My Fair Lacey

Chapter 7

No Relief

It was early evening a couple of days after Lacey's successful debut at his mother's. He sat nursing a whiskey in his study, lounging in his leather recliner with his feet up, thinking over the past couple of days.

He had been quite pleased with Lacey's showing. She'd not given herself away despite having been a teensy bit inappropriate with her choice of card games. She'd certainly enchanted that dumbass, Gaston.

And she'd looked very nice – fetching – pretty – desirable.

Yeah, he'd begun to realize that he was a little - perhaps more than a little - attracted to her, and had even, perhaps, begun to accept this. He finished his drink and poured himself a second glass.

A little attracted to her!

Hah!

No, he was seriously attracted to her. She had started to shower with him, would drape herself over him in his bed, would wiggle her exquisite bum while sitting on his lap in this very chair.

Well, the fantasy Lacey would do all those things. And he would kiss her, and lick her, and put his hands all over her lush little body and she would whimper and make these soft little cries and he would push her down onto the thick carpet of this room and push himself into her tight little . . .

He shook himself.

He needed to do something about these feelings. Squelch them, channel them into something more productive, give into them.

Something.

Anything.

But there was no relief in sight. Even during their lessons, things would get derailed.

Just a little earlier that afternoon, he and Lacey became involved in a heated debate about the literary merits of Jane Austin – he'd thought that it was demeaning to women as it was all about them defining themselves through marriage. She'd patiently explained that she thought he was an idiot.

There had been a part of him that was enjoying the arguing – it heated his blood. There was another part of him that reminded him that he didn't need anything to heat his blood – not when it concerned this woman.

Damn, but he genuinely enjoyed her company. She was intelligent, far more intelligent than he'd ever expected her to be, and surprisingly well-read. She had a quick ear and an engaging personality, as well as a sense of humor. She was also prettier, much prettier underneath her layers of makeup and tacky clothes than he'd thought she'd be. And there was a sweet nature hidden underneath all the trashy demeanor and the tough talk.

This wasn't good.

He'd been through far too many insanely disastrous relationships and had decided to never, ever get involved with another woman. Not to mention, she was far too young for him and . . . well, she couldn't possibly ever want to be with him. He needed to get his head on straight where she was concerned.

And so, he continually felt the need to push her away, distance himself, make himself less agreeable than he might have been. He knew he was often saying things that hurt her feelings.

But, recently, his hurtful remarks seemed to be hitting wide of the mark. Lacey was getting better at standing up to him, he had realized this as she hadd stood in front of him shouting out the reasons why Jane's insight and understanding of relationships represented a break-through for the time and Elizabeth Bennet was an excellent role model for young girls, even today.

Yes, she was getting much better at standing up to him.

And that afternoon, he was finding that he really wasn't listening to her. He was appreciating her strength, her willingness to stand up for her convictions, and he had been distinctly distracted by how her pupils had dilated and her skin had flushed.

He couldn't stop the thought - Did she look like this when she came?

Would she make little moaning sounds or would she shout out? Would she bite and scratch or would she cling to him?

Damn! He needed a shower . . . or a drink . . . and a drink.

She was still yammering on when he just shrugged and rolled his eyes. Of course, that infuriated her even more. She finally, reduced to sputtering, had just stalked out of the room.

He was spending the rest of the afternoon with one of his dearest friends, Johnny Walker. He sat nursing his lost-count-at-four whiskeys. He knew she'd be down for supper, sulking but mostly cooled off.

Hell, what was wrong with him? He knew he should probably end this stupid experiment and send her off.

But he didn't want her to go.

Bad

Lacey stood in the middle of her bedroom, trying to calm herself down.

Why did she let this man get to her so badly? He could push her buttons with a little wave of his hand.

Oh, sometimes she thought of packing up a few of the clothes – she really didn't know if the clothes Mr. Madden had bought were hers to take or not, but her own clothes, what she'd brought with her, had long been discarded.

She didn't pack up, of course not. No, she was close to her dream – getting a nice little job in one of the high-toned, upper-class dress shops.

And then there was her deep-seated secret desire: the idea of being able to put away a little money so she could go to college, just a tech program at first, but then, maybe, if she did well enough, she could transfer to a real four-year program.

She hadn't told anyone about this dream – it had always seemed so far away to her. But after meeting Professor Gold and Mr. Madden, she felt that maybe, just maybe, there might be a chance for her.

So, she knew she would just suck it up and take whatever slop the man dished out. She'd tough it out. She was getting close, she knew. Not just her grammar and her language but her understanding of what was acceptable and what was low-class.

But he'd looked so fine this afternoon when they were arguing – his eyes had darkened and his voice had lowered in timbre, the rough sound reverberating deep within her.

She couldn't stop herself thinking – what would he be like as a lover – dark and sensual, possessive, masterful.

Or, would he be one those tough, in-charge guys who relished having the woman take over, who would like being told what to do and how to do it?

She considered.

Professor Gold kneeling in front of her, subservient to her whims.

She shook herself.

No, the professor was definitely someone who would insist on being on top. She just couldn't imagine him being a closet bottom. He would be the one to order her around. He'd strip her and order her to her knees and have her wait on his pleasure and . . .

Oh damn, she did have it bad.

Worse

Of course, it got worse. It was a Saturday afternoon when he realized that he was missing the little minx and he went looking for her.

He found her.

- And her friends.

They were all lying prone on lounge chairs on his rooftop patio. She was there, of course, lying on one of his plush lounging chairs and dressed - he began sweating - in a little skimpy outfit – a swimming suit, a bikini. She was lying down stretched out in the sun. He went out to the patio and glared at her. He barely noticed the other young women.

"Hullo," she muttered after noticing him.

Her friends lazily turned over and grunted out greetings.

"What are you doing?" he asked the obvious.

"Catching some rays with my friends. You remember Zelena and Emma and Regina and this is my best friend, Ruby. She's Granny's granddaughter," she replied. "You never use this rooftop and we were talking and I had an idea this would be a great place for us to get together to have a few drinks and sunbathe."

"But . . ." he was having trouble pulling his thoughts together. He took a deep breath. "May I see you a moment . . . inside." And he didn't wait for an answer, turning on his heel and going back inside.

"You better go after him and get that stick out of his ass," Zelena suggested.

"And bring us back another pitcher of those Margaritas," Ruby called out to her. "My buzz is wearing off."

"Got it," Belle told her and slipped off the lounger to go and see her professor. She caught up with him in the darkness of his dining room.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked without preamble.

"I thought I explained. I invited some of my new friends up here to sunbathe. You've got the perfect spot."

"But . . ." he was flustered.

"Aren't these the kind of people you want me to hang around with?" she asked, wide-eyed and innocent.

"I . . . I . . ." he wasn't able to get his thoughts together.

She leaned in. "You know they all think you're banging me . . . or I'm banging you . . . well, there's some mutual banging going on." She smiled at him. "I keep telling 'em that we're just friends, but I don't think they're buyin' it."

"We . . . well, if. . . if you invited them here, they have, they have no doubt realized that you're living here," he managed to sputter out.

"Uh huh, I keep tellin' them that we're just real good friends." She repeated and set about fixing a second picture of Margaritas, adding in some simple syrup, the lime juice, and the tequila, using the purist recipe for the potent drink.

He poured himself some whiskey and then looked her over sternly. "This outfit – how you're dressed . . . I mean . . . this outfit . . . it's . . . I mean . . . I can see . . ."

"They're called boobs, Professor G. Breasts if you want to be all formal." And she brazenly caressed herself, lifting up each perfect little half-globe. "This is a Wonderbra top – gives me C cups, you know."

"Yeah . . . uh . . . what?" he stammered. "But I . . . I . . . can see . . . them."

Lacey sighed. "Yeah, I tried to get one of those burka bikinis but they was all sold out."

"But people can see you!"

"Yeah, if they stand on the wall of the parking garage and lean waaay out and over the street," she said and then relented. "Now, listen, this is a perfectly respectable bathing suit. Mr. Madden helped me pick it out and I think I look good in it, gosh darn good." She sighed again. "But if I'm making you that uncomfortable, I could go in and change." She looked up at him, her large blue eyes luminous.

He closed his eyes. "No . . . no . . . no, do whatever you want to do. Be with your friends." He shook his head, giving up this fight and taking a drink.

"Well, good. Your momma thought it would be good if I hung out with the Mills girls and Miss Emma."

He spewed his drink dissolving into a coughing fit.

"What?!" he struggled to regain control of his breathing. "You've had contact with my mother?"

"Well, yeah. Jefferson taught me I need to be all mannerly, so I called her after the card soiree thingy and thanked her for having me over. And I apologized for the whole poker game screw-up. She was all nice about it and since then, she calls me a couple of times a week. We've had lunch twice."

"You are talking. with. my. mother?" he felt like he was repeating himself.

"Yeah. She's been so sweet."

"No," he corrected her. "She's not sweet."

"She sure is. She's been teaching me how to swear in Southern Lady Speak. I don't say 'go fuck yourself.' Instead, I say, 'bless your heart.'"

"Lacey, listen to me. My mother's evil. She's malicious and manipulative and cannot be trusted."

"Maybe, but she loves you and calls me to check on how you're doing."

He shook his head in disbelief. "No. No. Listen. She's using you to spy on me. She's put a spell on you, Lacey. If you don't watch it, she'll swallow you whole and . . . and . . . I wouldn't like that," he finished lamely. "I . . . I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you."

"Well, thanks. I'll remember that," she told him. "Oh, you might want to be extra nice to Emma Swan. She's regularly dating this fellow, Neal Cassidy. Sounds kinda serious." She smiled at him before going back out to her friends.

Gold watched her go, open-mouthed.

Lacey rejoined her friends, thinking about the conversation. She knew he thought she was pretty. But was he attracted to her? She had never considered this. She had thought the feelings were all on her side, like a school girl in love with her teacher, but now . . . was it possible that he liked her? Really liked her?

So now what? She knew her feelings had deepened for this impossible man, but she had been realistic enough to entertain no fantasies that he had any feelings for her. But now . . . maybe he did.

Now what?

Wedding Preparations

"You will come, of course. I convinced Viktor that you're just a mite of thing and won't take up much space at all. I'm sure he'd enjoy meeting you. He's already convinced you're a real estate genius, finding us that perfect little house." It was Mr. Madden convincing Lacey to come to his much-anticipated wedding.

Professor Gold was to be the best man and had spent considerable time grousing about the truly heinous tuxedo his friend wanted him to wear during the ceremony. He was standing in the store with Jefferson and Lacey as he got his final fitting.

"Honest to god, Jefferson. I can't wear purple."

"It's not purple, you color-blind neckbearded breeder, you. It's a rich claret burgundy, very dark and with that black silk shirt under it, you look delicious. These were all special order. They're fashion forward. You will look fabulous, I promise you."

Gold scoffed. "If you weren't my best friend . . ."

"Quit whining. You look wonderful. If you don't believe me, ask Miss French. Get a woman's opinion," Jefferson encouraged him.

Lacey was struggling to take her eyes off the man. The tuxedo had been tailored to his trim form. The color was dark enough to look masculine rather than flamboyant - and with the black shirt . . . he took her breath away. It took her a moment to realize that the men were waiting for her to comment.

"Uh . . . uh, you look . . . uh . . . nice," she managed to say neutrally. "Really nice."

He might have flushed. He had realized that he was being scrutinized by exquisite Lacey and she seemed to like what she was looking at.

"See. Now relax," Jefferson directed him. "And be thankful that Viktor talked me out of going with an all-leather wedding theme. You would have looked so cute in sprayed-on leather pants."

Gold shook his head, "I don't think so . . . because I wouldn't have been wearing them."

"Really? Now Miss French, don't you think he would look just scrumptious in leather pants?" Jefferson asked Lacey.

She was having trouble swallowing – the image of Gold in tight leather pants, pants that molded to the contours of his muscles, that outlined . . . oh, my. "He'd look . . . fine," she finally managed to get out.

"What will you be having Lacey wearing?" Gold asked - anything to get the attention off of himself.

"Oh, it's an afternoon wedding," Jefferson explained but didn't say anything more.

"So?"

Jefferson rolled his eyes. "Well, of course, she'll be wearing black. I've got the cutest little Prada dress picked out. Square neck with a waistline and full skirt. It will be just darling."

"Prada? Isn't that expensive?" Gold asked.

"I'm only planning on getting married once. I've asked Miss French to be an honorary bride's maid of sorts, so it's important she looks stunning. She'll be in the reception line. I need someone as pretty as she is to balance out some of the truly fugly people that Viktor is having in the wedding party," Jefferson explained. He added in a hushed tone, "I swear, I don't know where Viktor dug up some of these people he's so keen to have in the wedding party – but it's for one day and I can put up with anything for one day."

"I won't be walking down the aisle," Lacey assured Gold. "I just have to stand around and have my picture taken."

"And you'll sit at the main table at the reception, remember that, darling. I've sat her next to you," Jefferson explained to Rumple.

Gold sighed. "Another fresh hell."

The Wedding

The wedding was a four-star catered affair. Rumple held up his end, standing by Jefferson, handing him off the ring, and, in general, being the supportive best friend. He, more or less, liked Viktor, who was silent while Jefferson was talkative and rational, Viktor who was careful and considerate, while Jefferson was impulsive. They were a marriage of opposites, but both were good for the other.

And fortunately for Rumple, there was an open bar at the reception. He'd been surprised at the number of people who attended, some of them well-known outside of Asheville and so many of Asheville's upper-crust society, as well as artists and writers, not to mention hospital workers, physicians, nurses, therapists, custodians. Good lord, his mother was one of the invitees.

This was apparently The Wedding of the Season and, giving it a rough count, Rumple figured there had to be more than five hundred in attendance.

He'd stood by Jefferson, glad his friend was doing so well, financially, romantically, and, well, with life in general.

His mother drifted by at some point.

"You're drunk," she told him.

"I am," he agreed.

"How's it going with that little masseuse?" she asked.

"Fine. She's coming along fine," he muttered.

"Are you two sleeping with each other yet?" she wanted to know.

"I don't really think that is any of your business," he managed to get out.

"Soooo . . . no," his mother decided. "Perhaps, you should. She's obviously got under your skin. You keep leering at her and she looks at you like you're the last piece of fried chicken on the platter at Sunday dinner."

"I doubt she thinks of me . . . in that manner," he told his mother.

His mother looked at him and sighed. "You can be so stupid, sometimes. If I'm not mistaken, and, of course, I'm not, she's very interested in you. I suggest you initiate something or you're both going to combust."

"Whaaa? She's not interested in me."

"As I said, you can be sooo stupid," his mother just shook her head and moved on.

He remained on the sidelines watching the people. All these happy couples, reminding him of how empty his own life was. It didn't get better when Lacey-Belle came and sat next to him.

He had, somehow, started thinking of her as Lacey-Belle - as some sort of transformative creature that was shifting between crude and common Lacey into someone else – this lady Belle.

Oh, Jesus, she looked good enough to eat. She was smiling and laughing and . . . and, he ached looking at her. He did want her. And he wanted her to want him.

What if his mother was right and Lacey-Belle was . . . no, it wasn't possible. No, he'd just continue to drink straight shots of whiskey, sitting next to Lacey-Belle.

Damn, but she was beautiful. Quite drunk at this point, he watched her as she spoke, graciously, with many of Jefferson's friends. Bored and far beyond political correctness, he'd begun to classify the cross-section of society who were attending his best friend's wedding: "Faghag," "Diesel dyke," "Bukkake," "Slut," "Felcher," "Fudgepacker," and, occasionally "Breeder," like himself. Between them, Jefferson and Viktor knew the creative underbelly of the city, along with individuals who represented every sexual variation conceivable.

Lacey-Belle seemed comfortable around all of them. He couldn't help but notice that there were any number of straight men vying for her attention. When he'd refused to dance with her not trusting himself, she'd danced with them instead. And now, they were bringing her things from the buffet bar, getting her drink refilled, telling her funny stories. He resented every one of them and was angry at her for encouraging their attentions. Yeah, he knew she would have told him that she was just being nice.

She was nice and did seem comfortable in this strange, eclectic setting. Not like himself. It wasn't the gender variations that bothered him. The truth was that he wasn't comfortable around anyone. He'd blame his mother, but he knew, at heart, it was his own selfish, arrogant ways that drove people away and there was that undercurrent of unworthiness. He'd learned early and often that the only person who would look out for you was . . . well . . . you, yourself. No one could be trusted. Everyone would eventually betray you, abandon you.

He looked at Lacey-Belle again.

She was gorgeous.

And nice.

It was after midnight, but she had managed to remain sober, apparently having designated herself as The Driver. Sullen and only just managing to stifle his angry mood, he handed the car keys over to her to take them home. She pulled into the garage and they walked out to cross the street to return to his apartment. He was in a sour mood and the alcohol certainly wasn't helping him feel more perky.

"Hey, I know you."

They both heard the voice and turned. It was a big guy. Lacey immediately recognized the man as Keith Nottingham, her former employer.

"You're that little tart, Lacey. You bailed on me a couple of months ago leaving me high and dry." The man glanced over at Gold. "Looks like you found yourself an exclusive. Didn't know you liked the older dudes, Lacey. I would've hooked you up."

"Sir," Gold addressed the man. "I believe you have made a serious mistake. I'm sure you're not acquainted with this lady."

"Lady? Hell, man, she ain't no lady. Nah, she was one of my best girls. I earned a grand a night from this one. You know her specialty, don't you? She could . . . " The man didn't get a chance to finish. Gold had taken him out with his cane, first cutting him off at the knees, then, when Keith went down, Gold delivered a crippling blow to the back of the head. Once down, Gold raised his cane for a third blow, and then a fourth, only stopping when . . .

"No!" It was Lacey. "He's down. Let him go." Gold froze with the cane still poised above his head, ready to go down on back and shoulders of the unfortunate Keith.

"Sure," Gold agreed. "Sure." But he couldn't allow one last shot, "I'm a cripple and I'm drunk. I've probably got fifteen years on you, and I disabled your sorry arse in less than thirty seconds. Come into this neighborhood again, bother this lady again, and I will, sober and without anesthetic, geld you, preferably using a dull spoon."

And then, he allowed Lacey to lead him back into the elevator and then up to his apartment.

Neither one of them moved to turn on the lights and the apartment was lit only with light reflected through the windows and from the plethora of electronic devices they had scattered throughout the house.

"I wasn't really one of his girls . . ." Lacey began.

But Gold had spun her around and abruptly shoved her up against the door, pinning her between his own body and the back of the door. Without asking, without preliminaries, he dropped his mouth on hers, kissing her, hard and possessively.

A.N. This relationship is not on a pathway paved with Teflon – things don't go smoothly for them. -twyla