My Fair Lacey

Chapter 5

Betrayals.

They'd been together now for more than three weeks – the drunken evening and night spent cuddling together on a sofa a far-off event. Today there had been a particularly difficult afternoon with Gold losing his temper with her more than once. Half the names he called her she didn't even know, but she knew he was calling her names. She'd gotten upset – she'd thought she'd been making progress but apparently, her performance was not up to his standards.

She had been about ready to stomp out of the room and go to her room for a good cry when he surprised her.

"Why don't we go out and get a bite to eat," he suggested. He'd realized he'd been suffocating the entire afternoon, enveloped in a soothing, sweet cookie scent that he'd finally recognized was the young woman herself. He'd gotten distracted wondering if her creamy skin would be soft and smooth if he touched it, wondering how she might taste.

And everything was now confounded by snippets of the night they had spent together on his study sofa. She'd come in on him while he was held in paralysis by the alcohol he'd drunk. She had been quiet and understanding – hitting just the right balance of concern and caring. He'd remembered he had not wanted to be alone. He had wanted to be with someone – anyone and she had come and she was so soft and so sweet, so much better than just anyone.

She was perfect.

And she didn't take any shit off of him – kinda refreshing.

He had not meant for The Experiment to go this way, with him falling for The Subject. He knew what she was, where she had come from and, somehow, that had meant that she wasn't worthy of him.

So why, the better he got to know her, why was he beginning to think that he was the one who was not worthy of her?

She was affecting him. And now, he was being more irritable, more of an asshat than even usual, even he could admit that.

All right, maybe he owed her a bit of a break.

"Air you askin' me out?" she wasn't sure.

"This isn't a date, dearie," he quickly informed her, rapidly backpedaling. "This - what we're doing here," he gestured around the room expansively, "It's getting tiresome. I think we need to change our venue. I know you've been working with Jefferson and I want to see how you perform in public."

"I'm doin' good enuf for you to see how I'm doin' in public?" she asked him eagerly, anxious for some mote of approval. "Am I doin' good?" She automatically corrected herself, "Am I doing well?"

"Marginally, perhaps barely passing, a D minus. You seem to be making some small progress in some areas but . . . in others," he sighed. "I guess you can take the girl out of the trash pile but you can't take the trash out of the girl."

Lacey pulled a face at the man but quickly replaced it with a vapid smile before he saw her first expression. Remembering Jefferson's advice, she'd gone to her room and selected a simple dress, a golden-yellow sleeveless dress with a form-fitting bodice and a full skirt. She added a large floral challis scarf that functioned as a shawl. She had her hair piled on her head the burnished curls caressing her neck. She was wearing just a touch of glossy lipstick and some black mascara. She thought she looked pretty good and was, perhaps, hoping for a compliment from the man – something better than the nasty little insult he'd just handed her.

She caught herself as she realized she was pining after the man's approval.

What was wrong with her? Why was she hoping for anything positive from him? He didn't really like her - at best he tolerated her. Why did she want to please him so badly? Why did she think it might even be possible to please him?

She had thought that things might have gotten better, less intense at least, between them, after her spending the night with him in the study – but she'd been wrong. If anything, he'd been more distant, more irritable, more prickly.

As she gracefully descended the stairs, she caught a glimpse of him waiting in the study. She thought he looked good, but . . . then, if she were honest with herself, he always looked good. His clothes were always immaculate, tailored to his trim form and he always looked pressed and put-together.

Plus, he had those pretty eyes.

But all that was hard to remember when she was irritated with him. And when he continually berated and belittled her, it was hard not to be irritated with him.

He looked her up and down when she came down the stairs and nodded, "Nice."

Lacey might have melted had she not remembered that he'd just called her trash.

"Where we goin'?" she asked him after she'd slid into the comfy seat of his big, black Cadillac.

He paused, "We don't have reservations anywhere. I . . . I profess I didn't think this through. I'm not usually given to impulsive actions. Do you have any suggestions?"

"You like Mexican?" she asked.

"Not really, but I don't want you to be too challenged. So, Mexican, it is. Which mundane establishment would you recommend?"

"Cantina Funditos," she suggested. "I haint . . . I haven't been there, but everybody's been tellin' me it's real good."

He punched the restaurant into his GPS and they slowly pulled out into traffic. Lacey closed her eyes. While she had to admit that it was a comfortable ride, she also thought the man drove like he was eighty years old – the slowest, most cautious driver, ever. She looked at him while he drove – intense, quiet, utterly focused. She shivered – consumed by the sudden thought of what it must feel like to have that level of attention from the man directed upon herself.

He remained in an unpleasant mood for the entirety of the car ride. He pulled into the gravel parking lot of the family-oriented Mexican restaurant and escorted her inside.

Poor thing. He very nearly recoiled from the over-sized sombreros, the religious iconography, the plastic cacti and such that decorated the place. She quickly saw that she was more familiar with the casual dining setting than her disgruntled, disagreeable companion. She also got that he was non-conversant in Spanish and after (unsuccessfully) asking the waiter several times for "some of that Mexican cheese," Lacey opted to order on his behalf.

"Por favor, le pinche pendejo quiero queso," she brightly told the waiter who questioned her.

"Le pinche pendejo?" the waiter asked, his tone not betraying his amusement.

"Oh, si," she confirmed, smiling brightly at the waiter.

"Gracias, senorita," the waiter replied.

"What did you say?" Gold grilled her.

"I just asked that he bring an order of cheese dip to the gentleman," she responded pleasantly.

He watched her while she waited for their food without fidgeting or checking her phone. If he didn't know any better, he'd think she was quite the lady. He was pleased with her manners although he said nothing.

"You getting along all right with Jefferson?" he finally asked after a lengthy, awkward pause.

"Mr. Madden has been wonderful," she told him. "He's taught me so much."

"I wasn't sure how much time he'd have to give you. He's been pretty preoccupied with pre-wedding demands," he said.

Lacey giggled. "I've got to hear all about them . . . the pre-wedding jitters," she told him. Jefferson had talked at length to her about his upcoming wedding to one of the city's leading heart surgeons. "He's also all caught up in looking for a new place to live."

"I'm sure it gets tiresome, but I am genuinely happy for the man," Gold said off-handedly.

Lacey looked closely at Gold and screwed up her courage, "Are you gay?"

He looked back at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why would you ask that?" he asked.

"Well, I know you done had . . . you had one marriage that didn't last. I ain't . . . I haven't ever seen you with a woman. You dress really well. You're prissy. And you are good friends with Mr. Madden," she listed her reasons.

He frowned. "I'm not prissy," he disagreed with her. "And I'm not gay, not in the least," he said quietly. "Jefferson and I are good friends. We have been good friends for . . . a while, but we're not, never have been, lovers."

"I've never seen you with anyone."

"I've not been with anyone . . . in a while, but I'm definitely not gay. I like women, Lacey. Intelligent, refined, independent women."

Not women like herself. "So, you've done had . . . you've been in some serious relationships?" she pressed him. Was there just that one failed marriage, or was there more?

He shook his head and changed the subject. "Lacey French. That's not your real name, is it? I mean, it really does sound like a stripper name."

She dropped her eyes. "My real name is Isabelle Avonlea. Growin' up, I was Belle. Keith told me my name sounded too snooty, so I took my dad's last name and made up a new first name," she confessed. Then she looked up at him, "But you didn't answer my question."

"It's none of your business," he told her.

"It's not," she agreed.

He nodded, apparently satisfied. Their food had come and they ate their meal in silence. He frowned as he watched her drench her food with extra spicy hot sauce and down an extra-large margarita. But she did use her napkin correctly. And he was increasingly aware that he was getting nods from other men in the place who had noticed his attractive companion.

He cleared his throat and started talking again.

"I married young, very young, and it was a disaster. We had a son together, but divorced when he was four." He stopped a moment before continuing, "She had begun sleeping around. Afterwards . . . afterward, I had a few discreet affairs, nothing serious. Now, how about you?" he said quietly.

"I'm not gay either," she told him quickly. But then she hesitated. "A couple of boyfriends, nothin' serious. When I got kicked out by my dad, I hooked up with this big guy, Keith. I let him know up front that I didn't want to do no whorin', an' he let me work as a masseuse. It was an all right deal, 'cept Keith took more 'an half of whut . . . more than half of what I took in . . . I earned." She shrugged. "Still, I had a roof over my head an' ate regular which is more than a lot o' girls could say."

He didn't reply, taking in the information.

They got back to his apartment, Lacey feeling a little buzz from the extra-large margarita she had drunk. Gold poured himself some whiskey. They sat in uncomfortable silence in the library for a while. Restless, Lacey suggested they play a couple of rounds of pool.

"I mean, you do play, right? Or did the pool table come wid th' apartment?" she asked.

"I play . . ." he admitted. "A little."

"Oh, me too. A little," she told him.

And they began a game, both of them frequently missing shots and the play going back and forth.

"I guess, I shouldn't have had that extree-large margariter," she told him, giggling the second time she sent the cue ball into a pocket.

"Well, we both seem to be equally bad at this," he observed. "Should we . . . should we, perhaps, play for something?" he asked blandly.

"You mean like . . . make a bet?" she asked.

"I was thinking like more like . . . . making a deal," he told her.

"Yeah, like whut?"

He considered but then shook his head. "I don't know, maybe the loser will owe the winner a favor," he suggested.

"That's kinda too much pig in a poke fur me," she told him, shaking her head.

"We can be more specific. Nothing illegal," he suggested.

"Nothing immoral?" she asked.

He gave her a feral smile. "All right then. Nothing immoral," he agreed.

She considered and nodded. "If we goan play fur real, let me have stripes. I do better wid stripes."

"Deal," he agreed.

And Lacey lost this game.

Eavesdropping

"Well, I think she's coming along splendidly."

Lacey heard the two men talking downstairs. She knew she shouldn't listen in, but it was just too compelling.

"I don't know." That was the Professor. "I took her out to eat at a Mexican restaurant. She called me the equivalent of a 'fucking arsehole' in Spanish, doused her food in hot sauce and drank a huge-arse margarita. I thought I might have been out with some chica ho."

"Oh, come on, I love you like a brother, but you are a fucking arsehole, in several languages and, so what, if she likes a little heat on her food? As for the booze, well . . . I've been out with you and I can understand why she might need the alcohol to get through the evening," Jefferson explained things easily.

"Oh, well, whatever . . . I may be in over my head with her."

Jefferson chuckled. "Oh, I don't know. I think she's wonderful and has got a great deal of untapped potential."

"What do you mean?"

"Have you not looked at this woman, Rum? She's gorgeous – body, skin, eyes, hair, the whole neat little package. Not only that, she's smart and funny and sensitive and . . . just delightful. Hell, if she was interested in me, I'd consider switching. Are you telling me you're not affected by her? You can stand in the same room she's in, stand next to her and you don't feel anything?"

"Of course not," Gold answered quickly. "She's too young for me and she doesn't like me anyway."

"So, you haven't noticed she's gorgeous?" Jefferson pressed.

There was a pause and Lacey listened closely.

"Of course, I've noticed. Hell, she'd make a dead man come. I just. . . I'm . . . I just can't allow myself to get interested in a woman right now, especially not her."

"Well, do cut her a little slack. She's made tremendous progress. You just need to continue working on polishing her around the edges. She's coming along brilliantly."

Lacey crept back upstairs. So, Professor Gold did find her attractive.

Like any other man.

Like every other man.

Maybe that was why he was being so mean to her, to try to help him keep some distance.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She wouldn't have recognized this person two months ago. This woman looked like she could work in a posh ladies' dress shop. This woman looked like someone a man would take out to a restaurant and not expect a blowjob under the table. This woman looked . . . she looked nice.

Maybe she should stop being such a brat around the man. Maybe she was doing that to help herself keep some distance.

She still had the pool games going for her. Why had she lost to him? - holding out for bigger stakes, perhaps?

Why was she continuing to lose to him?

They'd taken to playing regularly for minor stakes – she was losing every game, doing truly stupid shots and dumb moves. She'd have to bring him coffee in the morning - like she wasn't already doing that. Or give him a head and shoulder massage - like she wasn't already doing that. Or work an extra hour on her grammar exercises - like she wasn't already doing that.

Nothing had really changed except they had an hour of time together with just the game and each other's company.

Little did the man know - Lacey had learned to play pool in elementary school when her dad was responsible for running a sleazy bar. By middle school, she was beginning to hustle guys for quarters and, when she turned twenty-one, until word about her skill-level got out, she'd been able to earn enough money to pay her rent. She was good, really good.

Sooner or later something worthwhile betting for would come up and she'd show her true stripes then.

The Ex-Wife

Another morning and she was going out with the charming Mr. Madden. She quite enjoyed going out with the man. He was pleasant and animated, in many ways quite the opposite of Professor Gold. They had been out looking at pocketbooks and purses this particular morning – Jefferson had told her that the right purse could make or break the outfit. He tended to favor over-sized bags and insisted on leather.

After dropping several hundred dollars on upscale reticules, they had settled in a coffee shop and Lacey got her usual, a dead eye, Jefferson had a latte with almond milk and hazelnut flavoring. She had gotten up to get him some sweetener when she noticed a stunning brunette talking with him. She hesitated but catching his eye and seeing him smile, she returned to the table.

The woman was talking, "I'd heard you were back in town, darling. You look fantastic." She was ignoring Lacey.

"Thanks." Jefferson shifted and turned his attention to Lacey. "I'd like you to meet my very good friend, Lacey French," he told the woman. "Miss French, this is Milah Jones, Mr. Gold's ex-wife."

"Oh fuck, I'll never shake that title – Gold's ex-wife," Milah shook her head. She turned to look Lacey over. "I take it you know my ex-husband."

Lacey had sat down, handing over the little pink packets over to Jefferson. "Yes," she answered.

Milah looked back and forth between Jefferson and Lacey.

"You haven't switched teams, have you Jefferson?" she asked the man.

He laughed, "Not hardly. Miss French is Rumple's current . . ." he hesitated just a fraction of a second, "protégé."

Milah was clearly trying to interpret exactly what the relationship between the younger woman and her ex-husband was, but not making progress. "You're a little young for him, aren't you?" she finally asked Lacey.

"I haven't found his age to be a problem," Lacey sipped her strong coffee. She caught a nearly imperceptible nod from Jefferson. She added, "His experience has been a plus, in fact." And she smiled.

Milah's expression soured, spoiling the woman's dark beauty. "He must have learned a lot since he kicked me out."

"Was that a very long time ago?" Lacey opened her eyes wide,

"Not that long ago," Milah replied sharply. She turned back to Jefferson. "What are you up to now?"

"Not too much. I've got a position teaching theater at UNC and I'll be working with a couple of the local theater groups," Jefferson told her.

"Isn't that a bit of a come down from New York?" the woman asked him.

"It's a change, but for what I'm getting, it's a price I'm willing to pay."

"Viktor?" the woman asked.

"Viktor. I had to accept that he's happy where he is and would never leave his position. He's in line to become chief of staff in a couple of years, once his surgery days are behind him. And I do want him to be happy."

The woman stood, "Well, it's been real seeing you again, Jefferson." She turned, "I've got errands." And she left the coffee shop.

Jefferson was laughing before Milah had made it out of the shop.

"That was priceless, Miss French."

"Am I wrong or is she just an awful woman?" Lacey had to ask.

"Oh, you're not wrong. Rumple caught her in the sack with a younger man and walked away from the marriage . . . but, it hurt him. She was his first love and . . . he never could figure out what he had done, what made him . . . not good enough."

"Oh." So, this was the wife Professor G. had told her about. "She's the mother of the son that he's all busted up over not being able to see?"

"That's right. His boy is . . . uh . . . a couple of years older than you. Nice young man, considering . . . well, considering everything." Jefferson looked at her, "Miss French, are you being curious about Professor Gold's personal life?"

Lacey felt herself blushing. "Well, I do spend a lot o' time with the man." She paused, "He does seem kinda closed off like he's shuttin' himself off from other people."

"It's been tough for him. His father and mother had a difficult relationship and he bounced back and forth between them – neither one of them wanting the responsibilities of being a parent. Then, he met Milah and he fell head-over-heels. I think he was hoping that they'd become the family he'd never had."

"He caught her cheatin' on him," Lacey summarized the reason for the divorce.

Jefferson nodded and then said softly. "His friends all knew that she'd been stepping out on him for a while before he stumbled on it. I was afraid that he would still forgive her, even after finding her in his own bed with her lover. But, hallelujah, he grew a pair and kicked her out."

"What happened to her?" Lacey asked. The woman hadn't looked like she was suffering.

"She and her lover got married. What Killian Jones ever saw in her – well, I don't know."

"Killian Jones?!" Lacey couldn't stop herself.

She recognized this name.

He had been a frequent client – usually not with her but with some of Keith's other girls, some of the working girls.

"Yeah," Jefferson confirmed the name, not catching Lacey's surprise. "He's a pretty enough fellow – if you like tall, dark and handsome. Personally, I go for blonds."

Lacey smiled at her friend. "So, this all kinda soured Professor G. on relationships."

"Oh, there's so much more," Jefferson shared.

Lacey waited. Jefferson was in an unusually talkative mood.

"Maybe a year after his divorce, he embarked on a flaming affair with one of his mother's friends – younger friends, but still, the woman was ten years older than he was. I think he thought they'd get married and he'd adopt her daughter who was maybe a year old."

"But?" Lacey questioned.

"She dumped him for a richer guy. She got pregnant right after her marriage to the guy, but . . ." Jefferson hesitated. "I think that Rumple still wonders if her second daughter just might be his. But, he doesn't have any contact with any of them anymore."

"But he was again betrayed," Lacey summarized.

"Yeah, he was betrayed," Jefferson agreed.

A.N. Next chapter – Rumple's mother comes into the story.