Never Forever (21 page)

“Okay fine, you are not with Emily, but it still doesn’t change the fact that you cannot be with me.” Trying to pull my wrists free, he clenches tighter onto them, still holding me prisoner. Relinquishing my attempts to break free, I add dolorously, “I am still going on my date and I am still leaving.”

Leaning further away from me but still gripping onto my wrists he utters with fastidious care, “I don’t trust Conner. You don’t know him like I do.”

“How do
you
know him?” I question disbelievingly.

“He’s a ponce. He likes to find out who the minted students are then try to weasel his way into their wallets. He is a greedy, conniving bastard and you are not going out with him.”

“Yes, I am. You are not my father. I can take care of myself. Besides, I don’t have any money he can weasel out of me,” I firmly state.

Peering deep into my eyes he adds cautiously, “What about the inheritance you were left after Andrew died?”

My eyes widen, completely taken back, “How do you know about that?” My voice is quiet as I stammer out the question.

“My mum, you told her how you are able to pay for Miss McNally. Besides, I knew you had to have some money in order to go to school here and not have to work. I don’t want Conner getting hold of any of it. It is Andrew’s final gift to you and Noah.”

I exhale sharply, shaking my head in frustration. The class, which was previously buzzing with scholastic discussions, is now beginning to dissipate, revealing it is the end of our class. Several students turn in our direction, attempting to eavesdrop on our conversation. Callum’s eyes remain fixed on me, undeterred by their prying ears.

“Callum, will you please let go of me. My wrists are beginning to hurt.”

He stares at me suspiciously but gradually obliges with my request. His hands peel from my wrists like an orange rind freely pulling away from the soft fleshy center. My wrists are slightly red and moist from the heat of his hands causing warm sweat to develop between our skins. Slowly I begin rubbing my wrists with my hands, wiping away the perspiration and reinvigorating my skin.

“Thank you for your concern, but I am going on the date.” Gathering my things I proceed to get up and leave.

This time he softly grabs hold of my hand, tenderly stopping me from leaving. “Breanna, will you at least tell me where he is taking you?” his voice pleads with an underlying concern. His eyes remain fixed straight ahead, not meeting my gaze.

Letting out a sigh of defeat as my body deflates to his will, I utter reluctantly, “Fine, I am meeting him at a place called ‘The Black Boar.’ I hope you are happy now.”

Gradually I walk away from him when suddenly I hear him respond. “I am,” his voice is bright, full of resolution. A hidden plan vibrates off of each word, leaving me with a surprising sense of relief in telling him where I am meeting Conner.

You Don’t Drink

The cab stops outside of a wide, brick lined, pedestrians only alley, with several different entrances leading into small pubs and inns lining the inside of the alleyway. I stare skeptically down the long, thin alley, not quite sure as to where the pub is. The cab driver points down the center of the backstreet, stating in a thick gutter accent, “Oi’ the Black Boar down th’ road o’bit.”

Staring down the dark alley causes my stomach to twist and turn viciously. The only lights down the road are dimly lit electric lanterns positioned next to the main entrances of the establishments. One lone, large gas lantern hangs above the entrance to the alleyway with a rustic worn-down sign reading ‘Historic Pubs’ placed just below the lantern. A few groups of young adults stammer out in a state of disequilibrium, laughing and carrying on in a robust manner. Rolling the cab’s window down, a strong aroma of bitter, dark ale laced with an unnatural earthy scent pulsates through the window, stinging my nose. Though I am vastly familiar with the strong stench of alcohol, this smell has a heavy, darker, almost rancid meat smell mingled with malt to it. The strong aroma turns my stomach slightly, heightening my already queasy state.

Handing the cabbie his fair, I gingerly proceed down the dimly lit passage. The narrow brick road has hundreds of years’ worth of heavy use put on it, tainting the color from a deep brick red to an almost dirty grey. There are several pubs flanking the sides of the road such as: The Rabbit, The Blue Ox, and a tiny one tucked in the corner called The Lion’s Mane. It seems that each pub invokes the name of a wild or type of hunted animal. Decent-sized painted wood signs hang crosswise out from the brick walls near the pubs’ entrances.

Though the night is cool with a slight mist rolling over the buildings like water-falling down into the alley, the air oozing out from the pubs is thick with a dank, hot smell to it. Occasional belts of laughter intermingled with songs ring out of the different pubs. Tinkling noises of several pint glasses clanging into each other pierces out into the now narrow alley. The road narrows slightly the further in I go. I haven’t seen a sign for The Black Boar yet, causing a nervous shiver to roll up my spine.

This area of town is lit with a lower, more serious partying type of clientele than what I am used to here. These were my mom’s type of people when she was young and attractive. She would use her good looks and sex appeal to lure young men into offering her an assortment of alcoholic beverages. On some occasions, she would agree to let one of the men satisfy his needs on her. She has told me on more than one occasion that this is how I was conceived, not quite sure who my father was exactly. Knowing my whole life that I was a product of one of my mother’s many manipulative one night stands caused me to grow up with a feeling of disgust towards myself. I can’t help but look down this alley and feel like my mother, out on the prowl for alcohol and sex. Several guys standing outside of one of the pubs take in my tantalizing appearance. My form fitting jeans enhance my long, slim legs, balancing nicely with the curvy portion of my rear. The slim, cut button down, white shirt frames my trim yet hourglass figure perfectly. I let the top three buttons of my shirt hang open freely, exposing my heightened cleavage. My appearance seems to be luring several male gazes in my direction. An instant wave of anger mingled with satisfaction slowly consumes me, allowing me to embrace a dark side I always tried to run from. Relinquishing my internal fight to become something I know I can never achieve, I slowly concede to the inevitable. I never wanted to be my mother. But no matter how hard I have tried to push her life away I have naturally succumbed to it. I am a young, single mother, homeless, no family, and now walking into the gut of the beast – a bar. I am on a runaway train holding on for my dear life. A dark cloud envelops my heart as the sign for The Black Boar finally comes into view.

Inside the pub I am hit by a wall of thick, stale air mixed with smoke, and a concoction of fried food laced with the strong aroma of dark, heavy alcohol. Swarms of young people fill the small yet surprisingly cozy environment. Loud music pulses through the pub, vibrating within me, causing my heart to beat to the same rhythmic, yet energetic rhythm. A wave of contagious excitement presses through me, allowing my surrendering attitude to embrace this situation. The call towards the dark side is paved with cheers, fun, social acceptance and escape. But what will I have to give up in answering the dark side’s request?

Though the smell takes some getting used to, the surrounding environment is quite pleasant. The large, ancient, wood planked floor looks as if people have been enjoying this establishment for the past hundreds of years. The dark mustard colored walls add to the warmth. There is a large trophy plaque of a black boar’s head hanging on the wall above a roaring fireplace. A large fire burns within the mouth of the fireplace, heating up the already warm atmosphere. Crowds of people are standing around the open bar while others are positioned nicely in small alcoves. Burgundy velvet loveseats and brown leather club chairs are placed in groups around small tea tables, allowing people to visit while they eat and drink. As I look around the crowded room for Conner, I am sucked into a group of pissed young men. The alcoholic state they are in has completely melted away their inhibitions. One young man says some incoherent vulgar remark to me, while at the same time offering to buy me a drink. The smell of alcohol pours out of his mouth as if something has died in his stomach, forcing the rotting smell to push its way up out of his mouth. Reacting to the foul smell I lean away from him, trying to locate Conner. Suddenly I see him sitting on one of the burgundy velvet loveseats placed in front of the fireplace.

Pushing my way out of the over-aggressive group of young men, I briskly head over to Conner, noticing that he has already taken the liberties of ordering the both of us a dark pint of beer. Walking up to him I utter loudly, trying to talk over all the noise, “Hi Conner, how did you hear about this place?”

A quirky and slightly nerdy smile spreads across his flawlessly manicured face, “This is a perfect place to drink.” Gracefully he gestures down at the two large pints of dark beer placed on the small table in front of him. One of the stouts of beer, which I am assuming is his, is nearly gone already, leaving the sides of his glass covered in thick, frothy foam.

I gaze down at Conner with a slight perplexed expression radiating from me. Pulling my eyes firmly together, twisting my face in disbelief, I watch Conner with a puzzled countenance on my face. He is a conundrum. He is wearing perfectly polished attire with everything precisely placed, as if an overbearing mother has laid out his coordinating outfit. His hair is neatly plastered with a heavy amount of styling gel, giving it an almost helmet appearance. Though his natural looks are quite handsome, his style is attempting to allude towards English uptight aristocracy. His neurotic and almost nerdy appearance is such a sharp paradox to this beer drinking, party going guy in front of me.

Silently I sit next to him on the small sofa, pressing myself into the arm of the couch, trying not to sit close to him. I begin fidgeting in my seat, attempting to decide if I am going to fully give in to the darkness gnawing at my ankles. The condensation forming on the glass from the cool drink meeting with the warm, almost hot air from the crowd and fire, sends rivulets of water droplets down the glass, making my mouth water. I stare at the thick, dark brew glistening in front of me, as dangerous thirst consumes my battling mind.

Conner picks up the large, moist glass, handing it to me, “I took the liberty of ordering you a strong stout...” passing it to me he forcefully adds, “Now drink it so my money doesn’t go to waste. You are the lucky girl here who gets a drink from me.”

His pompous attitude sends nails ripping up my spine, tearing away at my nerve. If I am going to have to sit here with him I am going to have to do it under the influence. Wrapping my hand around the tapered portion of the moist glass causes the water droplets to collect on the top part of my hand, between my thumb and index finger. Closing my eyes and fully deciding to drink it, I bring the glass to my mouth, smelling the vile stench oozing out of the glass. Holding my breath I slam a large amount down my throat. Pulling my mouth free I aggressively wipe the dense, thick foam from my upper lip. The burn of alcohol stings my throat as it pours down my esophagus, landing firmly in my empty stomach, filling it with warmth. The taste is not as bad as I was expecting. Though there is now a heavy, lingering bitter taste rolling around in my mouth, mingled with a slight roasted flavor, and a surprisingly dry sensation coating my tongue.

“That is better,” Conner adds. “Now you can relax. Shall we converse?”

“Um, what do you want to talk about?” I state suspiciously.

“Well, for starters, what brought you here from America, with a child nonetheless? And how can you afford to be here?” his high pitched voice squeaks out.

My mind instantly recalls Callum’s warning about Conner and his desire for money. Trying to avoid his questions, I hastily guzzle another large amount, firmly pushing the thick substance down my throat. Shock and dismay roll over me as I look down into the hollow opening of my glass, realizing I have downed an entire glass in just a few moments. Looking over at Conner his eyes widen in amazement, “Since your drink is gone, why don’t you answer my questions now.”

A nervous wave rolls through me, mixing with the nasty bitter brew, slopping around in my hollow belly. I hadn’t eaten anything, thinking that Conner was going to at least offer to buy me dinner. Realization rolls through my mind, if I am going to survive this I need to drink a hell of a lot more, “I need another drink.”

His eyes widen in dismay, "Umm, brilliant, I was hoping you liked to drink,” he states in a lascivious tone.

“I am hungry, too.”

“You can go order yourself something to eat. I will wait here while you pay for it,” he states plainly, making sure I understand he is only purchasing the alcoholic beverages.

Shock rolls over me. What kind of guy asks a girl out, and then doesn’t buy her dinner, only offering to pay for the drinks…a cheap one, “Well Conner, if you want me to stay, you better keep those drinks coming or I am leaving.” An instant thought shoots through my mind –
leave
. But I just go on ignoring it.

“Fine, but you need to make it worth my money.” Raising his hand he motions to the waitress, “Two more strong Stouts, now please.”

“Make it three.” If I am going to succumb to my new life then I am going to jump in with both feet.

The more I drink the more Conner’s voice gets on my nerves, forcing me to drink even more, attempting to block out his high pitched shrill. Conner, surprisingly, is freely offering me Stout after Stout, perhaps it is because of my now close proximity to him. My head starts spinning out of control as I gaze around the room, listening to Conner’s shrilling voice constantly echoing in my ears. I am in a state of disequilibrium, watching the room and all the occupants move back and forth like we are trapped on a violently rolling ship. Though my belly is empty, I am beginning to feel sick to my stomach. Looking up, trying to find a bathroom, I suddenly catch sight of Callum walking into the pub, hastily scanning the entire room. His eyes instantly find mine, staring at me in a disapproving way. For a brief moment it feels like I am hallucinating until a deep, smooth and sexual voice loudly cuts through the noise.

“What are you doing, Breanna? You don’t drink,” his voice is firm with an acidic edge, berating my obvious condition.

Looking up at him through my beer goggle eyes, I stutter joyfully, “Oh…hi Callum. This is my date.” Turning towards the person sitting on the couch next to me, I take in his face trying to recall his name again.

Callum chimes in, interrupting my thought process, “Conner, what in the bloody hell did you do to her?” His voice is thick with disdain as he bends down, tenderly examining me, “How many has she had?”

Conner’s erect body and blazing eyes reveal his disgust with Callum’s apparent arrival, “I have only given her what she’s asked for.”

“– Except food,” I slurred out.

“She has had all this alcohol…” he points to the multitude of empty glasses lining the table in front of us, “…on an empty stomach? You bloody wanker! She doesn’t drink! And you gave her all those Stouts on an empty stomach. Do you realize what you could have done to her?”

“She wasn’t acting like someone who doesn’t drink. Besides, she was drinking them faster than I could give them to her,” he adds gratuitously, in a pompous tone. His shrilling voice rings in my ears, sending sharp needles piercing into my brain.