Take Me Away | Richard Madden [Completed; Editing]

Chapter 34 - It's Mia

I'm in my lingerie now, and I decide that there's no point in wearing a bra. The dress has enough coverage: it can be seen when it's not worn, the way it stands up a bit on its own at the top. Richard watches me unclasp the black, strapless brassiere that's been clawing my rib. I should have known better; it's the wrong size, but I didn't want to go out and buy another one. I hate how they're so costly, all for just two padded cups that never truly fit and always deform. Wastes.

He points to the area under my left breast, near the ribcage. "Is that supposed to happen?" I know he's talking about the red line that runs across my skin. It looks like a rash, and feels like one, too.

I take the dress from him and unzip it. "A lot of people say it's not, but it happens all the time." One foot in, then the other. The garment feels tight as I pull it up, and I have to shimmy in because of the bodice. I'm afraid it's going to rip.

Richard unfolds part of the back that had rolled onto itself, which releases the tension on my waist. It's a success. The straps are on my shoulders, feet are hidden completely under the skirt, and the bottom of it pools because it's longer than need be, for taller shoes.

"I didn't know it was going be that low," he comments as he fastens me in. He's referring to the neckline. "God, you're practically made for it."

I blush, but it's hard to notice beneath the fake blusher. I sway my hips, trying to break into the damn thing. It must not have been made for me after all, because I feel like a toy soldier. Richard either doesn't realize this, or he's ignoring it, or he's bluffing.

"Should I wear a necklace?" I'm tapping on my chest. It looks too bare. "Or will that be too much?"

"It's up to you, but I think you look great already."

I narrow my eyes. "Do you mean that or are you just saying that so that I don't spend more time choosing a necklace?" My hands are on my hips, assertive.

Richard takes my hands away, my arms flapping around his grip. He lowers his head, kisses me on the lips, and I can tell he wants to deepen it but something holds him back. When he pulls away, he pops his mouth repeatedly, like a baby eating peanut butter. I realize that it's my lipstick from the tint on his skin.

"That doesn't taste good at all," he murmurs.

"It's not supposed to. What were you expecting?"

"Cherries, maybe strawberries."

"That's not how it works, love." I shuffle around him, holding my dress up as not to have dust accumulate at the bottom, or lint. I don't know if Richard vacuums the carpet regularly, and maybe I don't want to know. But if I end up doing it, I'll certainly find out.

Richard follows behind me, into the bedroom, where I check my purse for my cellphone, an extra tube of lipstick, and some money. They fit, but barely. It's like a can of sardines ready for frying. I could change it now, but it'll be too late. The car's all ready outside, the driver is waiting.

He walks out of the bedroom and I can hear him step into his leather shoes. It's quiet for a while, he's probably tying the laces together, and I settle for what I have on and what I'm bringing.

My own shoes wait near the door. As I pass through the living room, I spot a small white box on the coffee table, but I don't acknowledge it. I pretend I don't see it, them: cigarettes. I suppose Richard can go without them for a night, just one night, but of course, I'm not always right.

"Shit, almost forgot those," he says, glancing at them. How did he know? I wasn't staring for very long.  "Could you grab 'em for me, please?"

I don't say no, only because part of me wants one, too. It's bad. I know I'm on the verge of relapsing; it began the first time Richard let me smoke one of his in New York, and I haven't stopped thinking about the taste since. But I won't tell him that, because I want to prove him wrong. I can lay it off, forever. I can.