All Black Ch 02 03

Continuing my adaptation of a popular book/movie, I present both Chapter Two, "The Rescue," and Chapter Three, "Coffee," which have no erotic content.

I received some very helpful comments on Chapter One, "The Interview." Please feel free to share your ideas with me!

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Chapter Two: The Rescue

Outside the building, back in the harsh noise and stench of the city and the indifferent rudeness of all the seemingly-important people on the sidewalk shouting orders and complaints into their phones as they push each other out of their way, Angie feels as if she's just woken up after a strange dream.

She buys Josh lunch at Union Busters Cafe and spends the afternoon letting him show her the sights of Manhattan while the fog of meeting Shiva Black slowly wears off. Along the way he pauses at various places to take photos of various things he considers as "representing the character of New York": homeless people, litter, graffiti, bikes that have had a tire stolen.

Then, taking advantage of their student IDs, they wander through the Museum of Modern Art, where she pretends to admire Josh's irreverent comments.

When they reach Central Park, she's had enough. It's too cold and her feet hurt too much and after their experience at MOMA, she's pretty sure she'd enjoy the Metropolitan Museum rather more without Josh's company. They finally find a crowded, noisy, overpriced place with two chairs available, and she buys Josh and herself coffee and fancy pastries.

By then she's told Josh that she has to — she says "has to" trying to hide her desire, and he seems not to notice — meet Mr. Black again the next day with a draft of the article.

After he repetitively explains all the reasons that she should not have to meet Mr. Black again (she could email him the article as an attachment, she could share the document with him online, they could talk about it on a virtual call, and many, many, many more) he finally relents and begins trying to persuade her to stay at his family's home in Brooklyn instead of taking the train and bus three hours back to school in the evening and then again three hours back early tomorrow morning and then again three hours back tomorrow evening.

"We could go out somewhere," he argues, "experience a little nightlife. My house is less than an hour away and you could write your article and sleep in our guest bedroom. My parents would love to have you."

It's very tempting, but Angie is and has always been and intends always — unless by some miracle she correctly perceived that Shiva seemed to have a romantic interest in her — to be a Very Good Girl: no sleepovers at a boy's house, even Josh's, even if his parents are home.

So they finally agree to have dinner in the city (of course she will be paying again) and go back to St. George's. She'll be more than fine without Josh to escort her tomorrow.

But after dinner, she suddenly realizes it's already past eight o'clock. Josh has been right about the schedule. It'll be midnight by the time they get back to school, and then she'll have to come back into the city only a few hours later.

Well, even so, she's not staying at his house. Over his protests she finds a hotel on her phone and, as a compromise, agrees to let Josh "show her a good time" before she retires to "that dump."

A good time turns out to mean a hotel bar where the waiters pretend to have mistakenly thought they're old enough to drink. Josh, suddenly flush with cash, springs for a bottle of champagne that costs more than her hotel and they sit together in a posh bar overlooking the park and she begins to suspect that Josh is in his own very, very timid way hitting on her.

The champagne is not actually very good, in Angie's opinion, not that she knows anything about champagne, but to her it's even worse than sparkling water, which to her is only a little better than salt water. But she drinks a few glasses of it to be polite to Josh. He's been so nice to her and if he finally gets around to asking her out or something she's going to have to turn him down.

Eventually she's drunk enough to admit that she doesn't like the champagne, so he buys her a cocktail to make up for it, and she actually really likes it.

She's begun to have a good time with Josh, maybe she was wrong to think she should reject him.

No, she realizes, that's alcohol thinking for her. Forget Josh — Shiva fucking Black seemed to like her today...

Oh, goodness, she thought the F-word to herself! The alcohol is even thinking for her!

She's never been this drunk before. She looks around the bar with wonder at how glamorous everything seems. Here she is in New York City, drinking champagne and cocktails overlooking Central Park after visiting MOMA and meeting Shiva Black and everything is sparkling.

Being drunk feels good and she's glad that at least Josh is a nice guy who will help her get to her hotel safely.

So she decides to have another cocktail.

And another.

And things begin to go wrong.

She throws up in a beautiful, spotlessly clean bathroom with a black-and-white checkered tile floor so shiny she can see her reflection looking horrible in it.

Then a waiter asks them to leave.

"Take me home, Josh," she pleads, her head on the table.

"My house?"

"No, my hotel."

"Your hotel is a dump."

"I've already paid. Please just take me."

"No."

"Please, Josh. I need you. Please help me."

"Okay, fine."

He walks her through the bar, holding her up. She feels his hand on her body and she isn't sure it's quite right but she can't really think about it with the effort of putting one foot in front of the other.

Then she feels his hand slide up to one of her breasts and it's easier to figure out.

"Hey," she says. "Stop that."

"What?" he replies. "I'm helping you."

"Don't," she squirms, trying to get away.

"I'm not," he says, holding her firmly.

Surprised by his strength — he's not a particularly big guy, but he's apparently much stronger than she is — she looks around for help, but they seem to be alone in some forsaken corner of the hotel lobby. In the distance there must be people, but she's not sure she could cry for help. Where has he taken her?

"Just come home with me," he pleads, his hand once again on her breast. "I'll take care of you."

She wonders if she should make a scene. Would someone help her? Or would the next guy be even worse than Josh? If he leaves her, she'll be drunk and completely alone in New York City.

Everything is suddenly so confusing and frightening.

She has to get away to think.

"Josh," she says, "I'm sorry, I'm going to vomit again. Please take me back to the restroom."

He believes her, and once safely inside, she sits on a toilet, trying to think.

There is only one answer because she only knows one person in the entire city and it seems crazy but there is only one answer and she is drunk and she needs help so it is worth a try.

She calls his number.

She hangs up after one ring. What is she doing? There has to be a better solution.

Then she remembers that he'll see her number on his phone, so he'll know she called him, so she might as well try again.

It rings and rings. There is no answer. It goes to a voicemail.

All in now, she calls again.

"Angela?"

"Oh God," she says, "I'm so sorry, Mr. Black."

"Are you alright?"

"No!" she weeps, "I'm so sorry, Mr. Black. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry. What's wrong?"

Blubbering drunkenly, and throwing up once just to make things interesting, she explains her situation.

"Where are you now?"

She tells him the name of the bar.

"By Central Park?"

"Yes."

"That's right by my house. I'm right around the corner. I can be there in a few minutes."

"Would you?"

"Yes, of course. I'll be there as soon as I can. Maybe about ten minutes."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Black, I love you so much. I mean thank you so much."

"Please, Angela, call me Shiva."

"Thank you, Mr. Shiva."

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

She falls asleep in the stall, and when she wakes up, she doesn't know how much time has passed, and she fears that Shiva has come and waited for her and then gone back home without her.

She doesn't think of checking her phone, so she stumbles out only to find Josh waiting for her.

"How long was I in there?" she asks, trying to figure out if Shiva will still be there somewhere looking for her.

"A few minutes."

Josh reaches for her to help her walk.

"I'm okay," she says, putting out her hand to stop him from touching her.

"Let me help you."

"No."

He reaches for her again, and she moves to avoid him, but she loses her balance and falls down on the hard floor.

"Let me help you," Josh repeats, standing over her.

He makes a gesture as if to help her up, but when she waves him away and tries to get up herself, he actually pushes her back down, preventing her from getting up without his help.

"Let me help you."

"Leave me alone, Josh," she orders. It's not like her to be (what she considers) rude, but she's beginning to be truly frightened and angry.

"Let me help you," he says, continuing to keep her down.

"Josh!" she hisses as loudly as she dares. "Leave me alone!"

"Hey," a voice says.

Recognizing it with unspeakable gratitude — that startlingly deep and clear and dark voice — she lets herself sink onto the floor until Shiva can help her up.

"What?" Josh answers, innocent as hell. "She's drunk. I'm trying to help her."

"I'll help her."

"Who are you?"

Shiva apparently declines to answer, and Josh apparently moves out of his way, and with immense relief she feels Shiva's powerful hands and arms helping her up.

"Who are you?" Josh protests, but Shiva just leads her away, out to a car waiting for them in front of the hotel.

"It's okay, Josh," she calls over her shoulder. "I know him."

She holds him as they walk, unable to get close enough to him. She thought she'd been in love with him this morning when he squeezed her hand, but now she's discovered a previously unimaginable intensity of infatuation. She presses herself into him, taking refuge in the strength of his body, her body shaking as he holds her.

In his home, when they have stepped out of his car, as they wait for a pair of elevator doors to open, Angie remembers that she has reserved a hotel, that she should not be spending the night in a boy's house — or in this case, even worse, a man's house.

The elevator doors open.

"Oh well," she thinks to herself, happy to decline responsibility for her actions. "Too late."

As they step into the elevator she finds herself actually hoping that he'll have sex with her.

She doesn't even care if it's wrong or whatever. She's simply so in love with this amazing man.

The closing elevator doors seem to tell her that he is certainly going to have sex with her tonight, and she turns to rest her head on his chest, on the soft silk shirt and the hard muscle underneath it, more contented than she's ever felt before.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

She wakes up in a guest suite, miserable with her first hangover, still wearing all her clothing. With a lot of disappointment and a little relief she concludes that apparently they didn't have sex. It's nice that he didn't take advantage of her, of course, but still.

She feels the sheets, incredibly soft around her. Her whole body aches but she wants to feel these sheets against her skin, his sheets against her naked body.

"But what if he comes in to check on me?" she wonders hopefully, smiling as she slides off her skirt and panties. "I would have to sit up to greet him," she thinks, dropping her blouse and bra on the floor beside the bed — on

his

floor beside

his

bed.

Even at home she doesn't sleep completely naked, but this is how she wants to sleep in his bed.

She snuggles up with a big pillow, imagining it's him, until she has to pee so badly that she has to get up. She eventually finds the bathroom on the other side of a large, empty dressing room, and afterwards, on her way back to the bed, she finds a note on the nightstand, under a sprig of lavender:

My Dear Angela,

I have gone to work, but I look forward to seeing your article later today. My driver can give you a ride directly to my office.

Meanwhile, make yourself comfortable. My staff will be glad to help you in any way they can. They will also have breakfast waiting for you.

Shiva

Oh, fudge! The article!

She'd entirely forgotten about the entire reason he'd agreed to meet her in the first place.

Her phone is on the nightstand, plugged into a charger. He must have done that for her; it's not even her power cord.

She nervously waits for her roommate to answer. How worried has Ana been? How is she going to explain this to her?

"Angie, darling," Ana sings with a light tone, "how are you this morning?"

"What?"

That's not what she'd expected to hear.

"You had quite a night last night. I've been worried!"

But for some reason she actually doesn't sound at all worried.

"How do you know about it?"

"You had Shiva Black call me last night to let me know you're okay."

"I did?"

"You really don't remember?"

"No."

"Girl, you were

drunk

."

"I guess so."

"Did he take advantage of you?"

"No. He rescued me."

"Rescued you? Literally?"

"It's a long story. I'll tell you later."

"You sure will."

"But I have a big problem. I didn't interview him. We just talked off the record the whole time."

"What? Why?"

"It just happened. A lot of stuff happened. But he told me to write whatever I want. He'll review it to make sure it's all okay with him and then he'll give me some good quotes."

"Anything you want?'

"Yeah. He'll strike it if he doesn't like it."

"That's not exactly journalism."

"But can you do it? I have to show it to him this afternoon and I can't type it up on my phone."

"Yeah, okay, I guess. I mean it's supposed to be my story after all."

"Oh, thank you, Ana. Just send it to me on my phone. I'll be waiting desperately."

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

That morning is her first experience of extreme luxury, and she finds herself liking it. She takes a long shower in a bathroom of marble, playfully writing "Angie loves Shiva" in the steam on the glass before wiping it urgently away with the side of her fist. She loves the scent of the soap and the feeling of warm towels around her afterwards.

With some sadness, however, she notices that his bathroom is well-equipped for female guests:

In addition to things guests of any gender might appreciate, such as a little cup by the sink with a variety of toothbrushes still in their packaging, a variety of travel-sized tubes of toothpaste and bottles of mouthwash, she also finds make-up remover, facial cleansers, and nail polish remover; on a shelf to the side there is a blow dryer, a curling iron, a hair straightener, and in a drawer under the sink she finds a basket with a variety of pads and tampons and something called menstrual cups.

So, she sighs, of course he has a lot of women as "guests." He is the kind of man who would. She's just one of many. One of many, many, many.

Except, she reminds herself, so far she's not even one of the many.

Not

yet.

Finally dressed and leaving the suite, she walks timidly down a wide hall that looks like a museum — Persian carpets, antique-looking wooden furniture, paintings and tapestries, sparkling chandeliers — until she finds herself on a balcony overlooking an entry foyer.

There she meets a kind elderly woman who leads her to "the breakfast room," one of many rooms in his astonishing home — "six stories high, the long side facing the park, one of the nicest homes in the city" the woman boasts as if it were hers.

"Is he a good employer?" Angie asks the woman, thinking of Elizabeth talking to the servants at Darcy's manor.

"The best," the woman replies. "He'd let me go if I told a pretty young thing like you anything else, but he really is the best."

"Does he have many... guests? Like me?"

The woman looks at her with compassion.

"He's looking for a wife, as you probably know," she tells Angie. "A lot of women have auditioned but none have won the part."

Angie nods, and the woman leans in to whisper. "You shouldn't get your hopes up, sweetie. Most of his... guests... don't sleep in the guest suite."

Angie looks at her, too hurt to speak.

"But," the woman shrugs, "until he has a ring on his finger...."

At the table she finds a gift waiting for her: a first edition copy of

Jude the Obscure

. Inside is a thick, lavishly-textured paper card with a note in an elegant, almost calligraphic script:

To Angela White from Shiva Black. "Its verses will stand fast when all the rest that you call religion has passed away."

Breakfast is absolutely lovely. An omelet made to order by a Jamaican cook named Headly, French toast and butter and maple syrup, fruits and juices, muesli and yogurt, and of course good strong coffee, all in a cute little room looking over the park.

She'll have to work off the calories later, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and she might as well enjoy it.

As soon as no one is watching, she looks up the book on her phone and figures out that it probably only cost a few hundred dollars. She could have afforded to get it for herself if she'd really wanted.

Still, it's the nicest and most thoughtful gift a man or boy has ever given her, and she believes she will cherish it for the rest of her life. She reads it lovingly while waiting... and waiting... and waiting... and waiting... for Ana to send her the article.

When she finally gets it, it's horrible, not even beginning to do the man justice. But she's in no position to complain.

But once she has the article she asks for a ride. Mary Ann leads her through the home, to an elevator, down to the basement, where a driver opens the car door for her. At the end of her first not-drunk ride in a Rolls-Royce, she is delivered via elevator directly to his office, fearing greatly what he will say when he sees the article.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

"Not bad for a student publication," Shiva nods as if reluctantly impressed, but his tone reminds Angie of the saying "damned with faint praise."

He sits behind his desk, reading Ana's draft on one of his monitors. Angie watches from the same chair she sat in yesterday.

When she'd gotten out of his car, she was brought immediately up to his floor. She only had to wait in the waiting room a few minutes, and Carmilla — once again wearing a dress that could be fairly described as lingerie — had greeted her with an especially warm smile.

She managed not to fall down on the way into his office, thanking him for the book and embracing him to express her gratitude right in front of Carmilla, but he simply walked her to her seat and asked about the article.

"Do you want to make any changes?" she asks.

"I like this bit about the importance of service, but here, rather than 'heritage,' let's use the word 'tradition.' The word 'heritage' always seems vaguely racist to me."

"Really? I had no idea...."

"Most people probably don't feel that way. I'll send it to my PR people. They'll edit it and put in some quotes for you and then I'll send it back to you. So now, coffee?"

"Sure," Angie blinks. She doesn't know what she expected, but that's not quite it. Is that how all those profiles in the magazines she read were done?

"Good. Before we go, though, we need to be clear that we have officially terminated our relationship as interviewer and interviewee, and from now on we are merely a man and a woman who like each other and everything we do and say is confidential and off-the-record."