Black Hellebore Page 2

  “Nobody ever says something like that to me! But I guess a girl would have to behave like a complete slut to get any attention from guys around here!”

  Her drink spills across the table as she angrily pushes back her chair and marches from the lunch room. Mike’s troubled gaze follows her to the door, but he just doesn’t get the reason for Lindsay’s angry outburst. He sighs and turns his attention back to Lia, who has crumpled into her chair and is the picture of misery.

  “I know she doesn’t mean it like that...” she blurts out when she sees the way he is looking at her, because she knows those would have been his next words. And maybe Lindsay really hadn’t meant it, but the only problem is that she is right. It doesn’t matter what she does, or how many strangers she sleeps with; Mike will always think she’s great. It was a thought that made her feel really bad, something she really didn’t see as a compliment at all.

  Mike spent the rest of the lunch hour talking about the concert of a pianist he had attended, whose name Lia had never heard before, and which she would immediately forget anyway. Mike’s words drone on, while she is miles away, trying to prepare herself for the torture, which would undoubtedly start again right after lunch and would continue all afternoon until the end of the school day. When the bell rings and lunch time is over, she returns to reality with a jolt and notices that she hasn’t eaten a single bite of her lunch.

  The only thing empty is her Lemon Cola, not a drop has been left. With a heavy heart she says goodbye to Mike in front of the cafeteria, because he, unlike her is now off to an hour of chemistry in the lab with Lindsay. Lia, on the other hand, has to go back to her classroom on her own. She quickly sticks the earphones back into her ears to listen to Metallica. All she has to do is turn it up loud enough so that she can’t hear the snide remarks and bitchy giggles from the others.

  As she steps into the hallway, there are so many students rushing up and down that she is overwhelmed by it all, and leans back against the wall some way away from her classroom. Across the way, a copy of Edward Munch’s “The Scream” catches her eye. There is nothing she would like more, than to just start screaming, opening her mouth and just scream. Instead, she presses her lips together and remains silent.

  The hallway begins to empty slowly until only her class remains, and the others spot her at the end of the hall. Lia silently curses her stupid teacher, who can't even make it to class on time for a mid-day lesson!

  Her throat feels dry as she turns down the volume of her MP3 player, so as not to be surprised if any attacks come her way. She will have to be ready and cannot risk not being hear what was going on around her. She can already feel the first mean glances coming her way, and can feel the palms of her hands getting sweaty, as Bradley and Tracey followed by their posse start walking towards her.

  “Do you think you are better than us, or why do you keep yourself apart, huh?” Tracy spits at her with a passive aggressive undertone in her voice. Her curls seem like poisonous snakes, writhing around her head, while she fixes her penetrating gaze on Lia, who stands in front of her with her head cast down.

  “Or... maybe you are afraid of us?” Bradley gives her a wicked smile as while he rests his back directly next to her on the wall. He is now concentrated fully on Lia, just like a predator who is toying with its prey.

  “My brother saw you in one of those clubs last night...he says you went off to the toilet with three guys at once.”

  “Slag!” is Sarah's quick response to that revelation, and she quickly looks to Tracey for reinforcement. But Tracey only has eyes for Bradley, who is now openly leering, as he stares at Lia’s body. She inwardly curses the knee-length skirt and the much too tight white blouse of her school uniform. Many times she had asked the teacher in charge for a larger size uniform, but she had been adamant that Lia’s uniform fit just fine.

  Tracy doesn't like the way Bradley looks at Lia at all, and her mind is racing to find something clever to say. “Not only a slag, but a stupid slag! With the amount of fellas she’s doing it with, she could earn a fortune!”

  “Maybe she just needs a manager.” Bradley gets more up close and personal, while Lia tries to inch away from him like a frightened rabbit.

  “I wouldn't give her more than a tenner” pipes up pudgy Phil, who in reality would give his right arm just to see a naked woman in real life, and not only on his PC.

  “You couldn't be more wrong, Phil. But that is not much of a surprise. After all, we all know that you have no idea about women that are not made of rubber...”

  The posse dutifully starts its synchronised artificial laughter, just as Bradley expects them to. Only Tracey remains silent with her arms crossed in front of her, and her face scrunched up in an angry grimace. With that, Bradley leans down, bringing himself face to face with Lia, with very little space between them. He runs his hand over her hair, which is tied in a tight pony-tail. A single strand falls in a soft wave onto her face, which is consumed by the dark rings under her eyes. As Lia turns her face away, Bradley grabs her chin and turns it violently towards him.

  “Just look at these lips; so naturally full, unlike our darling Sarah who’s had them done by her uncle, the doctor. Miss Green, on the other hand, can probably drive some men crazy with hers, right?!”

  He doesn’t really wait for an answer from Lia, but rather presses his hand firmly against her breasts, as Lia’s ribcage rises and sinks in a shaky panic. She makes no attempt to defend herself against Bradley’s degradation, just standing there, like a helpless deer caught in the headlights, unable to run away. Her classmates have all gone very quiet, silently watching the scene unfold.

  “I knew it, that’s more than a handful! I can always tell when it’s a hot one. I’d give you two hundred.”

  His broad grin suddenly disappears when his hand is swiped from Lia’s breast.

  “I’ll do it for fifty, Bradley. Right here and now, or are you too chicken?” Tru interrupts, and before Bradley can come up with anything to retort, she is on her knees in front of him unzipping his trousers. Surprised, Bradley starts stumbling backwards away from her while the others around them start smiling.

  “You don’t want to back out, do you? Are you afraid that everyone will see how small your apparently ‘huge dick’ really is?!”

  Phil starts grunting with laughter, and is immediately shut down by a hostile stare from Bradley

  “You have no idea what you are talking about little bat. I wouldn’t touch you in a hundred years.” Bradley replies dismissively, straightening his shoulders defensively. Tru is not intimidated in the least, as she gets to her feet and squares up to Bradley, who is only mere centimetres taller than her. Tru suddenly seems unusually strong to Lia, as if nothing and no one could stand in her way. Just then, her math teacher finally turns the corner in to the hallway, carrying a huge pile of papers. The show is over, and Bradley throws Tru one last withering look before heading to the classroom with his posse.

  Tru then turns towards Lia, inspecting her face with her warm brown eyes.

  „Are you ok?”

  Lia grabs at her green school blazer.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  Tru waves her hand dismissively, smiling for a moment, but then giving Lia another serious look.

  “You have to fight back!”

  Unmoved, Lia shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t have a chance against a whole group of them.”

  “Then you have to fight back even harder. If you don’t defend yourself, they will never leave you alone!”

  Lia is the last one to enter the classroom, following behind Tru. She sits in the back row, once again listening to her music, while Tru sits in the front row, staring blankly out the window. Lia gets yet another assignment back with a D- on it. Mr. Atkins is right; it’s not looking likely that she will pass the year.

  - 2. Orlando Moundrell -

  The ground vibrates as the bass-heavy music penetrates his ears. The colours of the neon lights fly over the people on the
dancefloor as the crowd at the bar, engulfed in soft, dim lighting seem to melt together into one big mass.

  Orlando steps towards the over-crowded bar; he only needs to look at the back of the young barmaid to make her immediately turn around, stop anything she may have been doing and cater to his every whim no matter what that might be. He notices her delicious little goosebumpy shiver as he orders “one Bloody Mary”. A nervous giggle escapes her before finally getting on with her work.

  He feels the inquisitive stares of all manner of different women on him from all angles. Most of them are of course single ladies looking for love, or are simply on the lookout for a little dirty adventure. But even the taken women are making no attempt to hide their interest in him, the eyes of some of them wandering towards him over and over while in mid-conversation with their partners, and others even watching him while they kiss someone else. No matter where he goes, he is always the centre of female attention.

  With trembling hands, the barmaid places the blood-red drink down in front of him, spilling a little in the process. The red liquid runs down her finger, which she then sticks between her bright pink lips, pleasurably sucking off the liquid under Orlando’s watchful eye.

  “I’m sorry, you make me really nervous. I’m Sindy!” she says, while seductively tracing her lips with her thumb.

  “My mistake, I had better go then I suppose. You have a good night Sindy”, he says grinning at her, and while Sindy pleads for him to stay, he steps away from the bar, finding a table from which the entire dance floor is visible. It only takes one glance for him to spot the women who would go home with him without any hesitation. He can spot them by the way they dress, their frequent loud laughter, and the way in which they shake their hips. He doesn’t even need to make the effort of chatting someone up, because it wouldn’t matter what he said. He could, for example, say “have you ever seen a purple cow?” and they would go weak at the knees and answer every question with “yes”, ready to do anything he asks.

  But it is even easier than that, because the women come to him, one after the other.The ones that are not yet completely drunk will try something like

  “Hey, I noticed you from over there”, and then mostly go on to tell him much more about themselves than he wants to know. Others, who have had more to drink than they can handle, will hang on his shoulder and whisper heavily into his ear “Is it hot in here, or is that just you?”

  Sometimes they will even try and be funny and show a little individuality when they provocatively say “Do you know what I really don’t like about you?”

  If he wasn’t asked the same thing several times a week in clubs, he might actually be surprised by the question, but he rolls his eyes and answers anyway; “What?” to which the women pull a cheeky face and answer; “That you are wearing clothes.”

  He gives them nothing more than a plastered on smile for all their efforts. He is not interested in women who throw themselves at him and offer themselves up like a lamb to the slaughter. He is looking for something much more innocent and pure. These women are just as easy to spot. They are the ones, who, for mere seconds will shyly stare towards him, until his gaze meets theirs and they quickly look away. After that, he keeps his ice-blue eyes fixed on their back, until their entire body starts tingling and they can no longer suppress the urge to look at him. He has won.

  Even now he is scanning the room for today’s lucky lady. It takes a moment for him to realise, but then it hits him like a ton of bricks; something is different somehow.He is not getting the attention he is so used to.Quite the opposite actually; everyone in the room is turning their head toward someone else. Even the women are running their fingers over their sweat-moistened necklines while unintentional licking their lips, watching a person who is - not him. He has never experienced anything like this, and it deeply disturbs him. Who can possibly be more irresistible than him? Who can captivate the crowds even more than he can? He scans the club eagerly, following the glances of the other people and then finally, he sees her. Her long blonde hair falls like silk down her bare back. Her naked behind is covered only by a tiny black strip of material. She is wearing scarlett-red platform heels, and her movements are elegant yet sexy. Nobody else, neither here nor anywhere else can compare to her. They know that too, which is why they keep their distance from this mysterious beauty. She is one of a kind.

  She’s standing on the very full and squashed together dancefloor, in a spot of her own, nobody daring to step anywhere near her.No matter how hard he stares at her back, he cannot move her like he does all the others, he is not even able to turn her around to look in his direction, if even just for a split second.

  From the moment he saw her, he knew he had to have her. There is no doubt about that, but the only problem is how he will manage to do it. Never before in the many centuries he has been alive has he had to ask himself how he would be able to get a woman to notice him. It was always like childs play; completely effortless. He would never have dreamt of thinking that he would ever in all his years come across a woman who would be a challenge for him. But then again, the word ‘woman’ does not do her justice. She is not like the others; she is like a sparkling diamond in the rough. It’s her or nobody, at least tonight.

  Orlando knows that if he doesn’t approach her now, she will never notice him. His head is spinning trying to think of what he could say to make her his. How ridiculous! The man who could effortlessly have five women on each arm at once, has to think about how he will get the attention of one! Even though his thoughts are muddled and he is still unsure of what to say, his strides are strong and self-assured as he steps on to the dance floor, making his way confidently towards this beautiful stranger.

  He hesitates for a moment outside of her self-proclaimed circle of solitude, into which nobody has yet dared to venture, fascinated as he observes a single drop of sweat dripping down her perfectly curved spine all the way down into the cleavage of her bum. How he would love to catch it with his finger. As soon as he steps toward her, entering her domain, she swiftly swings around to look at him, staring at him as if to find out who could dare to encroach on her space. Everything he had planned to say is suddenly gone. The look in her eyes would have hit him like a bolt of lightning even from where he had been on the other side of the room. And now, standing so close to her, he is simply lost for words. He is standing there like an idiot staring at her, unable to look away, unwilling to look away. Her intense eyes, which are focused on him, would make his blood boil, if that were an option at all.

  He knows not if they had been looking at each other for seconds or for minutes, but as she walks past him off the dance floor, the sweet smell of strawberries lingers in the air. Intoxicated by her scent, he inhales sharply and then quickly spins around, just in time to see her leave through the back door of the club. There is no more time to delay as he squeezes his way past all the sweaty couples, and towards the exit. He concentrates on her sweet scent and the rhythmic sound of her footsteps on the cobbled street along the narrow alleyway behind the club. Under bright neon signs, the city is alive with people, and the crowds make it hard for him to navigate. A taxi drives off from the corner of the overcrowded street, and the blonde hair that is waving out the window is sign enough for him to follow it. He jumps into the middle of the street, the sound of an angry car horn ringing in the street, and hops into the next taxi which he has forced to a stop. The fact that the taxi is already in use becomes irrelevant when he flashes a £50 note to the driver.

  “Follow that taxi”, is the only thing he can manage to shout in his excitement. The cars glide through the light traffic on the streets next to the Scarborough Port, past all of the brightly lit yachts and motorboats. They drive past all of the lit up signs, the fast food restaurants, discount outlets, souvenir shops and boutiques by the beach. There is a thriving atmosphere, full of life, but Orlando is blind to it all. He is fixated on the taxi in front of them, and desperate to keep as close to it as possible. Soon after, the t
axi turns away from the South Bay, and into an affluent residential area, lined with red brick houses. He is surpised to find himself on the very familiar Manor Road, close to the Italian Gardens at its end where Moundrell Manor, his current abode, rises above the scenery. His breath catches in his throat as he sees the slim legs of the icy blonde stepping out of the taxi and disappearing through a gate and up a driveway overgrown with ivy.

  “Stop the car!!”, he shouts as he almost crushes the taxi driver’s shoulder, and the taxi comes to a screeching halt.

  He presses another £50 note into the driver’s hand and gets out of the car. The driveway is dark, with no end to it in sight. He pushes through a small opening by the gate, sand-coloured gravel crunching beneath his leather boots. Treading carefully, he follows her sweet scent up the dark driveway. The building is clearly outlined against the dark night, but not a single light is burning inside. It is a large property, typically British, sporting white wooden beams and brown windowsills. A cozy veranda leads to the front door made of heavy teakwood. Next to the house, there is a garage, on top of which there is a built-in extension, decked out with large windows. The chiffon curtains are billowing in the wind, and behind them, a pale silhouette can be seen.

  He was too slow; he missed his chance to speak to her. The front door is open a crack, did she forget to close it? Though unused to hiding, he sneaks past the perfectly trimmed bushes and across the veranda. There are still no lights on in the house, but he finds one of the red heels she was wearing earlier placed in such a way as to prop the door open. Is this a coincidence? No, it looks like an invitation! Does he dare? His shoes squeak loudly as he walks across the dark wood floors of the entrance hall. He has never shied away from taking risks.