Dahlia
Monet walked closer with unhurried steps, eyes so firmly placed on mine as if they could never move away. He reached the steps which led up to the porch. "What are you doing here?" He asked me.
"This is my uncle's house," I said. He had bought this? "You bought this?"
He gave me a very simple nod as if I wasn't seconds away from screaming.
I ran a hand over my face, trying to gain some sort of composure.
"I know it used to be your uncle's house. I meant to ask - why are you here so late at night? It isn't safe."
I sat down on the steps, not answering him. I glared at his dark shoes which were barely visible in the night. "Why the fuck did you even buy this?" I demanded, looking up at him. I knew my eyes conveyed how furious and...sad I was.
He crouched to look into my eyes. I looked at his scar, tempted to give him another one. I wasn't a violent person. I preferred words. But I did fantasise about hurting people who hurt me.
"It's a nice house. I needed somewhere off the ship to live."
I absolutely hated how composed he was while my hands were shaking with the effort of just...being mine. Sometimes my body shook as if it wanted to be detached from me. As if it wanted to leave me...as if I wanted to leave me.
"Dahlia," he said slowly. "Dahlia...you're shaking."
I sniffled, feeling tears burn in my eyes.
Slowly, as if approaching an injured animal, he touched my hand and pulled me up.
"Can I hug you?" He asked. Now the firmness of his words, somehow, helped with trying to compose myself. I gave him a jerky nod and he pulled me into his arms, his hard body was a wall against the waves. His heartbeat, which seemed to be a bit faster than normal, was like a lullaby. It reminded me of how I'd look at the stars mom had painted on the ceiling of my bedroom at home when I was tired. How they'd blur and for a moment become real stars - just a million times more magical.
He rubbed my back and soon enough my body stopped shaking.
"Do you want it back?" He asked. "You can have it. I can get it done in an hour."
"I don't have that much money," I whispered into his chest.
"Fuck the money, Dahlia. Do you want it back?"
Tears slipped out of my eyes. Dad would be mad. You don't take things for free. I shook my head. "N0. You bought it. It's yours. Dad said I could take some stuff. Can I do that now?"
He pulled back and brushed a few tears away from my face. "Of course. Take whatever you want."
. . .
Monet was sitting on a chair, watching me as I pulled books out of the bookshelves as he drank some brown liquid from a glass. Two other men had come with him. They were pulling furniture out of the house. It was obvious that he was going to remodel the house. The furniture would get shipped off to my father, who'd probably sell it. I actually liked the fact that he was going to change things.
"Can I help?"
I shook my head without looking at him, looking at the journal in my hands. I opened it. It was an old one.
September 1, 1991.
First day of school and I already want to punch at least fifty people.
That was it. That's how that entry ended. I smiled, closing the journal and putting it in the box Monet had given me.
Monet ended up persuading me into letting him help. He stacked all the books in the boxes. There were about ten boxes. Uncle Noah had been a hoarder.
I decided to take nothing else, wondering where I'd even keep ten freaking boxes. The shop didn't have enough space to store all these. I didn't want to ask Mom for help. So, they'd just stay in my living room.
After we were done, I sat down on a chair across from Monet. He handed me a drink and took his seat. The living room had darkened, with only two lamps washing it slightly golden. He undid a few top buttons of his white shirt. His sleeves were already rolled up, exposing his tattooed arms.
There were swirls of black on the back of his hand, like ink dancing in water before it dissolves completely. Those swirls travelled up, forming other tattoos. There was an ace and a branch which curled around his elbow - it was without any leaves. A dead branch.
His left hand was a bit different. It still had the swirls, but hidden within them were some words I couldn't read. There was what looked like a pirate ship, its sails ripped apart and the water under it dark. Above the ship were stars and a full crescent moon
That was all I could see.
"Do you like them?" He asked quietly as if to not disturb the calmness of the silence.
I nodded. "They are really beautiful."
He smiled, taking a sip of his drink. "Thank you, Dahlia. I love yours too."
I looked down at my hand. Marie had drawn a tiny doddle of a black cat.
"My best friend wants to become a tattoo artist, but she's too scared," I said. "So, when frustrated with her fear, she picks up a pen and draws on anyone who lets her."
He leaned forward, taking my hand as he looked at the doddle. "She is quite skilled."
"She is," I agreed. He didn't let go of my hand. His thumb caressed my wrist which looked too thin within his grasp. For a moment, just a filthy little moment, I imagined him holding me down. His one hand could easily pin both of my hands above my head while his other hand...explored.
I took a sip of my drink, not pulling my hand away. He watched me with darkened eyes, his drink now forgotten. His eyelashes were long, I realised. They softened his eyes just a bit. He brought my wrist to his lips and kissed, me so gently that it made my heart stop for a moment as if forgetting to beat while it looked at what the fuck I was doing.
The corner of his mouth pulled up. He didn't say a word as his kisses travelled up to my elbow, all of them so gentle that all of me trembled. He reached my shoulder, which was exposed because I had taken off my jacket and was now dressed in only a tank top. The shelter got hot sometimes. His one finger looped around the strap, but he didn't pull it down. He moved it aside and kissed the skin it had been hiding. I squirmed, hoping he didn't notice.
He kissed me all over my shoulder. My eyes dropped for a moment. His lips pressed onto my neck, still feather soft. They pressed on the junction of my jaw, right below my ear. "Dahlia," he muttered, his voice so lovely - so hypnotic. "Stop me."
I gulped. You don't even know his fucking name.
"Stop," I said half-heartedly. He let out a breath, which made me shiver, and pulled back. He pressed a final kiss on my wrist and let go of my hand.
He sat back in his chair, grabbing his drink and gulping it down. His heavy eyes pressed down to every inch of me, travelling up from my feet which were covered in boots, to my black skirt and the hint of my waist which my crop top allowed, up to my breasts, my neck, my lips and then, finally, my eyes.
He breathed heavily. "I shouldn't have done that," he said after a while.
A bit of hurt stabbed my heart, but then it turned into red-hot pain. It had been ages since anyone touched me and he didn't regret it. I stood, gulping my drink down. I grabbed my jacket. "I'll come tomorrow to grab the books. Text me the time. I'll unblock you."
"Dahlia-"
I walked out of the house. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
A hand grabbed my arm just when I was about the descend the stairs and turned me around. Monet glared down at me, hands grasping my upper arms. His touch wasn't harsh. It was just firm.
He ducked his head so that he was looking into the wild waves in my eyes with the glaciers in his. He cupped his face.
"You know why I shouldn't have done that, Dahlia?"
"You don't have to spell it out-"
"Because you don't trust me with your body," he said, his voice low and firm. "You don't trust me. I can't do anything like that without you trusting me. You hate me, or at least loathe me a little for what I did." His arm wrapped around me, bringing me close to him. "And you're sad today, and I am somehow the cause again. I can't touch you and hurt you."
"But..." I gulped. "But you touched me."
"Yes," he said. "Because you're fucking irresistible." His lips brushed my forehead. "Go out with me again. Let me do it right. Let me touch you right."
My lips pressed together. "With both of you?"
"Yes."
"But...what about the Kozlovs-"
"They will be there."
I looked at him. "So...four of you?"
He nodded. "Yes," he said. "Four of us."
. . .
so. well. finally ig we are getting somewhere. yk it is so fucking hard to create a base for a story because in the starting the characters are always running around like headless chickens.
anywaysssss, thots?