Chapter 14
???
Did anyone beg for a glow-up montage?
Ines all but cackles wickedly as she tosses her purple hair and circles me, like a vulture, in Samson’s living room. Were it only her, I may not be quite so crippled by the torrent of emotions rioting in my chest.
But it’s not just her.
It is also Samson.
Reclined on his sofa.
Watching me.
A hint of amusement sparks in his eyes, and it unveils me, stripping me down to the fragile core of who I am.
“What a perfect, precious, beautiful little doll,” Ines states, lifting my arm and stretching a tape measure out against it.
Pulling a pad from one of the hundred pockets in her patchwork dress, she jots a number down and throws the tape around my throat, tugging my head back as the measure tightens.
Samson’s eyes widen a fraction, and he coughs into his hand, putting his attention squarely on the kitchen counters across the living room.
Blush warms every inch of my poor, tortured body as the tape measure pulls away to grab my hips, and I’m so glad Samson isn’t watching anymore.
“This is going to be so much fun.” Ines chortles, and I squeak when her tape gets me around the bosom.
Samson’s attention flicks to me and jerks off all in the same second, then he stands. “Should I not be here—”
“Sit down,” Ines says, and Samson is sat.
Immediate like.
Bless him.
I, too, am afraid of Ines.
She’s got manic in her blood. Ninety percent of her lines are deranged or mixed with casual lore drops bridging on horror.
She’s got her own creepypasta stories, and—truth be told—I try not to think about them.
It’s just too easy to give the goth-loli, hyperactive character often depicted with a needle and pins wicked lore.
Even though she is nothing but kind, considerate, and supportive of the player in every possible way.
When you befriend her, she literally sends you free clothes in the mail, with cute notes like: Is this bad for business? Maybe. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how your eyes match this new fabric I got in perfectly.
It’s hard to navigate off-script Ines.
Especially when she doesn’t seem to be pro personal space.
“Okay!” She steps away from me while rolling up her sewing tape.
Dropping it into a pocket that fits the roll perfectly, she plops herself down on the couch beside Samson, grabs a thick book she brought with her, and flips to a page.
“Something like this?” she asks, before I can ease myself close enough to see what they’re looking at.
Samson tenses, grumbling, “Nes.”
“Whaaat?” She flicks to a different page, purple nails catching sunlight. “I’m nosy. Can’t blame me for it. Occupational hazard. I see everyone’s underwear.”
I flinch. Please tell me she didn’t just show him designs for lingerie or something.
Do I want Samson to think of me as a woman?
Sure.
Do I want the poor boy forced to picture me in my drawers?
No.
Wait…
Yeah. No. No. Big no. Not yet, anyway. Right now it is a big red neon N.O.
Cautious, I slip myself into the seat beside Ines and peek in at her book. Swatches of fabric scatter among designs sewn directly into the page, each adorned with scraps of lace and ribbon.
It’s beautiful chaos, and I’m enraptured.
“This?” she asks, stabbing her purple nail against a swathe of pink silk. “In this style?” she flips ahead and presents a delicate dress with a waterfall skirt and a sweetheart neckline.
It’s gorgeous.
But not exactly practical for working a farm or murdering things in the mines.
“Pink Lemonade,” Samson murmurs before I can ask where the work clothes are.
Heat erupts in my cheeks.
“The shade is perfect to complement your skin and hair,” Ines chatters. “We don’t want to wash you out. Blues are also an option.” She puffs a laugh. “Well, any color is an option, really. It’s just a matter of which shade fits you.”
Samson stops her frantic spiel and page flipping on a design that looks like it was made for a fairy.
Lavish, the gown is layered to the ankles and adorned with lace and satin all the way up to a high neckline.
The sheer, flowing sleeves remind me of Aurelia’s wholly feminine and ethereal clothing style.
Yet again, however, a gown is not a work dress.
Ines chuckles deeply, nudging Samson in the arm. “Ohh? You like that one, do ya? Want it in pink?”
Emotionally, I am not prepared for Samson’s nod, so I blurt, “Um! I-I need work clothes, don’t I? I’m a farmer. I have a—” I swallow, panicked. “—a lot of land to clear and till and plant? These dresses don’t seem conducive to the plot?”
Ines peers at me, or through me, or into me with her purple-tinted eyes rimmed in thick mascara.
After I am completely unsettled, she allows a feline grin to overtake her perfectly-painted lips.
“Right-o, work clothes.” She flips nimbly to a more practical section of her book, with thicker fabric sewn into the pages.
Jean and khaki and cotton cover designs for shirts and pants and overalls.
“Cute,” Samson murmurs at a pair of overalls with a sunflower pocket over the chest. Tapping a finger to it, he says, “Can that be a lemon?”
“You bet.”
“And can this be a skirt?”
Ines giggles, maniacal. “How short we talking, Sammy?”
Samson scowls. “Skirts are cooler than pants, that’s all.” The last word leaves him like a growl.
Ines slaps a hand to her mouth. “Oh! I’m sorry. I thought we were shopping for Citrus. You should have let me know you wanted an overall dress for yourself. Summer will be here before we know it, and you deserve something cool and comfortable to wear, too.”
Samson…in a…
No.
Bad brain.
“Can you not behave yourself for five minutes?” Samson grouches.
“I could, but how boring would that be?”
“I like boring.”
Ines tuts, pulling her notepad out and scribbling. “Don’t insult Citrus like that.” She looks at me, chipper, while Samson sinks into the couch, muttering about regrets and this being why he doesn’t talk to people. “Are you sure you only want work clothes? Sammy is taking care of the bill.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
Samson growls, “Can you keep nothing to yourself, Nes?”
“He’s loaded. He could buy you my entire catalog. Closets full of pretty dresses—isn’t that just the dream?”
He twitches. “I don’t do much, so I’ve saved a decent amount of money, in the case of an emergency, or…anything else that requires money.”
“‘Anything else’? Like clothing your brand new, poverty-stricken neighbor.” Ines nods, sagely. “So platonic.”
“I will strangle you if you don’t shut up.”
“Hot.”
A throaty, gruff noise escapes the poor man before he gives Ines and I his back, tucks his arms together, and sulks.
“Now that it’s just the two of us…” Ines flips to a few pages that turn my entire body into pudding.
“What are we thinking?” She taps a nail tip to something that might be entirely made of three strips of lace.
“Sexy or—” She directs my attention to an adorable underwear set themed around clouds. “—sweet?”
I stammer, “D-do you have anything n-normal, maybe?”
A tiny frown replaces all her glee. “Normal?” She scoffs. “Don’t insult me. I’m an artist. You have to wear underwear, lovely, and in a town as small as this one, everything’s made-to-order. Why not opt for cute and comfortable?”
Um. I dunno. Maybe because I am choking on my heartbeat, flicking my gaze to Samson’s back every two seconds, and trying to maintain survival. “N-no offense, but, um, th-that first option doesn’t look entirely comfortable?”
“It is. Promise. I’m wearing it right now. Epitome of comfort.”
My mouth drops open and stays gaping.
Ines sighs. “Fineee. I have some children’s designs in here somewhere, for Peggy. They might have ducklings on them. Pegs loves ducklings. Aren’t you lucky?”
Stomach flipping, I bite my cheek, swallow my anxiety, and whisper a shaking, “N-no. I’m…I’m sorry. I don’t want children’s underwear. Please.”
Ines stares, into me and through me, like she does, yet again. Then her lips quirk, and she elbows Samson in the back. “She begs nice. Lucky you.”
I am going to die here.
Right on this couch.
I will melt into the cushions, like a lost phone, never to be seen again.
In half a second, Samson is up, Ines is snatched, and I am gaping as he trucks her out of the living room and into his bedroom.
Every cell in me dissolves into a shaking mess as my brain fights to reconcile the intimacy of just picking someone up and carting them into your bedroom.
He called her Nes earlier. Game knowledge implies that Samson isn’t close with anyone because he barely leaves his farm…
but…maybe that’s a flawed assumption in this real-world setting?
After all, he speaks highly of even Austin.
He threatened me because of how deeply he cares about his home and all the people in it.
With my heart beating a thunder in my skull, I can’t make out a single word of the conversation happening behind a closed bedroom door.
I haven’t even had the privilege of seeing Samson’s bedroom yet.
Sure, I’ve seen the pixels…but seeing it for real is different.
Also, in game, you’re only allowed into people’s bedrooms once you attain a certain level of relationship heart events with them. I was hoping that maybe I could use being allowed entry as a gauge for how many hearts Samson and I have.
You know.
Since my stupid book has him riddled with question marks.
Ines and Samson exit his bedroom while I’m still struggling to consolidate the situation.
Samson nudges Ines forward a step, and she huffs, rolling her eyes, “I apologize for my behavior. It was insensitive of me to tease you in such a way while your current options for places to sleep involve a disease-ridden farmhouse or Samson’s spare room.
I in no way meant to convey that Samson would have any impure or uncomfortable thoughts concerning you, nor that you should have to think about him in such a scandalous context. Please forgive me.”
I’m not smiling.
I’m not crying.
But, on the inside, I am the smiling emoji with a single tear.
“Oh,” I whisper, “I…appreciate the clarification.”
Ines continues her drawl, “It’s very important to Samson that you feel safe.”
My throat closes, and I glance at Samson. “I-I do. Promise.”
Samson nods, affirmative, and grumbles, “Good. I’m going to see if I can’t make some progress next door, Lemonade. Get whatever you think you need and know it’s covered. Please. We take care of each other here. Okay?”
Wetting my lips, I swallow the tightness in my throat. “Okay.”
He leaves after another nod, and Ines plops herself back down beside me with a sigh, letting her book open to a page of wedding dresses when she sets it in her lap. “You know something?” she murmurs, thumbing through the gowns affectionately.
“Hm?” I murmur, fighting to regulate my nervous system, and failing miserably.
She traces the billowing skirt of a wedding gown. “Samson begs nice, too.” Her lips curl, devious. “Lucky you.”