Chapter 3
THREE
STERLING
“Hey, are you okay?”
Her voice.
The sweet, lyrical softness, the perfect rise and fall in pitch, the kindness imbued into every word tugs at my dulled senses, drawing me back out of the darkness and into stunning technicolour that continues to weave behind my closed eyelids, despite my body’s attempts at blotting it out. She’s American. I’m not sure why that surprises me, but it does.
“Can you hear me?” she continues, and I feel the soothing touch of her finger against my cheek like an electric current zipping through my bloodstream, my body reacting to her touch way before my mind can catch up. “Should I call an ambulance?”
Her warm breath cascades over my cheek as she leans in close, causing another eruption of goosebumps to scatter across my skin, igniting that electric current into a blazing inferno.
“No ambulance,” I manage to mumble, groaning as I lift my hand to my face to cover my eyes, acutely aware that I need a moment to gather myself, to regain a modicum of control.
It’s been a long time since the overstimulation from my synesthesia has caused me to pass out. As a kid it would happen often, but these days it has become less common. Over the years I’ve been able to pick up on the warning signs and take action. Warning signs that I chose to thoroughly ignore tonight.
“Are you sure? You don’t look too good,” she says, worry threading through her singsong voice.
“I’m fine,” I snap, my eyes still pressed shut as I force myself upright and draw up my knees. Who am I trying to kid? I’m far from fine. She huffs out a breath, about as convinced by my strained response as I am.
“Maybe you should get yourself checked out to be on the safe side?”
“It’s been a long day,” I hedge, hoping that’s enough to allay her concerns. The last thing I need is a trip to the emergency room.
She shifts beside me, her arm wrapping around my back. Her scent wafts under my nose, and fuck , if a rainbow had a scent, it would be hers. Every hue becomes a perfumed aroma. There’s sweet rose red, citrus lemon yellow, freshly cut grass green, ocean breeze blue, ripe plum purple.
Christ, everything about her overwhelms my senses. Her perfumed scent, the sound of her voice, the touch of her skin, the colours she brings to life before my very eyes. I briefly wonder if she would taste as heady as I imagine.
“Must’ve been one hell of a day,” she replies, a soft laugh breaking free as her hand rubs up and down my spine. It’s a comforting gesture, and one that makes my bastard cock twitch.
“You could say that,” I reply, finally forcing my eyelids open as I blink up at her kneeling beside me.
She gives me a soft smile, and I find her molten brown eyes, flecked with green and amber and lined with dark kohl, staring back at me. I swallow hard, dragging in a much needed breath. God damn, have I died and gone to heaven? This woman is beautiful, made even more so by the colours still ebbing and flowing around her like a halo.
“Hey there,” she whispers, her gaze locking with mine as her short black hair falls around her face in a bob, the blunt fridge offsetting her sun-kissed skin perfectly. “I’m… My name is Friday.”
“Nice to meet you, Friday,” I reply, weak-kneed. It’s just as well I’m sitting down, because this woman is doing strange fucking things to me. Well, stranger than usual, at least. “Sterling,” I add.
“Sterling,” she whispers, cocking her head to the side, another smile tugging on her perfect lips as she ruminates on my unusual name. I mean, hers is hardly common either.
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” I retort foolishly.
Way to go Casanova. Could I be any more awkward?
“You’re English,” she murmurs, clearly an afterthought or a delayed reaction given we’ve been conversing for a little while now.
“I’m afraid so,” I reply, not sure if that was a compliment or simply an observation.
“Want to try standing?” she asks with a soft chuckle.
“I guess staying down here isn’t the best idea, might catch something… From the floor, I mean,” I quickly add, smiling a little. But even that is an effort.
“I know what you mean,” she laughs, the soft tinkle making the colour wrapped around her tumble and twirl. “This place is disgusting.”
But you make it paradise , I almost say. Thank fuck I don’t.
“Jesus,” I mutter instead, clearing my throat as I try in vain to suppress the unsuppressable.
My fingers curl into fists as I try to regain control once more. I’m itching to paint, but more than that… Fuck, I’m itching to pull her into my arms and lose myself in her .
That’s never happened before, this sudden intense desire to claim the object of my attention. This almost feral need is just as forceful as my need to paint. And, yes, whilst it might be true that when I’m under the influence of my condition, I fall for the voice, no matter who’s singing, my focus has only ever been on the process of bringing my art to life. It’s a feeling I can only describe as being akin to love, but it’s brief, and that feeling is always so tightly bound to the colours I see and the piece I eventually produce that it leaves me the moment I’ve finished painting. It has always been a brief love affair that culminates in a work of art.
Yet this unexplainable, immediate, overwhelming connection I feel for this woman is more . It’s sexual, I can admit that. Who wouldn’t be attracted to her, she’s fucking stunning? Christ knows it’s been too long since I’ve been with a woman, but it’s also… Fuck, I don’t know why it’s different, I just know that it is. Right now I don’t have the wherewithal to figure it out.
“Sterling? Do you need some water or?—”
“I knew you were on something,” a familiar voice says, interrupting Friday, the bouncer’s looming presence hovering in my periphery.
“I’m not on anything,” I grind out through gritted teeth.
“Yeah and I’m the fucking President. Up you go, it’s time you get the fuck out,” he retorts briskly, reaching down to yank at my arm.
“Get your hands off him!” Friday shouts, the sweetness in her voice turning steely, her outburst as shocking as the sudden protectiveness glinting in her eyes. “Can’t you see he’s unwell.”
“I’m not unwell… I’m just…” I mumble, not finishing my sentence, not wanting to explain what is actually happening to me or why for that matter. It’s too complicated, too personal, too fucking humiliating.
“Unwell?” the bouncer snorts. “More like high . GET.UP!”
Friday jumps to her feet, shoving her palms against the arsehole’s chest. “Back off!”
Her anger blazes brightly, catching me off-guard with her show of solidarity. There have been too many times my own father has told me to get my shit together when I fainted as a kid. To have someone care enough to face up to this arsehole is not something I’m used to, and I appreciate it. It also reminds me that I’m not usually like this. I’ve been in many brawls over the years, and can look after myself well enough. Just, apparently, not tonight.
“Fuck, don’t. It’s all good,” I groan, shifting my weight forwards as I reach for the chair I slid off and haul myself to my feet on shaky legs. I stumble a little, and Friday reaches for me, placing a steadying hand on my arm. I feel the heat of her touch through my damp sweater and it takes everything in me not to moan, to give in to this intensity between us.
“Take it easy,” she demands softly, despite her hard expression still aimed at the fucker watching this all play out.
“He needs to leave. NOW!” the bouncer insists.
“I’ll go. It’s all good,” I mutter, forcing strength into my spine, but finding myself leaning into Friday more than I should.
“You’re not going anywhere, not on your own,” Friday insists.
“Either he leaves now, or I throw you both out,” the dickhead snaps.
“Fine. I’ll just grab my bag,” she replies coldly, turning her attention to me, her voice softening. “Can you stand on your own for a moment?”
I give her a brief dip of my head. “I’m good.”
It’s a lie of course, I’m positively fucked, but I’m not about to admit that now. She nods, withdrawing her hand from my arm, and throws one last look at the bouncer.
“Do not touch him!” she warns, her finger jabbing into his chest.
The bouncer grumbles something cutting under his breath, but he doesn’t try to manhandle me again. With a brief, concerned look in my direction, Friday twists on her heel and rushes towards the stage, grabbing a bag and coat concealed behind a swathe of moth-eaten velvet curtain, returning within moments.
“Off you go,” the bouncer says, folding his arms across his chest as Friday reaches for me once more, her arm threading through mine.
She doesn’t even blink, so caught up in helping a stranger stagger across the club that she forgoes all sense of concern for herself. I could be a psychopath praying on women for all she knows. I’m not of course, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying about her sense of self-preservation. Is she always so… so kind , so unfazed by a stranger in need?
“What an asshole!” she exclaims as I walk unsteadily towards the exit. “What happened to a little human decency?”
“You seem to have it in spades,” I reply, gripping the handrail and hauling myself up the stairs with her assistance.
“In spades?” she questions, a confused look on her face.
“It means you have a lot of something. In your case, human decency.”
She nods, her lips quirking up in a smile. “You need help, I’m helping. I’d do that for anyone in the same predicament.”
“I could be dangerous.”
“Are you?” she asks, side-eyeing me as we reach the top of the stairs, the air isn’t as thick up here, thank fuck, because believe me, I’m an inferno of blazing heat and unequivocal fucked-upness.
“No.”
“Didn’t think so,” she murmurs.
“Pretty sure most dangerous men would say that,” I reply.
“I trust you,” she says as we step outside of the club, and I lean against the brick wall, dragging in deep lungfuls of air.
It’s stopped raining now, the alleyway glistening with puddles from the recent downpour, the reflection of the red neon light of Smokey Joe’s rippling in the nearest puddle.
“Why?” I eventually ask, flicking my gaze her way.
“Why what?”
She steps back, giving me space. Space I could easily eat up with one step toward her.
It gives me a moment to study her. I’m guessing she’s around five foot eight, and whilst I’m making huge assumptions here, she’s unlikely to be able to fend me off if I was a psychopath, hence the question. Then again she could be a black belt in karate, and more than capable of defending herself should the need arise.
Not that it would, I don’t want to hurt her. I want to sink my cock inside of her and then I want to paint her on canvas. Not just the colours she entices within me, but her .
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I really need to get my shit together.
“ Why do you trust me?”
“Call it a hunch,” she shrugs, pulling on her light denim jacket, the action causing her belly-coasting band tee to lift higher.
I rip my gaze away from that smooth expanse of skin and her gently rounded hips, my throat dry, my cock aching. I really fucking hope she doesn’t look too closely at my crotch, because right now I’m sporting a very painful erection.
“Seems unwise to rely on a hunch,” I comment, my head spinning momentarily, causing the ground to tilt beneath my feet.
“I’m not afraid of you. ”
“I’m no more than a stranger,” I counter.
She frowns at that, something I can’t interpret flicking in her eyes. “Apparently so.”
Her response is strange, bulging with hidden meaning, and I can’t help but wonder if she feels this connection too, or am I so caught up in the barrage of my overloaded senses that I’m imagining things that aren’t real?
“Get a grip,” I mutter under my breath as I lean my head back against the wall and press my eyes shut.
“So, I know you said you didn’t want to go to the hospital…” she says after a beat, her voice trailing off as I shake my head then push off the wall and begin walking down the alleyway towards the main road. I need to move, to force my body to act before I crumble again.
“I should get home,” I croak out, forcing my hands into my pockets so I don’t reach for her and do something rash like kiss her.
“Can I at least grab you a cab?” she offers when we reach the pavement and turn to face each other.
A breeze whips up her hair, and for the first time this evening I notice that it doesn’t quite move in the same way natural hair does. It’s stiff almost, coarser than I’d realised.
She must notice me staring because she reaches up and tugs, pulling off a wig to reveal silky honey blonde hair pulled back in a low bun. If I thought she couldn’t be any more stunning, I was wrong.
“You’re blonde,” I say inanely.
“It’s just something I wear when I sing. Part of the…” she frowns, then clears her throat as she runs a hand over her natural hair, smoothing down the wayward strands “Act, I suppose.”
“You shouldn’t hide yourself. I like it.”
“Thanks…”
Her voice trails off as she stuffs her wig into her bag, and I can’t help but notice that her hands are trembling a little. It makes me wonder if talk of me being a psychopath has scared her, that whatever snapped to life between us in the club has dispersed alongside the clammy late night air the city has been shrouded in of late.
“Can I have your number?” I blurt out, realising that I’m staring, staring at her beauty, at the colour that still twines around her, at the way her purple lipsticked mouth parts on a soft breath and a deep blush rushes across her cheeks.
She hesitates, considering my request, then nods. “Sure, let me have your phone.”
Reaching into my pocket, I pull it out and hand it to her. She takes it from me, chewing on her lip as she types in her number. “There,” she replies, passing me the phone back.
“Well, I should go,” I say, pocketing my phone once more, finding this whole exchange excruciating. I’m not even sure why I asked for her number other than to cover up the fact that I was staring at her like a creep.
“Sure. I guess I should get going too,” she replies, obviously coming to her senses.
I can’t help but feel disappointed. Not that it’s her fault. I’m not a smooth talker like my best friends back home are when it comes to women. I’ve always been socially awkward, abrupt with people I don’t know well. Growing up being different means I’ve had to adapt to the people around me, always trying to fit in. It’s not been easy. Back home people know me as the heir to a multi-billion pound fortune, a man who, on the surface, is as polished and as good-looking as his father. Yet, that’s just a front, a camouflage to hide the real me, the person who stumbles through each day trying to hide his differences, his awkwardness, all in an effort to make other people comfortable. Tonight she’s seen a side to me very few people have, and honestly, I feel vulnerable. It’s not a feeling I enjoy.
“I’m still happy to grab you a cab before I leave. There’s plenty around.”
“I only live a block away. I’ll walk,” I reply, shoving my hands into my jean pockets.
“You do? Okay… Well, I guess this is goodbye?”
She chews on her lip, a sudden nervousness slipping through, telling me she’s not quite at ease in my company as she’d like me to believe.
“I guess it is,” I reply, swallowing hard at the prospect of her departure, that chord I felt connecting myself to her earlier, tugging at my insides as she gives me a soft smile.
“Goodnight, Sterling,” she says, pulling her bag across her front, hugging it to her chest as she twists on her heel and takes a step away from me. “I hope you feel better soon.”
Inexplicably, the colour that has been hovering around her begins to fade, and it guts me. It’s as though the magic is wearing off, her departure cutting the connection with one fell swoop.
Fuck.
Before I can even contemplate what I’m doing, I’m striding after her, my fingers curling around her arm. “Don’t,” I bite out as she turns to face me.
“Don’t?” she whispers, her eyes wide.
Don’t go, I can’t fucking bare it.
“Would you like a coffee?” I blurt out instead.
“A coffee?”
“Or tea?” I ask, internally cursing myself.
“Most places that sell coffee… and tea,” she adds with a soft laugh, “Are closed.”
“Yeah,” I say, raking a hand through my hair, wishing the ground would swallow me up. “What I meant to say was, would you like to come back to my place, for coffee… or tea?”
There, fuck , I’ve said it.
I stare at her for long moments. Far longer than would be deemed socially acceptable, and being the awkward fuck that I am, I don’t try to fill the silence, or say something charming to persuade her to come back home with me, I just wait.
“Sterling, are you propositioning me?” she eventually replies, her eyes dancing with a tentative kind of humour.
I baulk at her question. “No. Fuck… I… Shit… This isn’t… I didn’t mean…”
Yes, yes you absolutely fucking did , my inner voice needles me.
Because that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m asking her back to my place under the pretence of a coffee when all I want to do is strip her bare, worship her body and sink deep inside of her just so she can feel a fraction of what I’m feeling now. That is, totally and utterly out of control.
Her laughter fades, her smile turns serious, and just when I think she’s going to walk away for good, she does something inexplicable.
She rests her hand on my arm before murmuring, “Yes, I want to go home with you.”