Bait Page 6

  He’s close. Really close.

  I do have a car, I just rarely use it. It’s been in my parking space for weeks, untouched.

  I try to imagine driving into the night on my way over to meet him. I imagine parking up somewhere and knowing everything will be different by the time I make it back to the driver’s seat.

  If I make it back.

  The thought is just a whisper, but it’s there. It has to be there.

  I know nothing about the man on the other side of the chat window. I have no assurances other than the words of a stranger in the ether.

  It shouldn’t be worth the risk. Shouldn’t.

  I imagine how bandy my legs will feel as the moment draws close.

  My heart is pounding. Nerves tight.

  My legs loll open as I fuck myself with three deep fingers.

  Yes.

  I know the answer I’ll be giving him already.

  I’ve known the answer since he messaged me for the very first time. It’ll take more than one graphic picture to divert this collision.

  The circle next to his profile picture is grey when I type out my response.

  I don’t need to sleep on it.

  I’m not impulsive enough to need time for the doubts to creep in.

  They are already here. They’ve been dancing behind my eyes since the moment you messaged me. They are always here and always have been, but they make no difference.

  Your picture is enough to scare me, but fear changes nothing. It never has.

  If anything it only makes me want this more.

  My answer is most definitely yes.

  I pause.

  I read it through with shallow breath.

  And then I hit send.

  Eight

  Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  Phoenix

  The message is waiting for me in the morning, well ahead of schedule. It’s listed in my notifications, ready to greet me when my alarm goes off.

  I feel an unfounded sense of acceptance as I power up the hill track and admire the rising sun. She saw, she feared, and still she wants.

  This surreal sense of intimacy with a stranger is full of surprises. The spring in my step. The lightness in the air.

  The beautiful promise of one wild night to dwarf all others, and the bittersweet inevitability that we’re destined to go our separate ways when we’re done.

  Maybe it’s the impermanence that feels so beautiful. Maybe it’s the knowledge that our collision will be short which promises such a potent explosion.

  I breathe in the view at the top and today my eyes are on the horizon, scanning the Herefordshire countryside.

  She’s down there, somewhere. I wonder what she’s doing. I wonder where she is.

  Sleeping, if she’s got any sense on a Sunday morning.

  Training her pussy to take a decent girth if she has any sense at all.

  Her profile is limited. A simple Hereford and nothing more listed as her location. As of yet I know so much but so little.

  The shadowy promise of dawn breaking as I uncover all her broken pieces.

  Dawn’s always been my favourite time of day with good reason.

  I wave to the same couple as yesterday on my way across the top. I tip my head to the same guy and his dog on my way back down.

  I shower quickly, then make my boy his breakfast and watch him choose his own TV channel.

  I pull my sister tight to my chest and kiss her head, because gestures are easier than words sometimes.

  And then, as another first of all the firsts these past few days, I sit down at the kitchen table and breathe. Just breathe.

  My feet feel planted on solid earth for the first time in months. My place here feels real again.

  I wonder if it feels the same for her, wherever she is. Whether the universe is looking a little brighter through her eyes this morning, just as it is through mine.

  I’ll need to know her, Abigail. I’ll need to know so much more than she’ll ever get to know about me.

  The things she craves. The tiny details of her fantasy she isn’t even aware of herself. What she looks like to a passer-by on the street. What her footsteps sound like in the darkness.

  I’ll need to know enough to safeguard me against a crazy encounter gone bad. I need a message trail that shows irrevocably that she wants this just as much as I do.

  That she’s a girl I know indulging in a fantasy we planned out, not just some random I accosted in the darkness.

  But for now I push those more sobering thoughts aside.

  I’m buoyant on the hum of life, and nothing is going to steal this moment from me.

  Not today.

  Abigail

  I usually cringe inside when the office girls ask after my weekend. I hate the way my polite vagueness always feels so hollow.

  But not today.

  There’s excitement simmering in my belly as I smile in the kitchen before work starts. I feel bouncier than usual as I tell them my weekend was good, and for once I’m not lying.

  For once it’s true.

  It seems midnight is the magic hour for Phoenix Burning. Last night was the most magical of all.

  I’m not sure how much more I’ll have to do to prove my intentions are serious over these coming weeks, but I think I’m well on my way already.

  He wanted pictures, and I sent them. Happy pictures from days long past. An old work portrait. A couple of riskier selfies that I took on a whim.

  And now it seems he wants more. Always more.

  He’s tugging my soul from the depths and holding tight. He’s whispering in every dark corner of my mind.

  An unexpected ping on my mobile lets me know I’ve got a message mid-morning. I know exactly who it is before I’ve even checked.

  I call it up at my desk with the handset cradled in my lap out of sight.

  What is your full name?

  The question takes me aback enough that my head swims.

  My full name.

  This crazy fantasy has never felt so real as it does when I tell him. The fear is there. Palpable. Creeping around the edges of my consciousness as my heart thumps.

  Abigail Summers.

  Abigail Rachel Summers.

  And then silence. Nothing but a tick as he reads my response.

  So I busy myself. Throw myself into a job I usually pass off as nothing.

  I restructure my filing system for purchase orders and automate some of the processes. I act as if I care, and slowly, over the course of my Monday, and my Tuesday after that, part of me begins to believe it.

  I pick up the overflow calls when they come into our back office. I speak with clients with a telephone voice I’d long forgotten.

  I find myself laughing with colleagues at the photocopier.

  I find myself agreeing to their office social later in the week.

  I don’t know when the pretence falls away and my actions take on a reality, but it does. By Wednesday afternoon I’ve even taken on a backlog of invoices from a colleague fresh in from sick leave.

  At night I share my deepest fantasies with a total stranger, and by day I find myself taking tiny steps toward being human again.

  I don’t ignore messages from old friends back home. I call my parents as I walk home from the office. I shop for real food rather than ready meals and I buy myself a decent set of pans.

  Life always prospers on fertile ground. Slowly but surely, seeds burst into tiny shoots and the barren pit of me stirs with my soul and sparks anew.

  My nightmares have never been so vivid nor so welcome.

  Busy days have never been such a happy time-killer.

  I never again expected to enjoy a work night out for what it is.

  But I do.

  I never expected to race home for midnight with a heart full of excitement for a faceless man at the end of an internet connection.

  But I do.

&
nbsp; And I really never expected tonight to be the night he says goodbye.

  But it is.

  Nine

  The return makes one love the farewell.

  Alfred de Musset

  Abigail

  A few glasses of wine with the girls from work turns out to be a fine way to pass the time until midnight calls. I actually enjoyed myself. And now, I’m back in my apartment and logged in when the light turns green on his profile.

  I doubt he can be left with any uncertainty by now as to how sure I am that I want this. The thought makes my skin prickle.

  I’m already so used to this strange sense of closeness. I know nothing, and yet I feel so much. I don’t even know his name, and likely never will, but that doesn’t matter. It’s only taken one short week for this time of night to feel like my everything.

  My stomach flutters as the first ping comes through. I wonder if I should tell him I’m drunk.

  I wonder if I should tell him that my life has become liveable again since he came along.

  Even in my inebriated condition I know that would be a stupid thing to confess.

  His message gives me shivers,

  There’s only one nightclub in Malvern.

  It’s on an industrial estate down by the Link train station.

  Next Saturday evening you will park at the station.

  You will cross the road and take the path along Spring Lane, and then walk through the estate until you get to Fireflies.

  You will be on soft drinks only, but you will have a good time.

  You will dance, even though your nerves will be spiking like crazy.

  You will stay as long as you like.

  And then you will leave.

  You will walk back slowly the way you came.

  And you will be careful, keeping an eye over your shoulder the whole time.

  If you feel scared, you will run.

  His messages pause and I can’t hold back. My fingers are a flurry on my keyboard.

  And you’ll be there? You’ll be there to chase me?Next weekend for real?

  My heart is racing as he types a response.

  You will meet your monster, just be sure you really want to be acquainted.

  I do. Oh fuck, I do. My whole body is thrumming.

  His messages keep coming before I can reply.

  You can turn back whenever you wish.

  You can decide against coming at all.

  You can call a taxi from the club to your car and never step foot in the shadows.

  Changing your mind would be easy, but still, if you want a safe word you can have one.

  My response is instant.

  I don’t want one and I won’t be changing my mind.

  I’ll be there.

  His reply comes right back.

  So will I.

  I can’t believe this is really happening. A strange bubble of emotions brings a lump to my throat. But it’s not sadness.

  It’s relief.

  Excitement.

  Or it is until he messages again.

  This will be the last time we speak, but before we say goodbye, I want you to know that I’ve really enjoyed our conversations.

  I hope this turns out to be everything you were hoping for, and that it brings you to life again.

  My stomach falls through the floor. I’m not ready for goodbye. Goodbye hasn’t even been on my radar. Not even close.

  I know this is a one off. I know it was always meant to be.

  I know that saying goodbye is inevitable. I just… I don’t want… not now.

  I’m struggling for words when another ping comes through.

  For what it’s worth, I think the guy who left you alone in your darkest hour is the weakest kind of asshole. Please don’t let him steal more of your soul than he already has. Believe me when I say he’s not worth it.

  The lump in my throat spills into a stupid tear. But strangely it’s not Stephen I’m crying for.

  I force myself to type.

  Wow. Goodbyes always feel so shitty, hey?

  I swat my tears away as he pings again.

  So I’ve found.

  I’m dreading the circle turning grey, but the typing icon stays solid.

  And then more.

  I’m sorry for everything you’ve been through. Truly.

  His words make my heart pang.

  I’m sorry too.

  I’m sorry for the things in my life I wanted and will most likely never have, but mostly I’m grateful for him – the stranger who’s giving me back my heart, even if it’s still bleeding.

  I’m not ready for the next message.

  I’m not ready for the circle next to his picture to blink out.

  Goodbye, Abigail.

  I’m still typing when the text box dulls to grey along with his icon. My fingers are still slamming the keys when Phoenix Burning changes to user unavailable.

  And then he’s gone.

  He’s really gone.

  My bleeding heart bleeds some more, but this time I’m still smiling.

  This time goodbye is bittersweet.

  Because this time the best is still to come.

  Phoenix

  Severing our intimacy across the ether hits me deep. Really fucking deep.

  Saying goodbye to my black swan is a tragedy, but it’s a beautiful one.

  It feels harder than I thought, but it has to be this way.

  When, if, we meet in the darkness, we will meet as strangers and nothing more. I will be a monster and she will be my bait.

  Silence feeds the thrill and excitement. It also feeds fear.

  There will be no daily contact to offer reassurances. No running commentary to put her demons at ease.

  If she really does arrive in the club next weekend it’ll be because she was right all along – she really does crave this fantasy too much to leave it alone.

  And if she doesn’t?

  My gut turns at the thought.

  And if she doesn’t the world keeps on spinning.

  I don’t know why that feels like such a bullshit lie.

  I stare at the logout screen for an age, fighting the urge to reactivate my profile and feign an unanswered question. Something of importance. Anything to keep the channel of communication open just a little bit longer.

  My cock is aching in my jeans as I stare numbly ahead.

  I have her photographs saved to my desktop. I also have her current address, and the one in Hampshire she lived in before that.

  The electoral roll software at work has more benefits than scoping out bad client credit risks, it seems.

  I had her history at my fingertips, right there for the taking.

  Abigail Rachel Summers. Twenty-seven years old. Six years younger than me.

  Born in Fleet. Excellent credit rating.

  I found her on the business connect website, keeping my search anonymous. She hasn’t updated her profile with her new position, whatever that may be, but in her old life she was doing well for herself.

  Head of Customer Relations at some business services company. Her profile picture was smiley and professional, her dark hair in one of those fancy buns. Her work pictures show a woman who is comfortable in her own skin. Comfortable with her place in the universe.

  I feel so fucking sad for her that the universe chewed her up.

  Stephen Hartley is a listed contact in her organisation overview. Sales Director. Handsome guy. Longish hair. Maybe a hint of throwback goth if you took the suit out of the equation.

  Somehow I know he’s the douche in question. Call it instinct.

  I feel all her broken pieces. I feel her sadness. Her hopelessness. Her despair.

  I’m no fool. I know she’s mirroring my own. I know it’s my own hopelessness reflected right back at me.

  It doesn’t make it any less real.

  Stephen Hartley is every kind of spineless. I have the urge to hunt him down and give the prick some payback, which is all the confirmation I’ll ever need tha
t deactivating my profile and treating this fantasy as the one-time-only affair it’s intended to be is the only rational move available.

  It’s definitely rational.

  Painful.

  Uncomfortable.

  Sad, almost.

  But rational.

  I allow myself one last lingering look at my black swan before I close my laptop.

  And then, with my cock in my hand, I imagine the next, and only, time I’ll ever see her again.

  Ten

  We need the sweet pain of anticipation to tell us we are really alive.

  Albert Camus

  Abigail

  I’ve never known a week pass by so slowly.

  All the time-killers in the universe couldn’t make the days go any faster, and no amount of fantasising in the world makes up for the void I feel every night when midnight comes and he isn’t there.

  I keep my profile active, just in case. I log in every night just to stare at his greyed-out profile.

  I read our previous messages until they give me shivers.

  I stare at the photo of his beast of a cock and imagine how it will feel to have it forced inside me.

  I wonder if I’ll beg him to stop. I wonder if he’ll make me bleed.

  I come at the thought of both.

  I’m fucked up and I don’t care. I’m flying high, unhinged and free.

  Insane.

  I’m clearly fucking insane.

  I come until I’m exhausted. Over and over and over again.

  I barely sleep.

  And when I wake, the first thing I do is log on to stare at his greyed-out profile again.

  And read those messages again.

  And stare at that monster cock, the horrific piercings, and I come again, imagining it pumping inside me, so hard, so rough, so bad I’m screaming.

  Insane.

  Clearly insane.

  The days of silence bring distance. His earlier familiarity easily fades, leaving only the promise of darkness.

  I’m not ready for him and I never will be, but I’d be a fool not to at least try to ready myself. I buy myself a vibrator online, one they aptly call The Monster, and open the parcel with shaking fingers just three days before I meet the monster for real.