Havermouth, Present Time
After arranging for the real estate agent to come take photos of the house, Aislen hired a skip bin, and began sorting through the possessions within the master bedroom. Rip the bandage off where it hurt the most, she told herself grimly as she opened the closet. She tossed clothing that was suitable for charity onto the bed, and those that were too stained, torn, or worn into a pile on the floor.
When she encountered a flannelette shirt that had been one of her father's favorites and had seemed to feature in every photo of him for the decade of her teen years, she sat on the edge of the bed clutching it to herself and wept. It still smelled like him, she thought. She put it in a Ziplock bag from the kitchen and stuffed it into the suitcase. Stupid, she told herself as she wiped her eyes. Stupid sentimentality, for a man who valued what little reputation he had held in the town over his teenaged daughter.
Her mother had stripped the house of all her valuables when she left, something that Aislen was grateful for, because there were many empty drawers which her father simply had not the possessions to refill. Other than the one shirt, she didn't keep anything.
It was dark by the time she had finished. “It’s too fucking quiet,” she complained to herself. “Fucking country hick towns.” Cars passed infrequently, and the only night-time sounds of the neighbourhood were domestic in nature – TVs playing, someone BBQing in the back garden, and a dog singing its loneliness.
“Fuck this,” she retrieved her clutch, fixed her hair and makeup, touched up her lipstick, and decided to head into the town center to see if the pub would be less selective about taking her money than the coffee shop had been.
The night air recalled to her the summer she had spent with the Triquetra, the dangerous elixir of scents released by the cooler night air making her heart rush and her body hum as she made her way through the sparsely lit suburban streets onto the more commercial main street. This route took her past Rhett’s tattoo parlor, its windows still brightly lit, and she saw that he had a customer in the chair.
She paused. There was something very sexy, almost voyeuristic, she admitted to herself, about watching him in such a way. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail as he had worn it earlier in the day, something, she realized, that was necessary to keep it out of his eyes as he worked. He wore latex gloves, and a bright lamp illuminated the piece he was working on.
As if sensing her, he paused and lifted his head. She hurried on as he turned his head, not wanting to be seen staring at him.
Her heels clipped along the pavement as she walked the empty sidewalk, turning left. Along this street, two pubs competed for business, along with four restaurants and a wine bar. Due to the mildness of the night, a lot of the patrons ate and drank outside, on the tables set onto the sidewalk, or the balconies that overlooked it.
The dress code was upper-middleclass yuppie, she noted wryly, with a lot of button-down shirts tucked into designer jeans, suits with the ties loosened, and cocktail-style sundresses in natural linen, floral or blocked colour.
She swaggered along the sidewalk in her frilly Lolita-style goth mini-dress, thigh highs, and heeled ankle boots, feeling their eyes follow her, and seeing their expressions of gobsmacked bewilderment.
She eased into the front bar of the first pub and breathed in the heady scent of old smoke and alcohol, combined with the sweat of men stopping for a quick beer or a game of pool after physical work during the day. This was not a place for the pressed and primped yuppies who she had passed outside, but a place for men who sweated for a living and whose boots left behind footprints and clumps of earth.
She slid onto the stool between a cowboy and a man very involved in his mobile phone, angled away from her as he muttered into it in a language that she could not identify. She gave the surprised bartender a flirtatious smile. “Wine, red, please.”
“I’d be tempted to say, honey, you’re in the wrong place, but I’m not sure where exactly you’d fit in better,” the barfly on the stool next to her commented taking a drag of his cigarette, his cowboy hat tilted over his eyes.
“Oh, I just hate to fit in,” she replied inspecting her nail polish as she waited.
“I know you,” he stubbed his cigarette out.
She arched an eyebrow and swiped her card as the bartender served her wine. “That is possible.”
“You were the Triquetra’s whore,” he drawled the words. “What do you charge for a head job?”
“And you, sir, are an arsehole.” The man on the phone set it down on the bar and turned to face them. He rose slowly to his feet. He was an absolute giant of a man, Aislen thought, her head tilting back as he reached his full height. A gorgeous bearded masculine mountain of muscle, clad in denim and leather, topped by a head of flaxen hair bound back into a man bun.
A scar carved deep into his cheek, adding to the overall effect of delicious danger.
Well, helloooo daddy, Aislen suppressed a giggle as she slid her eyes to the cowboy, who was far less cocky when confronted by her superhero.
“Find somewhere else to drink,” daddy-bear suggested to the cowboy. “And look for your manners whilst you’re there. I’m sorry about him,” he added to Aislen as the cowboy vacated the bar. “Some men have no respect for women.”
“Ah, but the ones that do make up for it,” she smiled at him coquettishly. “I’m Morgana Ivy.”
“Talen Gawaine,” he held out his hand and because it would have been impolite not to take, she reached out expecting to be overwhelmed by images. Nothing. There was nothing there.
“Talen,” she covered her momentary pause of confusion. “That’s an unusual name. Are you a local, Talen?”
He hadn’t released her hand, his thumb stroking over her skin. “Not really,” he said. “I come and go, on business for Zeus Forest Works. And you, Morgana Ivy…” He paused, his gaze turning inwards. “I know that name,” he said slowly. “Where have I heard it before?”
She laughed. “Oh, I doubt that you’re the sort of person who would know my name,” she demurred, but she saw a shift in his expression, his eyes lighting with wickedness and his smile slowly growing. Fuck, she thought, that was the sexiest expression of mischievousness that she had encountered in a long while. “Or maybe you do,” she amended.
“I have read your work,” he replied in a tone that left no doubt in her mind that he had. “I am a fan, and I see you live to your comic book aesthetic,” his eyes dropped to her dress, and lifted slowly up. “I’ll be reading with new appreciation in future.”
Fuck if she hadn’t just left a wet mark on the seat, she thought ruefully.
“An unusual field to get into,” he continued releasing her hand, and sitting back onto the stool in such a way that their knees were interlinked. He put his hand on his knee, his fingertips grazing her thigh just enough to make her entirely certain that there was a nerve that ran directly from that section of skin to her clit. “Comic books?”
“I guess,” she moved slightly forward onto her stool so that their legs entangled further in open invitation. “It pays me well enough and gives me the freedom to work from home, or wherever I happen to be at the time.”
“And at the moment, you are here. How long for?” His hand rested on her knee now and was so large that his fingers rested on the band of lace topping her stockings, under the hem of her skirt.
“Until I can escape,” she replied to her heart racing within her chest. His eyes were an unusual green-blue, the colour shifting in the light. “A week or two at the most.”
“What brings you to Havermouth?” He had shifted to the edge of his stool, resting his toe on the footrest, whilst his fingers toyed with the ribbon that held her stockings to the suspender belt.
“Oh, this and that,” she replied evasively. Talking about her father’s death and funeral would bring a grim note into the conversation and she wanted to avoid her grief, not delve into it with a stranger, no matter how sexy he was. “What about you?”
“The same. Are you staying close by?” His voice was gruff.
“Five minutes’ walk.”
“I bet we can make it in three if I carry you,” he replied.
“Alright,” she threw back the last of her wine. “I’m game.”