Highway to Hell [Master]

[Finley Prim]

Wearing

The dress had been an extravagance, and it was ruined now.

The money wasn’t hers, but the money was gone, now.

The church hadn’t been full. For a rich man, he didn’t have many friends. Mainly women scowling, because some other wench had beaten them to the treasure chest. Either that, or there was judgment. The guy was nearly twice Finley’s age, but he had a mean look to him. Sturdy. A rich man, not due to goodness or hard work, but illegality and immorality. Gone were the days of the down-and-out mafia bosses. Gone was the leather, in was the suit and tie. The modern day mob boss sat high in an ivory tower, surrounded by glass and simple furnishings.

Finley had always been a lone wolf, but she was sick of the small cons. Sick of the small bursts of money that only got her so far, until she’d run out and needed to find another source. This was her haul. This was the big fish that would keep her fed for life.

For months, she’d lured him in. It had been long, and exhausting. She’d had to sleep with him, and suffer those long nights with zero satisfaction. But, she had pleased her man, and that had been the point. She’d been able to fake her own pleasure, so that he thought she was happy. And, to an extent, she was. The sheets were soft and of the highest quality, there in that tower. The bed was soft, the pillows filled with feather down. She could sleep until noon and drink champagne for lunch. Gifts were given in plenty. Jewellery, clothes, the biggest and best TVs, phones, fitbits, shoes, whatever she wanted. Even a card of her own, to go shopping while her man worked. It was a life of leisure. And, Finley had a lot of fun – so long as her man wasn’t home.

The plan? Marry him. Take his name. Then take all of his money.

And she’d have been stuck, tricked, if it hadn’t been for the priest. A subtle hint, that singular question that she had said she would be able to answer, Bruce wasn’t here, yet.

Prenuptial agreement. At what point in the ceremony would it be signed? The priest, obviously, had not read the run sheet that the wedding planner had so meticulously organised. Of course, Finley had done nothing but pick her own dress – designer, worth thousands of dollars. The sneaky ****** was going to have her sign a prenup in the heat of the moment, when she had no idea what was going on.

Finley stood there, taking it in. She could do it, if she really wanted to. She could go ahead with it; she could sign the document and act as if she weren’t surprised. She could kiss him and tell him she didn’t mind. Of course not! But he would have control of her. None of the money would ever be hers. She’d have to work on him; get him to change her mind. Get him to put her name on wills, on important documents. It was a lot of work, to stay with someone you didn’t love. Someone who disgusted you. It was possible – but in the end, she decided she couldn’t.

The wedding planner had made sure her coat was in the car that would take them to the reception; Finley had no idea where that car was now. It didn’t matter. She ran. She ran from the church until she felt like she was going to twist an ankle in those ******* heels. She took them off, and fled into the warmth of a nearby pub.

Of course everyone stared, but she paid them no mind. All of her plans for a comfortable and rich future were gone. She was back to square one. She needed something to lift her spirits.

”Bottle of rum,” she said. The bartender stared. She reached a gloved hand down the front of her sleeveless dress, and produced a few notes that she’d tucked into her bra.

”And a glass. Please,” she added with a curt little smile. She may have been dressed all in white, with her hair up in curls and her make-up subtle, for once, but she still had a sleeve of tattoos and sharp eyes that brooked no ******* argument. The heels dangled in one hand as she carried her bottle to a free table.

By the time the bottle was nearly empty, the dress was torn and the netted headpiece had been ripped from her hair. The pub was more crowded, as the sun had set, and the spectacle was drawing a crowd – a drunk bride on the bar top, dancing. AC/DC’s Highway to Hell blasted over the speakers, and Finley’s voice cracked as she screamed it at the top of her lungs.

This had to happen, every once in a while. It was a purge. She had hoped these days would be over. But, she’d just have to start all over again. It was… indeed, a highway to some kind of inevitable hell.

[Stonehouse]

The war of winter had two major battles: Christmas and New Year. Grant Stonehouse had spent hour after hour meticulously planning for the forthcoming events like a military general, entrenched in his bunker. He wasn’t buying Christmas presents for his beloved friends and family, or organizing a huge party for New Year’s Eve, but his schemes were hopefully going to be equally as entertaining as the greatest gift that money could buy, or the most sophisticated of seasonal soirees. The plotline to his festive novel was fairly simple: let everyone else spend a small fortune on gifts, or employ an army of helpers to concoct the perfect party, then steal the presents and gatecrash the best parties. Warehouses were stocked up to the rafters with TV’s, iPhones, laptops, and gaming consoles, ready to supply the marauding gangs of shoppers. The buildings were target rich environments, almost aching to be pillaged, as were the gift bags and cars of the aforementioned shopping squads as they dashed around, fighting for last minute bargains. A little bit of breaking and entering into a storage facility lacking in adequate security, or a quick-fingered stealing spree in a crowded shopping mall or car park, could potentially yield a plentiful bounty of goods. There was always a dodgy looking backstreet merchant looking to get his grubby hands on a box of iPads, no questions asked. The festive holiday season really was the most wonderful time of the year for an enthusiastic entrepreneur.

Stonehouse had already plundered enough treasure to sink a battleship through shear weight alone, so tonight he had decided to focus on the social aspect of his seasonal scheme. There were a multitude of Christmas parties scheduled by companies to allow their employees to let their hair down and celebrate; drunken team-building with the inevitable bitching and moaning about the lazy guy in IT and the woman in accounts with the appalling dress sense, and a scandal just waiting to happen involving the boss ******* his secretary in the restaurant restroom after one too many glasses of mulled wine. It was easy to infiltrate these jolly jamborees by simply claiming to be the new hire, or the guy who had come over from the office in Ottawa. There was always a way in, a tunnel to the treasure that could take the form of jewellery, wallets, or expensive overcoats draped invitingly over the backs of unattended chairs or cloakrooms. The potential bonus of an easy midnight snack was also an incentive for a hungry vampire looking to drink something more substantial than a mere glass of sherry. Luring away a victim at the office party for a shot of bloodnog was like shooting fish in a barrel, or more appropriately a sherry cask.

Charitable fundraising events were also abundant at this time of the year. Opportunities to share the ethos of goodwill to all men were taking place in fancy restaurants, city hall ballrooms, or local churches all across Harper Rock. Stonehouse had chosen a function that had been arranged by a local women’s group that was affiliated to a nursing home for tonight’s activities. The Champagne and canapé reception was being held in a swanky hotel in downtown Harper Rock, and it was a black tie event – right up Stonehouse’s street of expertise. However, there was an unforeseen problem.

It was fair to say that Stonehouse was self-centred, and was driven by increasing his own personal gain, but he wasn’t completely heartless. Having arrived at the hotel, which was festooned with lavish festive decorations, including a tree overflowing with glistening baubles, it became immediately apparent that the entire event had been put together by a bunch of lovely old grannies with hearts of gold who were trying to help terminally ill children have a nice Christmas before they passed away in their under-funded hospice. Not even Stonehouse could lower himself to stealing from these honourable folk. Instead, he slipped $100 into the collection bucket, took off his black bow tie, and gazed out into the cold evening air from the comfort of a cosy chair in the hotel lobby, for once holding the moral high ground for a change. Something instantly caught his eye, or should that be somebody caught his stunned eye.

Delicate flakes of snow were drifting out of the night sky like confetti at the Snow Queen’s wedding, forming a thin sparkling layer of white on the street as the overhead lighting illuminated the chilly pavement below. It was as if Jack Frost was sprinkling a final dusting of icing sugar onto the wintery bride’s wedding cake. But it wasn’t the weather that was capturing his intrigued eyes. Rising from his seat and exiting the hotel though its large revolving door, Stonehouse stared at the sight for sore eyes in the pub opposite through the large front window. Robert Stonehouse, Grant’s father, was an aficionado of 1970’s rock music, and had imparted much of his knowledge onto his willing son. Bon Scott era AC/DC was one of Robert’s particular favourites, so when Stonehouse Jr heard the familiar chords of “Highway to Hell” blurting out into the street he couldn’t help but burst into a smile. However, the vocals to this particular version were neither being supplied by the late, great Bon Scott, nor his successor, Brian Johnson. There was blonde-haired woman standing on a table, singing her heart out… wearing a wedding dress! There was no way that Stonehouse was missing out on watching this circus.

Leaving a trail of shallow footprints in the fresh snow, Stonehouse scuttled across the road, bursting into the bar with the enthusiasm of a young child rushing to open his presents on Christmas morning. The stench of booze filled Stonehouse’s sensitive nostrils, and the constant chatter and laughter of a busy bar crowd echoed through his eardrums, but it was his vision that was being bombarded with the most interesting of stimuli. The blonde bride held a near empty bottle of rum, which was doubling up as an imaginary microphone, in one hand, and a pair of slinky wedding shoes in the other, dangling them by their ankle straps as she whirled them above her head. By the constant flashes of red on their soles, Stonehouse was sure that they were Christian Louboutin’s – surely far too expensive and sophisticated for this place? She was singing along to the tune that was blasting out from wall-mounted speakers, while the onlookers giggled and egged her on. The air guitar performance to Angus Young’s solo was truly spectacular.

As the song ended, applause broke out and the woman in white took a bow, before stumbling down from the table and plonking herself rather unceremoniously into her seat. Stonehouse noted how her black eye makeup was smudged. Either she was entering a panda impersonation competition, or she’d shed a few tears. Stonehouse’s own sister, Kate, had been jilted at the altar by her fuckwit of a fiancé a few years earlier, and it was her doting brother who had been her shoulder on which to cry, leading the usually emotionally bankrupt businessman to feel a wave of compassion for the dishevelled bride. She was a good looking woman, not to mention a half decent singer, leading Stonehouse to ponder the circumstances behind her bridal betrayal. He had a hundred questions that he’d love to ask, although in her current state of inebriation, it was unlikely that he’d receive any sensible answers. The fact that the attractive blonde was surrounded by a group of ogling men would also make any interrogation that little more difficult to initiate.

The way that the men were leering at her, almost drooling as they sneered to one another behind her back, was a cause for concern. Stonehouse had seen that lecherous look before, he knew how the male brain worked, after all, he, himself was one. There was also a peculiar scent in the room, a worrying aroma that potentially spelled danger, the smell of testosterone. The glorious swan with her ruffled white plumage was effectively a sitting duck, and the hunters already had their shotguns cocked and loaded. Stonehouse had done one good deed today; perhaps he needed to undertake a second? Glancing down at his attire, a plan began to formulate in Stonehouse’s mind.

Straightening his tuxedo jacket and running a hand through his thick, dark hair, the bold Englishman strode forward through the crowd, being extra careful not to spill any of the drinks that were held loosely in drunken hands. It was time to runaway with the bride.

“Hey, there you are!” announced an energetic Stonehouse as he approached the slim blonde with open arms, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Your mother is going crazy and your fiancé, you remember him, my brother, is going out of his mind with worry. Let me get you out of here and we can try to sort things out.”

Stonehouse smiled, comfortingly, at the woman, before gesturing to the gathered masses, almost apologetically, trying to indicate to them that the show was over and he was going to steal the star performer. This hare-brained ploy could go horribly wrong, but he couldn’t leave this woman at the mercy of the masses.

“There’s still time to save the day,” continued Stonehouse, as he reached his target, looking deeply into her slightly reddened eyes, “and it’s actually snowing a little now. It’s a nice day for a white wedding!”

[Finley Prim]

The stool felt like it was swaying beneath Finley. Up on the bar she felt like she were on top of the world. She felt steady, even if she were being ludicrous and crude. Cheers egged her on, and she was buoyed by the crowd’s support, by the festive mood. When the song ended, she was encouraged by the bartender to get off the bar - he’d let it go on, but only to a point. Allowing a little fun in his pub only worked to a certain point, but he had to keep some control, right? A sermon, something along those lines, was delivered to Finley from his position on the floor and she had to pout as she gave up her position on the bar.

Besides, he had threatened to cut her off if she didn’t get down and calm down, so she got down.

Now, back down on Earth, she felt a little woozy. Although it might have been snowing outside, it was hot inside; especially when the pub was so packed. Hot bodies pressed against hot bodies, further heat produced by the inebriated. Finley’s skin was slick with a thin sheen of sweat. For one brief moment she worried about the dress, but then she laughed. **** the dress. **** it. the shoes were dropped to the ground, waiting to be picked up by some eager and waiting student, some office worker who might never have been able to afford them. Someone who didn’t care that they were someone else’s second hands.

“Do you want some water, love?” The bartender, being caring. Finley’s grin crept across her face, revealing a straight row of pearly, mischievous whites.

”One-lee if you le'me follow it up with sommore rum….” she said. The man gave her a lopsided and yet partly scolding gaze, considering. He finally sighed and nodded, perhaps taking pity upon the bride. Why was it that they always thought it was the bride who had been jilted? Was it something about women being the fairer sex? Did they all seem more vulnerable, somehow? More prone to being stood on and stepped over? If only they all knew the truth. If only they understood that she was the one at fault; she was the one whose deeds were far less than savoury. They wouldn’t dote on her then, would they?

Finley hiccoughed when approached by the primly dressed male. Someone who looked and spoke to her as if he knew her. Brother of the groom? Bruce had a brother? Did he? Had Finley ever seen him? Had Bruce ever spoken about him? She hadn’t really inquired too much but perhaps more family came out of the woodwork for this kind of occasion. Sure, yes. Okay.

In her inebriation, Finley didn’t think it through properly. The story worked on her as well as it worked on the punters - for a little while. She slipped from the stool but then remembered. She remembered why she was here and why it wouldn’t be such a great idea to go anywhere with Bruce’s brother. She didn’t want to work things out. She didn’t love him. She didn’t want to be stuck in that marriage, even with all its comforts. She shoved at the tuxedo, though her strength and her balance weren’t all that great. She ended up stumbling backwards instead of doing any harm. Slipping, tripping on the tatters of her dress until she was slumped on the floor.

How the ****, she thought, did I get on the floor?

Clean shoes. Nice shoes. Oh, yes. That’s right. Bruce’s brother!

”Nooo no. No. ‘mnot going back. I don’t wan’o marry him anymore! I change’my mind,” she said, words significantly slurred. When she laughed, she snorted, snot spurting from her nose which only made her laugh more. And then it dawned on her, what he had said. Who was this man and what did he want?!

”M’mother is dead! Who’re you?!” she shouted, eyes sharp as she clawed at the barstool to try to get herself up off the ground.

[Stonehouse]

There was one particular group of people who annoyed the living daylights out of Stonehouse, a bunch of individuals who continued to create pathetic, lazy excuses for their ineptitude. It was the "nearly crowd", those folk who never seemed to be able to complete their tasks for one sloppy reason or another. They had "almost" tidied their messy bedroom as a child, finished their assignment at university as a student, or their sales report at work. Whenever they were asked a question involving the completion of a project, their response would inevitable be "nearly". It was so infuriating to Stonehouse, the perfectionist. Organization and preparation would ensure that a job would be finished. Nearly wasn't good enough. Hercules wouldn't turn around to King Eurystheus and say that he had nearly finished his epic labours, that ten out of the twelve was good enough for now. The legendary hero would knuckle down until he triumphed in his quest.

Occasionally a situation would be thrown up like a surprise eruption from a volcano, causing a more sporadic, seat of your pants approach to be adopted. Stonehouse thrived on these kind of impromptu challenges as it allowed his creativity to fire up, and his problem solving skills to get into gear. The scenario upon which Stonehouse had stumbled fit perfectly into this bracket. Despite having the imagination to concoct a story, and the correct look and charisma to potentially pull it off, it looked as though Stonehouse's plan may have tripped at the final hurdle. He had nearly succeeded... nearly. A slightly modified plan of attack was required to save the situation.

Stonehouse had become far less confrontational since entering the world of vampires. Vanishing into the shadows instead of bold displays of aggression had become a seemingly more favourable option. It wasn't so much that the once flamboyant character had suddenly mellowed into a placid pond rather than his usual rampant, raging river, he simply viewed conflict as potentially problematic without prior planning. Stonehouse was still a relative novice in Harper Rock, finding his feet, and he was wise enough to know that picking a fight with an unknown enemy was a foolish move. Stonehouse's cookery book had no page in it for a recipe for disaster, as such a meal undoubtedly left a bad taste in one's mouth. Don't trouble Trouble unless Trouble troubles you, was a good rule to follow, as he began weighing up whether or not getting involved with the random blonde stranger was a good or a bad idea. There was most definitely a nagging doubt in the back of Stonehouse's mind, a cautionary voice warning him of potential danger ahead. The drunken bride was probably trouble, but then again Stonehouse wasn't averse to getting into trouble if the timing was right.

First things first, thought Stonehouse as he began to rejig his scheme, sort out that nose. Reaching into the left breast pocket of his tailored suit jacket, the English gentleman produced a white silk handkerchief. It wasn’t quite as exciting as a magician springing a fluffy rabbit from a hat, but it would have to do. Leaning down to the lopsided lady leaning against the table leg, Stonehouse wiped away the pearlescent trail from beneath her nostrils. It was a strange, almost paternal action, as if the stumbling stranger was the young child of the smartly dressed vampire, and he was tidying her up to make her more presentable.

“Now let me help you get to your feet,” said Stonehouse as he hooked a hand underneath one of the floundering female’s armpits, “because the floor of a pub is no place for a bride on her wedding day.”

Stonehouse was acutely aware that the collective eyes of the gathered crowd were eagerly watching the situation unfold, like dozens of daggers trying to pierce his back as he blocked their view. He could overhear some of the rather unsavoury phrases regarding her body and what could be done to it that were dripping like vulgar, vile slime from the mouths of the beer-fuelled men as they jostled for position behind him. It wasn’t everyday that a beautiful bride shook her booty on the barroom tables, and the rabble were desperate for more. They would surely blame him, the knight in black cotton armour, for spoiling their fun and rescuing the drunken damsel in distress. Crowds made Stonehouse uncomfortable; they messed with his senses, but throw alcohol and hormones into the mix, and a jolly audience could quickly turn into an ugly beast. Beer glasses and bottles could be transformed into knuckledusters or shrapnel grenades, and barstools were only a second away from morphing into clubs and makeshift baseball bats. Stonehouse needed to work quickly.

“I think that you’ve had a bit too much to drink, Sweetie," continued Stonehouse as he shuffled the bedraggled bride onto the awaiting wooden stool, “and maybe you are a bit confused. I’m here to help you out.”

It was pretty shitty luck that the storyteller has chosen the bride’s mother to be a key character in his tale. Trust his misfortune to pick the dead relative! He had to talk her around, make her believe him. The strange, mixed scent of expensive perfume and cheap rum oozed from the woman, as Stonehouse leaned a little closer to whisper in her ear. If he had a match or a cigarette lighter, he could probably ignite the alcoholic fumes that drifted from her rosy lips, and turn the bride into a fire-breathing dragon. For just a split second, the thought of sweet, intoxicating blood drifted into Stonehouse’s thoughts. He couldn’t help but notice the pulse of her artery buried below the smooth skin of her neck as his lips came close to her earlobe. Metaphorically rinsing his head to eradicate the unnecessary images that had invaded his mind, Stonehouse began to whisper softly.

“Look, Sweetie, we really need to get out of this place,” he said suggestively, “before these guys get angry. I’ve got plenty more rum if you fancy sharing a glass or two with me somewhere else.”

Stonehouse hoped that charm alone would be enough to get the blonde away from the bar and into the cool, refreshing air outside. Otherwise he could always claim to be a fireman, and hurl her over his broad shoulders to save her from the impending inferno.

[Finley Prim]

Like any well-meaning drunk, Finley’s paranoia dissolved at the first sign of charm. Finley wasn’t an important person. She wasn’t on the run from anything but a wedding she had suddenly decided she did not want. Within herself, she felt no guilt for her actions and any remorse was not for the would-be husband she had left behind. It was for her own future - all those nice clothes, the expensive food, the lounging around in the sun with no need for a job, or for any exertion whatsoever. It all went up in flames.

Back to the point, she could think of no reason why some man would come and make up stories to take her away. Not on purpose. She could think of no reason why she would have been followed, and if she were, why said follower wouldn’t use names that she knew. Why they wouldn’t come on behalf of Bruce. Why it wouldn’t have been Bruce himself trying to pull her up off the floor. But it wasn’t Bruce. It was a younger man. Why couldn’t this man have been Bruce? Why couldn’t he have been the one with the fortune? Maybe she’d have married him regardless of a prenup.

She didn’t realise she’d been staring; her mouth hanging open even as the guy wiped the snot from her nose like she was a tantrum-throwing toddler. He spoke to her calmly, and she snorted her laughter as she prepared herself to refuse him. Why would she go home with some cute guy who thought it pertinent to speak to her like she was a child? In her drunken state of mind, she did not think she deserved to be treated like a child. Even if she was acting like one.

But then he offered rum, and she perked up. Just like a child does at the offer of ice-cream as blackmail. Finley grinned broadly, her slender fingers tugging at the lapel of the guy’s suit. Finally, she allowed herself to slowly - very slowly - take him in. Head to toe. She’d been around money long enough to know this suit was no cheap knock-off. It was worth something. The material was light, the quality exceptional. Although she could only really think about the rum, somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered whether she had just fallen into the lap of her new conquest. And this one would be… oh, so much more fun.

”Ooookay. Friend,” she said, before poking a finger at his shoulder. Trying to be threatening even though she completely forgot whatever threat had been lingering at the back of her throat.

It was not smart to go home with a stranger. Not by a long shot. But, with how drunk Finley was, there was a very, very large chance that Finley would remember none of this when she woke up. And who the **** knew where she would wake up? She couldn’t go back to Bruce’s place. That would just be awkward. Maybe dangerous. The guy could be doting, but he had a temper. She’d seen it before, though it had never been directed at her. What could he do with it, if he discovered what her motives had been all along? How angry would he be?

The fight or flight instinct had kicked in. The instinct for survival. If she couldn’t go back to where she had been living - if she couldn’t go back to Bruce - she had to find somewhere else to stay. Her subconscious told her to take a gamble on this young, well-dressed man. The one who revelled in calling her sweetie. That would have to stop.

”Mmm… yes. There’d better be rum. Y’better no’be lying. I don’ like liars ‘r thieves,” she said, before she started laughing as if she’d told the funniest joke in the world. Because, well. She was a liar. And she was a thief. She slid from the stool and swayed, but gestured flamboyantly toward the door.

”...lead t’ way, sweetie,” she said, laughter still written all over her face.

[Stonehouse]

Did Stonehouse actually have a stock of rum stashed away, just in case a massive pirate ship mysteriously materialized out of thin air and sailed up the estuary into the River Rock region of the city? Was he expecting Captain Jack Sparrow and a crew of ruffians aboard the Black Pearl to descend upon the town looking for hidden treasure and a bawdy bar bursting at the rafters with busty wenches? It was a reasonable assumption to suggest that the blonde bride had probably swigged back enough grog to float a Spanish galleon, and that she was only seconds away from erupting into song and bellowing out another sea shanty. Overflowing tankards would be slammed together as the rowdy rabble joined in, eagerly encouraging each elaborate encore. Yo-ho-ho!

The gathered crowd had formed a ring around the chivalrous Stonehouse and the damsel in distress, like a sweaty horde of loutish sailors who’d been away from land for far too long, and had just been granted shore leave. They were baying for more entertainment, making Stonehouse feel as though he was in the cauldron of a bear pit. In his mind, each staring face had an eye-patch or a scar across a weathered cheek, a crooked set of teeth with gaps aplenty, and probably a wooden stump for a leg or a hook for a hand, to complete the imagery. They’d trade their chunky golden earrings for ten minutes of the woman’s “company”, and slit Stonehouse’s throat with their shiny cutlasses at the drop of their tricorne pirate hats. There was a distinct possibility that escaping the unruly mob would be like attempting to walk the plank in a treacherous storm.

Perhaps it was ironic that Stonehouse viewed the pub’s clientele as nothing more that a rag-tag bunch of vagabonds, and that his newly acquainted “friend” had also voiced her thoughts on liars and thieves, when in all fairness, that was effectively an appropriate description of the Englishman. He was a rogue, granted, a rogue who wore expensive tailored suits, but a rogue nonetheless. A rogue by any other name is still a rogue, to bastardize Shakespeare. Stonehouse was a liar and a thief, a selfish scoundrel out for personal glory and self-satisfaction… but not always. There was still a decent person hidden away in the depths of his soul, but his appearances were becoming more rare than the invisible man during a game of hide and seek. Few scenarios could draw the old, caring Stonehouse out from his hermit’s retreat; scarcely any person was able to coax the once considerate young man from his solitary state. He played the part of the gentleman ever so convincingly, because in essence that’s what Stonehouse was, but the sparkling eyes, razor sharp wit, and effortless charm was simply a charade. A cold-hearted character was cleverly harboured behind the glossy veneer of his beguiling personality.

For some reason, this giddy girl had touched a soft spot, and right now, the job at hand was to find a safe port for her before the waters became too rough. The tide was already coming in, and the whispering waves that echoed behind Stonehouse’s back were becoming increasingly more vulgar. It was time to set sail.

“Ok, people,” announced Stonehouse as he steadied his slightly wobbly partner, “I’m afraid that the show is over. This blushing bride’s carriage awaits.”

In truth, there was no carriage ready to whisk them away, just a broad shoulder upon which to lean, and their church would be one of the entrepreneur’s apartments that he had scattered around the city. Business was going well; clearly all that pillaging and plundering was paying dividends. Real estate was always a sound investment, and while share prices may fluctuate, and the value of oil or gold could go up and down more frequently that an elevator car in a skyscraper, property would usually hold its value. Bricks and mortar were a solid venture. There would also be no Champagne reception with humorous speeches, although Stonehouse was convinced that the drunken table dancer would lecture him about the virtues of more rum.

Stonehouse still didn’t know his new companion’s name, and he could hardly ask her, as it would surely blow his cover. For now, he’d have to stick with “sweetie”, as its use had at least not been met with a slap across the face. Draping his suit jacket over her bare shoulders like a cape, Stonehouse plotted a route out of the bar for the couple, hoping that they wouldn’t crash and run aground upon the numerous grizzly faced rocks that were gazing in their direction. There were strong currents swirling around, wandering hands eager to drag the attractive young woman under into a maelstrom of debauchery.

“Follow me, Sweetie,” said Stonehouse as he began navigating his course, “your rum boat awaits you.”

The bar’s wooden floor was sticky from slops of beer and the smog of male testosterone-tinged sweat. The bride’s bare feet almost squelched through the slurry as she took stuttering steps, the effects of the booze starting to really kick in. Stonehouse guided his stumbling accomplice like a tugboat ushering a glamorous cruise-liner, wondering if she’d ingested more than just alcohol. He wouldn’t put it past these brew-swilling reprobates to have spiked her drink. The eagle-eyed gent spotted something on the floor propped against the corner of a barstool, which was taking the fancy of a grubby looking bloke with an ale trail smeared across his bushy black beard. Swooping in like a hawk, Stonehouse grabbed the dishevelled blonde’s fancy wedding shoes, as if they were a field mouse.

“I’ll take those, if you don’t mind,” said Stonehouse, offering the scruffy punter a cheeky grin. “I swear that I look great in them; they make my calves look amazing.”

This probably wasn’t the time for jokes, but Stonehouse simply couldn’t resist. If anything, it helped to ease the tension, and prevented his nerves from being bombarded by the seemingly infinite number of sensory attacks that were hitting him like a broadside from a Royal Navy warship. Crowded rooms were dangerous places.

Side-stepping several unsavoury looking sorts, like a smuggler dodging the authorities as they brought contraband ashore into hidden coves, Stonehouse reached the exit, pushing the solid wooden door wide open, letting the cold night air drift over his face like a cooling ocean spray. Locking a strong arm around the blonde bride’s waist, he assisted her as she fumbled with her shoes, the straps twisting as she tugged them over her dirtied feet.

“Almost done, Sweetheart,” he said, addressing her with her full name as he helped to get the straps over her ankles.

Her blonde locks were escaping from her once neat and tidy hairpiece like the tentacles of a giant squid that had surfaced from the murky depths of the deepest abyss, and yet her eyes still had a sparkle like freshly harvested pearls. Yes, she was a mess, but Stonehouse had guided her through the rocky waters like a lighthouse, and now, as they left the pub, they were in the open sea, free from the marauding pirates. Only time would tell if she was safe from the smartly dressed sea monster, or indeed, if Stonehouse has inadvertently released the Kraken. This adventure on the high seas had only just begun.

“Let’s get out of here, and crack open that rum!” exclaimed Stonehouse, supporting the woman with one arm, while raising his other to flag down a cab. “Taxi!”

[Finley Prim]

Finley was not at all aware of what was going on around her. This was the kind of drunken escapade that she would forget in the morning. It would remain blurry and dark - a blank space in her overactive life. There was no space in her mind to allow for any kind of disgust about the state of the floor. Sticky and grimey a it was, she strode across it as if it were her home. She walked as if she knew exactly where she was going; as if she thought she were walking in a straight line, her body numb to the body beside her. Numb to the hand in hers. Numb to whatever it was that the pretty stranger led her to. If he had dastardly intentions, she would be in trouble.

In fact, Finley had been lucky in her life. There were plenty of times she’d been as drunk as this. It didn’t matter how much like death she felt the next morning, or how often she vowed never to do it again, she always did. The older she got, the worse the ramifications were. But in all her years, she’d always been taken care of. Either that, or she had iron-clad instincts that always carried her to a safe place. How many hours, how many days had she lost to alcohol? How could she say that it was fun, when she couldn’t even remember what she had done?

Tonight had been a different story, however. The drinking had occurred due to grief. A grief of a life lost. Her future life. Life with money, without worry. Comfort, prosperity. It was all gone, all because of a stupid contract that she refused to sign. Even if she changed her mind now, would Bruce ever take her back? It was doubtful. Once spurned…

Outside of the establishment, some kind of common sense must have kicked in. Through the thick haze of alcohol, some thought as to not wanting to get frostbite had Finely reaching for her shoes and struggling to get them on - though what made her think she’d actually be able to walk properly in the heels in this state was beyond anyone’s guess. There must have been some awry notion that they would be walking somewhere; that this man might only take her around the corner, into some dark and hollow niche. There was a good chance Finley lived in such optimism about her luck because horrible things had happened to her, but she just didn’t remember them.

”Y’r face s’a heart,” she said. Some silly joke she’d heard somewhere, at some time that she could not recall. Finley didn’t even think it was funny but she still snorted as she leaned heavily on the guy’s shoulders, no doubt making his life more difficult as he tried to help her with her shoes. When they were finally secured, she was a little taller beside him, though he still towered over her. This time, she didn’t stride anywhere confidently. The first step she took had her nearly twisting her ankle, her fingers tugging harshly at her knight’s jacket as she latched onto him for balance. Of course, in her hazy state of mine, she thought she’d collapsed gently against him; a coy nudge. It simply was not the case.

Red lipstick had smeared and the black of her mascara had smudged her eyes above and below, giving her the look of a racoon - and not even an endearing one.

When the cab pulled up to the curb, Finley would no doubt need help to clamber in. The world spun around her. Did the cab driver say something about making sure she didn’t throw up in the back seat? Maybe, maybe not. Either way, Finley wouldn’t remember a thing. In fact, there was no change of her doing much of anything once she was seated; once the car was moving, she passed out against the window, mouth open and warm breath fogging the glass. It had been a very, very long day.

[Stonehouse]

Stonehouse was not only a psychology graduate, but also an ever-present student at the university of life. His thirst for knowledge was unquenchable, always wanting to discover new tricks and tips to deal with the many puzzles that the crazy world could throw in his direction. A problem was simply a challenge that hadn’t yet been solved. Although he didn’t like criticism, the optimistic philosopher in him would flip any negativity on its head and transform it into a positive by learning from the experience, depositing the newly acquired skills or solutions into the vault of his mental bank. These abilities and answers could subsequently be withdrawn when required, to hopefully address similar situations. Stonehouse, the perpetual pupil, had already learnt one new lesson tonight.

Women, generally speaking, loved shoes and handbags; this was common knowledge, the kind of which even the most clueless man was well aware. Stonehouse was already taking a huge chance by escorting a total stranger from a crowed bar back to one of his city centre apartments, but to risk receiving the bride’s wrath when she realized that her expensive wedding footwear had been abandoned like an unwanted kitten, was a gamble too far. However, trying to force delicate leather straps around the swollen ankles of a drunken woman who’d been dancing on tables was verging on impossible. There was a reason why groups of girls strolled barefoot through the streets, shaking their slinky stilettos in their hands like tambourines. As Stonehouse climbed into the cab next to his tipsy companion, he sniggered under his cool, dead breath as he exhaled, muttering a few words to himself to remind him to never again attempt to slide a pair of shoes onto an inebriated woman’s feet. If one wants to play the role of Prince Charming, and place the glass slipper onto Cinderella's dainty foot, firstly ensure that she is sober.

By the time a convincing Stonehouse had offered plentiful reassurance to the concerned cab driver that his intoxicated accomplice wouldn’t spray the contents of her stomach across the pale grey upholstery of the taxi’s rear seats, Sleeping Beauty was already slumped against the window, snoring uncontrollably. Having given the address of his nearest house to the slightly vexed chauffeur, a middle-aged man with a balding head who spoke at the speed of light, Stonehouse turned towards his fellow passenger and smiled. The journey would only take four or five minutes, but that was enough time for the vampire’s dark, inquisitive eyes to assimilate as much additional information about the karaoke queen as possible. With her smudged panda eyes gently closed, the blonde bride’s attractive face looked incredibly peaceful. Stonehouse wondered what lay behind the visage, what story she had to share with someone willing to listen. Her expensive wedding attire spoke of wealth and class, but her tattoos and barroom behaviour subtly whispered an alternative tale. Just who was the mysterious matrimonial misfit, and what had happened to ruin the most special day of her life?

Suddenly the cab swerved and the driver fired off a full clip of expletives. Apparently the car owners of Harper Rock needed to learn how to drive, especially the one in the blue Nissan that had cut him up at the last junction. No damage was done, but the passed out princess was now leaning on Stonehouse’s broad shoulder. A stream of drool spilled from the corner of her rouge lips, forming a pearlescent trail across the collar of his shirt, as if a tiny snail was making a dash for his neck. The sweet scent of alcohol escaped from her mouth as she released a sleepy sigh, teasing Stonehouse’s nostrils. A thought instantly popped into his mind: did he actually have any rum back at his apartment?

Although he could no longer swallow anything other than blood without causing his guts to go into a painful spasm, Stonehouse still enjoyed keeping a well stocked drinks cabinet. He was a connoisseur of whisky, having been a particular fan of Speyside single malt Scotch such as Aberlour, and the occasional tipple from the Islands, like Jura or Talisker. Swilling a shot around his mouth and spitting it out wasn’t quite as satisfying as letting it slide, slowly, down his throat, giving him that warm glow in the pit of his stomach, but it was at least a start. It helped him to feel… human. There were always several bottles of gin and vodka lying around, and enough liqueurs to create extravagant cocktails when needed. Surely there must be a Bacardi or Lamb’s Navy Rum stashed away at the back of the cupboard?

The moment of truth was almost upon the bizarre couple, as their taxi drew to a halt outside Stonehouse’s apartment block. Paying the relieved driver, with an additional tip to cover any emotional distress caused by the prospect of cleaning up a pile of vomit, Stonehouse swung open the cab door. Exiting into the chilly night air, greeted by the lightest sprinkling of refreshing snow, the chivalrous gentleman skipped around to the opposite side of the car to liberate his partner. She was still completely out of it, as the booze circulated freely through her slim, toned body.

“Come on, Sleepyhead,” said Stonehouse as he manoeuvred the athletic frame of the bride out of her makeshift bed, “time to get you inside.”

She really must have totally been caning the rum back in the bar because the loose-limbed table dancer was limp, like a large sack of potatoes, all wrapped up in a beautiful white dress. It looked as though the fireman’s lift was going to be required after all. Stooping down, Stonehouse carefully slung the woman over his strong shoulder, and marched purposefully towards the entrance to his apartment building. Although romance was low down on the businessman’s priorities, Stonehouse wasn’t a complete emotional failure, and he had occasionally wondered what it would be like to carry a bride across the threshold. He was about to find out.

[Finley Prim]

The dreams were inescapable. The sleep wasn’t the sleep of the dead. The death sleep would not come until the world had stopped spinning; until she was still, and the world didn’t jostle around her. The dreams were the kinds of dreams that came when half asleep, and half a wake. The kind of dreams that were infused with the sounds around her. The car, the voices, the huff and shush of the cars they passed, the sirens in the distance, the laughter from the gaggle of women as they crossed the road, when they were stopped at a red light.

They were not coherent dreams. They were not dreams that Finley would remember. At one point, she looked down at her feet to see her toes bleeding; she was dancing, and the blood left a twirling trail around the dance floor, and stained the bottom of her lace dress. Her wedding dress. Her wedding. There were men around her, tugging at her. One had a hold on each of her arms, but it was as if she wasn’t there. They were talking to each other, and it didn’t matter how much she struggled, she couldn’t get free. She couldn’t see their faces. Their faces were blurred, their words as incoherent as their features.

Women, dressed to the nines. Women, in bright reds and blues, their eyes flashing demonically. Their mouths were wide as they laughed. Too wide. Unnaturally wide. They were the mouths of hyenas, a pack of wild animals, of vultures as they descended. It was a nightmarish kind of reality, but it was the kind of world that Finley had subjected herself to. The world of money, where the women weren’t real but plastic, their faces and their clothes and their belongings the sum of who they really were. The men paraded them like trophies. Why, oh why had Finley wanted to become one of those trophies, even for the shortest time? Wasn’t that really why she’d run away?

Suddenly, the world tilted on its axis. The tent was ripped from the ground, and the colours all swirled together. Finley again looked down at her feet; shoes. She was wearing shoes again. Shoes she wasn’t comfortable in. She tripped, as she tried to get away from them.

And as she tripped in her mind, her body jolted. A sleep twitch – a hypnic jerk. Her eyes opened to see the strands of her blonde hair swaying in front of her vision; to see them reaching for the sky. No – it wasn’t the sky. It was the ground. Her hands – fingers painted red and miraculously unchipped – clutched at anything, everything for balance. Where the **** was she, and what was going on?!

A few gropes and she realised she was hanging from a man’s shoulder. It didn’t feel right. She wasn’t the right side up. A groan crawled from her throat as her head spun dangerously. The alcohol twisted in her gut. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it was coming up quick and fast. Her fingers curled into a fist which slammed against the backside of the man who carried her – she didn’t remember his face. She didn’t remember the exit from the pub. She didn’t remember climbing into the back of a taxi. All that concerned her, right now, was the way her body felt like it wanted to eject everything it had ever consumed.

”Put me down,” she gasped.

”If you don’t want puke all over your nice fuckin’ shoes, put me down,” she almost screeched. Her bright blues, haloed in black, were already sweeping the premises. She tried her hardest to push herself into an upright position. Where was the nearest hollow thing into which she could throw up? Was there a toilet, a sink? A pot plant? Even in her current state of inebriation, she had the common sense to know that vomit was never good if splattered across a nice hard surface. No, something hollow…

[Stonehouse]

Wasn’t being a fire fighter viewed as some kind of super cool profession? The image of the heroic fireman saving the helpless child or injured woman from a burning building was stuff of legends and folklore. Slung over the broad shoulders of the brave rescuer, the damsel in distress would be carried to safety, brought down the sturdy steel ladder to be greeted by cheering and rapturous applause, the type usually reserved for rock stars who had just played their greatest hit to a screaming festival audience. Selflessly putting himself in danger to come to the aid of others, the emergency worker would send numerous female hearts fluttering as he made a cheeky quip about his hose, while wiping the smoky grime from his masculine face. Why else would a male stripper dressed as firemen, be so popular on a hen night or girlie birthday party?

Despite employing the so-called fireman’s lift to carry the intoxicated bride to his apartment, Stonehouse wasn’t a fire fighter. He wasn’t carrying a hapless victim suffering from smoke inhalation away from a blazing tower-block, having to precariously descend a slippery ladder as the flames licked at his face, he was lugging a dead weight drunk into an elevator to be swiftly transported, hassle free, to his flat. Stonehouse was no iron-pumping gym bunny, he was more of a lean fillet steak than a chunky beefcake, but he could still haul the blonde, who was draped like an ivory feather boa around his collarbone, with relative ease. Occasionally, a waft of alcohol-drenched breath would infiltrate Stonehouse’s nostrils, and a strange semi-snort would erupt from the woman as she half stirred, but effectively, she was out for the count.

The binging of the bell inside the lift car announced that the appropriate floor had been reached. The solid metal doors began to slowly spread apart, revealing the artificially lit landing, adorned with large terracotta plant pots and a scattering of generic arty prints on the magnolia coloured walls. Suddenly the limp body of the woman jolted into life, as if the chiming of the bell had acted as an alarm clock. As Stonehouse left the confines of the elevator car with his human knapsack across his back, a stray toe struck him on the hip. The bedraggled blonde bride bounced around on his shoulder, trying to establish her bearings as she came to her senses. It was a fair assumption to make that she would be a little bit confused by the whole situation. There was the inevitable cry of “put me down” from the disorientated woman’s lips. She may as well have yelled out “unhand me, you fiend” to get the full theatrical effect of the dastardly deviant kidnapping the dainty damsel. However, it was the next sentence, gurgled rather than spoken, that grabbed Stonehouse’s attention.

A bellyful of booze was often enough to send a room spinning like the buzzing blades of an alcohol helicopter, coming to whisk you away to Pukesville, but add to that the cocktail shaker effect of being carried over someone’s shoulder, and it really was a recipe for stomach-churning disaster. The bride was potentially about to blow, like Mount Vesuvius in a wedding dress, spewing molten vomit across a Pompeii of battleship grey floor tiles and fine Italian leather shoes.

“Hold on!” exclaimed Stonehouse, rushing to the door of his apartment while fumbling in his trouser pocket for his set of keys. “We’re almost there!”

Lunging forward like an Olympic fencing champion, Stonehouse jabbed the stainless steel key into the lock, as if he were plunging his foil into the chest of his opponent. The ungodly grumbling from the pasty-faced bride, like an imminent earthquake, gave the smartly dressed gentleman a clear indication that he had only a few seconds left before his tailored jacket was decorated with gut-wrenching graffiti. As the front door swung open, Stonehouse and his bridal passenger stumbled across the threshold, almost collapsing into a heap on the varnished wooden floor. Who says that romance is dead?

Stonehouse may have already made one faux pas that evening by trying to jam flashy high-heeled shoes back onto aching dancing feet, but he wasn’t about to make another. Thou shalt not, under any circumstances, let a woman get vomit in her hair. Never. Surely that was one of the Ten Commandments of dealing with women? Stonehouse slid the blurry-eyed bride from his shoulder, as gracefully as he could under the circumstances, until she came to rest on her knees. Grabbing a moderately expensive china vase, that was perched on a table in the entrance hall, Stonehouse shoved it, unceremoniously, beneath the chin of the unsteady blonde. Gathering her long hair, which still felt surprisingly soft, into a bun behind her neck - a silky smooth, inviting looking neck - he prepared himself for the impending eruption. Hopefully the colourful vase would be spared the indignation of becoming a receptacle for acidic sick, but it was far better to be safe than sorry.

“Ok, Sweetie,” said Stonehouse, reassuringly, “if you need to hurl, it’s fine. I won’t watch, I promise.”