"In Which Reality is a Walk in the Park"

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"I still long for your chaos in all these quiet nights."

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Nichomachus

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12:30 AM

Emrys Park, Averill

https://youtu.be/aG8QwLM6C6M

"All right, you got me. Now, what do you want?"

Tia turns around, arms crossed — a clear indication that she was not amused at being dragged away from helping her friends in a club brawl without her consent.

It may also be because she had no intention of opening up or being overly familiar again with her captor.

Never again, she promises herself.

She had learned her lesson in the most painful way and bore the emotional scars for it.

To make that point clearer, she cocks her head to the side, refusing to face him.

It was only then that she realized where they were.

Beyond the grove of trees and the dense shrubbery, were benches and picnic tables that spread across the area. Not far from them was a monumental statue representing the town's founders, ensconced at the center of the whole place.

Blinking lights shine tens of meters away from where market vendors are about to call it a night.

The lampposts, a warm bright orange hue, glimmers so beautifully in contrast to the cold dark blue of the moonless sky.

It was to her luck that the nearest lamppost was a few yards away, enshrouding the two of them into silhouettes.

A few feet from them stood a classic red telephone booth, its paint chipped and cracked by the sides. A few graffiti were even sprayed and written in random places.

Beside it, was a small playground equipped with a couple of swings hanging immobile in the silent stillness of the night.

A park, she scoffs inwardly. Seriously?!

Of all the places he could choose to conduct their inevitable confrontation, it had to be out in the open space where everybody could see them.

It was bad enough to be possibly accused of sharing a clandestine affair with him in the park, but the thought of anyone finding out about their previous 'association' was worse.

Even if it had already been two years since — and in a different continent.

As much as she hated to admit it, time had been too gracious to him.

"It's been a long time," he remarks, his ocean blue eyes sweeping over her with searing intensity.

"So it seems," she nods her head, unable to stop herself from studying this all-too-familiar stranger.

His striking beach-blonde hair was no longer in the scraggly shoulder-length it once was. Instead, it was shorter and more subdued now in silky waves of umber and cedar. 

Nevertheless, she fights the urge to run her hand through them.

The edges of his lips curve ever so slightly. His face, she realizes, was thinner now and more chiseled. 

The subtle deposits of soft fat that once gave his face a youthful devil-may-care look are now replaced with exquisitely carved cheekbones and an angular jaw. 

The short prickly stubble that used to sprinkle around his jaw was now shaved clean.

He looks older, more mature. He even dressed more smartly and expensively now.

Gone were the band t-shirts, plaid shirts, worn Levis, and muddied hiking boots.

On him were a cashmere sweater, slim tapered pants, and custom-made dress shoes. The very epitome of what her long-departed beloved nan — Emilia Hearst, bless her soul — would say a refined gentleman would look like.

The only thing that hasn't changed, however, much to her chagrin, was his blasted* Southern accent and those blasted blue eyes. Still dripping with so much charisma, he can talk a girl to do almost anything.

Meanwhile, here she was, still unable to grow into another cup size. Her figure still lacked the womanly curves she had always desired. Her freckles only doubled in numbers, along with the occasional acne break-outs.

Even so, she does try her best to cover those details with clothes that compliment her shape and a well-spent investment for concealers, and the occasional trip to a dermatologist.

If there was one thing she was proud to have improved on, it was that, unlike her dithering and impressionable sixteen-year-old self, she had developed confidence in herself and a meticulously-mapped out vision board in front of her bed.

She was sensible now —  a being of cold-hard practicality and logic in the face of adversaries.

However, that same assurance withered away as soon as those accursed eyes and those strong capable arms banded around her waist that early afternoon, saving her from being a casualty of student traffic, and temporarily transforming her back into a stuttering schoolgirl — all due to shock, of course. Nothing more.

She watches him uneasily. Whatever he saw, he kept to himself — which didn't help in alleviating her nerves.

"I keep wondering when I'll ever see those freckles again," he says as if caught in a trance.

She ignores the fire trailing in his gaze, the way they stroke the skin from her face down to her neck with phantom-like fingers.

She blinks at him with indifference. "I'll ask you aga"—

"You know what I want," he cuts her off.

She grimaces at his cryptic reply. She searches her thoughts for any clue as to find out his motives.

What could he possibly want from her? Wasn't her embarrassment from their last encounter, not enough?

Somehow, deep down, she knew what he meant.

She had always dreaded this moment — willing her mind that a possibility like this would never happen.

And now... it was this or never. Like ripping out a band-aid — or in this case, a duct tape

She swallows one final time.

"No. Even if that information strikes my notice, I wouldn't have asked," she replies, her voice as cold as ice.

Dammit! That wasn't what she planned to do!

Why in the bloody hell is she stalling?

She tries again — to clarify this time.

"On second thought, no, I don't care."

Blast it! There it was again!

She cringes inside. Her defense mechanism is intent on freezing whatever threat is within her vicinity. It just so happened that this cockwomble* inspired the worst of it.

Gorblimey!* He's having her cursing, too.

There went her nan's etiquette lessons, gone in the wind.

He stares at her again. His eyes never leaving hers.

"But I do. See," he takes a step towards her, unable to last a second more without touching her.

He lifts a stray lock of hair and rubs it between his fingers.

Her breath hitches. She struggles to contain the unwanted shudders from surmounting her.

"Last time I saw you, you were teasing me," he whispers, his face a few mere inches from hers. "Getting me worked up, and very eighteen. That was two years ago."

She lowers her gaze, refusing to cave into his intoxicating lure and the underlying guilt churning deep in her stomach. Luckily, he didn't seem to notice this.

"Imagine to my surprise, when I saw you again, in school as a student, and still eighteen. Now, it's either I've been frozen in time like some sort of a grand government conspiracy theory..."

Tia feels her lips twitch. He's always been a bit odd in stating his perspective.

"And, you're a secret spy sent to arouse me and make me lose my mind or..." he pauses.

The sudden dead air snaps her back into motion.

"Or, what?" she asks before she can rein in her curiosity.

"Or, you're a fucking angel who was too young to even know the game she was playing."

She sighs. "I have to hand it to you. I've been called many names. Angel's not one I would call myself."

Angels are pure — untainted. She was no angel — he made sure of that — and he was about to have a glimpse why.

She lets herself lean over, leaving a few hairsbreadths of space between them.

She can clearly smell the remaining scent of his aftershave, the zesty aroma of lemon and pine tickling her nose. She meets his eyes, discerning the tiny flecks and ridges around his irises.

"And the last time I checked, you weren't the only one playing a game," she rasps. Unwilling or not, she had played a part in it.

She watches his eyes blaze with emotion, his nose flares as the air shifted between them in a fierce battle of wills.

"No," he grunts, closing in the tiny space within them until his lips hover above hers.

She could almost feel his thin moist lips touching hers, her spine tingling in anticipation.

She tries to disregard it, yet the long-forgotten memories and the sentient sensations that come with them still linger on every inch of her skin.

"I won't be surprised if you think so, too. Since I've just beat you to it," he asserts, his voice coarse enough to sound like a growl. A sound she would never have expected from him.

Who was this man?

His warm breath fanning on her lips brings another wave of spine-tingling sensations washing over her.

She closes her eyes, silently willing him to tilt his head a fraction more and close the gap that separates his mouth from hers. Just enough for a brief taste.

She licks the inside of her lips.

No! She mentally shakes her head. She pulls her face away while trying to recover the last shreds of dignity left within her.

She glares at him.

His lips tug into a half-smile, appraising her once more.

"Tia," he says her name as if testing how it rolls over his tongue, liking how it affects her enough to make her shiver so openly. "At least you never lied about that one."

Tia, still refusing to relinquish her glare, feels her cheeks flush. She tilts her head up in a haughty manner.

"It's hard to respond to a name that you're not used to your whole life."

He nods, considering her words.

Flashing her a self-deprecating smile, his next few words take her breath away.

"Some may, I'm just glad I kept saying the right name in the showers."

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WOOHOO!

Two chapters in a week (DAMN!) I'm on a roll!

Though the fact that school opens in a couple of weeks might contribute to that. So I thought, "Hey, might as well write as much as I can while I still have the freedom to do it!"

A-a-anyhoo! Who else thought this chapter would be about Ave? Anyone?

(Advanced apologies for those who did :D)

Question-Time!

"Who was the man Tia was talking to? What happened two years ago that inspired such hatred and regret from her? What happened to Ave and the rest of her friends?"

P. S. Scroll further down below for a short sneak-peek of my next chapter: "In Which Reality is No Damsel in Distress".

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PLAYLIST

From the Night — Richard Boulger

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*[F/N]*

Blasted — (British slang) means "damned."

Cockwomble — (British slang) means a foolish or obnoxious person.

Gorblimey — (British slang)  an exclamation of surprise or annoyance.

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SNEAK PEEK

"You think he's kidding, bitch?" he taunts, his impatience getting the best of him. 

He moves closer, blocking my view of KG. He eyes me up and down, lust glossing over his eyes. He draws in a harsh breath. "Fuck this, we're done playing nicely."

"Uh-p-pa-uhp!" I raise a hand to stop him. I wipe my tears as I clear my throat. 

"You see, that's where you have it wrong. Or, was it when you backed up a bit?" — I twiddle my fingers and shake my head — "No, I'm not sure. Anyways" — I sweetly clasp my hands, batting my eyelashes — "thank you for being a couple of gentlemen. It really helped me a lot to shake off some alcohol from my system. Who knew fresh air and dumpster smells, combined with your nasty BOs, could turn a drunk girl sober? Also" — I give them my version of a sinister grin, cracking my knuckles — "thank you, 'coz I really need this right now. So, in an act of gratitude, I offer you two choices."

"Real funny, bit"—

"Uh-puh-puhp" — I raise a finger — "first choice, I handle this like a lady while you drop your knife, and I promise I would take good care of you with a swift, almost lover-like bordering-between-pain-and-pleasure move."

No reaction. Okay, tough crowd.

"Second," I raise another finger, "you carry on with your threats, I break both of your noses and cripple your chances for fatherhood. Your choice."

KG, obviously well-implied as the walking pie-hole between the two of them, nods. "I was wrong."

Goodie!

"You should be a comedian, lady. Well, that is, if you can survive this night."

Oh, poo! (I meant shit! It's shit!)

"Get her," KG orders 'Nev'.

I heave a sigh, shaking my head in disappointment. "Seems like you weren't listening to me."

Nobody does, I pout. "Manual Castration, it is."

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