fixed to his throat.

But, he had been recommended to come here.

“You will find out if people want to read it,” he’d been advised.

Besides which, he’d been told that the man ‘knew about books,’ so there might be something to learn here. But, now he was here and Desmond Miles still hadn’t finished talking: “It’s that British outfit, Hammer. I blame them…”

Slowly he allowed the man’s droning to become words again.

Then, because he surmised that he was supposed to, Angel asked “Why?”

“Well, think on it, in their later film they had vampire in our times. But, what experience does a vampire have of now?”

He paused to find breath, “Answer? Nothing. They’re creatures of the past. Now, it’s all new, y’know? Science-fiction, that sort of thing, that’s all that matters to today’s readers.”

Again he paused, “Believe me son,” he began, leaning forward, his elbows on the desk, his hands clenched, “no-one is going to be bothered reading about a vampire that has feelings, not today.”







Fini.

A Matter Of UnLife - emended.
00:41 Jan 28 2011
Times Read: 913




An Angel Story.





Once more he felt the need to contemplate life and death in a bar.

In the early hours of the morning the place wasn’t crowded, nor was it empty; but those who frequented it looked much as he did. Tired.

He had wanted to be a force for good, not a force for evil.

Yet, he felt so totally alone, again.

His had been a journey, taken from within, after the loss of all he had known.

‘The battles had been won, yet where were the victors?’ He mused, raising his glass to the barmaid’s slim back, reflected in the mirror.

Contemplating his role within the grand scheme of things, Angel was drinking J.D.; a taste that had not changed much, since he first tasted it in 1901: he was on his third double.

He had parked himself on a stool at the end of the long bar his heels hooked over the brass foot-rail running its length, opposite the doorway and stairs leading from the street.

Angel ran his hand through his hair and he smiled; recalling how Doyle had smiled at his style and the way he wore his hair, clothes, and demeanour.

‘Vain.. self-posessed; empty, incomplete: and, those are your good points.’

There had been few in his time here who had spoken as he had, when he had been brooding, filled with the angst built up over four hundred years.

Yet Whistler, Doyle, Cordelia, even Lorne; they’d all intimated one thing, that he had a place in the Karmic balance.

‘A knight, for the good’, Whistler had joked when he’d assisted him on his arrival in L.A.

Yet, as he looked back on all that had surrounded his existence since the curse had been put on him, he had to ask, ‘had it all been worth it?’

‘A force, for good..’ he mused; recalling how Doyle had told him he had to learn more about the people he wanted to help.

‘Yes, I’d wanted to be a force for good.’

He had wanted to be more sensitive to those he sought to help: to expunge his guilt and end the living-nightmare of being a vampire with a human soul; and so right his past wrongs, with ‘the powers that be.’

Angel recalled how he had sat in a coffee bar in the South of France during a warm summer in the late thirties, discussing the nature of it all. Sartre had said to him, he’d never felt a moments despair in his whole life; yet he had written so well of man seeking to justify his own existence.

Existentialism hadn’t been just a philosophy of despair: it was oh-so-more.

‘But, if time could be turned back, would his path have been different?’

Now, there was a question.

Whistler, then Doyle and Lorne; his friends, they had wanted him to understand the humans he needed to help. Yet, by so doing he got hurt further.

‘Was that the nature of human existence?’ he wondered, ‘or just mine?’

Angel looked to his drink.

The glass wasn’t empty, nor was it full.

But, there was enough in it, for now.

‘Whistler, Doyle,’ he smiled at how they would have balked at being called at being called philosophers: yet they had been.

Even Cordelia in her own fashion: her continual striving for something better; that constant pushing of him, to acknowledge himself; face his fears and continue on with the great fight, whatever it was.

‘Yes, that’d been Cordy,’ he thought with a wry smile.

“What you do makes a difference, to you and others.”

Boy, he remembered her saying that.

Then, he heard it, a shrill cry in the night.

A woman.

He stood away from the bar and threw money on the polished bar top.

She needed help.

Annie's bed
23:07 Jan 11 2011
Times Read: 940

*Not for a younger audience





*





Annie drew her woollen shawl tighter into to her slight bosom, looking anxiously about the alleyway, as she walked down the wet cobbled street.



She had earned the four pence she needed, for the doss-house, saying to a passer-by “Want business?”



Soon she had found herself standing with her back to the punter her hands on the brick of a nearby warehouse wall, as he’d drawn up her skirts and parted the slit in her bloomers, then had parted her buttocks and, thrusting home brutally the fellow had taken her with a ‘blunt object.’



Then, as she had sobbed against the wall, blood trickling down her thighs, the stranger had walked away, throwing a few copper coins to the cobbles.



He had lit a corn-cob pipe and wore a low-brimmed hat, she had noticed, as she had turned her head a little to watch him walk through the arched entrance to Brickhouse Lane.



And, wiping her eyes with the back of her right arm Annie had knelt down sniffling, to retrieve the few coins she needed from those that were lying amongst the small pools of water around the cobbles.



Annie was thankful. At least tonight she would have a bed for the night. She was not to know that six days later, the stranger would find her again, as he walked the streets and later, in the papers, a note from the killer would read, “Jacks back.”



Only Annie would have known what that note had meant…

The stranger, of the night.
14:52 Jan 06 2011
Times Read: 966

*suggested for mature readers.









This schoolgirl is walking back home from a party, followed by this man, as she walks down a dark alley...

He walks slowly, looking at the mini skirt moving in front of his eyes... the girl unaware of what he's thinking...

“Is she as knowledgeable as some of ‘em?" he muses, already aroused, at the thought of her possession.

She walks absent minded, without noticing that she will soon be hunted.... she's about to enter the alley when she feels she's not alone anymore...

Walking carefully, he increases his speed.

The alley is dark and her heart suddenly starts beating faster, as she hears his footsteps.

Then, he is upon her, one hand over her mouth, his other hand scrambling up her short skirt. Her panties round her thighs; he removes his hand from her mouth and cups her windpipe.

"Frig yourself yourself girlie. And, not a word..." he growls.

To illustrate that she should stay quiet, he tightens his grip, a little.

She is so petrified that can't even breathe, so silently nods to make him understand that she will be as cooperative as she can.

"Now, frig yourself…" He snarls, in her ear.

"Good girl," he mutters; and the hand leaves her throat, to cup her naked buttock flesh.

She's so frightened that she can't move... he knows that she's scared and he gently tries to make her do what he wants... it's not his first time so he knows how to treat a scared girl...

He rubs the tip of his middle-finger back and forth over her clit, widening her thighs with his other hand, as he whispers, "Now, take over."

Slowly she moves her hand down between her legs and her fingers touching his, as they search for her clit... for a moment, while she masturbates, feeling his body pressed to hers and, she starts feeling aroused and almost enjoying it, as a small moan escapes her mouth...

"Just think girlie," he whispers, "you're getting yourself ready, for the main course, so get yourself wet 'n ready, for me..."

She can feel her sex wet and pulsing, and strangely she wasn't afraid anymore, but wanting, secretly wanting what he was going to do... She could feel his hardness pressed against her buttocks... she just nods, rubbing her clit even faster to feel it throb beneath her active caress…

Now she shows her acquiescence, while he takes his hands and holds the girls hips, to draw her buttocks tighter to himself and her fingers move faster now. She can't hold it anymore and feels the orgasm in the middle of delicious convulsions, moaning loudly.

He sighs with pleasure. She is his, for the taking and he knows it.

The fellow spreads her buttocks, his thumbs near the brown pucker and he whispers in her ear: "While you get ready.,. shall I enter you, here. Or slap your flesh... hard?"

He smiles.

"The choice is yours..." he whispers against her neck.

But, she's so aroused that she can't even talk, she just bends over putting her hands on the wall, offering her body for him to enter... or do, as he pleases...

"Bad!" He snaps, in response: "Choose."

She shakes at his commanding voice... and stuttering she says, "enter my body... "

Then she closes her eyes, guilty of enjoying her arousal.

Pleased to hear the response he wants, he doesn't quite do as expected...

"Hold the wall," He snaps, as he slaps at her right buttock, time after time, causing her to yelp with each brief searing smack, of flesh on flesh.

She does as he instructs.

Smiling, he placing a hand on her lower back, bending her forward.

Then, he enters where she has readied herself for him; sliding in easily, ‘she is so-moist,’ he thinks with a wide smile.

She tries not to scream as he penetrates her... but she can feel the pain of his body burning hers, as he moves in and out with no mercy: and she feels he's breaking her body in two... up to a point... where the pain turns into pleasure and she begins to move as well... increasing his pleasure.

And, he slaps at her ass-cheek, exultant that the night is ending as he wanted it to…

Her body moves uncontrollably as a second orgasm sweeps through her... now her thighs are wet and she's tired...

...and, he stands up, pulling his wilting penis, from her.

He has filled her, as they both wanted.

And, he can't help but smile, as he swats her backside.

"Damn, that was good!" He praises: “you’ve had this fantasy, for years.”

As they part, with each of them smiling.

Then as they leave the alley, via the gate to their back garden, she links arms with her dark-dressed stranger, of the night.

Cecilia can’t help but grin at her husband Mark, almost uncontrollably.

She felt warm, and satisfied. Maybe she had dressed as a skoolie for the party. But, Cecilia liked big girls games.

Another day, another…
15:58 Jan 04 2011
Times Read: 1,007

*Contains some Adult references







Walking downstairs, Daniel entered the kitchen to make himself a well-needed pot of coffee. After watching the news, it was well-needed.



Daniel Marks had stared at the box, incredulous by what he saw and heard. Now he stared at his reflected self, in the bathroom mirror. Fair-haired, with blue-eyes and the body of an experienced swimmer, Daniel possessed all the material trappings of the wealth he had accrued, since he had started working as a trader with the firm of Sheffield and Parkinson.



As the coffee heated, he went to the bathroom, to perform his ‘morning ablutions’.

He passed water, then turned and briefly stared at his lean torso in the mirror.



His reflected self stared back, as he pulled at the skin beneath his right eye, to expose the blood vessels that dominated much of the white of his eye.



Marks had not slept well and, it showed.



He finished making the fresh pot of coffee and, poured himself a mug that he took through to the lounge and standing on the veranda, Daniel watched the world slowly waken, as he sipped the hot brew.



After he had left the lounge, Daniel walked through to the bathroom once more, to get a well-needed shower.



His brain matched the dark circles beneath his eyes, from a night watching the stocks falling, to the amazement of several of his clients, who had phoned him throughout much of the night and, into the morning.



He had switched the phone onto answer-machine after the twelfth-call, thankful that he’d had the foresight to buy into a project, on a small island off The New England coastline.



He thought of the deal as he showered, considering himself fortunate to have signed off on the contracts a week ago.



It might have cost a packet, ‘But lands a safe bet,’ he told himself, ‘it always has been,’ he thought brightly, towelling himself dry.



He looked in the full-length mirror and admiring his physique, he began to gel his hair, only to run his right hand up through it, fingers spread.



Satisfied with his look, Daniel tidied the bathroom, being sure to leave the laundry where his housekeeper Rachel had instructed.



An illegal, the Mexican ran his household to his satisfaction and so, earned the above average salary he paid her: after all, it was so-hard to find someone to work for less than that now.



‘Besides.’ He mused, ‘that girls saved m a lot, since she started.’

And, so she had: in fact, he often joked about it to his girlfriend and, soon to be fiancee, Marissa Sheffield.



“She’s saved me more than any accountant. She’s good for me…” And Marissa had paused at this. She wanted Rachel gone, seeing the Mexican as competition.

And, many times, she had thought of reporting ‘the mex’, as she called Rachel, to immigration.



Yet, so far she hadn’t.



Daniel was everything she and her father wanted, for her, so she’d allow him a little leeway: ‘But,’ she assured herself late one night, ‘if that mex gets in the way of me and Daniel, she’ll be history.’



And, thinking this, she had smiled evilly, then slept well.



Rachel Diez had entered the U.S. and into his life a year ago and, in that time she had wrought minor miracles to the world of the nouveau riche Marks and, brought him an understanding that Marissa would never, or could ever comprehend, so content was she with her own world filled with elegant trappings, that she valued so-highly.



‘Pick up a towel, Marissa? HA!’ He laughed at the mere idea, as he placed the towel in the laundry basket. He thought of the last time Rachel had rebuked him, for leaving a damp towel on the floor, how she had stood there, hands on her hips, legs akimbo, her lips pursed tightly together.



‘Oh, how that expression had said so much!’



Daniel smiled and, continued to smile at the memory, as he began dressing. Then, as he was pulling his jacket on, to go out, the front door opened and the sunshine entered his hallway; and Daniel felt himself blushing.



He picked up his keys, with his back to the door, hoping upon hope, that when he stood the blood would have drained from his face, a little.



“Well there’s a sight you don’t see very often…” Rachel laughed, looking squarely at his tush, as Daniel gripped the keys and stood, now blushing worse than ever.



“Hello… Rachel…” He stammered, feeling like he were a gauche schoolboy, as he turned to face the dark-skinned lovely.



‘One day I’ll tell her, I will…’ Daniel swore to himself, slipping the keys into his trouser pocket and adjusting imaginary creases in his jacket and trousers.



“I have to go Rachel, I’m running late…” He told her, as he opened the front door again, then left.



“Always running late,” Rachel muttered, looking around the large front room, “never slowing down, to appreciate what you have.”



She looked around the room, “And you have so much, to appreciate…”



A short while later, Daniel was puzzled by the attitude of those in his office. Both Alex and Scott were without a tie and had their shirt-sleeves rolled up and, for the first-time in a long time, both of them looked like they had been working; and to judge from the perspiration coming from the heavier-built Alex, they even smelled like they had been working.



“Have you heard the news?” Alex asked, looking away from the array of dancing digits on his monitor, anxiety evident in his voice.



“Uh-huh,” Daniel replied, “I was up all night watching it...”



“Really?” Scott the Asian American enquired, left eyebrow arched.



“Uh-huh…” Daniel responded, making his way across the small office to the coffee-machine.



“Always wondered why you use our machine?” Alex opined.



“The sparkling wit and repartee?” Daniel queried in response. His office was next-door and much larger; but he liked the company, though was loathe to admit that.



After he and Marissa had announced their engagement, much had changed; the move to his own office had been one of them.



“So, what do you think of what you saw?” Scott quizzed.



“Cha,” Daniel responded dismissively, “ you wait, the market will bounce back.”

And, as he left for his own office, the two deep in paperwork heard him say, “It always does…”



Moments later, with the door to his office closed, Daniel was unaware of the conspiratorial whispering.



“So…?” Scott began; “Why does Daniel like the word fiancée?” Scott asked, with a broad grin on his face.

“Dunno, Why does he?” Asked Alex in return.

Scott laced his fingers together and, looking at his colleague told him, “’Coz it sounds just like finance me...”



Their ribald laughter could be heard through the partition wall and he wondered, for all of a second, “What are they laughing at?”



He walked across the room and, placing his ear to the wall, he managed to hear his former colleagues voices.



“Aye,” Alex suggested after the laughter ceased, “There’s a man who’s not going to have to worry about this crash… he’s…?” He searched for the word, that Scott found for him: “Cushioned… that’s what he is… cushioned.”



Then the phone rang once again; and once again the two men returned to the panic of their morning work, as the intercom buzzed in Daniels office.



“Mister Marks, Mister Sheffield would like to see you, now.” Bree sounded so formal and, that was not like the Bree he knew. ‘She was many things, including being a fashion conscious fifties-freak. But, Bree was not formal.’



“Be right there,” he replied. “I’ll just finish my coffee and check my emails Bree…” he replied.



“Mister Marks, he did say now…” came the reply.



So, David finished his coffee, all-in-one and crossed the room to the door of the adjoining office where Bree sat behind a long curved desk, on which sat her monitor and keyboard.



With a face that seemed almost sculptured, Bree’s face belonged on a copy of Vogue, anytime from nineteen fifty-five to sixty-two.



Bree was as expected, sitting cross-legged on the swivel-chair, sanding a well-shaped nail, as he entered.



The young blonde sat at her desk, msm and Facebook open, as she idly perused the screen and figures on a well-copied spread-sheet.



“How can she ever find anything with all those short-cuts on her desk, I’ll never know,” he thought, for not the first time; as the swish of nylon against nylon drew his eyes to the length of her skirt, as Bree crossed her legs, exposing even more bare thigh above her stocking-top.



Daniel didn’t have to look too hard, to see where her money went. Her corn yellow hair was worn with a fringe and long strands falling down before her petite ears, and then pulled back either side, into a tight-ponytail.



The client’s files were stored behind a roller-blind storage system, set into the wall, to the left of the window and, the left of John Sheffield’s office.



Bree hardly looked up from the perfect nail, as she waved the file in the air with a slight wave, “Just go in … Mister Marks, He’s expecting you.”



‘There it was again,’ he mused, ‘sounding so formal. Grant you, she does like to look like the efficient secretary. But…’



Again, the waved the file in the air, pointing the tip toward the door, ‘He’s waiting for you… Sir.”



‘But, Bree is Bree…” he thought, eyeing her hose-clad legs, and the skirt, that had pulled up as she had crossed her legs, to expose her stocking-top and a hint of the garters clasp.



He averted his eyes, as she turned to him, the hint of a smile playing on her lips, “Mister Marks…”



‘Yes, I know. He’s waiting for me…’



“Cheers Bree,” he chirped with a bright smile, striding across the room and knocking on Sheffield’s door, then waiting for a response.



“Come!” He heard after a second or two and Daniel entered the plush office, that boasted not one, but three pot-plants, that always looked healthy: ‘and they so they should,’ he mused, aware of how much their upkeep was.



John Sheffield stood facing the window, his clasped hands behind his back when Daniel entered.



The fellow turned at Daniels cough, a look on his face that left Daniel concerned: the fellow looked grim, ‘decidedly grim.’



John Sheffield was six foot, with broad-shoulders and a trim figure that he kept in shape via a personal trainer, and racquet-ball, twice a week.



He ran a shaky hand through his graying thick, slicked-back hair, kept styled, at all times.



Then, staring at Daniel with his steely-blue eyes, his hands clasped behind his back once more: “Erm… Daniel, I need you to do something for me…”



This wasn’t the fellow who had taken him out after work, the other night, Daniel thought as he watched Sheffield, who had seemingly lost the self-assurance he normally showed.



“What’s that?” Marks asked, returning the man’s stare, until Sheffield looked away.



He turned back to the window and looked out once more.



“You’re aware how things are going?” Sheffield asked slowly.



“What are you on about?” Daniel asked in return, curiously.



The news…” his superior added, a quake to his voice, as he turned back to face Daniel: “You are aware how bad things are?”



Inwardly Daniel grinned, as he considered the question: ‘Am I aware how bad things are?’ “Yes I am,” he replied.



“Then you won’t be surprised to hear that I have to let someone go?” Sheffield asked, each word drawn out.



“No I guess not,” Daniel opined.



“Good, I’m glad you understand…” Sheffield began, relief evident in his voice.



“So I want you to decide who’s going, Scott or Alex? Alright? Then… tell whoever you choose, they’re gone” The big man added, his words hesitant.



Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, Daniel replied, “Heck. The way you were building that up, I thought you were talking about me there…”



‘As if I care,’ he mused for long second.



Sheffield turned to face Daniel, smiling.



He clapped his hands together and, then his gaze bore into Daniel’s soul and, a place he rarely visited, since working for the company.



“No, not you my boy, as if my daughter would countenance such a thing!” And, stepping forward, he placed his right hand on Daniels left shoulder: “No Daniel. I’m talking some savage cuts to the business granted. But you…?”



‘I’m cushioned,’ Alex thought wryly.



“I mean, Alex or Scott of course…” Sheffield added. Squeezing Daniels should to illustrate reassurance.



Daniel did not feel reassured.



“So what does Mister Parkinson think of this idea?” asked Daniel, trying to delay giving an answer After all, Alex had studied hard to get the job and, Scott had recently married and has just bought into a new place of his own. ‘And besides,’ he mused, ‘put them together and, they’re way better than I’d have ever been.’



Parkinson, Sheffield said slowly, “I haven’t bothered him. He’s not taking any of this well. Not taking it well at all…”



Daniel had to make a decision, a big one, quickly: and, he knew it.



“Mister Sheffield…”



“John…”



“Mister Sheffield,” Daniel emphasized, “we both know that put them together, those two are way better than I’d have ever been.”



He shrugged his way out of Sheffield grip, which he sought to reinstate, telling the younger man, “Marissa would never forgive me, if I had decided any other way and, you know how hard that would make life for me…”



“Yes, I understand, Daniel thought: ‘Cushioned.’



“Well Sir,” I told Sheffield, “I can’t make a decision of that magnitude lightly, I need to think on it…”



“You do that my boy,” Sheffield told him, with a slight smile to his lips, as he nodded in understanding and walked across the room, to a bottle of whiskey and a small stack of glasses, on a silver tray.



“Drink?” He asked, picking up the bottle and unscrewing the top.



Still deep in thought, Daniel muttered, “Yes please, Mister Sheffield.”



Again the older man reminded him, “John.”



And as he poured two drinks, Sheffield added, “After all, one day you might be my junior partner.”



“That will please Marissa,” he added slapping Daniel on the shoulder and, Daniel knew he was right. It would.



‘One day, a lot can happen “one day”’, Daniel mused, very conscious that he had an appointment to make, in… He looked at his watch.



“Sir, I have to go. I have to go see a client,” he told Sheffield.”



“Ah, I appreciate that,” the older man told him, slapping Daniel on the back, “always on the job eh?” He set his glass down, next to Daniel’s and ushered him out.



“Well, I’ll await your decision on that matter!” He called out as Daniel crossed Bree’s office, very conscious of the young woman’s eyes on him, as he firmly closed the door.



Then, as he stopped still and breathed deeply, he wondered if she’d heard his heart hammering as he had passed her desk.



Daniel looked at his watch again: ‘Definitely time to go,’ he muttered absently.

And, as Daniel left, he closed his own door firmly; he definitely had ‘stuff’ to think about, on his drive to his ‘appointment.’



It was several hours later that Daniel opened the door to his apartment, suddenly looking ten years older. He eased his jacket from his shoulders and hung it up, recalling all the lessons that Rachel had drilled into him, since she arrived.



‘Rachel,’ he thought of her and smiled.



Daniel poured himself a scotch and then called out, “Rachel, you still here?”



From the kitchen, Rachel’s smiling face appeared. The woman’s hair was disheveled; she was wearing yellow Marigolds and a simple white shift dress and, she was barefoot.



Removing the gloves, Rachel used her right forearm to sweep her mass of black curly hair away from her face and, using a hand-towel, tucked into the waist-band of her dress, she wiped the suds of her hands and lower arms.



“I was just finishing off Mister Marks…” she told him, noting the worn expression on his face. He was so tired he hadn’t even corrected her and, told her to call him ‘Daniel’, which she liked so much.



Daniel slumped into his favourite chair, without removing his jacket and concern in her voice, Rachel asked, “Is there anything I can get for you?”



He looked up at her, hovering nearby, as she wrung her hands together.



“A whiskey? That’d be good…”



“Are you sure?” Rachel asked, “Perhaps a hot bath and some…”



“A whiskey, please? And…?” He wanted to ask her. He needed someone…



“Rachel?” Daniel asked, “Can you spare awhile? I need to talk. I really need to talk…”



He gestured with his right hand to sit on the nearby sofa, if she wished.



“Si, un momento… ah sorry, for a minute or two…” she told him, sitting down, knees together, hands clasped in the folds of her skirt.



And, with the chance to unburden himself of his concerns, Daniel took the opportunity to open up, to the young Mexican, who listened intently to the man who had shown her so much consideration, since they had met.



Then once Rachel left, Daniel stood albeit unsteadily after three or four hefty doubles. He shed his clothing on the way to the bathroom. He reached into the medicine chest and found the relaxants, the one’s he was trying not use, too often.



Daniel popped two and, then followed these with some water straight from the tap.



It was time for bed for some much needed rest.



Yet, less then an hour after Daniel had fallen asleep, the light to his en suite bathroom woke him, “Wha…?” He groaned, shielding his eyes with his right forearm.



“Honey?” Are you awake?” He heard, as if from a distance. It was Marissa.



There she stood in the doorway, left hand on her hip, as she unclasped her long hair.

Marissa smiled. It was evident she was either drunk, coked-up, or ‘in heat.’



‘Quite possibly all three.’ He mused, opening both eyes fully.



Slowly and unsteadily, she undressed until she was in her burgundy scanties. Then Marissa crossed the room, to sit on the side of the bed, looking down at him.



Daniel looked up; to see her face, make-up smeared a little, sweat dripping from a lust-contorted face.



She watched her reach behind and struggle momentarily with the bra clasp a moment as she spoke, “Me and the girls were out at a show and you should have seen the men… ‘Chelle even went up on stage and…” She unveiled her breasts to his gaze, full, firm and quite perfect, ‘Made In America,’ he thought with an inward smile.



Pulling his bedding down from his lean torso, Marissa leant forward and begin to kiss his flat belly, then downward, to his hardening self: ‘Traitor!’ He thought.



Perhaps his mind was half-asleep and, he wasn’t as willing as he could have been with an attractive woman in his room. But, his body responded, to her delicate touch, as she opened her mouth wide and took the mushroom into her mouth, drool seeping from the side.



“Oh-boy,” Daniel sighed, as his erection grew to its full size.



And, looking up and into his eyes, as she sucked and slurped, Marissa eased herself out of her scanty panties, the fingers of her right hand drawing three fingers through her legs, opening herslf easily, she was already that wet, that turned-on.



“I want this,” she told him, kissing the tip of his length, smearing his pre-cum with her fore-fingertip, which she then sucked: “I want it now.



Marissa stood, then straddled his body with her long shapely legs and eased herself down onto his seven plus inches of tumescent flesh, groaning with pleasure, her had thrown back, as she rose and fell. And, soon she was riding him.



Marissa was heated and this drove her on, as hair flailing her rocking back and forth, then she insisted, “Play with them, play with my nips…”



This was the only time she liked her breasts being played with and normally he would take pleasure in hurting them, as she so-liked. But, he just wasn’t into this, at all,



“Play with my nips!” She instructed, getting hold of his hands and bringing them to her full, swinging breasts, as she ground down, bruising her public bone down on his, as he sought to do as she so-wanted, pressing each hard nipple between a forefinger and thumb, quite hard indeed.



And then, Marissa found the release she sought, when she had arrived at his apartment and cried aloud, “Oh yes, that’s it…”



She flooded his thighs with her fluids and collapsed forward, her face against his neck, sighing, as he wrapped his arms around her.



Then he closed his eyes, once again.



Finally, Daniel woke, alone.



But, he wasn’t surprised, ‘that was Marissa, all over’, selfish.

She had got what she wanted from him and, then left.



Yet, his nighttime visitor had given form to the ideas that Daniel had been wrestling with. And now, he knew what to do.



He arose before his alarm was due to go off and dressed hurriedly, being sure to wear something casual to the office, to make the ‘wrong impression’ as it were.



Daniel even smiled, as he drove to work, thinking of how much care he had gone to, locating the brightest coloured polo-neck in his wardrobe, a deep red.



‘It will get me noticed’, he thought wryly, as he entered Alex and Scott’s office, to get his morning brew.



“Morning guy’s,” he told them, breezing in and waving his right hand in the air.



Scott looked up, looking confused.



He turned his head slowly and looked to his colleague, swiveling his eyes.



Moments later, as Daniel left to go into his own more spacious office, coffee-in-hand, they both looked at one another: “Something’s in the air,” Scott said, to no-one in particular, though Alex sat nearby.



Daniel’s good mood persisted, as he sat behind his desk and turned on his PC, intent on checking his emails, before the inevitable interruption.



And of course, the inevitable did happen, as he was replying to his second email read.



The buzzer on the intercom sounded and, he heard Bree’s voice, “Sheffield… erm, Mister Sheffield wants to see you immediately Mister, Mister Marks…”



Daniel opened the door to her office, the looking to her he beamed his widest of smiles, as he ran his right hand across her left cheek, “Gawd, you’re lovely,” he told her.



And, as Bree sat there blushing, Daniel walked across to Sheffield’s door, briefly looking back, to stare momentarily at her crossed legs and, the little bit of flesh at the top of her stocking. He smiled.



He smiled, as he knocked quickly on John Sheffield’s office-door, then without waiting for a response, he opened the door and went straight in.



The Man was looking out his window, hands clasped behind his back and he turned, at the sound of Daniel entering.



“Didn’t think you’d want me standing on ceremony, not today.” He enthused, as he made his way to Sheffield’s liquor.



Daniel picked up a bottle of JD and, poured two glasses out.



“You will drink with me, won’t you?” He asked. “Perhaps you’ll need it?”



Sheffield looked on, confused.



“Marissa called round last night…” Daniel began.



“She was at home for breakfast,” Sheffield responded, smiling at the thought of how rough she had looked, as she’d asked for an OJ from their butler, Russell.



“After waking me at two and taking what she wanted? I’m surprised she was up…”

Daniel added, passing one of the glasses to John Sheffield.



“She wha…?” Sheffield blustered. ‘My little girl!’ He thought.



“Well,” Daniel raised his glass, “to Marissa…” they clinked glasses together, as Daniel completed his toast, with “the most selfish woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet!”



Daniel swigged down the contents of his glass down, as Sheffield set his down on his desk, quite untouched: “What’s got into you today?”



“Well John… It seems that I might be dying.” There, he’d said it.



“You’re what? I’m so sorry to hear that, my boy…” The older man told him, realizing how ineffectual his words would sound.



“Yes, I got the results yesterday. And today… well, I’m gone…” And Daniel smiled, a sad smile that touched nothing in the other man, as he thought to ask, “So what about the firm, the job? Marissa?”



“I told you John, I’m gone…” It was as simple as that.



“And Marissa?” John queried.



“I needed space last night and she, she wanted something else. Well, she got what she wanted… from the walking dead!” He turned, from the spluttering Sheffield and, left his office, being careful, to firmly close the door after himself.



“Well Bree,” Daniel began, as he walked across the office, “there are some things I’ll miss… and this…” He ran his hand left hand across her upper right thigh and up a little, till his fingers grazed bare flesh and, Bree looked up to him, with large doe-eyes.



Then withdrawing his hand, Daniel grinned. He kissed the fingertips that had just touched her and, then placed then on her lower-lip, “Ciao Pretty One.”



“Are you going somewhere?” Bree called out, as he closed his door.



“Yes, somewhere…” he muttered, to himself smiling.



And, of course, he said his ‘goodbyes’, to Alex and Scott: but, that was it. No more.

He shook their hands cordially, and then turned and left, as slack-jawed, their eyes had followed him.



Daniel didn’t take anything from his old office, nothing to remind him of where he had worked, as that is what had led his doctor to say to him, “If you stay there, the pressure might kill you, in six months, or so…”



So, he had left.



And, as the buildings main door closed Daniel found himself ably assisted by Mister Gillis, the doorman, dressed in his smart red frock-coat with tails, a top hat on his head; and Mister Gillis closed the door, with his usual theatrical flourish.



Mister Gillis as ever, was ably assisted himself, by a third bottle of scotch, a shift, that is…



Daniel stopped at the first of the eight steps and, a ramp on the right and left, which that led to the pavement. He couldn’t help but smile.



That gesture that the old man had made seemed ‘just right’, providing closure, as it were, for him.



Yet, there was one more thing he considered, as he walked into the milling throng on the sidewalk. He reached into his pocket and found his car keys.



“Eh fella,” he said quickly, stopping a young man, wearing a simple tee, combats and, sneakers. He had long hair beneath his peaked cap, advertising Coors: “Hey kid, do you want a want a Lexus, special?” And there, on his outstretched hand, he held the car keys.



The young man looked at Daniel bug-eyed with disbelief, “You pulling my wire?”



“No, I’m not, I need a new car,” he told the young man, asking; “So what’s your name?”



“Alan Remarr, my names Alan Lamarr…” the fellow told Daniel.



“Well Alan,” Daniel began casting his left arm over the young man’s shoulders, “if you don’t mind opening up the car, I need to use the phone a moment.”



“Mister, if you’re giving me this Lexus, you phone Australia if you want?” Alan Remarr assured Daniel, with a wide smile.



“Not Australia. I’m phoning home…” he told the young man, easing himself through the pushing crowd of pedestrians, to the kerbside and his Lexus.



Alan opened up, as requested and, Daniel picked up the phone.



He tapped a few numbers, then spoke into the receiver: “Rachel, what are you doing now? … Uhuh? Well, do you want to stop dusting and get that car out I bought you awhile back, a Honda hatchback, wasn’t it?”



“Where?” He asked her in return to her question: “I’m outside the building and, I need to be picked up…”



“Where to?” He repeated, smiling.



“How about we go on a road trip Rachel, to my New England home and, my own little Haven.”