27. Elena
27
ELENA
I step out into the windiest day I’ve seen in Grimstone yet. Wet leaves whip down the street, slapping against my legs like runaway starfish. Sudden gusts whirl my hair around my head in a blinding tornado.
I hold tight to my camera with both hands, glad for the extra security of the strap around my neck. I’m infinitely relieved that my most prized possession escaped unharmed, and I’m sure as hell not going to drop it the very next day.
The clouds overhead are dark, billowing mountains of smoke. I lift my camera and snap an image. But then I consider the better vantage point of the beach, and I know I need to brave the wind and climb down.
The winding wooden staircases set into the rock, the only way down to the beach from Grimstone’s Main Street, are a primary reason for tourists to pick the shiny new Onyx resort, which is located directly on the sand on the north end of the bay.
Grimstone, however, tends to attract thrill seekers. Atlas has no problem stuffing his hotel with people happy to make the climb down to the ink-dark sand. Even during what he tells me has been an exceptionally cold and wet October.
I cross Main Street, busier than ever with tourists crowding the town for the Reaper’s Revenge. A clutch of college-age girls spill out of Beans n’ Brews, clutching coffee and cocoa and a copy of Lorne’s book—the one with the staring eye—tucked under the last girl’s arm.
It looks exactly like Lorne’s eye peeking at me. My heart gives a sickening squeeze. I feel horribly exposed even though I’m not doing anything wrong. Not doing anything at all at the moment besides walking in the wind. But I’m scared and guilty, staring around.
I can’t stand the anxiety. I wasn’t made for sneaking around. And I’ve been sneaking for a while now…since way before I came to Grimstone.
I finger my phone in my pocket. I’ve been texting Mina, trying to get updates without being too obvious.
What’s going on with the bookshop?
Any news?
The pressure’s rising. Anytime now, I’ll hear something… Will it be Mina who calls me? Will anybody call?
Someone will call…
No, maybe not. I might have gotten away.
I bite the edge of my thumb so hard I taste blood, bright and coppery in my mouth. I feel panicked, hunted, and I think suddenly of Atlas and want to call him on the phone, as if I’m in my room and can summon him to take care of my problem.
But I’m not in my room. And Atlas can’t fix this for me.
So, I climb down the splintering staircase to the beach. The sand is flat and black as an oil spill, the waves washing the shore slate-gray with shocking bursts of white foam.
I’m dressed head to toe in clothes that Atlas bought for me, and that’s the only reason I can stand the icy wind. Leather gloves and a leather bomber, a thick scarf, and flat boots, the kind you could walk around in for hours—just the right thing for the wet and insistent cold.
The clothes are as warm as Atlas’s arms around me, and I’m thinking about him in a tangible way as I walk down the spongy sand.
Most people walk north along the black sand half moon that terminates at the Onyx.
I’ve gone the opposite direction, though it involves climbing over piles of slippery black rock, because I want the cliffs under the town of Grimsone as my backdrop.
The sheer black walls tower overhead, the long strip of Main Street visible only in terms of rooftops. The roof of the Monarch rises highest of all, its Gothic spires and chimneys silhouetted against the sky.
The ocean sucks in and out of hidden holes in the cliffs. The wind makes a whispering sound, crying like a child, moaning like a lover, making the hair raise on the back of my neck.
Nobody has walked out as far as me onto these rocks. I can’t help thinking of rogue waves that reach up like hands out of the sea and snatch people. But the boots Atlas bought me have excellent grip, and this photograph is going to look so fucking cool.
I’m directly beneath the Monarch now, gazing up at the brick wall that surrounds the back garden and, above that, the many black stone gargoyles on the cornices, snarling against the cloud-filled sky.
I lift my camera and take photographs until I’ve exhausted an entire roll of film. Then I slowly lower the lens.
As my eyes drag down the cliffs, I see something that almost seems to be an optical illusion: a completely naked Atlas standing inside a cube of glass.
This cube is embedded in the cliffs about thirty feet over my head. Atlas, nude from head to toe and bathed in silvery light, looks like the statue of Hercules.
He stretches, thick arms lifted overhead, his stomach tightening, the muscles of his thighs bulging. My eyes are drawn to something else, ah, bulging in a nearby area. My insides slowly liquify. Nichoho sobi…
I think Atlas just woke up. His cock hangs swollen and heavy, his whole body flushed, his hair messy, his stubble on its way to a beard. He yawns and runs a hand down his chest, his eyes moving down from horizon to shore.
And that’s when he sees me standing there. Staring at him. Holding a camera.
“Oh shit,” I say out loud.
Atlas’s hand freezes, and he tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly.
“It’s not what you think!” I shout up, even though there’s no way he can hear me over the wind. “I wasn’t taking pictures! I mean, I was taking pictures, but…”
A distant elderly couple struggling up the beach lift their heads to stare at me. They heard me. But I don’t think Atlas can. Not behind that glass.
Atlas holds up one finger and steps out of frame. It’s only now that I’m realizing I’m looking up at what must be his bedroom, built in an underground part of the hotel, directly in the cliffside.
Atlas returns, a towel wrapped around his waist and his phone in his hand. My phone buzzes in my pocket.
You little pervert.
I look up at him, shrug, wheel around, and pretend to walk into the sea.
When I turn back again, I can see Atlas silently laughing. I mean, it’s silent to me. I’m assuming he’s making noise up there in his glass box.
My phone buzzes with:
Are you coming up here or am I coming down there?
I check the time—six whole hours until dinner. Assuming Lorne is even on time.
And after all…why put off until tonight what you can do right this moment?
I send:
Meet me in the darkroom.