You, Him, & Me E-Book

Madelynne Ellis

• Herausgeber: Incantatrix Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Her two dream guys are both hot for her, but what she really desires is for them to want each other.

As the designer for an opulent gothic wedding, Remy Davies is under pressure. There’s the over-stressed bride, a trinity of vampire-obsessed bridesmaids, a wayward groom, and then there’s the best man…

Silk looks as if he was drawn by a manga artist - beautiful, exotic, and with a predatory sexuality. She has to have him, in her bed, and between the pages of her new catalogue. Remy is about to launch herself into the alternative fashion world, and Silk is going sell it for her whether he knows it or not.

But Silk is nobody’s toy, and for all his androgyny, he’s determinedly heterosexual. Pity, since Remy’s biggest fantasy is to see him making out with her sort-of-boyfriend, Japanese biker, Takeshi.

You, Him, & Me is a standalone bisexual MMF ménage. If you like quirky characters, goths, high-drama, castles, dodgy poetry, and angst, then you’ll love Madelynne Ellis’s yaoi-inspired romance.

*Previously published by Virgin Books (Black Lace) 9th November 2006 as Dark Designs.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

-1-

-2-

-3-

-4-

-5-

-6-

-7-

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-11-

-12-

-13-

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-21-

-22-

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-31-

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-35-

-36-

-37-

-38-

-39-

-40-

-41-

-epilogue-

-1-

-BOOKS BY MADELYNNE ELLIS-

-about the author-

Copyright © 2006, 2022 Madelynne Ellis. All Rights Reserved.

Cover Art by Incantatrix Press

First Published in 2006 by Black Lace, Virgin Books.

This edition published by Incantatrix Press 2022.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or to events or places is coincidental.

www.madelynne-ellis.com

Dedication

To TJC.

Ai shiteiru

-1-

He wasn’t sure what had first drawn his attention, the girl, or the word yaoi being bandied about the tiny provincial comic shop. She was visually stunning; there was no question of that. From the red dip-dyed ends of her black hair to the toes of her buckled boots, she was simply too stylish to dismiss with a casual glance. But the word itself had its own powerful attraction.

“Yaoi,” he whispered, rolling the syllables over his tongue. It had a unique taste - bitter dark chocolate surrounding a sweet liqueur centre. A taste he associated entirely with seduction and the sort of man-on-man action he could expect from one of the manga being discussed. In his Japanese homeland, the gay-themed books featuring huge-eyed androgynous-looking men were considered an entirely female province. After all, what could possibly be the appeal of heartbreakingly beautiful men engaged in complex, romantic and exceptionally tortuous relationships to an ostensibly heterosexual man?

He grinned; absentmindedly picked up a comic from the rack. Why did everything in the world have to be viewed so starkly? Wasn’t there room for a few shades of grey? He liked the uncertainty of monochrome, the way in which one shade bled into another. He liked the uncertainty he felt right now about this woman. It buzzed at the back of his brain, an exotic tickle like a premonition. She was important somehow. His admiration, the attraction he felt, were more than just high points on an otherwise dreary Saturday.

He moved closer to her, paused a few feet from the counter and pretended to scan his randomly selected title. To his dismay, it turned out to be a superhero pin-up special. He flicked through the images of scantily clad women in the western comic, but there was nothing to compare with the woman at the counter, whose eyes, now he was close enough to see them, were wide and luminous. She turned her back to him, so he stared at her bum instead. It was heart-shaped and pert in her cropped black jeans, framed by the hem of her black, ostentatiously braided military jacket and a belt of silver links, hung like a charm bracelet with occult pendants and objets d’art. He wondered if they jingled when she walked, and how they’d sound against her hips as she writhed otherwise naked on a bed of black silk strewn with rose petals. Would the gentle tinkle mimic her sighs as she came? He could see her. The yaoi novel open on the pillow, her hand between her thighs as she imagined herself sandwiched between the two male leads of the book.

“They’re perfect,” she said, holding the graphic novels up to the light. There was a man on the front of the foremost one, with large striking green eyes and a veritable sea of blond hair.

“That’s a relief,” said the shop owner, “after the effort it took to get them. Colour fan-translations, rarer than Swamp Thing 37. First appearance of John Constantine,” he explained, when she failed to make the appropriate “ah” noise. “Mind, they cost more too.”

He watched her peer at the price tags. “Bit more than I’d expected.”

The man behind the counter shrugged. “I did say I couldn’t guarantee the prices.”

She nodded, causing the red tips of her hair to bounce then fall in a sharp line against her cheek.

So, they were special imports. There weren’t going to be any duplicates he could buy. Which meant there was only one way he could guarantee a closer look, since striking up a conversation was never a given.

He watched them go into a shop carrier. Four in total, pristine in their plastic envelopes. The proprietor took her card and slotted it in the machine, then waited while she punched in her number. The bag was just lying on the counter; its handles pointed conveniently outward, just waiting to be picked up.

It would guarantee her attention.

It would be easy, the work of seconds.

It might even be fun.

The premonitory thrill he’d felt earlier spread to his fingertips and tugged his lips into a smile. It had been a while since he’d been such a bad boy. He dropped the pin-up book and took a step forward…

-2-

Where was he? God help him when she found him. And she would find him.

Remy Davies peered down the alleyway at the back of the tiny comic shop, then sprinted past the bins towards the thrum of the evening traffic. No idiot stole her bag and got away with it. She could hardly credit his audacity. He’d simply lifted it straight off the counter while she was returning her bankcard to her wallet. Of course, it meant she’d had a good look at him: angular, East Asian, about five foot ten, with incredibly dark eyes and glacial blue hair. She wasn’t likely to forget that bit. It made him look as if he’d walked straight out of one of the graphic novels she’d just paid for. Reason enough to be interested in pursuing him even without the extraordinary circumstances. However, exotically gorgeous or not, she was still going to wring his neck when she caught him.

The high street was a dreary grey. Remy slowed to a fast walk and joined the other shoppers. It had been one of the wettest Aprils on record, and the pavement was dotted with oily puddles and soggy pastry crumbs. Even the spring collections in the shop windows seemed to have had all their vibrancy washed out of them by the constant rain. Not that she was much for pinks and pastels anyway. She’d much rather see a dramatic blood red, or midnight blue. Something striking and stylish that engaged the senses. Something like the fantasy image on the back of the biker jacket ahead - a curvy flame-haired temptress, provocatively dressed in bottle green with thorns growing up her arms.

It was him.

It took a moment for her brain to register the pale silver-blue hair grazing the leather collar. Well, nobody had ever said that thieves couldn’t be stylish too. Better yet, he still had her bag.

Relief and adrenaline surged through Remy’s chest, spurring her on between the huddles of umbrella wielding die-hards. It was gratifying to know that her precious comics weren’t floating in a puddle - the victims of failed opportunism by some X-dweeb who thought he was completing his collection. Still, the sooner she had them back in her hands the happier she’d be.

It had taken six weeks for her four carefully packaged manga translations to arrive from Japan. She’d only glimpsed them through the protective plastic covers before he’d swiped them, but the vividly rendered cover drawings promised so much. One particularly exquisite image of a blond-haired, green-eyed sex god had especially caught her attention. Right now, she should have been on her way home to an Irish coffee and an hour of indulgence, not chasing a thief in the rain.

He reached the main road ahead of her, stepped out behind a bus, and cut across the traffic. Remy more sensibly waited for the lights to change, trying to keep one eye on him and another on the traffic. To her dismay, he disappeared through the park gates just as she left the crossing.

“Hell, not the park!”

Chasing him through the centre of town where there were plenty of witnesses was one thing, but a lonely confrontation in the shrubbery… Who knew what sort of weirdo he was? He’d already shown a lack of morals and a willingness to take risks.

Remy paused at the gates. She wasn’t afraid of taking chances either, but was it worth the risk for eighty quids worth of books? Not that money was the real issue here. Those comics were her bit of escapism as she tried to get her life back on track, and the fictional men between their pages, her muses.

She needed the inspiration. Her fledgling fashion design business was barely off the drawing board. She had one paying client on which everything was riding, her start-up capital had gone on materials and sequins and if things didn’t come right soon, it’d be back to the factory-based pattern-cutting job she’d quit in January. The memory of her former life in Leeds was all the incentive it took. It would be the work of minutes to nip along the path and see if he was out in the open. It wasn’t as if she was pursuing him into the undergrowth.

There was nobody in sight along the main park thoroughfare or by the swings, the normal collection of families and layabouts apparently chased away by the rain. Remy pushed her damp hair back off her face and breathed out hard. It was over. He was gone and so were her books.

Just then, the drizzle turned into a downpour. She turned around and began retracing her steps towards the gate. Within seconds her hair was plastered to her head and her prized replica Black Brunswicker’s jacket was losing the battle to keep her dry. She needed shelter and fast, or she was going to make a drowned rat look stylish.

The gent’s loo was just ahead, off to the left behind a sprawling rhododendron. Shelter. Presumably, it’d be as deserted as the rest of the park, but even if it wasn’t she was still going in.

Remy shoved the graffiti-riddled door and stepped inside. Her nose immediately wrinkled at the ingrained reek of men and caustic cleaning fluids. It was dry and almost warm though, and she could sit on the counter by the sinks and curse the prick who’d stolen her comics.

Who, as luck would have it, had taken refuge too.

The girl on his jacket seemed to wink at her – a trick of the blue light, which flickered overhead and hummed like an electric flytrap. He was standing with his back to her at one of the urinals. Remy’s image rippled across the warped mirror as she marched up behind him and clamped a hand on his leather-clad shoulder.

“I want my stuff back.”

She’d expected him to jump, to protest, and perhaps mutter a denial. Instead, he made a single sharp exhalation, which, like a yogic breathing exercise, drained all the tension from his body.

“Give me a moment. I’m nearly done here.”

“Now.” She paused as she caught a glimpse of colour over his shoulder. Horrified, she shoved him sideways. He had one of her precious comics precariously balanced on top of the white ceramic urinal. It was open at the centre spread: a three-frame image showing the pretty blond she’d noticed earlier impaled on the cock of a second man with long dark straight hair.

As her eyes feasted on the image, it also dawned on her that he wasn’t just having a piss.

“You’re wanking over my comic,” she screeched, lashing out at him. “You fucking wanker!”

“I’m not hurting it.” He crossed his arms in front of his face to ward her off.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re the one who buys this stuff. I don’t suppose you get it just to admire the artistry. And it certainly isn’t for the story.”

Yama nashi, imi nashi, ochi nashi, thought Remy, recalling the phrase from which the yaoi genre derived its name. No climax, no meaning, no resolution. Although some jokers insisted it was actually an acronym for “Yamette! Oshiri, itai!” “Stop it! My arse! Ow!” Exactly how this bastard would be feeling if he didn’t hand her comic back. She reached out to take it, but he stepped back in front of her, his palm spread over the explicit image.

“Get out of my way.” She tore at his arm, although she doubted he felt it through the thick leather.

He clasped her upper arms in response and swung her about. Remy’s insides lurched like they did on the Waltzer at a fairground. Sticky, nervous heat seeped from between her thighs. A second heart seemed to have taken up residence in her stomach. The sudden movement ended, their eyes level, mouths only inches apart. He had her pinned between himself and the row of cubicles behind. “You’re awfully familiar with those hands.” He stroked the line of her jaw where the red ends of her wet hair shaped her face.

Remy couldn’t breathe. Close up, his eyes were like dark rum, seductive and laced with the forbidden. He looked right into her as if he could see all the things that made her tick and knew how best to use the knowledge. His mouth set in a tightly pursed line, making her feel guilty and apologetic, even though he was the thief. The words of an apology sat on her tongue, making her throat thick. Hesitantly, she looked down. His fly was still undone, and his erect cock poked from the elastic of his designer shorts to brush the hem of his tightly fitted T-shirt. It lay between them like a bargain waiting to be struck.

Remy anxiously raised her gaze. The corners of his mouth turned up into a sly smile. “Want to do something about it?” he asked.

“You what?” The exclamation broke through the thickness in her throat.

“You heard.”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you come anywhere near me with that.”

He was a thief. A crazy, good for nothing thief, who had no right to demand anything of her. But even as she thought it, her gaze slipped down to his crotch again. Above the elastic of his shorts, there was tantalising glimpse of toned stomach and a fine smattering of short dark hairs - a hint at his real hair colour.

“In here.” He pushed her into the nearest cubical and followed her in. Remy backed up against the toilet, while he kicked the door shut behind them and slid the bolt. The sharp snap it made seemed to announce the crossing of a boundary.

“Let me out.”

He put his back to the door and folded his arms. She stretched forward to slide back the bolt, but instead her hand closed over his open palm. His fingers immediately laced with hers.

Remy jerked backward as if she’d just touched a hot plate. He moved with her. “Too pushy,” she growled, trying to twist free. Instead of escaping, she found herself wrapped up in his embrace facing the cistern with his hard cock branding her arse through the seat of her cropped jeans.

“Something tells me you like pushy.” His breath was warm as it whispered against her ear. His lips alighted near the pulse point in her throat, gently brushing the exposed skin. Remy’s heart was thundering now. She felt as skittish as a racehorse. Instinct told her to lash out, to bring her elbow back hard into his ribs or his stomach, but something about the gentle brush of his lips was enthralling. It seemed to light nerves elsewhere in her body that had no right to be connected. She felt his lips part and the trace of his tongue. Then he was sucking, and the sensation was too exquisite, too incredibly sweet to pull away from. A strange eddy of fear and excitement fizzled inside her chest. It tingled through her nipples and shot electric arrows down towards her cunt. She didn’t want to pull away, but she didn’t want to be overcome so easily either.

One of his arms slipped around her bared midriff. A single digit toyed with the piercing through her navel - a stem of blood red stones.

“Enough.” She twisted out of his grip, grasped both his wrists, and pinned him against the door. “Let’s see how you like it.”

“Like to be in charge, do you?” He jerked his wrists as if to check her hold. “Regular Amazon, aren’t you? What’s the plan? The door’s behind me.”

Remy looked into his almond-shaped eyes, and saw her image reflected in his pupils. She wasn’t exactly sure what to do with him. Her focus had been the retrieval of her property. She certainly hadn’t anticipated ending up locked in a toilet cubical cottaging with a guy, his attitude, and an impressive erection, which was currently bruising her thigh. It appeared to have grown since her first glimpse of it. She wondered how much more it would thicken with her palm curled around it, her lips nuzzling the flare around the head. Dangerous thoughts, she chastened herself, only to find her breath coming faster and her hips moving unconsciously against his loins.

“Still want to escape?”

There was warmth in the brown depths of his eyes as well as humour when he spoke, which hinted at the same sensuality he’d already displayed with his kiss. There was also a tight stubborn turn to his mouth that plumped his lower lip and made her long to taste him.

“I don’t lip kiss,” he said, as she closed in on him.

“Yeah, well I do.”

She pressed up against him; in her boots, he was only a fraction taller. For someone who didn’t kiss he didn’t resist. She suspected he’d just said it to sound cool, because his lips whispered over the surface of hers, rekindling the earlier sparks. They tingled in her throat, and along her jaw. His erection nuzzled against her stomach. Heaven, she thought, as their mouths finally locked in an exotic sparring dance.

Remy slowly released her hold on one of his wrists to slip a hand inside his jacket. Beneath the cold leather and tight-fitting T-shirt his body was firm. Not gym muscled, but lean and wiry. She stroked her palm down across his skin, following the sparse dark hairs towards his cock, which jerked eagerly as if begging for contact.

Smooth and hard, the head of his cock fit neatly into the palm of her hand. She rubbed the shiny helm, drawing pre-come down over the shaft for lubrication. His free hand closed over her bottom – squeezed.

Remy took a step back, breaking off the lengthy kiss. They were both breathing hard. There was a rosy sheen high up on his cheekbones. It would be easy to throw caution to the wind and let him slide deep, fill her molten core, and ease the longing and madness she felt, but that wasn’t her way.

“Punishing me?” he asked.

“Wondering what the hell I’m doing, actually.”

“Living the fantasy. Isn’t that obvious?” He twisted her around and pulled her close again so that his cock pressed against her bottom. “Let me show you how it’s done.” He popped the top two buttons of her fly and wriggled his fingers into the front of her panties.

Remy groaned. She was wet, embarrassingly so, slick and eager for his touch. One digit brushed her clit; another slid lower into her cleft. This was ridiculous. She could hear the rain drumming on the corrugated roof. She tried to focus on its music, to keep herself from succumbing to the magic of his fingertips, but the rhythmic patter seemed to match the slip and slide of his hand, lulling her into complicity while heightening the depth of her response.

He was a common thief, a criminal, regardless of his pretty boy looks. Why was she letting him get away with this?

He unfastened the last button of her jeans, and they slid off her hips only to cling to her legs. Undeterred, he pulled them lower and slid his cock between her bared thighs.

The heat in his shaft rushed straight to Remy’s cheeks, colouring them an animated rose-pink. His tongue traced the curve of her ear. “Think of the blond,” he whispered. She couldn’t help it. She did.

There had been both uncertainty and ecstasy in his eyes as he’d peered up from the centrespread. He was exquisite, clearly tortured by the nearness of his Seme, his Dom. Still, there was a stubborn defiance about the way he crooked his chin upward as the male hands gripped his bottom, and the hard hot cock of his lover dipped inside him. She could almost hear him as he came, sighing in time with each buck of his master’s hips and exhaling with a startled “Aaahh!” as his own cock jerked.

The sound was also her own. She stretched out her arms, bracing herself against the cubical walls as her bottom slapped against the thief’s loins. He was slippery and hard between her closed thighs, his pacing bordering on frantic, an urgency that translated into the less than subtle rub of his fingers over her clit. He was almost there, and he was going to take her with him. She felt so close now, each brush, each caress felt like a nettle sting. The prickly heat it caused made her long for him to slip upward rather than forward, so that he’d sink in deep. She wanted him to take her hard, pump into her and drive away the crazy itch. She wanted more – more than just a quickie, more than just a hand job.

Quite suddenly the bubble burst. He jerked her backward into his arms, panting and cursing as he continued to pet her until the fire in her clit started to fade. It was only when she felt the nip of his teeth that she realised she was drifting and that he was supporting her weight.

Remy peeled herself away from his grasp. Her cheeks were burning, and probably clashing with her hair. He’d come between her thighs, leaving an opalescent puddle on the tiled floor. She was sticky with sweat and their combined moisture. She leant against the cistern, trying to find a sense of balance. Who was this guy? What was she doing here?

The cubical walls were etched with names. Cartoons, both gaudy and crude jeered down at her. Someone had replaced the toilet chain with a leather belt, and even that hadn’t escaped the graffiti.

“What’s your name?” he asked, from behind her.

“Remy.” She hitched her underwear and trousers and turned to face him. “Yours?”

“Takeshi.” He pointed upward with a pen, to the head of a list he was adding her name to in purple marker. Remy stared at the column of names feeling slightly sickened. “All the rest are men.”

“It’s a gent’s loo.” He shot the bolt.

“So, what, you’re part time gay?”

“I’m opportunistic. Men are just easier to pick up, easier to fuck and don’t give you a twenty-question follow-up.”

“I’ve only asked two.”

She followed him out of the cubical. Uncertain what else to do, she reclaimed her book from the top of the urinal. It seemed to have survived unscathed, unlike her neck. She stared at her flushed image in the mirror.

“You marked me.”

He nodded, retrieved her stolen carrier bag from beneath the end basin and handed it to her. “It’d be cheaper to get these off the net you know.”

“Maybe if you can read Japanese, which I don’t. Besides, I don’t have time to wade through all the crap to get to the good stuff.” She couldn’t prevent a touch of animosity from creeping into her voice, but he merely smiled at her outburst. His good humour only made her feel more irritable.

“Busy schedule?”

“Yes, actually. I’m starting my own business.”

“Whoa!”

Remy’s grip on the carrier bag tightened. She was tempted to hit him with it, except it would likely do more damage to her books than his smug expression. “All right, Mr Cool, what do you do that’s so impressive? Just doss about?”

“I trade on eBay. And before you knock it, how much did you earn last week?”

Remy shrugged. Nothing. She wouldn’t get her first pay cheque until Chelsea’s wedding dress was finished. Her first commission was also her first piece of haute couture. Everything was riding on it. The wedding was going to be a big affair. Her friend was planning a midnight ceremony, and had invited something approaching two hundred guests, all of whom were potential clients for her gothic and fetish-wear inspired designs. She’d had some business cards printed, but still needed photos for her catalogue, and she couldn’t afford to pay even a mediocre model. Chances were it’d have to be her and a few mates.

“Well?” Takeshi prompted.

“How much did you make?” she countered. “And if it’s so much, why did you need to nick my bag?”

He stiffened almost imperceptibly, then combed his fingers through his spiky silver-blue hair. “Maybe I was trying to attract your attention.”

“Bullshit!”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“You could have just introduced yourself.”

Takeshi zipped his jacket. There was a metal kumadori mask pinned to the lapel. He fondly brushed a finger across the grimacing visage of the kabuki theatre character. “I thought about it, but this seemed so much more dramatic. I know you goths like your theatrics, so I figured what the hell.”

Remy slapped her palm onto the counter by the sinks. “One, I’m not a goth. I just hang out with them. Two, a high street chase and a gent’s loo aren’t my idea of theatre, and three-” she hitched the collar of her braided jacket, “-you had no way of knowing that I’d chase you. You’d have been stuffed if I’d called the police.”

“I figured it was worth the risk. I had a good feeling about you.”

“Did you now?”

“Yes, and it was right.”

“I suppose you’ll be claiming you’re psychic next.”

He shook his head, a broad smile on his lips. “No, just intuitive.” He drew his marker pen from his pocket again and plucked off the lid.

“Another list to add to?” she asked scathingly. She was too old to be acting as lookout for someone scrawling their name on a toilet door. There was no longer any point to her being here. She had her stuff. It was time to get out before she did anything else stupid.

Takeshi’s smile widened into a grin that crinkled the skin around his eyes and showed his teeth. “Actually, I thought you might be needing this.” He stepped forward and before she even thought of stopping him, he lifted her short jacket and top and scrawled his phone number across her midriff.

“Excuse me.” She pulled her clothing down. “As if I’m going to call you.”

“You’ll call.” There was a certainty in his voice that was unnerving.

“I won’t.”

“You will, and before the week’s out. Who else are you going to indulge your yaoi fantasies with?”

Remy pushed her shoulders up and her chin high. It was true. He could have been a yaoi model. But he was far too confident, far too full of himself, and she didn’t like the way he made assumptions about her, even if his guesses were accurate. “I don’t need to indulge them,” she snapped. “Not with you, anyway.”

He laughed in response, his voice sharp and high. “So why did you?” He was still laughing as he left the building.

Remy sprinted to the door after him, but he’d already vanished into the undergrowth of the rain-drenched park.

-3-

After forty minutes of dodging between shop doorways and bus shelters, Remy finally reached home and curled up in her favourite leather armchair, the one classy item of furniture amongst the flat-pack pine in her attic flat. She felt chilled to the bone, even with a blanket pulled around her shoulders. She lifted her mug and let the swirling steam heat her face as she breathed in the fresh coffee aroma. Immediately her senses perked. She swallowed a mouthful of the soothing black liquid and felt it seem to wash through her bloodstream leaving her with a warm afterglow. But it didn’t chase away her shakes. The cold wasn’t responsible for those.

They were Takeshi’s doing, the blue haired oni who’d given her way too much to think about. She’d been trying to edit him out of her thoughts ever since she’d left the park.

She glanced warily over to where her new manga translations lay on the coffee table. One glance at the blond was all it took to release the memory of Takeshi, cock in hand, living out some fantasy at her expense. Eventually, she hoped that association would fade, letting her enjoy the story between the pages, but right now — right now he was still pushing buttons in her subconscious she wasn’t sure she wanted pushing.

She still didn’t understand how she’d ended up cottaging. She wasn’t a thrill seeker, and while the romantic yaoi imagery of gay sex certainly fired her senses, the sticky sordid reality was less than inviting. Actually, it seemed rather sad. And yet she’d let him take her as he might have taken a man. She could picture him in the exact same position working some guy’s cock instead of her clit, their skin damp with sweat and raindrops, slightly luminescent under the blue lighting. She could see his eyes, his beautiful, almond-shaped, near-black eyes, and hear the breathy whisper of his voice, coaxing his partner towards orgasm in combination with his wrist action.

How many times had he played out that scenario? She hadn’t read all the names on his list, but there’d been at least seven, and now her.

Remy stood abruptly and pressed her palm to the windowpane. The sky had turned black, and thick rivulets of rainwater were now streaming down the outside of the glass, now clouded with condensation. Some had seeped under the sash to form a puddle on the windowsill.

She wasn’t a man, but he’d fucked her as if she was. Remy lifted her top and stared at the inky shadow across her stomach. His phone number. Why had he given it to her? Not for casual sex, she was sure. No, phone numbers implied intimacy, and intimacy equalled relationships and emotional turmoil. She’d been there in the past, got engaged, got serious, got out, and now she preferred her passions to play out on paper. But he seemed to have taken the spice out of that. After waiting six weeks for her novels, she no longer wanted to turn the pages.

Remy traced the backward digits of his number on to the windowpane. She’d feel different after a shower, when she’d washed the ink and the other evidence of their encounter away. She crossed to the door and flicked on the main light. Shame, though, because he was gorgeous, and she sensed that beneath their outward facades, they might actually have a few things in common.

~*~

An hour later, Remy was squeezing cat food out of the packet when the doorbell rang. “Chelsea,” she hissed. She’d forgotten their appointment. Her friend had started turning up every Saturday evening after she shut up shop downstairs, to check how her wedding dress was coming along. The gown was currently spread over Remy’s double bed, still fifty black seed pearls short of being finished.

Remy scooped Shadow off the workbench and plonked the cat on the floor next to his bowl. “Focus,” she told herself. Chelsea was an old friend, but she was also a paying client.

The bride-to-be looked exhausted. She wasn’t wearing make-up, and there were grey smudges beneath her eyes. “Coffee? It’s fresh,” Remy offered, guiding her into the tiny kitchen.

Chelsea slipped on to a stool by the breakfast bar, so that her PVC raincoat hung behind her like a pair of folded wings. It was where the shop name had come from – Batwings – specialising in anything alternative, from clothing to tarot cards and incense sticks. She sighed into her clasped hands. “No. I’m jittery enough as it is. My dress is finished, isn’t it?”

Remy regarded her curiously. She’d been fretting over the wedding for months but the dejection in her voice sounded rather more serious this time. “It’s fine. I’ve still a few beads to sew on, but it’ll only take a few minutes.” She lifted a couple of mugs from the rack that was blackened to look like a withered tree. “You sure I can’t tempt you? You look like you need it.”

“Go on then, but I’m picking my mum up from the station in ten minutes.”

Remy poured and pushed one of the mugs along the bench. “Sounds as though you need the help. You look frazzled.”

“Help! Fat chance.” Chelsea grimaced into her cup. “Interfere more like, as if it isn’t enough of a disaster already.”

“Don’t be daft. You’ve been planning for ages. It’s going to be perfect.”

Chelsea pinched the bridge of her nose. When she looked up, her blue eyes were shiny with the tears she was just managing to hold back. “Help me Remy. I’ve just seen the bridesmaids’ dresses. They’re terrible. They’re going to look like three overstuffed pincushions, and that’s on women who don’t amount to a size 12 combined.”

“I’m sure they’re not that bad.”

“They are.”

Chelsea pressed her brow to the counter. “I’ll pay you, whatever you want. You’ve said all along that you wanted to make more of the outfits.” She turned her cheek to the worktop and peered up hopefully, her tears almost ready to fall.

“That was months ago. Your wedding is next weekend.” Remy padded over to the sink and back. How did you break it to your only paying customer that you couldn’t help? It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. Several months back she’d been desperate to outfit them all, but Chelsea had gone with another friend’s recommendation, and only commissioned her to make the bridal gown.

“You don’t have to make them from scratch. You’ve got stock. You must have something suitable. Paper bags will be better than what I’ve got.”

“There’s nothing I’ve got three of.”

“Well, something you have two of, then.” The tempo of her voice wavered between desperate and frantic. “You can easily run up another one by Thursday.”

“I suppose.” If she went for something simple, there was no reason why she couldn’t put something together in an afternoon.

“Come on, Remy. Or it’ll be your fault that the bridesmaids are dressed by Next.”

“Not fair!” Remy snarled, but she couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. “Damn it, all right.”

“I knew I could rely on you.” Chelsea combed her fingers through her white-blonde hair, causing it to cascade over her shoulders. “You’re a star.” The shadows in her expression vanished, so that her normal golden succubus glow returned.

Remy shook her head. What had she agreed to? Hopefully, the chance to blow people’s preconceptions away, and not just a total nightmare. Chelsea’s wedding was going to be huge. If she was dressing half the wedding party instead of just the bride, it’d make a fantastic showcase for her designs. She could see them now, standing in the shadow of the church, the moonlight playing across the stained glass, rose-petal confetti floating in the air, and her designs resplendent across a centre spread. Chelsea had already agreed to her using photos of the event for promotional purposes. It’d make a terrific advert. All she had to do was pull it off.

“Why Thursday?” she asked, backtracking to an earlier point. “The wedding isn’t until Sunday.”

“Yes, but we’re all going over on Thursday night, so we can perfect everything. I did tell you, and it’s written on your invitation.”

Remy frowned. She wasn’t actually sure she’d opened her invitation. It hadn’t seemed all that important when Chelsea had handed it to her in person and told her what it was. It was still sitting on the mantelpiece in the lounge along with the gas bill and the tax forms for the Inland Revenue. “When am I supposed to shoot my catalogue in all this? It’s getting urgent.”

“Do it at the castle. I need you there, Remy. You’re going to have to fit the dresses anyway, and brush Shaun into shape.”

“Whoa, back up a moment.” Remy raised her hand. “You never said anything about dressing Shaun.”

“But you’ve got loads of menswear. You’ve shown me more coat designs than dresses. And, well, he’s missed half his appointments with the tailor, and it’s the same place that’s screwed up the bridesmaids’ dresses. I don’t trust them. I don’t want him turning up looking like Robert Smith.”

An image of the groom in a scruffy suit with garish lipstick smudged across his face briefly struck Remy as amusing, but she could see why Chelsea wouldn’t want him to walk down the aisle like that. Still, it meant adding to her already substantial workload. “So, it’s just Shaun?”

“And the best man.”

“Oh, God!” Remy took several exasperated gulps of hot coffee, then slammed the mug down on the counter so that it sloshed over the surface. “Let me get this straight. You want me to come up with three matching bridesmaids’ dresses, no meringues-”

“Not too sexy.”

“And tailored outfits for the groom and best man by Thursday.” Remy gazed forlornly at the black puddle. She stretched across, tore off a kitchen towel and dropped it over the spill. She was going to have to work every available minute to get all this done, and it would still be touch and go. “Do you even have measurements for these people?”

Chelsea immediately produced a folded wad of paper from her coat pocket. “Full sets, for all of them.” She smoothed the papers and pushed them towards Remy.

“Chelsea!”

“Just take them, will you. You don’t have to create anything new. Use whatever you have that’ll work. They’ll be Dark Designs exclusives, anyway. Nobody else has commissioned anything from you yet.”

Remy dug her fingertips into her scalp. Suddenly, she felt mentally weary. Too much had happened in too little time. It was only two hours ago that she’d been shagging a stranger in a toilet.

Chelsea pulled up the collar of her shiny coat. “You needn’t let me know what you decide on. You can just show me on Thursday. I trust you. I know you’ll find things that work. Oh, and don’t forget the invoice when you come. Now I’ve gotta go. Mum’ll be getting off the train about now.”

“But what about my catalogue?” She followed Chelsea to the door.

“I’ve told you, shoot it at the castle.”

“And my models?”

“Use the guests.”

Remy frowned. Chelsea raised her hands in surrender. “Okay, bring your own models along. There’s two spare beds, if they don’t mind sharing. Jem and Toni decided they’d prefer to stay in luxury at the Dower House.”

“The photographer? My cat?”

“Bring Shadow along — he’ll fit right in. And I figured that you’d be using Alix. She’s already coming along to photograph the wedding, so where’s the problem?”

“Actually, I hadn’t decided on Alix yet.”

“No, it’s fine. I already spoke to her. And don’t worry about — you know. She’s grown up loads recently. I’ll see you Thursday.”

“Sure.” Remy watched her trot down the stairs as far as the first landing. Trust Chelsea to interfere and organise things behind her back. If it weren’t that her friend was also her generous landlady – she was living virtually rent-free - she’d have seriously considered hexing her for involving Alix. Remy made a choking motion with her hands. She very much doubted Alix had changed since Christmas, when things had come to a rather emotional head, because, contrary to Chelsea’s opinion, one didn’t generally grow out of being a lesbian — although, people did outgrow crushes. Besides, Alix had never been what you’d have described as immature, so God knows what the “grown up” remark referred to.

She slapped her hand against the banister and sighed. She’d better get to work finding those models. Models! Huh, that was a joke. All her friends were going to be at the wedding anyway, and most of them were up their own arses already, without inflating their egos any further. Besides, she really wanted people who were visually striking, who’d be able to carry off her designs without making them look like every other weekend goth or PVC-clad wannabe bondage queen. Sadly, the only person she’d met in that category recently was the egocentric idiot she’d screwed earlier, and she wasn’t about to call him.

Back inside her flat, Remy headed for the spare room. It was still without a lampshade, and she’d improvised a curtain from a swathe of purple voile. She pulled the plastic sheets from her clothes racks and began rifling through the bagged garments. She hadn’t put that much stock together yet. Okay, so some of the designs came in three or four different colours, but Chelsea wanted something to match her black and purple velvet and taffeta dress. She also wanted the bridesmaids to match each other, so that made things more difficult. On top of that, there was how they’d look alongside the groom and best man. She had to get this right, since it could make or break her business. There’d be several influential relatives among the guests, and a fair few upper-class freaks. Shaun, the lucky groom, might look as if he’d been dragged backwards though Kensington Market, but his father was landed gentry, and a former member of pioneering goth band Toys in the Attic.

After a few minutes of rummaging, she managed to whittle the selection down to three potential bridesmaids’ outfits: a plain black boned corset with a long netted skirt; a mediaeval style dress in black and purple velvet; and a Jane Austen-inspired number.

Chelsea had made it clear that there were to be no meringues, even black ones, and no sassy outlines apart from her own. So, after a few minutes of deliberation, she went for the last option. It was predominantly black with a touch of purple to match Chelsea’s dress. It had a Regency outline and lace powder-puff sleeves, with a velvet choker and lace evening gloves to match — tasteful, stylish and easy to run up on the sewing machine. With the measurements Chelsea had provided, she could adjust the pattern accordingly. She moved the example dress to a rack on the opposite side of the room. Now for the men.

Remy rubbed her brow. What a nightmare! All that was missing was the mother of the bride. She was never going to get it all done.

The sound of her phone ringing dragged her out of her moment of despair. She sprinted back to the kitchen to pick it up.

“Remy,” said a familiar voice. “Chelsea. My mum’s outfit, it’s pink. Fuchsia-bloody-pink.”

What had she been saying? “I’ll add it to my list.”

“Thanks.”

Remy hung up. She stared at the phone then purposely dropped it in the kitchen bin. “Enough!”

Back in the workroom, she scanned the list of measurements for the two men. Chelsea was right: she did have an abundance of menswear, possibly because she enjoyed dreaming about men in smart clothing, and she’d been using images from her yaoimanga as inspiration. She’d have to dress them from her ready-to-wear range, and make any adjustments necessary on location, since there simply wasn’t time to tailor things properly. She opted for white ruffle-neck shirts, black brocade trousers and coats, with burgundy-coloured, patterned silk waistcoats. She could imagine Shaun in the outfit, and that would have to do. The best man wasn’t one of the usual crowd, but hopefully he wouldn’t look too out of place.

Once she’d hung the outfits alongside the single bridesmaid’s dress, she returned to the women’s wear to find something appropriate for Chelsea’s mum. Except she had no measurements. Nor could she recall ever having met her. She tried to think back to graduation day four years earlier, but the memory was far too hazy, probably as a result of the amount of champagne she’d drunk. She was going to have to take a guess, or else sort out the outfit on location from the stock she was taking for the catalogue shoot.

From the kitchen, she heard a sudden clatter. “Now what?”

Shadow had toppled the bin, which was vibrating with the ringing of the phone. Remy righted the silver cylinder and retrieved the mobile, dusting off the remains of Super Noodles and sardines before she put it to her ear.

“Hello.”

“Hi Remy. Remember me? It’s Alix. We used to hang out together.”

Oh hell! Remy made a goldfish expression at the receiver, while she recovered her wits. “Hi. Yeah, I’ve been meaning to call.”

“Sure you have,” Alix drawled, and Remy could picture her, hand on hip, her flaming red hair cascading down her back. “Someone mentioned that you need a photographer. Thought we’d better speak and sort it out. You don’t have to hide just because I got plastered and came on a bit strong.”

“It wasn’t that.”

“Yes, it was. I was there when Gary Stevens did the same to you that time after the Christmas ball. You reacted in exactly the same way.”

“Maybe,” Remy sighed. “Chelsea was still jumping the gun though. There’s no way that I can afford your fees.”

“So, I’ll give you a discount.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“We’re mates. We’re supposed to help each other. I’ve sold a few prints recently, so I’m flush.” The line went silent a moment as she awaited Remy’s acceptance. “Okay, so pose for me as payment. I’ll do a few black-and-white stills and we’ll call it quits. It’s a darn sight better deal than you’re going to get from anyone else. And you know I’m good.”