Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play (23 page)

The first thing that hits me when we
arrive at the venue are the lights and the banner: ‘
Loss of Innocence: no
hope, no proof, no way ....
’ An eye catching tagline.

Ayden is eager to get inside, he has no
time for photographers. I hold him back, his tie isn’t quite right, so I
straighten it and reposition the knot. Whilst doing so, he talks quietly to me.

“Just another reminder but you will pay a
visit to the little girl’s room won’t you?” He looks down at me and I’m treated
to a playboy smile that turns into a naughty, naughty grin.

“I may conveniently forget and have to
straighten your tie a couple of times, just to see what happens.” I floor him
with a wide-eyed stare.

“Bad girl,” he admonishes, before kissing
my nose and dragging me inside. “We’re most definitely going to talk about this
later.”

When we get into our stride I’m smiling
from ear to ear and he’s finding it impossible to contain his amusement. That’s
when I feel the blinding flash of the camera and it’s enough to wipe the smile off
my face in record time. I tip my head down and cover my face with my clutch.

“Who’s taking photographs?” I ask,
sounding much too anxious.

“Who knows? Fucking press probably. They
follow me round like flies on shit. What is it with these guys?”

I give him a stern look, disapproving of
the simile.

“Let’s get inside.”

The moment we enter, people are turning
and acknowledging him: he’s become the focal point of the room. Seeming jet
propelled, he soars above his peers and I am caught in his jet stream, carried
along at a pace. He accosts a passing waiter carrying an empty tray. “Two
glasses of champagne.” No please. No thank you
.

Maybe I didn’t want champagne?

He moves through the crowd with effortless
grace and authority, shaking hands and introducing me as his friend.  I’m not
entirely comfortable with that but I’ll save it for our talk later. It brings a
crooked smile to my face when he refers to me by my full name: Elizabeth. That
could get him in all kinds of trouble, but I don’t doubt for one minute he’s
done that on purpose, knowing Elizabeth’s preoccupation with boldness.
Unfortunately, there’s the paradox: I have no opportunity to be bold or even to
speak. I don’t like this kind of role play. I’m wasted as an accessory that can
do no more than stand and nod and smile.

After twenty minutes of silent listening,
I’ve had enough. My feet are aching and now I’m rocking from left to right: I’m
bored senseless. “I’m going to the little girls’ room and then I’m going to
speak with Max Bradley,” I inform Ayden, loosening my grip on his hand.

“Who?” He hasn’t a clue who he is.

I’m shocked. “You know, the author.  It’s
his book launch?” I tut and shake my head. “I won’t be long.”

I think he is advising me against it as I
walk away and trying to keep hold of my hand but he quickly relinquishes his
grip, realising I won’t be contained a moment longer.

I wander across the room and pay a quick
visit to the powder room. It’s very stark and marbelesque, even the toilet
seats look like pieces of sliced granite. It’s a quick in and out and I’m ready
to begin my adventure into the world of popular fiction.

I collect a fresh glass of bubbly and scan
the venue; there are quotes from the book plastered everywhere, even the music
has a mysterious quality about it. Before me is a table covered in a cardinal
red cloth, stacked high with copies of the book. Strangely, no-one is bothering
to flick through the pages, no-one is even pretending to be remotely interested
in it. How rude. I pick up a copy and read it, back cover first and then the
opening chapter. Ten pages in, someone appears at the side of me. I’m conscious
of their proximity, but I continue to read.

“It’s a bit of a clichéd opening don’t you
think?”

I shift my attention from the page and
offer a rather distinguished looking gentleman to my right an amiable smile. “I
suppose so, but in this genre it’s important to establish characters and
context quickly. The author’s achieved that.” I return to the book.

“What about the writing style?” He presses
me further.

“I’m no expert, although it is engaging
and using the omniscient narrator is probably the best narrative style for
revealing multiple characters’ motivations, and to move the story forward. I
know Grisham favours it.” I put the book down. “I’m sure it’s a very entertaining
read.”

I take a closer look at my inquisitor; he
has the darkest brown eyes I have ever seen and they are holding my attention.
I break away. “Do you know the writer?”

He nods his head. “I do. And what about
you, you’re not the usual sort to attend these little soirees.”

“I’m here with someone.” Someone who is
looking
for
me and
at
me, at this precise moment.

“Who?” He turns and looks around the room
for a likely escort.

“Ayden Stone.” I smile. “Do you know him?”

He gives me a knowing look. “Do I
know
him?
That’s an interesting question.” His eyes flick to the side as if he’s really
thinking through his answer. “This is my third book and his marketing company
Stonebridge handles all my PR, distribution etcetera, so
no
I don’t know
him.”

He picks up the book I was reading, and
it’s then I realise he’s the man of the hour, the writer himself. I feel very
foolish. “Will you sign a copy of your book for me Mr. Bradley?”

“It would be my pleasure Miss ...”

“Parker, Elizabeth Parker.”

To Elizabeth, thanks for the critique.
Let’s discuss it over dinner. Regards Max. 07983200881.
He signs it and hands me the book.

“Thank you, you’re very charming Max.”

“Not at all, the pleasure’s all mine, but
if I may be so bold. What the hell is a beautiful, intelligent woman like you
doing with a bastard like Ayden Stone?”

I’m struck dumb by his directness. “I’m
sorry!”

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry, sorry no-one
steered you away from him. Stone by name, Stone by nature.” He reaches out to
shake my hand and I position the book under my left arm. “Enjoy the rest of
your evening.” He scans the room and spots Ayden who is burning him to the
ground with a razor-sharp stare; it cuts through him with the intensity of a
high powered laser beam. “Something tells me your evening just took a turn for
the worse, Miss Parker.”

I look over at Ayden and he’s adopted an
unfamiliar pose, leaning up against a pillar; not exactly in public view but
not concealed either. He has his arms folded; his right foot is crossed over
his left ankle. He’s either sulking or seething, or both. If it wasn’t for the
scowl, I’d describe it as a model pose.

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you
describe that look?” I ask Max, as one lover of popular fiction to another.

“Oh, trust me it’s off the scale. I’d have
to draw on some superlatives and maybe throw in some hyperbole to do it
justice.”

“Then that’s my cue I think ... bye Max.”
I walk directly over to Ayden, I do not stop, I do not pass go, I stay on a
straight line until I’m stood in front of him. He has managed to unfold his
arms from his chest and has slipped them into his pockets. If that’s not
classic anger management, I don’t know what is. I face him square on and, with
my heels I’m closer than usual to his face. You don’t have to be a mind reader
to know how incensed he is: he can’t even speak.

“Do you think I’ve been too bold Mr.
Stone?” I ask quietly, strategically placing my hands over his trouser pockets
to immobilize his hands. “Ayden, don’t speak, just listen.”

He is looking anywhere but my face.

“I was discussing the literary merits of
the book we have come here tonight to launch with the author.”

He tries to take his hands out of his
pockets but I hold his wrists in place. I have to employ all my upper body
strength just to contain him.

“Look at me Ayden.”

His eyes are flashing a wild, fiery indigo
and the green flecks are like sparks circling a Catherine wheel.

“I would never do anything to hurt you or
to embarrass you. You’re getting worked up because you’re jealous and you’re
not used to feeling this way. But, you have nothing to be jealous about. I only
want your hands on me Ayden. Remember the car.”

He’s becoming visibly calmer, his
breathing is easing and even those flickering embers of rage are petering out.
I release my white knuckled grip on his hands and he takes them out of his
pockets.

Before I can get another word out, he
spins me around so my back is against the pillar; his palms either side of my
head on the upright surface, framing my face, anchoring me in place.

What the hell …

His formidable stance causes me to roll my
eyes. “Now you have the use of your hands, maybe you should put them back in
your pockets.”

“I don’t need my fucking hands. I’ve got
this.”

He pins me to the pillar with his hips and
I can’t help but feel his erection pressing into my stomach. My God, I’m so
shocked and turned-on, I can barely speak. The fact I’m not wearing any
underwear only adds to my arousal. I’m at my maximum height in stacked heels
and still I’m looking up at him in awe. I’m holding my signed book and my
clutch to my chest like a bullet proof vest, as if they will offer me some kind
of protection against his overpowering sexual magnetism. They don’t.

“Should I give your panties to your new
friend as a souvenir?”

“No.”

“Or maybe I should take you back to the
little girls’ room and fuck you, because that’s all I can think of doing right
now.”

He would, too.

“No.” I anchor his eyes to mine. “Ayden,
you are behaving irrationally. I’ve done nothing wrong. In fact you’re causing
a scene. We have an audience and all I can hear is ‘Get a room!’”

He eases off me a centimetre at a time,
finding some semblance of self-awareness, before snatching the book from my
grasp. He is actually holding it out of my reach so I can’t retrieve it. Why do
I feel like I’m being reprimanded? Probably because I am.

“Do you want this?” I know he isn’t
referring to the actual book.

“Yes,” I answer sharply. “I do. I want a
copy of the book but not
that
copy of the book. I’ll go swap it for
another.”

I take hold of the book but he keeps a
firm grip on it.

“Oh for goodness sake Ayden, you can trust
me to go walkabout without a leash. I’ll come back to you.”

In one split second he’s cupping my face.
“I’ve never felt so fucking incensed before in my life, I wanted to hit that
bastard.”

“I know.” I caress his face and it’s as if
we are alone in an empty room. “I didn’t do it to make you jealous. I was bored
hanging on your every word. I’m sorry, but I don’t make a very good accessory.”

He sniggers. “Oh you’ll never be that
Beth.” The gentlest of kisses grazes my mouth and I see my lip gloss shining on
his lips for the second time tonight. As I begin to wipe it away with the
forefinger of my right hand, he pushes it into his mouth and sucks hard. It’s
such a small thing but it’s intimate and so erotic: my insides clench.

“Be good Ayden. Remember the effect you
have on me, you’re the one who’s let
this
genie out of the bottle.”

He gives me back my finger. “I don’t want
you making anyone else’s wishes come true the way you have for me, that’s all.”

I chose my words carefully. “There’s no
chance of that, you are my one and only master.” He likes the idea of being
masterful. The smile that follows forms slowly and is so provocative it causes
a longing in me that has me swooning. He sees that in me.

“Do you want to leave? We can go now and
be at your apartment in twenty.”

I shake my head, appreciating the offer
but decide against it. It’s a big night for him, he needs to circulate and I
need to get my wear out of this ludicrously expensive dress.

“No, I want to stay. This is a new
experience for me.” I arch backwards and pretend to straighten his tie. “Poor
baby, you’re alright now. Go, do your thing. I’ll amuse myself somehow.”

I receive a wide eyed stare. “How?”

“I’ll go talk to people and eat canapés,
sip champagne, watch you work the room and show off this fabulous frock.”

He ogles me from top to toe and back
again. “You look good enough to eat.”

I decide not to dignify that comment with
a response, instead I present him with a flat smile.

“But no more discussions about literature
with aging authors ok?” He takes hold of my signed copy of Loss of Innocence
and reads the note.  Thankfully he has enough self-control to let it go. “The
only thing this book has going for it is the title,” he comments, signifying
something but saying nothing.

I pretend not to pick up on his intimation
and give him a gentle push backwards. He doesn’t move.