Fic: "Living In the Red" - Chapter 1
(You can find The Prologue here.)
DISCLAIMER: "Once Upon a Time" and all its wonderful characters belong to ABC and Adam Horowitz and Edward Kitsis, etc.. I borrow them only with love.
TITLE: Living In the Red
PAIRINGS: Outlaw Queen (AU)
RATING: Mature
SUMMARY: Regina Rossi is an internationally successful fashion designer. She has it all, right? Or maybe she doesn't realize how broken she has become until a stranger appears in the night and flips her world upside down. Outlaw Queen AU.
Major beta gratitude to helenhighwater7, wordgypsy (and to Amilyn for trying:)).
AUTHOR'S NOTE: In this story, the character of Regina Rossi is a fan of the shoes and clothing of designers Dolce & Gabbana, just as I have long been. If you follow the news, you no doubt have heard the small-minded idiocy this duo has been publicly spouting of late. The references to Dolce & Gabbana in this story DO NOT in any way indicate support or tolerance of such ridiculous views. This story was begun just BEFORE these gentlemen's boneheadedness hit the press, and though I debated removing the references from this piece, in the end I had to be true to the story as it was created, and in any time period prior to right this second, this character would have been a fan, the stye is just unavoidably appropos, and I wanted to acknowledge the truth of that. But just to be clear, neither I, the author, nor Regina Rossi, the character, is implying ANY kind of support for their philosophy, ONLY their apparel. Nor are we throwing any actual money their direction (as if I ever could have afforded it, anyway).
LIVING IN THE RED
by
Rowan Darkstar
Copyright (c) 2015
Chapter 1
"I grow weary of this struggle and this fight
The morning's so far off from out here in the night"
--Alexi Murdoch, 'Crinan Wood'
THREE MONTHS EARLIER
The champagne bubbles tickle her nose and for the briefest moment she is on her back in that ancient pick-up truck, traces of grass in her teeth, her first tastes of alcohol on her tongue, the stale smell of straw in her nostrils, and the cold steel pressing her skin as they devour one another by starlight; away from the city, away from prying eyes, away from everything but each other.
Then she is back in her living room, hurled into the present like a muted and paused film sprung to life. Voices and the rush of movement around her. Music flooding from the Bose speakers installed with acoustic perfection around her penthouse. She demands nothing less than perfection, in all things. She is Regina Rossi, world famous fashion designer, and she throws the best parties in the West Villiage. She deserves nothing less.
Some days she believes this.
Regina twists in her cushioned chair, drapes her bare legs over the arm rest, crossing her ankles and letting her skirt fall back to show off her slender form like she is posing for a magazine shoot. She does not miss the eyes that pause in their revelry to trace the length of her body and the thrill in her guts is short-lived but keenly pleasurable. She is wearing her own work tonight. A bodice-hugging black gown with a sweetheart neckline and soft, pale grey chiffon halter straps, a curve-draping skirt with a high thigh slit, and a translucent shawl that regularly falls from her shoulders to rest at the crooks of her elbows. A pair of drop pearl and diamond earrings and a narrow gold tennis bracelet serve as the only adornments to the ensemble.
She has been letting her hair grow this summer. Tonight her dark locks fall in loose, layered waves around her shoulders, her bangs having lengthened until they hang in seductive and flattering curves about her face.
She knows how to be considered beautiful. She is less certain how to feel so.
Regina twists her ankle, allowing the gold scripted flowers tracing the toes of her black Dolce & Gabbana heels to flicker in the atmospheric light. Her home is filled, tonight, with The Beautiful People who live and work in her world, some of whom would grovel at her feet for a moment's exposure on her runway. She is not certain she knows a single genuine fact about any one of her guests.
Except Graham. Perhaps Graham.
Or perhaps that is the lynchpin in the grandest of lies.
Regina takes another sip of her champagne and seeks out the younger man's gaze across the room. Her little leg-revealing maneuver has succeeded in catching his attention. Good to know she has not lost that power over him, entirely. He hovers by her fireplace, leaning one shoulder with easy elegance against the carved mantle, chatting up some underaged and anorexic model. His gaze drifts with some regularity as he speaks, losing eye contact with the little flirt and sliding along Regina's brazenly exposed form.
Regina grants the man a light smirk, cocks an eyebrow, then turns her gaze back toward the picture windows to wait.
The view is no less breathtaking for all the times she has laid eyes upon it. The party has already run into the early hours, but New York is well and truly the city that never sleeps. The lights shine brighter and more numerous than the stars, a manmade sea of enchantment, beautiful regardless of the corruption and pain and promise existing beneath its glossy presence. Regina feels a deep-veined kinship with this city.
"You're looking particularly lovely this evening, boss lady."
His Irish accent does pleasurable things to the nerves just beneath her skin. Regina indulges a small self-satisfied smile over her champagne, before responding to the knuckles brushing gently at the back of her neck with a low hum in her throat. Graham still takes privileges without question.
She waits for him to sink to a crouch beside her shoulder before she deigns to turn her gaze to his. "Likewise," she says simply. She grants him a cursory sweep of his figure.
His mouth curls into a genuine smile, revealing half-hidden dimples behind his scruff of a two-day beard. He has the gift of being manly and hot and boyishly charming all at once. She likes his disorganized reddish locks that always tease at his eyebrows, his wide eyes, his slender but strong physique. She likes his long fingers and the way he can play her like an ivory keyboard.
"And how are you enjoying your evening," she purrs, close enough for her breath to brush his cheek.
He cocks his head, lets his gaze dip to her lips for a brief moment before once again meeting her eyes. "You always give the best parties," he says with a light twist of his lips.
"Mmm. With all the prettiest girls," she simpers, lids half lowered and eyebrow lifted. She knows the comment is beneath her. A woman of her status should not be fighting for attention with a child.
To his credit Graham gives an easy chuckle. "Is the boss lady jealous of the prom queen?" he teases.
Regina gives a one-shouldered shrug and lets her gaze sink to the dregs of her champagne. "Maybe just thinking you could do better."
"Oh, that I can, my lady," he counters as his fingers move from the back of her chair to tangle in the tails of her hair.
Regina slowly lifts her dark gaze to meet his pale one in the golden light. She is caught between sinking into his touch and pulling away. "And was that your plan? Lure in the Queen with the little Princess?" She bites down on all the adjectives with which she wants to qualify "Princess."
The light that enters his eyes is annoyingly endearing. "Aw, my darling, I have other ways of luring in the prize catch of the party." Warm fingertips slide through her hair, caress the base of her skull. She wants to remain aloof and not show herself so easy a target for his charms, but the tender touch is sending goosebumps down her midriff and his scent is heavy and rich with sensory memory. He leans in and she fights to at least hold her ground and not respond in kind until his lips meet hers. The first kiss is light and careful, asking permission, and she appreciates that. She appreciates that a lot. So, she leans just the slightest bit toward him, inviting the second kiss. Graham knows her well enough to understand he has been granted allowance, and she feels it strongly in the lust of the second kiss. They are a little bit on display. Her, sprawled a bit wantonly in her lounge chair, the last of her champagne balanced in her hand, her skirt slit sliding wide; kissing like horny teenagers in a shadowy corner of the school dance. This is a private party, and Regina has done her best to keep out the press, but this is the age of cell phone cameras and zoom lenses, and they are on display in her picture window.
She finds she doesn't give a fuck, tonight. She cups a possessive hand to the back of Graham's neck, enjoys the strong muscles working beneath her fingers.
Graham's tongue plays with hers, his own drink abandoned on the floor so he can rest an open hand on her upper chest. The gesture is as much warm and comforting as it is arousing, at least for Regina.
She allows the kissing to continue for a few good minutes, losing herself in sensation and letting the flutters of excitement dancing through her body loosen her tense muscles. When at last they break for air, faces still close and champagne-infused breath mingling, she offers him a playful smirk and quips, "You're flirty, this evening."
Graham brushes his nose against hers in something approaching an Eskimo kiss. "The question is," he says, drawing out the words to pull out her thoughts, "what am I flirting with?"
She considers him for a moment, then says, "You don't know by now?"
A slight frown glances across Graham's countenance, but then it's gone, and Regina decides to let it go. She leans in to brush her lips every so lightly against his. Not really kissing. Tempting. Teasing. It's not long until he takes the bait, and his lips seal onto hers, hard.
Their heart rates are up by the next time they break. Graham's eyelids have sunk, heady and desirous. "Shall we take this elsewhere?" he says, words soft enough now for only her to hear.
For a split second, Regina draws a breath to say, "yes." To invite him back into her bedroom, to abandon her guests (it wouldn't be the first time), and lose herself in someone else for a couple of hours. Hell, maybe just in lust and a good fuck. It's been a while, and she knows Graham is getting restless. She has given him no explanation for the lengthy dry spell. None that holds water, anyway.
But in the grip of the pivotal moment, she finds she cannot do it. And she doesn't even know why. The kissing feels good, the closeness, the comfort, and she is loath to cause it to stop. Graham is familiar and safe and attentive. But she just cannot summon the needed conviction within herself to take this man to her bed.
Regina offers Graham an appreciative smile, strokes a tender hand down his bristly cheek, and purrs, "Mmm...maybe not tonight, Gorgeous. Hmm?"
The cold hits the moment the words are out of her mouth, and she almost wants to take them back. Graham's eyes narrow, his jaw tensing beneath her lingering touch, and Regina feels the familiar clench in her guts, a sharp contrast to the recent warmth of pleasure. How many days, how many hours can they pretend, pretend their interactions are not tainted with a sickening falsehood?
Regina's foundations are shaking. Things to which she once clung fall hollow and slippery from her grasp.
Graham gives a single nod, and says only, "Right," as he pushes to his feet. He doesn't meet her eyes.
"Graham," Regina placates, grasping for his hand as she swings her legs to sit herself straight in the chair. "Don't be...I didn't mean..."
"No, it's fine," he says, shaking loose of her grip. He downs the last of his drink in one big swallow. "Don't let me keep you from you other guests." He walks away.
Regina just deflates, all the fight draining out of her like water dripping onto the floor. She wants to speak, but she has no idea what she could say to stop this man from leaving her behind.
She stays in her chair a while longer, offering polite smiles or chit-chat to those who pass, but if she is honest with herself, she is more brooding than luxuriating, now. She drinks one more glass of champagne. Graham goes back to the woman-child by the hearth, shouldering his way back into the place another young buck has tried to take from him, and watching him like this, an ex-model sucking up to the fresh meat, she thinks Graham really is such a child. Regina feels uncharacteristically old.
She lasts another half hour of mingling, then she retreats to her bedroom.
*****
A locked door between her and the continuing party, Regina makes her way through her darkened bedroom, her carefully adorned and spacious sanctuary, and she slides back the glass doors that open onto the balcony. She lets her shawl cascade into her waiting hand and tosses it vaguely in the direction of her bed as she steps out into the night. She pulls her phone from its nest down the front of her dress and sets it on the glass deck table.
The cool evening air is both bracing and a little disorienting as she leaves the shelter of her penthouse. This party was supposed to inspire, reawaken a few stale connections, jar her back into action and productivity. But here in the dark, she feels less connected than ever.
She loved this apartment so much when she first moved in. She still does, most days. Memories good and bad are painted into the walls and floors. But she loves it more when she is alone, or just with intimate family and friends. On nights like tonight, the front rooms feel more like her office than her home.
The city seems extraordinarily alive, tonight, and Regina draws a much needed strength from its quivering glow. Vibrating with energy and light and passion and sound. Regina is drawn toward the railing, slides her hands over the cool metal and breathes in the turbulent air.
3am in New York City. The world stretches before her. The ocean not so far away, the wide world, beyond. She has been to Paris, Milan, Barcelona. Rio, Rome, Bangladesh. She finds she has very little idea who she is in the whole mess, who she once was, who she might want to be. She thought she knew, but this past year has thrown her off her comfortable perch, and she finds after these many months she is losing the passion and drive to sort it all out.
A heavier gust of wind rushes Regina's skin and flutters her shawl like a cluster of wings beating around her. There is something hypnotic and alluring in the wild sensation. The air feels like roaring water, like a feather bed, like an inviting oblivion. Regina turns her hips and lifts one knee, balancing gracefully on the smooth railing, only one heeled foot remaining on the solidity of the balcony. She closes her eyes and lets the wind wash over her, the sound drowning out the last remnants of voices carrying in from the party. She could be anywhere in the moment. She could be anyone. She could erase it all.
Images from her memory rush past her mind's eye. On a swing hanging from the tree behind her childhood home. Lifting her young son onto the seat of that same swing, a wide smile reddening his chubby cheeks. Riding in her best friend's car at sixteen years old, holding her arm out the window in the pounding wind and imagining just driving, across the bridge and out into the world and never stopping, never looking back. Sprawled across her king-sized silk sheets in a streak of warm sun, Graham sliding up between her legs, fingers teasing the inside of her thigh.
The wind rises and shifts direction, and Regina opens her eyes to steady her balance, but the champagne is catching up with her without warning, and the lights blur and streak around her. She moves her weight and grasps at the railing, but a sharp cry escapes her lips as the heel of her hand fails to find purchase, sliding into air, and adrenaline shoots through her when a moment's self-indulgence turns in a heartbeat to a fight for her life. Oh God...
The instant and solid brace of the arm that locks around Regina's waist is startling and terrifying and the most welcome and reassuring sensation Regina has ever felt.
"Oh, my God!" Her words are broken and hoarse, and she stumbles to find her feet on the tile beneath her as she is lifted and pulled several feet from the edge of the balcony. She pushes at the arm around her waist, struggling to catch a glimpse of her savior and captor as her hair flies wildly in the wind, denying her view. Her heart races, her stomach hot with fear and fight or flight. "What the hell?? Who are you?" she shouts.
The arm clasping her softens its hold, gradually releasing her as if testing her stability before leaving her to stand on her own. The moment she secures freedom of movement, Regina whirls on her intruder and takes a wide step backward, hand moving protectively to her midriff where the strange touch pressed so close.
As the wind settles and Regina gathers her tousled locks, the figure before her comes into slow focus in the dim light. Who the hell?
"My apologies," the man says softly.
Regina stands staring at a stranger, as far as her memory will serve. And she is fairly certain she would have remembered this man. He looks to be near her age or a few years older, an inch or two above her height, even with the addition of her party heels. His sandy close-cropped beard and mildly preppy haircut gave him the elegantly rugged look of a model in an outer wear commercial or a men's cologne layout. His manor of dress is distractingly odd, entirely black and a strange mix of sleek and casual, finished off with heavy boots and a turtleneck on this warm summer night. But it is his eyes that confuse her already scrambled thoughts. Blue-grey and clear, even in the shadows, narrowed and appraising, looking into her like she is a book to be devoured.
"Who are you?" she repeats, still holding her hair back from her face, frowning and panting from the rush of adrenaline. She is fighting a wave of nausea as the fear stirs her stomachful of champagne. Has she eaten anything tonight?
"Your savior, it would seem," the stranger replies, his voice an indecipherable mixture of sarcasm and calm. The accent, though...English. He is English.
"What?" It's all she can manage to say.
"If you wanted to end your charmed existence, there are more pleasant and less messy ways than a fall from a penthouse balcony."
His meaning finally clicks in Regina's scrambled head, and she pulls herself up straighter, hand propping on her hip. "Excuse me? No. I wasn't...I slipped. I had no intention of..." She closes her eyes again for half a breath. She had no intention of...she had...she had no intention...
She meets the stranger's gaze and he is still studying her, head slightly cocked and eyes narrowed. There is an air of annoyance about him...of...being inconvenienced, that raises her hackles.
"So, you weren't contemplating throwing yourself off the balcony?" he retorts.
"No! Of course not!" An almost squeaking vehemence colors her tone. She takes a moment of breathing, swallowing, and brings her rising voice better under control as she stammers, "I wasn't...I just...I've had a lot of champagne. I didn't...realize how much. I got dizzy, that's all." She really is still feeling sick.
"That's all," the man parrots, clearly unconvinced.
Regina's frown deepens, irrationally annoyed at her unidentified savior -- whom she has not even taken a moment to thank -- for his lack of trust in her word. "That's all," she states firmly. "I would never...I...I have a son."
Her last words seem to trigger a shift in the man before her that momentarily distracts her from the chaos whirling through her head. The stranger blinks and Regina catches a flash of more genuine emotion behind his guarded gaze. "You have a son?" he asks, voice softer, but no easier to read.
Regina nods. "Yes. He's eleven. I wouldn't...I wouldn't leave him, I'm...it's just the two of us." She has no idea why she is revealing any of this. She isn't even sure she understands what is happening, anymore.
The man glances toward the darkness of her bedroom, toward the door with the light around it and the sounds of continuing revelry. "Is he here?"
Regina scoffs. "At this party? Hardly. But he...I mean, he lives here. Normally. He's just...away right now."
The annoying smirk returns to the stranger's expression accompanied now by mildly arrogant amusement and this only deepens her own resentful scowl. "On a business trip, is he?" the man quips.
Regina bristles. "Not that it's any of your business, but he's away at music camp. He plays the violin and he's really quite gifted."
"Hmm." The man slides his hands into his pockets, and glances out over the city for a moment, seeming restless and uncomfortable for the first time since this absurdity began.
That actually makes her feel better, or at least on more equal ground.
"Who are you?" she asks, again. "What's your name?"
"Robin," the man replies, after only the briefest hesitation. "My name is Robin Archer."
"I didn't see you come in the door, Robin Archer. I don't remember putting you on my guest list."
His eyebrows lift, and some of the snarky smirk revives. "You don't? I hear you have had a fair amount of champagne, so..."
That straightens Regina's spine and she lets go of her hair. "I suggest you lower your level of superiority and remember you are in my bedroom right now, without my permission."
Robin tilts his head in acquiescence. "Apologies, my lady. Right you are, I spoke out of turn."
She can't decide if he is being sincere or if she is being toyed with, so she merely continues to scowl in his direction without speaking. Then at last, she says, "This is my bedroom. What are you doing, here?"
"I meant no intrusion. I was merely seeking a moment's quiet. I suspect you can understand that."
After another beat of strange and confusing silence, her intruder adds, "Do you, um...do you plan to come back inside?"
Regina blinks, frowns. "What? Why?"
"Well, I just..." Robin rocks back on his heels, hands deep in his pockets. "To be honest, I'd rather...leave you a bit farther from the edge of the balcony. When I go. Champagne or...otherwise."
"There's no 'otherwise'." Regina reiterates, but she is highly dissatisfied by the weakness of her tone.
Robin shrugs. "In any case," he says, simply.
Regina swallows and her throat muscles are stiff, but her voice is not unkind when she says, "I think I'll stay out here for a bit, thank you."
He nods. "Suit yourself, then."
Her phone suddenly buzzes, unexpectedly loud on the frosted glass tabletop. The vibration migrates the device precariously near the edge, and Robin reaches out and catches the small prize before it can fall.
Regina finds herself watching the scene dumbly, incapable of initiating movement.
"A bit of excess of gravity round here tonight, yes?" Robin asks with an almost hesitant glance her way. There is a fresh softness to his tone, and the nausea flares again in Regina's stomach, creeping up her throat, because she's forty stories up, and whatever the reason, she did, in fact, almost fall. She did. Christ...
"Apparently," is all the reply she can muster.
Robin offers her a brief, but, seemingly sincere, smile. "Perhaps tomorrow will be better."
An incredulous laugh slips from Regina's lips. Cliché much? After a moment, she says, "Are you...are you staying at the party?"
Robin wrinkles his nose. "I think I've had my fun for the night. Lovely party, of course, but..." He takes a step back, and sets her phone gently back on the table. She hadn't realized he still had it in his hand. He nods politely in her direction. "Good night, Ms. Rossi."
Robin is halfway through the open door into her bedroom, when Regina says, "Mr. Archer?"
He turns, eyebrows raised expectantly.
"I...thank you." She is not usually one to stumble over her words. But it seems she is stumbling over everything, tonight.
Robin gives a slight shake of his head and something passes across his countenance that Regina cannot quite identify. "Nothing to thank me for, I assure you."
Then before she can speak the question hovering on her lips, the man vanishes into the shadows.
*****
The apartment is eerily quiet in the aftermath of the revelry.
Regina walked through the remainder of the night hardly hearing her own spoken pleasantries, barely aware of whose hand she was brushing or whose cheek she was kissing. The last guest has vacated the premises. For once, no one is left passed out on the couch or draped half-conscious over an armchair. She is truly alone in her private sanctuary. The faintest of glows through the picture window speaks of a fast-approaching dawn.
For a supposedly high class crowd, the refuse left behind after these events never ceases to amaze her. She already scheduled a cleaning crew for tomorrow afternoon. Regina slips out of her high heels and gently stretches her arches as she lowers her bare heels to the floor. Hooking her shoes on two fingers, she pads slowly about the main room. In Cincinnati or Kansas City, this would be a pleasingly upscale apartment. In the West Village, this is an almost obscene amount of space for two people.
The Great Room takes up most of the space. The massive area is divided into seating areas by interior design; a grouping around the fireplace, another in a far corner meant as a sort of reading nook with an assortment of long-necked and art deco adjustable lamps, a third grouping on the righthand wall centered around the television and gaming systems. The latter resides within a locked cabinet her guests cannot reach, to keep her son from hyperventilating every time a guest wanders near his treasures.
An archway off to the left of the entrance opens onto the formal dining room. The counter blocks off the kitchen to the right, complete with marble surfaces and a refrigerator that does all but cook for you. Regina actually likes to cook, when she gets the chance.
The hallway beside the gaming area leads back to her bedroom, Henry's room, a guest room, and her work room.
Regina stands alone amidst all this elegance and closes her eyes in the quiet. And suddenly, she is feeling the weariness of more than a night of drinking and noise and partying. She meant to shower and wash off her make-up and change clothes and... Instead, she finds her feet carry her across the room. She turns off lights as she passes, she pads down the dark hall and into her room. She closes the still open balcony door, moving by only the light from the street, pulls off her dress and lets it fall in a heap on the floor. She crawls across her king-sized bed, still in her lace underthings, and slides beneath the silk sheets. She think she is too scrambled and knotted to sleep, but it turns out exhaustion and alcohol are her friends tonight, and this little cloud she is tucked into feels like heaven. She has hardly settled in, eyes on the lights of the building across the street, when her vision blurs and she succumbs to unconsciousness, remembering nothing more until far after the sunrise.
*****
End Chapter 1
DISCLAIMER: "Once Upon a Time" and all its wonderful characters belong to ABC and Adam Horowitz and Edward Kitsis, etc.. I borrow them only with love.
TITLE: Living In the Red
PAIRINGS: Outlaw Queen (AU)
RATING: Mature
SUMMARY: Regina Rossi is an internationally successful fashion designer. She has it all, right? Or maybe she doesn't realize how broken she has become until a stranger appears in the night and flips her world upside down. Outlaw Queen AU.
Major beta gratitude to helenhighwater7, wordgypsy (and to Amilyn for trying:)).
AUTHOR'S NOTE: In this story, the character of Regina Rossi is a fan of the shoes and clothing of designers Dolce & Gabbana, just as I have long been. If you follow the news, you no doubt have heard the small-minded idiocy this duo has been publicly spouting of late. The references to Dolce & Gabbana in this story DO NOT in any way indicate support or tolerance of such ridiculous views. This story was begun just BEFORE these gentlemen's boneheadedness hit the press, and though I debated removing the references from this piece, in the end I had to be true to the story as it was created, and in any time period prior to right this second, this character would have been a fan, the stye is just unavoidably appropos, and I wanted to acknowledge the truth of that. But just to be clear, neither I, the author, nor Regina Rossi, the character, is implying ANY kind of support for their philosophy, ONLY their apparel. Nor are we throwing any actual money their direction (as if I ever could have afforded it, anyway).
LIVING IN THE RED
by
Rowan Darkstar
Copyright (c) 2015
Chapter 1
"I grow weary of this struggle and this fight
The morning's so far off from out here in the night"
--Alexi Murdoch, 'Crinan Wood'
THREE MONTHS EARLIER
The champagne bubbles tickle her nose and for the briefest moment she is on her back in that ancient pick-up truck, traces of grass in her teeth, her first tastes of alcohol on her tongue, the stale smell of straw in her nostrils, and the cold steel pressing her skin as they devour one another by starlight; away from the city, away from prying eyes, away from everything but each other.
Then she is back in her living room, hurled into the present like a muted and paused film sprung to life. Voices and the rush of movement around her. Music flooding from the Bose speakers installed with acoustic perfection around her penthouse. She demands nothing less than perfection, in all things. She is Regina Rossi, world famous fashion designer, and she throws the best parties in the West Villiage. She deserves nothing less.
Some days she believes this.
Regina twists in her cushioned chair, drapes her bare legs over the arm rest, crossing her ankles and letting her skirt fall back to show off her slender form like she is posing for a magazine shoot. She does not miss the eyes that pause in their revelry to trace the length of her body and the thrill in her guts is short-lived but keenly pleasurable. She is wearing her own work tonight. A bodice-hugging black gown with a sweetheart neckline and soft, pale grey chiffon halter straps, a curve-draping skirt with a high thigh slit, and a translucent shawl that regularly falls from her shoulders to rest at the crooks of her elbows. A pair of drop pearl and diamond earrings and a narrow gold tennis bracelet serve as the only adornments to the ensemble.
She has been letting her hair grow this summer. Tonight her dark locks fall in loose, layered waves around her shoulders, her bangs having lengthened until they hang in seductive and flattering curves about her face.
She knows how to be considered beautiful. She is less certain how to feel so.
Regina twists her ankle, allowing the gold scripted flowers tracing the toes of her black Dolce & Gabbana heels to flicker in the atmospheric light. Her home is filled, tonight, with The Beautiful People who live and work in her world, some of whom would grovel at her feet for a moment's exposure on her runway. She is not certain she knows a single genuine fact about any one of her guests.
Except Graham. Perhaps Graham.
Or perhaps that is the lynchpin in the grandest of lies.
Regina takes another sip of her champagne and seeks out the younger man's gaze across the room. Her little leg-revealing maneuver has succeeded in catching his attention. Good to know she has not lost that power over him, entirely. He hovers by her fireplace, leaning one shoulder with easy elegance against the carved mantle, chatting up some underaged and anorexic model. His gaze drifts with some regularity as he speaks, losing eye contact with the little flirt and sliding along Regina's brazenly exposed form.
Regina grants the man a light smirk, cocks an eyebrow, then turns her gaze back toward the picture windows to wait.
The view is no less breathtaking for all the times she has laid eyes upon it. The party has already run into the early hours, but New York is well and truly the city that never sleeps. The lights shine brighter and more numerous than the stars, a manmade sea of enchantment, beautiful regardless of the corruption and pain and promise existing beneath its glossy presence. Regina feels a deep-veined kinship with this city.
"You're looking particularly lovely this evening, boss lady."
His Irish accent does pleasurable things to the nerves just beneath her skin. Regina indulges a small self-satisfied smile over her champagne, before responding to the knuckles brushing gently at the back of her neck with a low hum in her throat. Graham still takes privileges without question.
She waits for him to sink to a crouch beside her shoulder before she deigns to turn her gaze to his. "Likewise," she says simply. She grants him a cursory sweep of his figure.
His mouth curls into a genuine smile, revealing half-hidden dimples behind his scruff of a two-day beard. He has the gift of being manly and hot and boyishly charming all at once. She likes his disorganized reddish locks that always tease at his eyebrows, his wide eyes, his slender but strong physique. She likes his long fingers and the way he can play her like an ivory keyboard.
"And how are you enjoying your evening," she purrs, close enough for her breath to brush his cheek.
He cocks his head, lets his gaze dip to her lips for a brief moment before once again meeting her eyes. "You always give the best parties," he says with a light twist of his lips.
"Mmm. With all the prettiest girls," she simpers, lids half lowered and eyebrow lifted. She knows the comment is beneath her. A woman of her status should not be fighting for attention with a child.
To his credit Graham gives an easy chuckle. "Is the boss lady jealous of the prom queen?" he teases.
Regina gives a one-shouldered shrug and lets her gaze sink to the dregs of her champagne. "Maybe just thinking you could do better."
"Oh, that I can, my lady," he counters as his fingers move from the back of her chair to tangle in the tails of her hair.
Regina slowly lifts her dark gaze to meet his pale one in the golden light. She is caught between sinking into his touch and pulling away. "And was that your plan? Lure in the Queen with the little Princess?" She bites down on all the adjectives with which she wants to qualify "Princess."
The light that enters his eyes is annoyingly endearing. "Aw, my darling, I have other ways of luring in the prize catch of the party." Warm fingertips slide through her hair, caress the base of her skull. She wants to remain aloof and not show herself so easy a target for his charms, but the tender touch is sending goosebumps down her midriff and his scent is heavy and rich with sensory memory. He leans in and she fights to at least hold her ground and not respond in kind until his lips meet hers. The first kiss is light and careful, asking permission, and she appreciates that. She appreciates that a lot. So, she leans just the slightest bit toward him, inviting the second kiss. Graham knows her well enough to understand he has been granted allowance, and she feels it strongly in the lust of the second kiss. They are a little bit on display. Her, sprawled a bit wantonly in her lounge chair, the last of her champagne balanced in her hand, her skirt slit sliding wide; kissing like horny teenagers in a shadowy corner of the school dance. This is a private party, and Regina has done her best to keep out the press, but this is the age of cell phone cameras and zoom lenses, and they are on display in her picture window.
She finds she doesn't give a fuck, tonight. She cups a possessive hand to the back of Graham's neck, enjoys the strong muscles working beneath her fingers.
Graham's tongue plays with hers, his own drink abandoned on the floor so he can rest an open hand on her upper chest. The gesture is as much warm and comforting as it is arousing, at least for Regina.
She allows the kissing to continue for a few good minutes, losing herself in sensation and letting the flutters of excitement dancing through her body loosen her tense muscles. When at last they break for air, faces still close and champagne-infused breath mingling, she offers him a playful smirk and quips, "You're flirty, this evening."
Graham brushes his nose against hers in something approaching an Eskimo kiss. "The question is," he says, drawing out the words to pull out her thoughts, "what am I flirting with?"
She considers him for a moment, then says, "You don't know by now?"
A slight frown glances across Graham's countenance, but then it's gone, and Regina decides to let it go. She leans in to brush her lips every so lightly against his. Not really kissing. Tempting. Teasing. It's not long until he takes the bait, and his lips seal onto hers, hard.
Their heart rates are up by the next time they break. Graham's eyelids have sunk, heady and desirous. "Shall we take this elsewhere?" he says, words soft enough now for only her to hear.
For a split second, Regina draws a breath to say, "yes." To invite him back into her bedroom, to abandon her guests (it wouldn't be the first time), and lose herself in someone else for a couple of hours. Hell, maybe just in lust and a good fuck. It's been a while, and she knows Graham is getting restless. She has given him no explanation for the lengthy dry spell. None that holds water, anyway.
But in the grip of the pivotal moment, she finds she cannot do it. And she doesn't even know why. The kissing feels good, the closeness, the comfort, and she is loath to cause it to stop. Graham is familiar and safe and attentive. But she just cannot summon the needed conviction within herself to take this man to her bed.
Regina offers Graham an appreciative smile, strokes a tender hand down his bristly cheek, and purrs, "Mmm...maybe not tonight, Gorgeous. Hmm?"
The cold hits the moment the words are out of her mouth, and she almost wants to take them back. Graham's eyes narrow, his jaw tensing beneath her lingering touch, and Regina feels the familiar clench in her guts, a sharp contrast to the recent warmth of pleasure. How many days, how many hours can they pretend, pretend their interactions are not tainted with a sickening falsehood?
Regina's foundations are shaking. Things to which she once clung fall hollow and slippery from her grasp.
Graham gives a single nod, and says only, "Right," as he pushes to his feet. He doesn't meet her eyes.
"Graham," Regina placates, grasping for his hand as she swings her legs to sit herself straight in the chair. "Don't be...I didn't mean..."
"No, it's fine," he says, shaking loose of her grip. He downs the last of his drink in one big swallow. "Don't let me keep you from you other guests." He walks away.
Regina just deflates, all the fight draining out of her like water dripping onto the floor. She wants to speak, but she has no idea what she could say to stop this man from leaving her behind.
She stays in her chair a while longer, offering polite smiles or chit-chat to those who pass, but if she is honest with herself, she is more brooding than luxuriating, now. She drinks one more glass of champagne. Graham goes back to the woman-child by the hearth, shouldering his way back into the place another young buck has tried to take from him, and watching him like this, an ex-model sucking up to the fresh meat, she thinks Graham really is such a child. Regina feels uncharacteristically old.
She lasts another half hour of mingling, then she retreats to her bedroom.
*****
A locked door between her and the continuing party, Regina makes her way through her darkened bedroom, her carefully adorned and spacious sanctuary, and she slides back the glass doors that open onto the balcony. She lets her shawl cascade into her waiting hand and tosses it vaguely in the direction of her bed as she steps out into the night. She pulls her phone from its nest down the front of her dress and sets it on the glass deck table.
The cool evening air is both bracing and a little disorienting as she leaves the shelter of her penthouse. This party was supposed to inspire, reawaken a few stale connections, jar her back into action and productivity. But here in the dark, she feels less connected than ever.
She loved this apartment so much when she first moved in. She still does, most days. Memories good and bad are painted into the walls and floors. But she loves it more when she is alone, or just with intimate family and friends. On nights like tonight, the front rooms feel more like her office than her home.
The city seems extraordinarily alive, tonight, and Regina draws a much needed strength from its quivering glow. Vibrating with energy and light and passion and sound. Regina is drawn toward the railing, slides her hands over the cool metal and breathes in the turbulent air.
3am in New York City. The world stretches before her. The ocean not so far away, the wide world, beyond. She has been to Paris, Milan, Barcelona. Rio, Rome, Bangladesh. She finds she has very little idea who she is in the whole mess, who she once was, who she might want to be. She thought she knew, but this past year has thrown her off her comfortable perch, and she finds after these many months she is losing the passion and drive to sort it all out.
A heavier gust of wind rushes Regina's skin and flutters her shawl like a cluster of wings beating around her. There is something hypnotic and alluring in the wild sensation. The air feels like roaring water, like a feather bed, like an inviting oblivion. Regina turns her hips and lifts one knee, balancing gracefully on the smooth railing, only one heeled foot remaining on the solidity of the balcony. She closes her eyes and lets the wind wash over her, the sound drowning out the last remnants of voices carrying in from the party. She could be anywhere in the moment. She could be anyone. She could erase it all.
Images from her memory rush past her mind's eye. On a swing hanging from the tree behind her childhood home. Lifting her young son onto the seat of that same swing, a wide smile reddening his chubby cheeks. Riding in her best friend's car at sixteen years old, holding her arm out the window in the pounding wind and imagining just driving, across the bridge and out into the world and never stopping, never looking back. Sprawled across her king-sized silk sheets in a streak of warm sun, Graham sliding up between her legs, fingers teasing the inside of her thigh.
The wind rises and shifts direction, and Regina opens her eyes to steady her balance, but the champagne is catching up with her without warning, and the lights blur and streak around her. She moves her weight and grasps at the railing, but a sharp cry escapes her lips as the heel of her hand fails to find purchase, sliding into air, and adrenaline shoots through her when a moment's self-indulgence turns in a heartbeat to a fight for her life. Oh God...
The instant and solid brace of the arm that locks around Regina's waist is startling and terrifying and the most welcome and reassuring sensation Regina has ever felt.
"Oh, my God!" Her words are broken and hoarse, and she stumbles to find her feet on the tile beneath her as she is lifted and pulled several feet from the edge of the balcony. She pushes at the arm around her waist, struggling to catch a glimpse of her savior and captor as her hair flies wildly in the wind, denying her view. Her heart races, her stomach hot with fear and fight or flight. "What the hell?? Who are you?" she shouts.
The arm clasping her softens its hold, gradually releasing her as if testing her stability before leaving her to stand on her own. The moment she secures freedom of movement, Regina whirls on her intruder and takes a wide step backward, hand moving protectively to her midriff where the strange touch pressed so close.
As the wind settles and Regina gathers her tousled locks, the figure before her comes into slow focus in the dim light. Who the hell?
"My apologies," the man says softly.
Regina stands staring at a stranger, as far as her memory will serve. And she is fairly certain she would have remembered this man. He looks to be near her age or a few years older, an inch or two above her height, even with the addition of her party heels. His sandy close-cropped beard and mildly preppy haircut gave him the elegantly rugged look of a model in an outer wear commercial or a men's cologne layout. His manor of dress is distractingly odd, entirely black and a strange mix of sleek and casual, finished off with heavy boots and a turtleneck on this warm summer night. But it is his eyes that confuse her already scrambled thoughts. Blue-grey and clear, even in the shadows, narrowed and appraising, looking into her like she is a book to be devoured.
"Who are you?" she repeats, still holding her hair back from her face, frowning and panting from the rush of adrenaline. She is fighting a wave of nausea as the fear stirs her stomachful of champagne. Has she eaten anything tonight?
"Your savior, it would seem," the stranger replies, his voice an indecipherable mixture of sarcasm and calm. The accent, though...English. He is English.
"What?" It's all she can manage to say.
"If you wanted to end your charmed existence, there are more pleasant and less messy ways than a fall from a penthouse balcony."
His meaning finally clicks in Regina's scrambled head, and she pulls herself up straighter, hand propping on her hip. "Excuse me? No. I wasn't...I slipped. I had no intention of..." She closes her eyes again for half a breath. She had no intention of...she had...she had no intention...
She meets the stranger's gaze and he is still studying her, head slightly cocked and eyes narrowed. There is an air of annoyance about him...of...being inconvenienced, that raises her hackles.
"So, you weren't contemplating throwing yourself off the balcony?" he retorts.
"No! Of course not!" An almost squeaking vehemence colors her tone. She takes a moment of breathing, swallowing, and brings her rising voice better under control as she stammers, "I wasn't...I just...I've had a lot of champagne. I didn't...realize how much. I got dizzy, that's all." She really is still feeling sick.
"That's all," the man parrots, clearly unconvinced.
Regina's frown deepens, irrationally annoyed at her unidentified savior -- whom she has not even taken a moment to thank -- for his lack of trust in her word. "That's all," she states firmly. "I would never...I...I have a son."
Her last words seem to trigger a shift in the man before her that momentarily distracts her from the chaos whirling through her head. The stranger blinks and Regina catches a flash of more genuine emotion behind his guarded gaze. "You have a son?" he asks, voice softer, but no easier to read.
Regina nods. "Yes. He's eleven. I wouldn't...I wouldn't leave him, I'm...it's just the two of us." She has no idea why she is revealing any of this. She isn't even sure she understands what is happening, anymore.
The man glances toward the darkness of her bedroom, toward the door with the light around it and the sounds of continuing revelry. "Is he here?"
Regina scoffs. "At this party? Hardly. But he...I mean, he lives here. Normally. He's just...away right now."
The annoying smirk returns to the stranger's expression accompanied now by mildly arrogant amusement and this only deepens her own resentful scowl. "On a business trip, is he?" the man quips.
Regina bristles. "Not that it's any of your business, but he's away at music camp. He plays the violin and he's really quite gifted."
"Hmm." The man slides his hands into his pockets, and glances out over the city for a moment, seeming restless and uncomfortable for the first time since this absurdity began.
That actually makes her feel better, or at least on more equal ground.
"Who are you?" she asks, again. "What's your name?"
"Robin," the man replies, after only the briefest hesitation. "My name is Robin Archer."
"I didn't see you come in the door, Robin Archer. I don't remember putting you on my guest list."
His eyebrows lift, and some of the snarky smirk revives. "You don't? I hear you have had a fair amount of champagne, so..."
That straightens Regina's spine and she lets go of her hair. "I suggest you lower your level of superiority and remember you are in my bedroom right now, without my permission."
Robin tilts his head in acquiescence. "Apologies, my lady. Right you are, I spoke out of turn."
She can't decide if he is being sincere or if she is being toyed with, so she merely continues to scowl in his direction without speaking. Then at last, she says, "This is my bedroom. What are you doing, here?"
"I meant no intrusion. I was merely seeking a moment's quiet. I suspect you can understand that."
After another beat of strange and confusing silence, her intruder adds, "Do you, um...do you plan to come back inside?"
Regina blinks, frowns. "What? Why?"
"Well, I just..." Robin rocks back on his heels, hands deep in his pockets. "To be honest, I'd rather...leave you a bit farther from the edge of the balcony. When I go. Champagne or...otherwise."
"There's no 'otherwise'." Regina reiterates, but she is highly dissatisfied by the weakness of her tone.
Robin shrugs. "In any case," he says, simply.
Regina swallows and her throat muscles are stiff, but her voice is not unkind when she says, "I think I'll stay out here for a bit, thank you."
He nods. "Suit yourself, then."
Her phone suddenly buzzes, unexpectedly loud on the frosted glass tabletop. The vibration migrates the device precariously near the edge, and Robin reaches out and catches the small prize before it can fall.
Regina finds herself watching the scene dumbly, incapable of initiating movement.
"A bit of excess of gravity round here tonight, yes?" Robin asks with an almost hesitant glance her way. There is a fresh softness to his tone, and the nausea flares again in Regina's stomach, creeping up her throat, because she's forty stories up, and whatever the reason, she did, in fact, almost fall. She did. Christ...
"Apparently," is all the reply she can muster.
Robin offers her a brief, but, seemingly sincere, smile. "Perhaps tomorrow will be better."
An incredulous laugh slips from Regina's lips. Cliché much? After a moment, she says, "Are you...are you staying at the party?"
Robin wrinkles his nose. "I think I've had my fun for the night. Lovely party, of course, but..." He takes a step back, and sets her phone gently back on the table. She hadn't realized he still had it in his hand. He nods politely in her direction. "Good night, Ms. Rossi."
Robin is halfway through the open door into her bedroom, when Regina says, "Mr. Archer?"
He turns, eyebrows raised expectantly.
"I...thank you." She is not usually one to stumble over her words. But it seems she is stumbling over everything, tonight.
Robin gives a slight shake of his head and something passes across his countenance that Regina cannot quite identify. "Nothing to thank me for, I assure you."
Then before she can speak the question hovering on her lips, the man vanishes into the shadows.
*****
The apartment is eerily quiet in the aftermath of the revelry.
Regina walked through the remainder of the night hardly hearing her own spoken pleasantries, barely aware of whose hand she was brushing or whose cheek she was kissing. The last guest has vacated the premises. For once, no one is left passed out on the couch or draped half-conscious over an armchair. She is truly alone in her private sanctuary. The faintest of glows through the picture window speaks of a fast-approaching dawn.
For a supposedly high class crowd, the refuse left behind after these events never ceases to amaze her. She already scheduled a cleaning crew for tomorrow afternoon. Regina slips out of her high heels and gently stretches her arches as she lowers her bare heels to the floor. Hooking her shoes on two fingers, she pads slowly about the main room. In Cincinnati or Kansas City, this would be a pleasingly upscale apartment. In the West Village, this is an almost obscene amount of space for two people.
The Great Room takes up most of the space. The massive area is divided into seating areas by interior design; a grouping around the fireplace, another in a far corner meant as a sort of reading nook with an assortment of long-necked and art deco adjustable lamps, a third grouping on the righthand wall centered around the television and gaming systems. The latter resides within a locked cabinet her guests cannot reach, to keep her son from hyperventilating every time a guest wanders near his treasures.
An archway off to the left of the entrance opens onto the formal dining room. The counter blocks off the kitchen to the right, complete with marble surfaces and a refrigerator that does all but cook for you. Regina actually likes to cook, when she gets the chance.
The hallway beside the gaming area leads back to her bedroom, Henry's room, a guest room, and her work room.
Regina stands alone amidst all this elegance and closes her eyes in the quiet. And suddenly, she is feeling the weariness of more than a night of drinking and noise and partying. She meant to shower and wash off her make-up and change clothes and... Instead, she finds her feet carry her across the room. She turns off lights as she passes, she pads down the dark hall and into her room. She closes the still open balcony door, moving by only the light from the street, pulls off her dress and lets it fall in a heap on the floor. She crawls across her king-sized bed, still in her lace underthings, and slides beneath the silk sheets. She think she is too scrambled and knotted to sleep, but it turns out exhaustion and alcohol are her friends tonight, and this little cloud she is tucked into feels like heaven. She has hardly settled in, eyes on the lights of the building across the street, when her vision blurs and she succumbs to unconsciousness, remembering nothing more until far after the sunrise.
*****
End Chapter 1