No Stereotypes, No Substitutes [The Master]

[Opium (DELETED 7294)]

He had set the bait and she’d thrown herself on it like a bomb in a store full of puppies.

“Luck? Where’s the luck in getting published? Luck is for winning the lottery,” she griped. “Everything else requires some dipshit to actually care about something, do their best and try to… win. Publishing needs you to read a piece of work and decide whether you can make money off of it. It’s not that hard and it sure as **** doesn’t come from luck.”

After her little outrage, Elijah fully expected to be sniped at again about the mysterious nature of her genre. He seemed genuinely interested, but then, why wouldn’t he be? He had no idea what she was peddling, and the minute he did, he’d turn his nose up like all the others. Throw two hot chicks into a romantic venture, maybe offer a sex scene, and it’s gravy, but it’s somehow disgusting when two men are going at the same thing. It’s repulsive, unnatural, and maybe her favourite thing of all: a sin against God! Elijah rather doubted that Grant was too different from his knuckle-dragging brothers. She doubted he was the type of man who would have even give her the time of day if she didn’t somehow manage to be aesthetically pleasing. Men were like that most of the time. When growing up, no male had ever seen her as anything more than that miserable *****. When she became ripe of age, however, then she was the miserable ***** with a nice pair of legs, put a bag over her head and a gag in her mouth and she’d be good enough to **** still. That was the mentality of man. Not all men, but predominantly so and hell, even women wouldn’t look at you twice if you were ugly. That’s not to say, however, that Elijah was a man-hater. Not exactly. She wasn’t sexist in the same way she wasn’t ageist or racist or homophobic – Elijah pretty much hated everyone given half the chance to get to know them.

People were always so disappointing to her. They found their stereotypes and didn’t want to let it go. Women were pathetic, dumb, weak-willed little shits who had no place in society unless they were worshipping some douchebag, and men were supposed to be strong, emotionless robots who conquered everything. There was no room outside of those boxes for anybody else and if you didn’t fit in, you were a target for ridicule and punishment. She was sensitive, so highly strung and expecting an attack constantly that she was usually on the defencive all the time. The stress was unhealthy, but she didn’t know any other way to live. Maybe she was bitter, but so ******* what. The world would be boring without her flavour profile. If everything tasted like strawberries for an eternity, you can bet your arse that taste would get stale after a while. Funnily enough, Elijah rather hated those stupid red fruit too, even with cream. She hated Wimbledon as well, as it happened. Tennis made no sense to her and it certainly didn’t curve her rage any to see those little dipshits wearing the smallest skirts imaginable, and making cries of orgasmic rage whenever they hit the ******* ball. What was the point of any of that? It was moronic. Plain and simple.

Elijah figured she could probably make a following for her rage, she had so much of it, and even encouraged her blog readers to give her a subject to hate on, challenge her to find something that was detestable about it. Some of the replies were standard words or scenarios, some were thinly veiled insults about how much of a lesbian she was or something (she wasn’t paying too much attention to those), and then occasionally she’d get something inspired like baby rabbits. What bad things could anyone say about a baby rabbit, right? They were cute and fluffy and innocent little bags of fur that never did nothing to no one. And wasn’t that the damn problem? Same with any kind of sprog, Elijah protested. All they ever do is nag and take and grow up to be little bastards of their own design. They never turn around and thank mummy rabbit for giving birth to them and fending off daddy rabbit who doesn’t give a **** if they’re related, he’s horny, and well that’s what is **** about baby rabbits. Plus, they do eventually turn into adult rabbits and they’re pointless ******* creatures in the first place. At least they give meat, she supposed, and they’re fairly easy to catch. Why the **** anyone kept a rabbit as a pet was beyond her. What kind of pet did they make when they were forever staring at you like you were Satan? Prey animals made **** pets. End of rant.

Blue eyes had crossed the room at that point, spying on her “competition”. Not even half of these saps likely had the writing talent that she did, but then, if selling books was about how good the writer was, there would be a million more authors in circulation. No, writing wasn’t about how well you knew the English language, or how well you could create imagery and scenes; it wasn’t even about how good a storyteller you were. Writing professionally was about how ******* ordinary you were, because ordinary people do not want to expand their horizons, they do not want the effort of digging out a hidden meaning and a subtext, they just want to read about other ordinary people doing boring, ordinary things. Sharp eyes fell upon a young bottle-blonde who was twirling her hair around her fingers, chatting and giggling away with some talk, dark and handsome figure some feet away. As much as Elijah might have liked to put a spin on things, maybe imagine that the young dumb-**** blonde was actually some genius who was tricking these simple men with her womanly charms, all in the effort to find the three codes that would open a safe somewhere, it was unlikely to be anything more than what the surface glance had told her. Dumb-**** blonde wants to sell her book so she flirts with wealthy looking male to make it happen. It was any wonder why dumb-**** blonde had yet to make it over here and start her seduction techniques on Grant. Maybe she would later if Elijah wouldn’t stop glaring at her…

“So what’s your type?” Elijah asked casually, turning those insidious eyes on him. “Is it blondes, brunettes, red-heads? Or doesn’t it matter much as long as they’ve got the right assets?”

[Stonehouse]

Stonehouse had half expected a somewhat negative response to his use of the word “luck”, despite the fact that it was mentioned rather innocently, but he wasn’t quite prepared for the female’s fiery outburst. He’d clearly touched a raw nerve, yet against emphasizing the writer’s disdain towards the publishers and their apparently inferior levels of intellect and talent. For a moment or two, the pompous author seemed to transform herself into the archetypal Welsh red dragon, breathing pontifical fire into Stonehouse’s face as he dared to even suggest that chance may play a role in her success. Anger burnt deep within her piercing eyes, and for a split second Stonehouse imagined bilious smoke emerging from her flared nostrils like a raging torrent of steam produced by a powerful locomotive engine. The display of unadulterated passion excited Stonehouse. He could almost feel the energy flowing through her body as he watched her every movement. The seducer’s mind had already been made up earlier in the evening, but this display of raw zeal by the emotional woman confirmed Stonehouse’s thoughts. He was going to taste her tonight, every inch of her; every last drop of her zesty blood.

Before he drained the blonde’s undoubtedly effervescent elixir from her exquisite body, the inquisitive vampire would still need to solve the mystery of what it was that the author actually wrote about. Her reluctance to open up and answer what, on the face of it, seemed a very simple question, was becoming increasingly more intriguing. Just what exactly was she hiding? Perhaps Elijah was a former spy, holding a mountain of sensitive secrets in her head, and her writing was a metaphorical minefield for the publishers to approach with the upmost caution? Maybe she was merely shy, or more likely she deemed Stonehouse to be beneath her and not worthy of a response. How the tables would turn.

Stonehouse thought about continuing his line of questioning like a greyhound tirelessly pursuing the rabbit around the racing track. However, even though he found her anger appealing, the smart option was to ease back with the inquisition and address her own question. Just what was his type? On the subject matter of women, was Stonehouse predictable with his choices?

In the so-called “sport” of bullfighting, there is a term called querencia that refers to a place in the bullring to which the mighty beast will constantly return. Each animal has a different, unique querencia, and as the contest continues, and the agitated and frightened creature becomes increasingly more threatened, it will return more frequently to its favourite spot. With each retracing of its hooved steps, the angered bull becomes ever more predictable, making the task of the matador far less complicated that it would otherwise be. Rather than trying something new and bold that may confuse the hunter, the weary prey simply heads for its querencia, its comfort zone, allowing the matador to kill the once majestic mammal with relative ease. Predictability was a weakness, a flaw that an opponent could exploit.

There was a nagging temptation at the back of Stonehouse’s mind, like a pesky little imp tugging at his brain, to give a cheesy, predictable answer to the alluring author’s enquiry. He could so easily say that his “type” were feisty blonde novelists with great legs and sexy Welsh accents, but the probability of receiving a deadpan stare that screamed “**** off, loser” was higher than any odds that a Las Vegas casino would be prepared to accept. If the truth be told, Stonehouse didn’t really have a type. He didn’t want to pigeon-hole himself into preferring any particular class of woman, as stereotypes were usually so dull, and options were there to be left open, not closed off. There was no point pitching a tent in the corner of the field and then tormenting oneself when the rest of the meadow blossomed with beautiful flowers.

There was a time when a youthful, more optimistic Stonehouse believed in love, believed in “the one”, and had even convinced himself that he had found her. Those days were long gone, buried under the scar tissue of bitter break ups and desperate disappointment. Stonehouse was a handsome man, successful to boot, and attractive companions were never in short supply, but he no longer required the sparkling personality to accompany the good looks as he had done in the past. When it came to women, Stonehouse was now nothing more than a shallow playboy, selfish and greedy, except to those whom he held dear to his hardened heart. For sure, he could charm the birds from the trees with his quick wit and silver tongue, but in many ways it was an act, superficial, just like the majority of the girls who’d fallen under his spell over recent years. One day he wanted the big-breasted bubbly brunette, the next day an athletic blonde with endless legs, while an elegantly slender redhead with perfect porcelain skin would round off the week rather nicely. Yesterday’s Salma Hayek was today’s Doutzen Kroes, and tomorrow’s Karen Gillan. Sophisticated and stylish, sassy and sexy, or sleazy and slutty, they all served a purpose. Why choose between Scarlett Johansson and Maria Brink when one could have both? God gave Stonehouse two arms for a reason.

It was time for Stonehouse to respond to the aloof woman’s question. He’d noted with interest how her dazzling sapphire eyes had been drawn towards a couple across the room, engaged in flirtatious conversation. The dynamics were fascinating as the youthful bottle blonde with her pearly white teeth fluttered her eyelids endlessly towards the slightly older, well-groomed gentleman. The scenario was not entirely dissimilar to the one taking place between Stonehouse and Elijah, and the similarities were not lost on the mischievous charmer. Rather than responding to the query posed with the predictable, boring answer, Stonehouse had a much more adventurous response lined up.

“My type,” said Stonehouse, rubbing his chin as if he were in deep contemplation about the meaning of life, “would have to be perky blondes with coquettish smiles who love to toy with their hair. They really do it for me.”

Stonehouse paused, looking directly into the eyes of his freshly acquired acquaintance, checking to look for any miniscule movements that would indicate that the Welsh wordsmith was attempting to steal another glance at her competition in the opposite corner of the boardroom.

“I don’t suppose that you’ve… seen anyone matching that description around here this evening?” he continued, gently raising an eyebrow for added effect. “If so, please keep me clear of them, as I may not be able to control myself.”

Control was, in fact, one thing that Stonehouse possessed by the truckload. He was a control freak, a master not a servant, who needed to be in command, both of his own emotions and those of others. His plan for tonight was already set in stone; he would dominate his prey, control and manipulate her, and take what he wanted. Hopefully she would succumb willingly, but other methods were never to be ruled out.

“And what’s your type?” added Stonehouse. “Or is that a secret, as elusive as your writing genre?”

Stonehouse had revisited his unanswered question, returned to his querencia, but he was no ordinary fighting bull, and the Welsh matador would not be able to fend off his assault with her cape of avoidance indefinitely. Not in a million years would she be able to predict this evening’s events.

[Opium (DELETED 7294)]

Obviously Grant had caught the direction her eyes had wandered in just mere seconds before she’d posed the question because he was styling his answer just perfectly to match the idiot from across the room. Elijah rolled her eyes on cue regardless of whether or not he was just being playful. They weren’t close enough to play games like that, to tease each other and have it all be about the jollies, but maybe they could be. Just the very fact that she was entertaining the possibility meant that she’d given some thought as to what might happen between the pair of them in the future. Elijah didn’t care for friendships because she rarely could afford the free time or energy to give a crap about the mundane happenings of other people’s lives. This was why she never attended those mandatory office parties or made plans with colleagues outside work. There was nothing they had in common and Elijah just couldn’t put on her fake face for the times that persisted past paid hours. Since Elijah didn’t drink, couldn’t tolerate loud music, and hated the idea of standing around gossiping about which person was a dipshit and which was hot when they were all dipshits, she had no reason to take her colleagues up on any of their offers to go out after work.

Finding someone even tolerable to talk to was like searching for gold in human excrement. Apparently there are millions of pounds just sitting there at the bottom of the pan, but how much **** does one person have to slog through before they find the tiniest scrap of something precious? Elijah wasn’t sure whether or not this male would be worth the efforts either, but at least she was lingering on the question. Normally she would be certain whether or not someone was stupid and boring upon immediately meeting them. Grant was a little more difficult to read than most and by design, harder to predict. He was clearly more intelligent than he appeared, and probably had a higher IQ than the combined populace of the room they were standing – not that that was much of a feat if she was excluding herself. Elijah was aware that she probably seemed stuck-up and arrogant to a lot of people and maybe she was, but then she didn’t really give a **** about that. It was impossible for her to dumb herself down and like the kind of **** that passed for culture these days. It was always amusing that she was considered the **** for not even trying to care about which celebrity did whatever with whomever or care about what was going to happen in the next series of Who-Gives-A-****-Ville. It wasn’t like she ever blamed them for not liking to read the latest manga or play the first video game of its kind to incorporate motion sensors, 3D technology and voice recognition. Fact of the matter was that people suck.

When Grant turned Elijah’s question back on her, adding in another quip about her mysterious genre, she couldn’t halt the sigh escaping from her stomach full of rage. Since he’d been a jackass and hadn’t actually bothered to answer her question, she didn’t rightly feel the need to answer his either. Frankly it was difficult to define her type. She could point out traits that she found attractive – be they physical or psychological – but then something that might seem like a good idea, can eventually be a bad one if not moderated. What if she liked intelligence, but only so much intelligence because too much made her feel like a dumbass? What if she liked ambition, but when that came in spades, she found herself left behind? What if she liked kindness, but soon found that that caring nature was not limited in the slightest? The possibility of being excluded and rejected made her skin ripple with frustration. Elijah never cared about fitting in or claiming a lover or any of that ********, but she knew she had to do some of those things if she was looking to survive. She’d befriended Jemma because she’d needed someone to ground her, an anchor for her fantasies and daydreaming. Elijah wanted the world to be fair and kind and for people just to not be shitty to each other, but the reality was something else entirely.

“I’m afraid it totally is a secret,” she said, not batting an eyelash as she watched him. “Too bad for you that you don’t qualify to have that knowledge.”

Now Elijah was wondering how much he’d want to know the answer and – perhaps – what he would be willing to do, give or trade, in order to have it. Maybe they could play a game, liven this shindig up a few notches. Maybe she could set him a few challenges, like a game of truth or dare on crack. At least she wouldn’t be bored for an hour and it didn’t bother her in the slightest if, after all the challenges completed, Grant would find that the prize wasn’t worth the effort.

[Stonehouse]

There was a reasonable chance that the fiery Welsh dragon could have exploded like a gas station full of petrol if Stonehouse had thrown any more fuel onto the fire, but instead she had turned down her internal oven, and was now simmering away gently rather than boiling over. The flamethrower tongue had become more of a glowing candle, sending warm words flickering in Stonehouse’s direction, rather than a volcanic eruption of molten lava sentences. Her reply had a hint of coyness to it, rather than simply being aloof or rude, and could almost be mistaken as containing a subtle suspicion of flirtation. Did the steely blonde actually want Stonehouse to uncover her secret? Had she issued a challenge to him, thrown down an elegant gauntlet, the kind that Audrey Hepburn would have worn in Breakfast at Tiffany's? He still needed to be cautious with his approach, as hot wax can burn.

Stonehouse loved a contest, one that would make him think and have to work diligently for the reward. Playing chess or poker against a monkey simply wasn’t the thrill-seeker’s style. He needed a genuine opponent otherwise there was no satisfaction in triumph. As Stonehouse scanned his interesting counterpart with his dark, inquisitive eyes, he wondered if the leggy author had any particular tests in mind, a set of tasks that would allow him to “qualify” for her secret school? Perhaps there was some kind of clandestine initiation ceremony, or cunning entrance exam, that would allow him free access to roam around inside her hidden library, reading each and every book that she kept on her mental shelf, thumbing every delicate page? In all honesty, it wouldn’t matter if the pair indulged in any form of game, as the determined businessman had already made up his confident mind that he was stealing the prize. Come what may, Stonehouse’s hungry mouth was going to enjoy the sweet taste of victory tonight.

A thought began to tease at the back of Stonehouse’s scheming mind, like a feather tickling his sense of adventure. Would it be totally unfair to simply “take” what he desired, rather than allowing his opponent a decent chance to win? Although he was a master manipulator, always trying to subdue and dominate his acquaintances in the most unthreatening and shrewd manner, Stonehouse didn’t always want everything handed to him on a silver platter. Maybe it was the right moment to make a suggestion, a proposal?

“I really do love a good mystery,” said Stonehouse enthusiastically, “one that draws you in, captivates you.”

A casual look in the woman’s general direction slowly transformed into an alluring gaze, as if Stonehouse was trying to drill directly into her soul and access her firmly locked vaults.

“I’m sure that we all have a few secrets,” continued the vampire, “the odd special thought or feeling that we keep tucked away, or perhaps a devious little skeleton that we lock up in our closet.”

The fact that Stonehouse was withholding a fairly hefty secret – that he was an undead beast, hell-bent on ravaging her body and pillaging the lifeblood from her arteries – was possibly the greatest irony of the situation. At some stage later in the evening, more than likely when a set of razor sharp fangs were clamped into her neck by a vice-like jaw, the sophisticated writer would have a real story to tell. For now, it was time for the detective to make an appearance, and to start solving the puzzle. Donning a metaphorical deerstalker hat, Sherlock Stonehouse posed a more direct question.

“May I ask if there is a method of qualifying for a backstage pass to gain access to your stash of secrets, Elijah?” enquired Stonehouse, continually pressing the same button, twisting the key deeper into the lock in an attempt to spring it open. “Some kind of interview process, so to speak?”

He paused, smiling mischievously at the stony-faced female while she remained motionless next to the bar. Stonehouse was a businessman, a trader, and some exchange of knowledge was hopefully on the cards, a deal. Presumably the woman had come to this evening’s soiree to peddle her wares and network with her archenemies, the publishers? Therefore, wasn’t the whole event effectively one huge interview?

“I’ll happily share some insider information with you if you like?” added Stonehouse. “You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours?”

An itch was developing inside Stonehouse that even the magnificent claws of a Bengal tiger would find hard pushed to scratch. A sensation of anticipation was gradually beginning to well up deep within the charmer’s core. Let the games begin.

[Opium (DELETED 7294)]

The haughty writer might have convinced herself that she had a dastardly plan in her head all along, that she was going to make Grant wish he’d never come over and talked to her as she humiliated him with menacing challenges and tests of his emotional endurance, but she was having trouble finding any polished thoughts at all. It was that look he was giving her, a look that set fiery ants crawling over every inch of her skin, a look that made her breath hitch in her throat and send her mind away. Elijah turned from Grant, blue eyes dismissively flexed upon the window to the other side of her – fortunately she could neither see her reflection or the lack of one from the Vampire, just the carpet of city lights threaded like jewels in an endless inky tapestry. When she wasn’t looking at Grant, Elijah was aware of the world again. Her heart, she noticed, was beating in tune to the softly thrumming beat of the music and yet was singing so loudly in her ears that she almost couldn’t hear Grant speaking anymore. Nevertheless, a breath crushed against her teeth as she felt the heat of the man’s words flare against the side of her neck. The words felt so close that Elijah could have sworn that Grant had taken the liberty to sneak up next to her when she’d been doing her bit to ignore him. When she realised that Grant had remained exactly where he was – glancing at his torso and not his face – the ghostly blaze along her skin subsided and Elijah felt the sting of goose bumps race across her body in its stead.

That dreaded evidence of embarrassment marking her on the outside as well as in, gave Elijah the push she needed to set the first challenge. Finally, she returned that glassy gaze to the metallic shimmer of Grant’s. The look on her features was fairly indiscernible because it would be difficult to tell where the arrogance bled off and the curiosity set in. Elijah watched the male before her equivocally, judging for herself that the only time this man had ever let someone scratch his back was in the bedroom. She could almost see the red lines tracing across that buttery skin of his, how elegant shoulders rose and fell like that of some exotic predator, and how the grin on his face was just as scarlet for having won those marks in the first place. He was a terribly handsome figure and that confidence of his would undoubtedly snare any number of air-headed sluts; he didn’t even need to put on that charming smile or don those moonlit eyes like he was doing for her.

If Elijah could put it into words the kind of impression those eyes gave her – and she should be able to if she was half the writer she thought herself to be – then she might as well pull out her Bible, because she could certainly liken him to the Devil. Yet, Grant was not some horned beast with goat legs, the seducing snake, or some fiery shroud licking at the darkness of the mind, but the embodiment of all sins wrapped in a very Human visage. He would be both extraordinary and ordinary, someone who you could walk by on the street and never give a second glance to, and someone who could break into your house and bury his testicles in your Sunday roast as Granny gasps in horror. The bold and the cunning beast, whose candle-light smile melted inhibitions like marshmallows. Grant was the charming Devil, the monster you didn’t suspect because he was shadows and sins and half-truths. If there was a better time to dance with the Devil, then Elijah didn’t know it or likely, didn’t care.

“Well, I don’t know,” Elijah said, her voice undulating with the sultry, smoky notes of Peggy Lee. “You’re a long way from earning my trust.”

Elijah cocked her head slightly, some of her perfectly quaffed hair waving with the movement, amusement dusted over her face as sly eyes looked back to the bottle-blonde.

“So, what do you think, handsome?” Elijah asked, those tumultuous blues falling on the man’s finely featured face, setting a challenge. “Think you’re trustworthy? Want to prove it?”

[Stonehouse]

“The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.”

Roger “Verbal” Kint – The Usual Suspects

Trust is a curious emotion. The notion that someone has a firm belief in the reliability, truth, or the ability of something or someone, requires a real leap of faith. A simple task such as getting into an elevator requires an element of trust, yet we do it on a routine basis without even blinking an eye. We must trust that the person who designed the lift system and car knew what they were doing, and that the machinery is in full working order because the maintenance guy checked it properly. Having exited the powerful elevator car doors, that could so easily crush one’s arm should they malfunction, the seemingly effortless job of crossing the road to the coffee shop opposite, involves yet more periods of trust. We rely on the bus driver paying attention to the traffic signals so that he doesn’t plough through us like a scythe through wheat as we attempt to reach our goal of a hot, frothy latte on the other side of the street. We assume that the aforementioned traffic lights won’t suddenly go crazy and turn into a temporary disco, causing vehicular carnage. Needless to say, once we are inside the castle of caffeine, we have to trust that the barista serving our beloved beverage isn’t a serial killer, hell-bent on the mass poisoning of their customers. Effectively, to prevent a state of utter paranoia, our everyday lives are awash with a default setting of trust. Despite the fact that we apparently value trust so highly, placing it on its marble pedestal next to honesty, it’s handed out faster than compliments at a speed dating night.

Grant Stonehouse trusted virtually nobody, mainly because he found virtually nobody trustworthy. He wasn’t insane; he didn’t hear “the voices” in his head telling himself that the whole world was out to get him. Stonehouse simply found that people were generally unreliable, with their own shifting agendas. As a businessman, Stonehouse viewed trust as just another commodity, one that could be earned, and subsequently traded. Once someone had demonstrated their conviction to their own word, then Stonehouse was far more likely to engage in further discussions with them. He didn’t want to deal with bullshitters who changed their opinions depending upon which way the wind happened to be blowing. Apparently, relationships should be built on trust. Didn’t the wise man build his house on rock, while the foolish man built his house on sand? Stonehouse viewed trust like sand, because the changing tides of emotion and external pressures could easily wash away the golden grains, leaving a crumbling citadel.

Stonehouse had, in the past, placed his trust in others, opened up and allowed people into his private world. Generally, they had failed him, and had been nothing more than specks of worthless sand that drifted through his fingers and escaped onto the breeze of obscurity. Except for a specially selected few, the trust drawbridge had been raised, and the portcullis into Stonehouse’s soul was firmly locked down. To all intents and purposes, Stonehouse trusted nobody but himself, especially in Harper Rock.

Ironically enough, in spite of his own issues, the seemingly self-centred entrepreneur was incredibly trustworthy… with those who deserved it. A manipulator of the highest order, Stonehouse would happily ease his way into the confidence cave of numerous acquaintances, like a cunning cobra sliding through the grass. Once inside their inner circle of trust, he could gather information, creaming off valuable knowledge, milking intimate secrets that would be stored away for later use. Basically, people were potential gold mines that needed to be plundered. Knowledge was power, and harvesting treasures sown by his seeds of charm was Stonehouse’s forte. However, those deemed worthy enough of his trust were a different matter.

Loyalty was everything to Stonehouse, even ranking higher than power and wealth. The exceptional businessman could acquire money relatively easily, and with success came influence, respect, and authority, but loyalty was different. Even the most powerful, domineering master could not guarantee the loyalty of their favoured servants. Anyone who had demonstrated true, unwavering faithfulness to Stonehouse, no matter what the circumstances, would be treated like royalty. To date, only immediate family members, and a small handful of extremely close friends, had received such preferential treatment. Unfortunately for the steely-eyed blonde, who appeared to be setting a challenge for the eager competitor, she would more than likely be long dead, drained of her lifeblood, before she had been afforded an opportunity to display her allegiance. Nevertheless, the chance to impress the attractive writer and exhibit his trustworthy characteristics was too big an itch not to be scratched by Stonehouse.

“I am a diligent worker,” replied Stonehouse, “always delighted to put in a hard shift, so hopefully I can earn my place at your trustworthy table, and enjoy a thoroughly sumptuous feast.”

Stonehouse smiled, politely, but with a glint in his eye that may have suggested a hint of mischief subtly disguised within his response. The whole boardroom was bursting with two-faced people trying to make an impression by saying exactly what they thought their counterparts wanted to hear, in order to further their respective careers. They all had hidden agendas, secret motives, but none so dark and sinister as the plot that was swirling around in Stonehouse’s vampire mind. People would inherently trust an angel, even though Lucifer himself was once such a celestial creature. All that was required of Stonehouse was to convince the doubting Thomas next to him that he was a trustworthy angel, not a scheming demon, and she’d be eating out of the cool palm of his hand soon enough.

“So, Elijah,” continued Stonehouse, maintaining eye contact at all times as he spoke, “just what task do you have in mind? They say that the proof is in the pudding, so shall we start cooking?”

[Opium (DELETED 7294)]

For all Grant’s attempts to butter her up with slick words, Elijah was already as sleek and shiny as she could get. Saturated with his sleazy charm might have been a better way to put it if it didn’t make her nose crinkle from the heinous suggestions it irked. She didn’t like him that much, she told herself. She’d only known him for about five minutes and four of those were spent arguing. Though, he hadn’t run away, had he. She’d spat fire into his face and he was still standing, which as endearing as it was, spoke volumes about his broken psyche. Granted, Elijah was no psychology expert, even if she’d had some experience studying it some at A Level and had visited her fair share of shrinks, so she couldn’t determine whether Grant was still standing because he was too arrogant to tuck tail and run, or because he was about as fucked up as she was and found himself someone to tolerate despite the obvious drawbacks. Elijah understood very well how much of a delight she could be at times, and this certainly was one of those times of treats and sugar. Elijah was being so sweet tonight that she might just cause the pair of them problems with the doctor and dentist in a few hours’ time. Still, Grant was hanging about her like an annoying honey bee and Elijah decided that she should at least be entertained as she was trying to swat him away – even if it meant a sting for her efforts.

“Do you see Chuckles over there?” Elijah said, pointing out the giggling bottle-blonde in a none too subtle manner – she did stick her finger out at arm’s length to indicate the muppet after all so she doubted that Grant would get confused. “Girl like that is as vain as they come. Flirting comes for free and I bet if you whisper enough sweet nothings into her ear, those pants will come off quickly too. She ******* loves those earrings though,” Elijah regarded, her blue eyes shining like jealous sapphires looking at the garnet and diamond clusters sitting in the bottle-blonde’s earlobes. “I want to see if you can steal them. Both of them and without her noticing.”

Knowing how sickeningly charming Grant was made Elijah add that little addendum about the girl’s perceptions. It would be far too easy for the male to walk over there and simply ask for them or find a nice way to convince her to give him those earrings. Asking Grant to steal them without the girl even noticing was more likely to push him to work outside of his comfort zones, and that pleased Elijah more than it probably should have. Of course, she would give the earrings back after their little game was over – she wasn’t a thief and deep down inside, Elijah was a nice girl. They looked expensive at any rate, and too old for the girl who was wearing them. Elijah assumed that the earrings were probably more sentimental than for appearance’s sake. Maybe they were her grandmother’s and so she wore them to keep the old woman close. Or maybe they were just good luck charms and she needed as much as she could get tonight. Even airheaded bimbos need a confidence boost, isn’t that why they pump silicone into their chests to begin with? If you have no personality, no intelligence, and no chance to be successful in business, you might as well work on your looks. Play to your strengths, that’s what they say.

[Stonehouse]

A wry grin crept across Stonehouse’s clean-shaven face like a full moon rising across a clear night sky. His dark eyes sparkled, shining stars complementing the sweeping satellite of a smile, as excitement swelled inside his stomach. The woman’s challenge was cunning, placing the eager contestant in an interesting predicament. If he shirked the blonde’s test, claiming that theft was against the law, or simply downright rude, then she could mock him. All talk, no trousers, the typically cocky male, full of himself, but failing to deliver. On the other hand, if Stonehouse accepted her quest, like Jason of the Argonauts fame, trying to steal the legendary golden fleece, then the control freak would effectively be doing the writer’s bidding, like some kind of performing chimp. He was stuck between a humiliating rock, and a potentially embarrassing hard place. If the situation were a game of chess, the wannabe Grandmaster would be in zugzwang, compelled to make a move that would weaken his position, whatever option he chose. Stonehouse was impressed at the woman’s manipulative skills. He’d enjoy tasting her even more after this demonstration of gamesmanship.

A gentle twist of his neck allowed Stonehouse to glance across at the target. Obviously, he already knew exactly who the Welshwoman meant, but he wanted to take in the whole scene, to assimilate the other guests who hovered around her like flies, so as incorporate them into the plan that was rapidly forming in his scheming mind. The smooth-talking salesman returned his attention to the taskmaster, the mischievous grin on his face having been replaced with a cold, serious expression.

“Couldn’t you have thought of something more… challenging?” asked Stonehouse, almost smugly. “I’m sure that her pants would come off if I simply clicked my fingers.”

Stonehouse’s twinkling eyes were like a glittery double-barrelled shotgun, firing shining shot all over attractive blonde while he gazed intently into her own icy cool orbs. There was no way that he was losing this game. Failure was not an option. His vision slid up her smooth, creamy neck, fixating on the sculptured skin of the writer’s ears.

“I’m sure that the jewellery would suit you rather nicely,” he added, offering a delicate smile to accompany his words. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t miss me too much.”

With a subtle nod of his head, indicating that the battle had commenced, Stonehouse eased himself away from the bar like a luxury yacht casting off from its moorings. Stretching out an arm, Stonehouse swept up a used Champagne glass with his nimble fingers, the dregs of golden liquid clinging to the inner surface like a fine mist. He didn’t look back at the woman, instinctively sensing her eyes piercing his rear. With his arrogance leading him to assume that she would undoubtedly be following his every step, Stonehouse sailed gracefully towards the bottle-blonde target. The silver tongue of the charismatic character glazed across his pearly white teeth as Stonehouse approached his destination. It was time for another charm offensive, an assault with all guns blazing.

“Well, fancy seeing you here!” announced Stonehouse in an exuberant fashion, as he brushed up behind the giggling girl. “I haven’t seen you in ages, Emma. How the devil are you?”

The tall, smartly dressed gentleman, with whom the flirtatious young woman had been talking, seemed a little taken aback by the sudden intrusion. In his mind, the reasonable handsome man was reeling in the bubbly blonde like a prize fish with his engaging conversation and witty banter, and Stonehouse was the uninvited guest. In reality, she found him tedious, and only laughed at his jokes because he was some kind of big-shot publisher… at least that was his story. Her flirting - the way she suggestively touched her lips, or twirled her platinum strands of hair between her painted fingertips - was as false as the eyelashes that she continued to flutter in the sucker’s general direction.

“You look amazing!” added Stonehouse, casually slipping his hand across her shoulder to caress her dyed locks. “I just love what you’ve done to your hair, Ems, the colour is fantastic.”

The woman looked stunned, like she’d just seen a ghost, but not a terrifying malevolent spectre, more like Casper, or Slimer from Ghostbusters. She appeared quite happy at the attention being bestowed upon her, even though she had absolutely no idea of the identity of her apparent friend. The confusion, as her mind tried to work out who the compliment-spraying stranger actually was, afforded Stonehouse the distraction that he had planned. Dextrous digits, still teasing loose strands of hair, plucked an earring from her unsuspecting lobe like a ripe cherry. Stonehouse continued his mission, leaning into her personal space. In a rather continental manner, he puckered up his lips and planted an overblown kiss upon the blushing blonde’s cheek, whispering perhaps a little too loudly into her ear.

“I cannot believe how gorgeous you look, have you lost weight?” asked Stonehouse, before his tongue snaked out from between his lips and curled around the other piece of decorative jewellery, sucking it clean off, disguising his action with another kiss.

Suddenly, Stonehouse jerked backwards, clasping a hand firmly across his mouth, both to hide the earring, and to feign surprise. His glistening eyes moved rapidly between the startled flirt and her irritated companion. The concealing hand swiftly dived into his trouser pocket, depositing the tiny trophy next to its sibling, leaving Stonehouse’s wide-open mouth on display. He looked aghast, as if it were he who really had seen a ghost.

“Oh my goodness!” exclaimed Stonehouse, “I am so terribly sorry. I could have sworn you were my old sparring partner, Emma. It’s totally my mistake. Please, please, forgive my rude intrusion.”

Stonehouse shook his head apologetically, looking down at the empty Champagne glass that was gripped in his other hand. He raised the glass, tipping it upside down to emphasize that his cup was no longer overflowing.

“I think I’ve drunk too much of the old fizzy stuff,” said Stonehouse, “and it’s messed with my eyesight. Once again, please forgive me. Enjoy your evening. I’m so sorry!”

Bringing his hands together as if he were praying for forgiveness, Stonehouse offered a half-hearted bow of penitence. Shuffling backward, gently reversing away from the scene of the crime, he shook his head once more, adding a facepalm to his performance as the grand finale. Spinning on his heels, the dashing thief hung his head in fake shame, and began his return journey back to port.

Long fingers fiddled with the pair of stolen quest items harboured inside his pocket. A sneaky smirk decided to make an appearance on his face, as Stonehouse’s devious eyes glanced upwards, locking onto the exquisite looking Welsh writer. He was going to enjoy the next few minutes, really enjoy them.

[Opium (DELETED 7294)]

Elijah had to watch what was going on without actually watching what was going on. There was a subtle elegance to keeping one’s eyes trained on a person like Predator, whilst not being seen… like Predator. Unfortunately, and despite many conversations with her sister that insisted that Elijah had actually been abducted from her home planet and left here to suffer, the blonde did not have alien powers or camouflaging technologies concealed under her skirt. So she took the vanity mirror out of her purse, turned to the side and watched the events unfold out of the corner of her eye whilst pretending she was checking her make-up. As she watched, the blonde almost dropped the ******* mirror. Grant was making a complete arse out of himself, striding up to the dumb-**** with the orange skin like a drunken ex just about to tell her what the **** he really thinks of her cooking. Except, the tables suddenly turned. Instead of cursing her out and pulling her hair like a pair of bitches fighting over their selfie snaps, Grant was all charm and grins and… hugs? And was that a tongue she just saw?

Elijah’s hand instinctively clenched, snapping the vanity mirror closed. Forgetting how she was supposed to be all cool and sophisticated and such, she turned and gawked. Looking right at them, not able to hide her surprise anymore, not when she caught the ****** working that rather gorgeous muscle around the glistening gem in the other woman’s ear. He was full of surprises, making her wonder – just for a few, scant and brief seconds – just what other parts of his body could be so dexterous. There was heat on her cheeks, like someone had just set fire to her skin, but it was burning its way down her veins and sitting in her stomach too. Was that a touch of jealousy, pride or lust? Of course, Elijah could respond to him giving the other female such attention with irrational jealousy – it was normal, it didn’t matter that she’d only met him like five minutes. Women, or maybe it was a part of being Human, desired attention and didn’t like to compete at the cost of being found lesser. Elijah could be pissed off too – a go-to response for her, really. She felt rage for having him take her task and discredit its challenge so effortlessly. This was supposed to be a trial of his wits and smarts, and he’d blazed through it like she’d offered him a Malteser and requested he eat it from the palm of her hand. Only, she had no such power here and damn it all if she wasn't completely ******* spell-bound by this charcoal-clad male.

“Mother ******,” she thought to herself, grinning like an idiot all the same. “Maybe I should tell him to put them back without her noticing too. Or make him shove them up his arse…”

That idiotic smile crept into a smirk – devious and sticky like black treacle ready to be smothered on his face. Blue eyes were honed in with a laser focus as Grant sauntered back to her. She was not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d done a grand job, even if that scowl she wore said enough. Judging by the look on his face, he would believe he’d done an excellent job regardless. Now she was screwed, and maybe she didn’t mind so much. She could cut the air out of his sails when he returned for his prize and found the value to be lacking – an equal award for the amount of effort he’d displayed. Elijah forced her arms over her chest, crossing them at the wrist and pushing so hard into her sternum that she might crush her ribs. Her chest wasn’t really that bountiful anyway, but with how she sucked in and bolted those arms across her body, she easily made her perfectly adequate B cup increase a size. Not that she wanted him to look because there was no way that her confidence and self-assurance was measured by what other people thought of her. Nope. Not all. Not even a little bit. Ok, maybe a tiny bit…

“Well done,” she said through gritted teeth. “I guess I should put more effort into your next challenge then if that’s your version of shooting fish in a barrel.” She couldn’t help it. Elijah was very tit-for-tat… or vengeful, bitter, callous, as most people called it. He’d discredited her challenge and now she would discredit his efforts. “Suppose you want your reward?” she asked, putting her hand out to receive the gems. Tit for tat.

[Stonehouse]

Was Grant Stonehouse some kind of modern-day hunter-gatherer, a predator tracking down his prey to bring home and parade it around triumphantly like a trophy? Had the suave and sophisticated businessman simply activated the primitive, Neanderthal region of his brain, transforming himself into a contemporary caveman? His meagre bounty, consisting of only a pair of cheap earrings, could hardly be compared to hauling a freshly slain mammoth back to the tribal village, yet in many ways the jewellery served the exact same purpose as the meaty prize. The prehistoric warrior would be revered for his majestic skills, and held in high esteem, lording it over his fellow clansmen. The powerful huntsman would have the pick of the best dwellings, be they caverns or basic wooden huts, and the choice of the fittest mate, as his offspring would be respected, afforded great privileges simply for carrying the brave tracker’s name. The slayer of the sabre-toothed tiger, the master of the mammoth, would be a demi-god amongst mere mortals.

Stonehouse neither wore a bearskin loincloth nor a robe fashioned from the hide of a deer. His armour, his protection from the less than harsh city centre elements, was an expensive suit. A flint-tipped wooden spear was replaced with cutting wit, his alluring lips shooting piercing arrows of charisma straight to the heart of his captivated quarry. The hunter analogy may have been tenuous, but the effect of Stonehouse’s quest would surely elicit the same response. The challenge had been set, and the adventurer had completed the task, completed it with consummate ease.

As the victorious Stonehouse drew closer to his taskmistress, he resisted the urge to allow a full-blown grin, oozing with juicy smugness, to take over his chiselled face. Inside, the egotistical Englishman was burning with a sense of self-satisfaction and conceit. He wasn’t exactly narcissistic, but the entrepreneur did house an ego the size of the Sun, and he was eager to bathe the Welsh writer in the warmth of his soothing rays. Facial muscles ached, begging to contort Stonehouse’s features into the shape of the Cheshire Cat’s broad, mischievous smile. Finally, he cracked, the subtle smirk erupting into an uncontrollable beam the size of a volcanic crater. Perhaps The Borg, in their infinite cosmic wisdom, were correct, and resistance really was futile?

Dark eyes, like polished orbs of obsidian, locked onto Elijah as Stonehouse took the final few steps towards the blonde. He noticed that she had puffed up her chest like a posturing bird, perhaps a symbol of defensive defiance, or just preening to grab attention. Either way, the thought of puncturing the luscious flesh with his razor sharp fangs was most appealing. Would that be the reward of which she had just spoken, her body, her blood? B&B? It certainly made for an interesting twist on the traditional concept of “bed & breakfast”, yet was eerily similar.

Stonehouse was far more accustomed to 5-star hotel luxury than boutique guesthouse quaintness, and the woman standing before him obviously had all the amenities of an exclusive resort. He would swim length after length in her crystal clear pool, feast in her fine-dining restaurant, and sample drinks from her exotic cocktail bar, before relaxing and unwinding in her exquisite spa. It would be such a shame when he had to check out, but hopefully the chambermaids wouldn’t mind the mess.

Before Stonehouse could collect his room key, the keen competitor needed to address the statement that had just been made by the steely-eyed receptionist. The next challenge? I don’t think so, thought Stonehouse as he piloted his charming speedboat back into port.

“I believe these are now yours,” said Stonehouse, his hand sliding into his trouser pocket to retrieve the recently acquired earrings. “Not quite the Crown Jewels, but pretty, nonetheless.”

Opening his palm to reveal the pair of glistening studs, as if he were offering sugar cubes to entice a thoroughbred mere, the victor smiled warmly at the attractive author.

“Don’t worry,” continued the softly spoken gentleman, “I won’t say anything ridiculously corny about your eyes being far more beautiful than any diamonds or sapphires.”

He paused, deliberately, allowing his own eyes to gaze deeply into the glistening gems that stared back at him, knowing full well that they were indeed stunning. By saying that he wouldn’t tell her, he actually had, albeit in a cunning, indirect manner. It was hardly subliminal messaging, as Stonehouse was sure that the woman would easily decipher his thinly disguised compliment.

Leaning closer to Elijah, near enough to fill his sensitive nostrils with her sensual scent, Stonehouse stretched out a strong hand, and gently took hold of the writer’s wrist. A delicate manipulative twist, and the handsome thief placed the tiny shining trophies into her smooth palm. Maintaining eye contact at all time, Stonehouse carefully closed each of her fingers around the earrings, mentally counting each one as they formed a loose fist. Wrapping his own cool hands around hers, Stonehouse offered Elijah another friendly smile.

“Next challenge, you say?” Stonehouse added, raising an eyebrow as he spoke. “I don’t think that there’ll be a next challenge, although I’m hoping for an awful lot of effort when it comes to the reward.”

Stonehouse slowly let his fingertips caress the soft skin on the back of the blonde’s hands with a gossamer-light touch, as he slipped away his hands. He took half a step backwards, allowing his intense caramel orbs to roam freely across the curves and lines of her figure and face like a lion prowling the Serengeti.

“I understand that there is another boardroom a couple of floors up,” announced Stonehouse. “I’m not all that impressed with the clientele in here tonight, so perhaps which should adjourn this meeting and reconvene upstairs? We can discuss your talents in more detail.”

Had Stonehouse just issued a counter-challenge? Would his new gaming partner accept?