Before Dawn: A Free Falling Novella Read online

  I force myself to focus on the road, only on the road, but the truth is I’m losing it. It’s sending me into a frenzy, the fact I’m running out of time and don’t really know what to do next. I’m seriously thinking about pulling some crazy stunt, like... lose myself in the place where I’ve lived my entire life?

  But isn’t that the stupidest idea?

  It certainly is, but I’m all strung out, barely able to get my thoughts and emotions under control.

  Damn it, I should just leave her at her uncle’s once and for all and forget about it! When I see her again, maybe sometime around 2030, I’m certain I’ll be over this sad episode.

  I glance at her again. She’s still singing with her eyes closed, on her face is the same enigmatic expression. And my mind starts reeling, imagining there’s some sort of mutual electrifying tension, one that would make me slam hard on the brakes and pull over to the side. To kiss her. Her temples, her eyelids, the cute freckled bridge of her nose. Her perfect mouth. Her neck, her shoulder—the exposed shoulder that’s been teasing me all day long. I imagine my hands meandering down her body, her lips murmuring my name, asking me to take her home and–

  Stop thinking about the 375 ways this could go badly and do something!

  What if she snaps?

  Screw it if she goes ballistic! What is there for you to lose? Basically nothing, I suppose.

  Without giving it any further thought, I do pull over.

  “Olivia.” I stare intently into her eyes, trying to read the emotions behind them. She looks confused, but remains silent, in all probability expecting me to explain what in the hell is going on here.

  Then I take her hand in mine, secretly hoping she doesn’t notice it’s actually shaking. “I’m still a good listener, so why don’t you tell me about it? What’s troubling you?”

  Silence engulfs us again as she stares at me, her unwavering face unreadable. Eventually, she pulls her hand away, nervously. “What’s troubling me? I’ll tell you what it is: it’s my feet. They’re swollen, these shoes are killing me and I want my clogs back! Goddam killer heels, they’re driving me bloody mad!” She kicks them off, forcing out a chuckle I know is not sincere.

  “Olivia, look at me.” My tone takes a hard edge. I know her better than that.

  Avoiding my gaze, she sags back into the seat and closes her eyes. “It’s nothing, I’m just tired. It’s been such a long day and I can’t wait to take a shower and crawl into a bed.”

  “Can I invite you for a quick drink? My flat’s right here around the corner.”

  Her chest expands on a deep breath before she turns to face me. “I’m sorry, but I’m so tired…” she says softly, the awareness she won’t come, not in a million years, slowly dawning in my churning gut.

  I let the silence hang between us for a moment. “It’s not that I’m asking you to spend the weekend in Paris with me. It’s just a drink. Who knows when we’ll see each other again?”

  “Well, but maybe you should. Invite me to Paris.” She smiles, a small pained smile.

  I’d love that.

  Indecision flickers across her face for a few beats, then she squints at her watch. She’s pondering the possibility and I immediately feel a blast of adrenaline racing through my veins.

  “Okay, but one drink only!” She agrees, holding her index finger up.

  My thoughts race back and forth in a wild rush and I can’t help imagining how it’d be if we didn’t make it to my apartment. As soon as the lift doors slid shut, to hell with the wine, compliments and subtle flirting! I’d press the full length of her body with mine, I’d dive my hands into her hair, to hold her head steady as I kiss her hard and deep. I’d whisper into her mouth how desperate I’ve been the entire day to have her back in my arms. And I’d eagerly seek her breasts, I’d fondle them, I’d tease them. I’d have her up against the wall until she gasped for breath and moaned in surrender because I’d made her lose track of time and space and–

  “BRIAN! Watch out!”

  Reacting purely on instinct, I hit the brakes to stop the car and only then look around. Shit, I’ve almost run a red light and headed on out into a junction in Kensington High Street.

  “So sorry, you all right?” I ask, most certainly with a guilty expression on my face.

  She nods, blowing out a breath of relief.

  “Here we are,” I announce a couple of minutes later as I park in front of my apartment in Warwick Gardens. I’m playing it cool, but the truth is, I’m overly anxious. In fact, I’m half scared, and half desperate at the possibility of spending the night with her.

  I rush to hold the car door open for her, but she doesn’t wait and gets out first, barefoot, one hand holding her small handbag and sandals, the other grabbing the hem of her dress.

  Placing my hand on the small of her back, I guide her through the entrance door towards the lift, my eyes caressing her face when she gives me a soft smile. No one would know, but my heart is stomping, kicking hard against my chest, such is the thrill of anticipation rushing through me.

  *

  “Ooh, this just feels soo good!” She breathes out in a sort of orgasmic moan and I almost lose my balance.

  After setting some background music playing in the living room, I enter my bathroom, two glasses in one hand, a bottle of Port wine in the other. Olivia is sitting on the small wall that supports the tub, the skirt of her dress pulled up to the knees revealing her slender legs, both feet dipped into eight inches of salty water.

  After pouring the wine, I clink my glass with hers and put the glass and bottle down. I take off my tie and roll up my sleeves before I sit on the ceramic floor, definitely amused at the whole scene.

  “Living alone here?” she asks, seemingly absent, as she continues her smothered sighs, emitted as she lengthens her back and performs some feet stretching and twisting movements.

  I hum in confirmation.

  “Girlfriend?”

  I shake my head and sip my wine.

  She throws me an inquisitive look. “You sure?”

  “See anyone else here? And why would I lie to you?”

  With a naughty smile playing on her lips, she tilts her head towards the quartz countertop and asks, “So you have a thing for women’s make-up now?”

  My throat clenches when I see it, Jo’s lipstick lying forgotten on the dark stone. Shit!

  A howl of laughter bursts out of her mouth. “Oh my God, you’re hiding a terrible secret, aren’t you? The handsome Brian Anderson is into cross-dressing…” She drinks half of her glass and then sizes me up, clicking her tongue in a feigned expression of disappointment, “What a waste, really. You look amazing in a suit.”

  Even before she finishes making her playful assumptions, I have already managed to get up and throw the damn thing into some drawer. “It’s not what you’re thinking...”

  She lets her eyelids drift closed, enjoying the warm, soothing sensation. “It never is. In fact, I’m quite familiar with that line, if you want to know.”

  I would, actually.

  She’s still nervous, I can tell. In a quick movement, she takes a band from around her wrist and ties up her hair up in a ponytail and then empties her glass.

  I sit down again, pour some more wine I’m planning to drink slowly, in hopes that out of politeness she’ll stay at least until I finish. Without really expecting her to open up, I ask “When did it all happen?”

  Surprisingly, Olivia extends her arm, asking for her glass to be refilled. She has long, graceful hands, not very long nails, painted in deep red, which gives her a sexy yet sophisticated touch. I like it.

  “Almost six months ago. I called the whole thing off, you know, but I really regret it now.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I should have left him standing at the altar, that would have been the proper thing to do!” She remains silent for a while, her expression introspective. “He’s not a one-woman man, and deep down I always knew it. But I guess I kept thinking he would
change. Or that I would change him.” She takes a sip. “I don’t know, but it should make us wonder: why do women always think they can fix men? Why do we fall for the same emotionally unstable guys, the ones with the most flaws, the most completely screwed up, lost cases?”

  No idea, I don’t know, I let her know with a shrug.

  Olivia, however, seems to have an explanation. “So we can treat you as some sort of fixable project! Honestly, most times we don’t look at a guy for what he is, rather at his potential, as if he was a chunk of soft clay that we could mould. We look at them and secretly wonder ‘well, well, what can I make out of you?’ And then we call it love... such bullshit!” she concludes, clearly frustrated, before she takes another sip and lifts her legs, looking around for a towel.

  I throw her the one I pull from the hanger above my head.

  “Love is a complex thing, isn’t it?” I ask, rhetorically, last year’s events circling through my head.

  Meanwhile, she sits down too, right in front of me, and begins to dry her feet.

  I catch her eyes with my gaze. “Love, what is that in the end? Maybe that’s not even possible. I mean, you can love your child and your parents—there’s a bond there that cannot be broken—but some significant other?” She hums in agreement and I continue, “I suppose sometimes people confuse attraction and desire with love, and one day, sooner rather than later, you grow tired, it’s all gone, vanished into thin air… Maybe Rob’s right and it’s all just like fish and chips!”

  Her eyebrows shoot up.

  “Everyone likes them a lot, but if they eat them at every meal, every bloody day, everyone knows what will happen... But despite all this, that’s what really puzzles me, people do get married and promise before everyone it will be forever, they commit to having fish and chips every frigging day of their lives! But of course, in a blink of an eye, they’re at each other’s throats, as if what they once had meant absolutely nothing. It’s weird, I don’t know. People are all weird, I guess.”

  Olivia sends me a playful yet tender smile and adds, “We’re all a little weird. And life’s a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness—and call it love.”

  “All those years and I didn’t know you had a poetic side! Come here.” I tap on the floor and invite her to sit closer.

  She crinkles her nose, confused.

  “Come. Methinks you’re going to love this foot rub!” I beckon with a wave of my hand and her eyes light up again.

  Supporting her body weight on both arms, she slides towards me. I cup my hands around one foot and begin rubbing it.

  “Me, poetic? No! Just quoting Robert Fulghum.”

  “Never heard of. Then again, reading isn’t really my thing.”

  She seems more relaxed now, playing with her glass, watching the dark red liquid swirl against the light. “That’s because you’ve never found the right book.” With eyes closed, she bends her head back, a trace of a smile gracing her face.

  As I rotate her ankles, I find myself studying her again, the elegant contour of her face, her neck, her shoulders—a moment that is only interrupted when she lets out a shy moan, one that sends a warm tingling sensation down my spine. Then I rotate and pull each toe gently. Another moan and stronger vibrations rush further down.

  I stretch my arm and manage to get some lotion out of the cabinet, which I use to walk my thumbs back and forth over the sole of her foot and then to push deep.

  “Oh God, yes…” This time a hoarse groan escapes her throat.

  I blow a short breath. Frankly, it seems she’s writhing with pleasure. With each passing second, it’s getting more and more difficult to keep this rush of yearning under control.

  I keep rubbing her heel, then move to her ankle, finally gliding my thumb all the way up her shin. My hands are tempted to move further up to her thighs and dance across her soft skin, but the thought is interrupted by an indistinct breathless whisper.

  “What?”

  “Harder!” she breathes out, this time louder, and another pleasurable shudder travels through my body.

  Help me, God.

  What if I pull her in a bold move and have her straddling me?

  Why would you want to get slapped?

  After another sharp intake of breath, I close my eyes, and for a moment I stay like that. Letting it all sink in, forcing myself to cool off.

  She starts humming the music that comes from the living room. U2’s One. One of my all-time favourites.

  “Brian?” Her eyes are still closed. “You know why you don’t believe in love? Because you never found the right woman, that’s why.” She finally holds her head straight and gives me a reassuring smile. “But one day you will.”

  I thank her with a smile, and watch her close her eyes again, immerse herself in the music. Reflecting upon her words, I acknowledge, once again, how beautiful she is and has always been, to me.

  Olivia momentarily opens one eye and catches me checking her out. Her lips quirk into a mischievous smile before she closes it again and begins to sing the chorus lines.

  A few seconds later, she gives me a scolding stare. “Hey!”

  “What?”

  “Eyes up, boy!”

  “Huh?”

  “You know the way a man’s gaze roams over a woman’s body tells you how much into sex he is?”

  I almost choke on my wine. I clear my throat, one, two, three times. Not because I really need to, but because I’m trying to gain time to find an excuse.

  “I think you’re tipsy!”

  “Oh, shut up! You know when they say your eyes are the window to your soul? That isn’t mere poetry, sweetie! Your pupils are dilated because you’re looking at my…” She makes circular movements over her chest with her hand.

  My heart rate kicks up. She’s right, I’ve been staring at her boobs. Last time I checked these were fairly different and right now they’re messing with my brain big time.

  “And you’re right. I’m probably a bit drunk too.” She giggles and finishes her glass. “No more wine for me tonight! But do enlighten me, why are men so crazy about breasts?”

  “I’m sure there’s some natural explanation. Because men are hardwired to search for potential mates? Some fertility slash childbearing thing?”

  “Cut the crap and tell the truth: what’s the very first thing you look at in a woman?”

  “Huh… the eyes?”

  “You’re such a terrible liar, Brian Anderson!” Her eyes take on a mischievous glint. “Boobs, waist and hips. But mostly boobs. The question is, do you want to procreate with every woman whose boobs you look at? Surely you don’t! There must be something else. And besides, no other mammal cares about boobs, these play absolutely no role in foreplay and intercourse! So, please, do me a favour, and explain it to me!”

  I shake my head, amused. I don’t know. I like them. A lot. I like them so much that even this scientific chit chat about them is turning me on.

  She suddenly gets up and extends her hand to me. “Come. Take me to a warmer and softer place. My butt’s freezing.”

  *

  “Good Lord!” I can’t hold back the snort of laughter when she enters the living room.

  “What now? Don’t you like the ensemble?”

  “I do. What a sight to behold!”

  She’s snatched my slippers from behind the bathroom door and tucked her feet into them. They’re goddamn ugly, terribly unfashionable, probably four sizes bigger than her feet, and she looks a bit silly. But I like her attitude, I like the fact she’s so at ease and pragmatic and not some stuck-up snob.

  Sitting on the sofa, comfortably sipping my wine, I observe her, as she scans the bookcase next to the fireplace. It’s crammed with books messily placed either vertically or horizontally, and her head is continuously bending sideways and upwards trying to read the titles on the spine of each book, mostly design and architecture-related stuff.
r />   “Have you been drawing lately?” she asks, her eyes fixed on some books on classic painting.

  “No, not really.”

  Something else catches her attention. “Ah, my younger cousin loves comic books too!” She says with narrowed eyes and a playful tone when she meets a stack of graphic novels, the Sin City series on the top of the pile.

  “Hey, lady, those aren’t comic books!”

  “Yeah, right. They aren’t...” There’s a note of amusement in her condescending, ironic tone. She keeps studying the rack, browsing her index finger through the CD collection.

  “Those are called graphic novels!” I explain, sounding as if offended.

  She’s still looking attentively at the aligned CDs and finally picks one out, though I don’t know which. For some strange reason, her smile is gone. “Sure. I’ve just seen Captain Marvel here. You call it a novel? Maybe for boys and nerds who’re afraid to look at real tits!”

  “Is that so?” I laugh.

  “Or maybe they’re just meant for people who’re too lazy to read. Or for guys who never grew up and still like children’s books.” Her eyes keep studying the opened CD case and there’s such bitterness in her tone, I don’t know anymore if she’s bantering or not.

  “You’re not serious, are you?”

  Wagging one of the books, she throws me a defiant little squint. “So, you’re telling me you read this crap, but pretend it isn’t a kids’ book by calling it something else?”

  Bloody hell, what is this now? Is it my imagination or is she actually holding a grudge against me?

  “Want to know a sad truth, Brian Anderson? You guys like this rubbish because down there you never stopped being little boys, that’s what it is!”

  I am so dumbfounded I don’t even quite know how to react.

  “Just tell me, where are most guys spending their time these days? Ah-ah! Playing Flappy Bird, right?”

  “Olivia?”

  She ignores me completely and for the first time, I wonder if something is amiss, if she suffers from some sort of borderline disorder or if she’s downright crazy.

  “Just check this out: Iron Man, Spiderman, Superman, Batman, X-Bloody-Men. All huge blockbusters. Now, you know who goes out to watch all this childish crap? That’s right, adult males.”