A/N: Thanks for checkin' this out! You have chosen wisely, young grasshopper... er... anyway - R&R? :D
Disclaimer: Alas, I own nothing.
I want your whiskey mouth all over my blonde south
Red wine, cheap perfume, and a filthy pout
Tonight bring your friends because a group does it better
Why river with a pair? Let's have a full house of leather
- Heavy Metal Lover, Lady Gaga
Chapter One - When It All Began
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It's a good night.
The moon is full and glowing brightly, like God's eye winking down at her as she stumbles through the grime-covered streets of the seediest part of Denton; the part that the preppy kids and antisocial bookworms have been drilled their whole lives to stay away from. The area which houses people that her parents swore up and down their daughter would never get involved with. The part of town that practically gave birth to her. She's right where she belongs.
She's got nothing in her life to worry about. No drama with friends that come and go like autumn leaves blowing through the wind. No psychotic exes chasing her down the street, while she drowns out their cries with the clack of her heels going the opposite direction. No washed-up, snow-haired hags - kissing Death's door - sending their fire-breath down her neck and telling her she's not a lady. No nosy neighbors, no meddling authorities… nothing.
It's just her, a full moon, a young night, and a water bottle full of Vodka.
It's getting harder to walk in these goddamn pumps, but as the blaring sound of rock 'n roll draws nearer, and she reaches the nightclub where she intends to spend the rest of her evening, it doesn't matter. It's practically below freezing outside, and she's walking down the street in a mini skirt and a tank top - but the Vodka's kept her fairly warm. A few of her ex-comrades are also out tonight, and they sneer and snicker as she passes them - old faces, old news. They only help her hold her head up higher.
The line to the club is considerably short, this evening. She gets to the front in no time, expecting to see Tony standing there, ready to let her in; admission age to this particular club is twenty-one, and she's barely grazing nineteen. Not old enough to get in, but old enough to understand that if you flash the bouncer your tits a few times, he'll give you anything you want if you ask nicely.
But Tony's not there, tonight. It's some scowling, lanky asshole who keeps pestering her about her I.D. The nametag on his shirt reads 'Mike.' She rolls her eyes and lets him have a piece of her mind; the Vodka is good for that sort of thing. Mike doesn't like that, and neither do the people in line behind her, waiting patiently to get in. It isn't long before everyone's ganging up on her, and she flips them all the bird and storms off, teetering in her heels and swigging some more Vodka.
Her ex-friends laugh at her misfortune as she passes them; neighborhood kids and former associates she knows on a first-name basis, none of them quite as friendly as they used to be. She tells them to fuck off and keeps trudging forward. She doesn't know where she's going - she got a ride from Jared, who said he'd back for her in a couple hours. It hasn't even been thirty minutes.
Fuck. There goes her night.
God's eye has a twinkle in it, and she can imagine Him sitting up there in heaven, laughing right along with the rest of them. She rolls her eyes. She hates when things don't go according to plan, when there's always a scratch on the glass, something to screw everything up. What's she supposed to do, now? Make the three-mile trip back to her apartment on foot, and miss out on all the laughter and euphoria taking place outside? No way.
So what to do?
The lights and sounds of the nightclub are fading now, and she notices - amongst the crowds of drugged, drunken party-goers and night owls living life - just across the street, a parked pick-up truck. Nothing strange about that; the strange part is the fact that someone - a man, woman? - is leaning up against it, their hair a mass of curly black, their face caked on with more makeup than an employee at the MAC counter. They're dressed in head-to-toe leather and high-heeled boots, smoking a cigarette and eyeing nearly every single person that walks by.
She blinks at them, awestruck. Even on this side of town, she's never, ever seen someone like that strolling around Denton. Someone who can stand out so significantly from all the rest, and yet make everyone else look like the odd ones. Someone who radiates such a sense of… appeal, it becomes almost hard to look away.
'They can't be from around here,' she figures as she continues to observe them. 'I would've seen 'em around, before.' She can't look away. She has no idea what's compelling her to just sit there and gape at a stranger from across the street… perhaps it's the alcohol reminding her it's in her system, again… but she's nothing short of spellbound. Someone different. Someone new. Someone… exciting. She hasn't been around anything like that for a very long time.
Just then, the person by the pick-up truck happens to look her way, probably sensing her stare. She freezes up as they lock eyes… those hooded, seductive eyes that gaze at her from the mere distance, narrowing as they drink her in, sparkling with intrigue. She blinks and offers the person a weak smile, and a smirk curves their painted lips. The cigarette smoke wafts from their nostrils and encircles the space surrounding them, before evaporating into thin air.
She's almost positive her heart misses a beat when those alluring, come-hither eyes shoot her a wink.
It's like Cupid has suddenly fired his arrow right through her heart. Like a magnetic force drawing her in. Like an obedient dog trotting towards its master. She's taken, compelled, and she lets her feet do what her mind is too muddled and dazed to tell her to, and j-walks across the street.
As she approaches, she can see it is a man. A man wearing makeup and high heels. A seductive, entrancing being whose exuding sex and looking at her like he wants to have her served to him on a plate for dinner, tonight. She likes the feeling that gives her, and the familiar rush of attraction courses through her. The torch has been lit, the spark ignited. He smiles at her as she approaches him, and she grins back in a way she hopes is coming off as sexy.
He doesn't immediately strike up a conversation with her, but instead quietly regards her with a mixed expression of lust and amusement, so she decides to speak, first.
"Can I bum a cigarette?"
The desire in his eyes falters slightly, and amusement takes over upon hearing her voice. Yeah, that's nothing new. He doesn't utter a word about it, though, just responds to her question in a voice that's smoother than silk.
"Is that really why you came all the way over here? To ask me for a cigarette?"
He says it with such confidence, such suave, immeasurable coolness, that it momentarily throws her off. "Well, what were you expectin'?" she inquires.
He shrugs casually. "I suppose, that your conversation would be as interesting as you are alluring," he responds with a smug grin. "Forgive my high expectations."
She blinks. "Hope I haven't lowered 'em," she responds. "You seem pretty interesting, yourself."
He chuckles, rich and seductive. "So I've been told." He takes another drag from the cigarette. His eyes do not go unnoticed as they make a lingering voyage up her body, before eventually locking back onto her own. He tilts his head to the side slightly, and releases a thin trail of smoke, smirking at her.
He reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket and retrieves a pack of cigarettes, handing one to her, igniting it with his own lighter. "There we are," he purrs.
"Thanks," she mutters with a grin. Glancing up, she takes a second look at him, to find that he is gazing at her with a sort of raw intensity that sends a chill down her spine. The ball's in her court, now. She'll play along.
"You new around here?" she asks. "I don't think I've seen you around, before."
"You haven't," he cements her former assumptions. "My cohorts and I have recently moved here from… uh…" for the first time since they've been speaking to each other, he seems uneasy about something, and she can't figure out what it is. He blinks. "Europe," he answers suddenly.
"Oh!" she says with a nod. "Yeah, I can tell by the accent."
"Erm…" he chuckles, almost nervously. "Yes. Right." Instantly, he regains all his former confidence and the penetrating gleam in his eyes returns, as the subject is quickly changed. "If I may ask, what do you call yourself?"
She smiles broadly at this. "Columbia," she replies with a giggle.
His green eyes darken lasciviously. "Columbia…" he extends a fishnet-gloved-hand to her, and she accepts it. "C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer," he purrs, and lifts her hand to meet against his lips.
Very rarely is Columbia truly impressed by men. Sure, she may find some of them cute, worth a few minutes of her time, maybe even good enough to go home with. But in reality, they don't always do much for her. Maybe it's because she's been with so many over the years (having dabbled in the art of groupie-ism once or twice), that hooking up with guys has lost some of its initial charm.
But this man… she hasn't even known him for ten minutes, and already, he's making her feel like a schoolgirl who's finally been noticed by the star of the football team. She doesn't always get butterflies, but boy, does she have them, now. She almost never gets weak-kneed, but now it's happening before her very eyes. She can only gaze at him, while he stares back confidently all the while, and giggle in an absurd way and mentally curse herself for looking so stupid.
"U-Uh…" she blinks. "A-And, you are…?"
"Frank," he replies with a Cheshire Cat grin.
"Frank," she repeats, testing the name out against her lips. "I like 'Frank.'"
"Doesn't everyone?" he asks, almost absently, and she laughs out loud. Again, his eyes travel up and down her figure as he chews on his bottom lip. He takes another drag of his cigarette, and she can't help but feel impressed by the way the smoke wafts so effortlessly from his nostrils. "So," he continues, "tell me, Columbia. What is a gorgeous woman like yourself doing wandering the streets alone, and on a perfectly good night, at that?"
Waiting for a guy like you. Columbia diverts her gaze and giggles, feeling her cheeks warm with an uncharacteristic blush. "I dunno. Ask the thirty million people who stood me up, tonight," she says with a laugh.
"My, my. Well, I simply can't allow that number to go up…" her heart nearly stops once she feels his fingers gently ghost the underside of her chin, tilting it upwards so that she's gazing into his tantalizing eyes. She's certain she can almost feel herself melting into a pathetic, syrupy puddle.
"I certainly hope you don't have any other plans, this evening," he purrs.
And just like that, her schedule is totally clear. Just like that, she's in the backseat of his pick-up truck, and he's on top of her, his tongue colliding with her own. Just like that, they're leaving Denton and pulling up to the front gates of his sprawling, breathtaking mansion, ascending to his bedroom in the iron elevator by the door. Just like that, she's in his bed, and he's making her head spin with all of the unimaginably wonderful things he's doing to her body, better than anyone else she's ever been with. Just like that, she's taken. Captivated. She knows he's different from all the others, that now, there's no turning back.
Just like that, the predator captures its prey.
A/N: Yes? No? Maybe so? GTFO? Let me know! (Unintentional rhyme: achieved)