Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.
A/N: A big Thank-You to LightStarDusting and ms-ambrosia for their Beta work on this story and also to mpg and MissWinkles for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.
Warning: This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions.
Walking with confidence, Marie holds her head high as she makes her way on the tree-lined street. She's leaving Blondie's with a large cup of hot chocolate in her hand, and The Name of the Rose tucked under her arm. She isn't sure why she took it, she did it on a whim. She simply grabbed it as she slid out of the booth. Her own copy is still packed in a carton somewhere in her new apartment and she really feels like reading it now, but not like rummaging through cartons to find it.
She wonders whether the Rider's hands have touched this book. Upon closer examination, she can see that the corner of the cover sports a permanent crease and the spine has been broken. There are a couple of stains too, browned stamps indicative of an often-read tome. She thinks this book has been well-loved, and she finds herself really hoping that it's he who loves it as her own fingers delicately skim over the same creases he might have touched.
As she walks back to her new apartment, she lifts the cup to her lips to take small sips, all the while thinking about the unruly mess of hair falling about his striking face. Unaware that she's humming, Marie turns her face up into whatever rays of sun the patchy clouds allow to peek through.
The wind picks up as she walks, twisting strands of hair across her throat and cheeks. It's whipped up mercilessly into a coarse tangle by the relentless thrashing back and forth. She repeatedly yanks hunks of it away from her mouth, each time cursing under her breath. Finally, having had enough of this Sisyphean task, she twists the hair into a knot and tucks it into the back of her sweatshirt. With her long coltish legs and high, tight butt, she could pass for a young boy, swimming in the oversized sweatshirt, holding her oversized cup.
Her appointment with the Entomologist tonight won't be a difficult one. He's a straight down to business kind of guy. She'll be in and out of there within forty-five minutes. Marie plans to run herself a bath in her tub tonight when she gets home after her meeting with him. It's a luxury she didn't have in her previous apartment, and she feels vaguely guilty about liking the tub, as though poor little Mike had to die so she could have a nice bubble bath.
She almost runs up the stairs to her apartment, her echoing, thumping footsteps reminiscent of a gaggle of rowdy teenagers. She stops in the hallway outside her door and looks down at the stairwell, wondering what the emptiness looks like.
The sounds echo off the hallway walls. It's not a real echo but only a shallow bounce, and just serves to make her feel small and alone. She turns her back on the hallway and enters her apartment, almost bashing her face into the door when it sticks and doesn't open straight away. A curse and a good shove against it with her hip and shoulder help the door open and once inside, she leans back against it until it closes, sighing.
Annoyingly, it appears as though the boxes full of her possessions have not unpacked themselves in her brief absence.
Marie makes her way to the bedroom and drops the rescued book on her bed for later, then sits down next to it and kicks off her shoes. Flexing her toes, she stretches out on the bed, turning her face up to the window to catch the dappled sunlight on her skin. The band of warmth is so lovely on her cheeks that she wriggles up higher on the bed just to get more of the golden heat on her face. Combing her fingers gently through her disheveled hair, Marie dozes, lightly cocooned in the warm glow.
Through the peach veil of her closed eyelids, she can see the afternoon sunlight and although it's not the right color, the rusty hue reminds her of the Rider. She pictures him mounting his motorbike once again, his thighs flexing against the long leather seat as he balances the weight of the vintage machine between his legs. In her daydream, he looks back at her over his shoulder with the playful and dangerous eyes of a siren until all she can see is him, and until her own fingers find their way from her tangled hair down to her throat and then over her sweatshirt to the swell of a breast underneath. Lying so still that she can sense her own heartbeat feels like the most intimate meditation, like a lover's caress.
It has been a long time since she was touched with love in this way, and the sensation is lovely, the flesh soft and yielding beneath her hand. Would he touch her like this? Would his touch be gentle and feather-light, or would his hands be rough, hard and commanding, taking and not asking? She pinches her breast roughly through her clothes as these thoughts stir up a lustful fog in her mind and a quiet moan reverberates in her chest. Would those graceful fingers touch her in the same easy and sure manner that they touch his bike? Or would they dig into her like claws, those long Klimtian fingers, eliciting pain as well as pleasure? She knows from experience that it's a fine line to tread.
Although the image of him burns brightly beneath her lids, the lack of detail is frustrating, as is the fact that she never really saw his face. Beneath the bulk of his riding clothes, his physique is a mystery to her. She draws it in her mind with tentative strokes: sinewy musculature coiling under the fair skin, acute edges at the wrist and elbow, broad shoulders spearheading to a narrow waist... yes, she can see it all in her mind's eye. A perfect specimen: slender, wiry, powerful. Before she knows it, her hand is under the sweatshirt and inside her bra, her fingers circling, scissoring, coaxing at her nipple as Marie seduces herself with her vision of the Rider.
What would he think of her slim, boyish body? She's always thought of herself as unripe, unfeminine. Zafrina, a lover in her past, often told her she was beautiful but it's such a stretch to think of herself that way. She is modestly popular as an escort and knows she isn't unattractive, but beautiful? No, not beautiful, nor desirable. Not to him.
And just like that, the spell is broken.
Sighing, she opens her eyes and lays her hand beside her face on the bed, where it looks like a flightless bird against her dark green cotton sheets. Somehow, these soft and introspective moments fail to bring comfort, and her own psyche has sabotaged her yet again. It's because daydreams are fleeting. They don't last. They don't stay. It's better not to dream.
Shaking off the remnants of her woolgathering, Marie spends the next few hours rearranging boxes and dispersing some of their contents throughout the apartment. Her mind is still not on the job though, and she stubs her toes on boxes twice and even rams her elbow into a bookshelf, deadening her whole arm for a few minutes. Shit, serves me right for daydreaming about a guy!
When feeling gradually returns to her arm, she finds a blue stain already darkening the tip of her bruised elbow and an arrow of pain shoots into her arm when she gingerly rubs circles into the sore spot. The numbing pain helps her get centered.
As the afternoon wears on and shadows lengthen, she takes a hot shower and scrubs herself clean, thoroughly washing her hair and then just standing under the water as it cascades over her. This is business. The soak in her bath later will be pleasure.
Was she really going to try and superimpose the Rider over the Entomologist tonight? She thinks now that this is a bad idea. His vision is strong in her mind, and she doesn't want to sully the lean, auburn-haired ideal by bringing him to the meeting with her creepy client. Carefully blow-drying her hair, Marie irons it straight between heated tongs. The make-up is next and she heavy-handedly lines her eyes with jet-black kohl. Surprisingly, it takes a really long time to get this just right, as there is a fine line between a good smoky eye and a raccoon imitation.
She paints her pale plum mouth with shiny red smears, for that evil harlot look the Entomologist favors, and wonders if he'd recognize her in daylight without this ridiculous facade if she walked up to him and spat in his face.
This errant thought makes her eyes wide and she stares at herself in the mirror, unblinking. Spit in his face? What the hell is going on here? The guy's a prize creep, but a client nevertheless. It's a bad idea to go into a meeting with him thinking thoughts like these.
She releases a slow, even breath and reaches for her cell. Time to call a cab.
She pulls on her stockings and encounters a snag on one of her calves. Muttering, she decides there's no time to go out and buy another pair, especially as she hasn't got her car and her face is already reminiscent of Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. She doesn't fancy popping into the grocery store to scandalize the entire neighborhood on her first day here. In an inspired moment, she pulls at the snag until a ladder-like tear opens along the length of her slim leg, then pokes her fingers through the thin weave and creates more ladders.
She steps into her stilettos but realizes that the ladders in her stockings will be entirely visible under the hem of her trench. She quickly improvises by rummaging through a carton of shoes, finds her tall boots and tests the look in front of a full length mirror, running her hands along her leather encased calves.
She dresses in silence, zipping herself into her black corset. The hideous thing looks like it's elaborately laced across her back but it's strictly an affair of convenience; the laces are for show only and are not actually functional. She wears the corset on request for a couple of her clients and it's easy to unzip and discard when she's done.
She's conflicted about her feelings when it comes to the corset; she hates the horrible thing and loves it. It hurts and leaves marks on her skin which take hours to fade, however, it helps her function as Marie when she needs it to. Pressing with her pale fingers, she adjusts her breasts inside it, so it doesn't rub painfully and so that her modest endowment appears to heave over the top of the tight bodice with every breath.
Turning towards her mirror, she inspects herself: dark hair glossy and long, swaying gently above the curve of her behind, the black corset squeezing feminine curves out of her slim body, lacy panties like the blackest embroidery poured over her pert ass, and the trampy stockings, suspenders and knee-skimming boots all add up to an impressive costume. She buttons her trench coat over it all, and suddenly looks like any young woman in Seattle, stylishly swathed in black- inconspicuous right down to the carefully deadened, nonchalant eyes.
She perches awkwardly on the armrest of her worn sofa while waiting for the cab to arrive, which seems to be taking forever. She clasps her hands together in her lap, not knowing quite what to do with them. The silence in the apartment reflects the state of her mind perfectly.
Finally, she hears the car pull up outside, and it's time. The moment she rises from the sofa, the Marie veneer slips into position and she walks confidently into the stairwell, each step resounding with a shallow echo. Downstairs in front of her building she slides into the cab and gives an address, ignoring the driver's attempts at conversation. She looks at the city flying past outside, adorned by the luminous streetlight globes, and in a matter of minutes they arrive at her destination.
Marie leaves the cab sure, confident, and unapproachable. She doesn't spare a glance at the hotel's reception; knowing that eye contact with the hotel staff invites speculation about her purpose. She makes her way straight through the busy lobby and to the elevators, a small, dark figure amongst business people and tourists, pressing the button for her level. Standing in their midst in the over-bright light while a dumbed-down version of The Girl from Ipanema permeates softly through the lift, feels like falling out of the space-time continuum, as though she has momentarily ceased to exist.
Marie exits the elevator without a backward glance and strides purposefully. She's been here before and knows the layout of the hotel well enough to estimate the location of the room.
She finds her way and comes to a stop, facing the door. She takes a deep breath and feels nothing while her knuckles tap quickly on the smooth wood. The comforting numbness has spread through her and she's in the zone. She's calm, knowing from experience that nothing can touch her while she's Marie.
The door swings inward, and she's looking at the Entomologist.
He's of average height, slightly taller than herself. His face could be seen as handsome, if it weren't for the weird eyes; they're incredibly pale blue, almost glowing. He fixes them on Marie and she immediately feels that he's looking into the secret compartments of her psyche, the ones she's desperate to hide. She falters slightly when facing him like this, he holds all the power here at the door, where she is still just the girl he has ordered to satisfy his needs.
She clamps the facade down around herself and stonily returns his steely gaze. She wonders if her make-up is still in place, it feels like it should be melting under this intense scrutiny. They hold pause awkwardly like this for a few moments while she stands in his doorway. Finally, he nods, his extended arm inviting her in. She almost shudders with relief and sweeps past him, happy to put an end to the mind probe.
She comes to a halt in the middle of the suite, casting her eyes across the beige hotel décor. She feels his inspection continue as she stands with her back to him. She flips her hair over her shoulder and looks sideways in his direction, looking at his feet, still anxious, still herself.
"Good evening. How are you?" Marie knows that this is probably the only pleasantry they will exchange tonight. He doesn't like to waste time.
"Marie. It's lovely to see you." His low, quiet voice slips over her like a cloying blanket. She dully wonders if he engages other girls but realizes she doesn't really care. It makes no difference. "The bathroom is this way."
And just like that, the conversation closes, and she's off to put in place the last piece of her costume. She can feel him watching her entering the bathroom and then the door latches behind her. She removes her silk scarf and little black purse and shrugs off her trench coat, the fabric whispering warnings about the strange charge in the air as she hangs it on the back of the door. There are no windows in this room, and she is confronted by a massive mirror above the vanity.
Marie leans into it and looks over her face, satisfied that her make-up remains intact. She is careful to avoid looking into her own eyes; having only herself to answer to doesn't mean it's easy and painless. She reaches inside her small purse and retrieves the mask; the sequins and beads catch the fluorescent lights overhead and sparkle like tiny jewels. She fixes it to her face, lifting a chunk of thick hair and sliding the elastic band under it. She quickly braids her hair into the woven plait he likes, and steps back to see the full effect.
The woman looking back at Marie is a complete stranger and at the same time, her closest friend. She looks strong and powerful, sexy and commanding. Her darkened eyes are accentuated by the incredible mask; it looks so innocuous lying in her purse on its own but comes alive when placed over her eyes, and suddenly there's no danger when she looks into them, nothing hiding in the depths that can't be controlled. The sparkly beads make it look like it's dancing fluidly across her cheekbones. She appraises her skin, and knows it's beautiful, her one real gift. She has never really looked after it, and yet it's almost translucent, clear and smooth.
Her hands caress her exposed arms lightly. Marie has always been as pale as a vampire, staying out of the sun since a very painful sunburn in her childhood. Tiny freckles delicately sprinkled across her nose are the only embellishment to her creamy complexion, apart from the heavy make-up she's wearing tonight. She's all raven's wing black and fragile porcelain white, this Marie, and finally the pieces are all in place.
She watches with glassy eyes as the woman in the mirror gently rubs her index finger along her nose. Her hand sweeps down her face and throat and comes to rest on the swell of a breast. She looks incredible strapped into her black corset, her naturally small waist accentuated by the cinched bodice.
The black contraption flares slightly over her slim hips giving her a more feminine silhouette and her legs look impossibly long underneath it. She likes the laddered stockings encasing her thighs too; she feels bolder for improvising with them. Black leather boots stiffen her calves, and she stands firm with legs slightly apart.
Her mouth stretches into a tight smile while she takes in the whole package. With her mask firmly in place, she's ready to face his uncompromising glare.
A/N: As before, thank you very much for reading. Readers of the last chapter expressed some interest in receiving a teaser for the this story, so I will continue to reply to reviews with a short snippet.