Fast And Loose. Justine Elyot
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line of sight was Tom Crowley. I ducked my head, but the damage was done. I’d seen his glorious gorgeousness in tight jeans and a biker jacket, and now I wasn’t going to be able to concentrate on anything else.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered to Dean. ‘Didn’t get much sleep last night.’
‘So it’s true.’
The voice was Crowley’s. The vibrations of my skin told me that he was standing very near, near enough to smell the leather, and the divine aftershave he wore. Fuck. My head was swimming.
Don’t look at him. Don’t answer him.
I knew I was blushing and I hated the heat that suffused my cheeks, my forehead, my neck, my bloody chest – where would it stop?
‘You are a vampire,’ he finished.
God, I hated him. But at least he’d said it only to me, lowering his voice so that nobody else would hear it. He could easily have played it for the cheap office laugh. So he was vile, but not super-vile.
‘That’s right,’ I said tightly, tapping at my keyboard and keeping my eyes glued to the screen. ‘I shrivel up at the sight of fake tan.’
He laughed, and I swallowed as his hand materialised on my desk. What lovely long fingers they were, splayed out elegantly next to my Slytherin mug. Where those fingers had been…
‘Well, that’s what I wanted to hear,’ he said, and I couldn’t stop myself from looking up at the hint of something promising in his tone.
Electric-blue eyes caught me in their beam. It was appropriate that they reminded me of one of those fluorescent fly-zappers in fast-food restaurants. I was the fly in this scenario.
‘Did you?’
He reached into his inside jacket pocket, drew out a folded piece of paper and handed it to me.
When I unfolded it, I found it was a flyer for the opening night of a new bar.
‘The Crypt,’ I said, deciphering the gothic font.
‘Yeah. I’ve been invited to the grand opening. Thought it might be up your street. Up your graveyard path,’ he corrected himself with a flash of dazzling teeth.
You’re asking me on a date? I stopped myself saying the words. I didn’t want to give him an opening to tell me it was just that nobody else wanted to go.
‘So you want me to go to this thing with you?’ I said instead. Once again I’d missed my opportunity to showcase an effervescent, cynical wit. When I thought of all the amazing repartees I’d perfected over the last few weeks, for use in just such a situation, I wanted to weep. Wasted hours.
‘Well, why not? Could be fun. Don’t you think? I might need you to do my eyeliner for me though.’
Mm, Tom Crowley in eyeliner.
At this point, I should have given him one of two responses. (A) The aforementioned effervescent, cynical wit, deployed in the delivery of a devastating putdown. Or (B) A ‘who the hell do you think you are?’ rant.
So which did I choose? I chose (C).
‘OK then. What time?’
‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down! Eight thirty? Outside the bar. It’s in Pitman Street, used to be Silvio’s nightclub.’
‘I know where it is,’ I said.
‘Of course you do. You’re a sub. You’re omniscient. See you there, then. And don’t forget the eyeliner.’
I watched his tight backside slink out of sight, leaving me free to spend the rest of the day deconstructing his ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down’ comment.
As the marketplace chapel clock struck eight thirty, I still hadn’t decided what he meant by it. Did he mean that I was just a reliable type of person in general? Did he mean that he was staking a lot on my consent to his request? Or did he just mean that I was easy? A sure thing?
I’d accepted the last explanation, and it was giving me a nasty weight in my chest that provided a more than adequate counter-balance to any excitement I might have been feeling.
I consoled myself with the knowledge that I looked fucking amazing. I’d used a whole can of hairspray and most of the contents of the Barry M section in the local goth shop. Black velvet, fishnet, spiky heels, ultra-violet manicure and a spritz of Femme Fatale body spray. The body spray was fighting with the hairspray to see which of them could make me cough the most. On balance, the hairspray won.
I didn’t often get glammed up like this – mostly I was a Doc Martens and band T-shirt kind of girl – but the occasion seemed to demand it. It was not for Crowley’s benefit, oh, no. Not a bit of it.
I stopped for a sneaky peek into a shop window at the corner and reapplied my vamp-red lipstick. Would Tom meet me inside or outside? It was November and a spot of blustery wind threatened other, less rigid, hairstyles, but mine was tornado-proof.
I strutted down the street, channelling Siouxsie Sioux, unfortunately turning an ankle on one stiletto heel just before I reached the door.
‘Fuck!’ I gasped, handing my flyer to the doorman.
‘You all right?’ he said with some concern.
‘It’s OK…just a bit of a wrench…ta.’
I got my breath back and tried to put some weight on it. The pain nearly killed me. I flailed wildly, ending up clutching the doorman’s arm.
There was no way I was going to be able to style this out. I was going to have to limp into the bar.
‘What have you done to yourself now?’
There was laughter lurking in Tom Crowley’s voice as it crept up behind me.
‘Nothing,’ I said crossly, all the blood rushing to my cheeks. So much for my white face powder.
‘Done her ankle in, innit?’ said the doorman, ceremoniously handing me over to Crowley, who put an arm around my shoulder and held me upright.
How delightful this would have been under other circumstances – but all I could feel was hot and flustered and completely idiotic.
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘You can lean on me.’
It took absolutely ages to get down the stairs that led into the basement bar, but Tom was suspiciously kind and sweet about it, helping me to a dark little booth and seating me gently on the black wrought-iron and blood-red velvet banquette.
‘Anaesthetic?’ he asked politely, patting his jacket.
For the first time, I saw what he was wearing and nearly swooned away. I could have blamed the pain for it, but dear God! He looked good enough to sink my fangs into.
He wore a long black Victorian-style frock coat and a ruffle-fronted white shirt over tightish black dress trousers with a satin stripe. Pointy-toed polished boots and a ruby-red collar stud completed the look, as the fashion pages might say.
‘Vodka,’ I said faintly. ‘Love your outfit.’
‘Thanks. Kind of Jack the Ripper meets Dracula, isn’t it? Anything in the vodka?’
Bromide, perhaps.
‘Oh…tonic, maybe,’ I said vaguely. My mouth was watering indecently.
‘Coming right up, milady,’ he said, with an elaborate little bow that made matters about ten times worse.
I put my foot up on the opposite banquette and took a look around. It was dark enough that passers-by could loom up at you like graveyard bats, but there were lights here and there among the fog-effect dry ice and I could see that I was not the only way overdressed person in the vault. Which was good.
Loud music – Nine Inch Nails, I think – was being played quietly, which didn’t