Short Story: You Want It Darker (preview) (Patreon)

After finishing Constant 3-4 and 3-5 (the scenes that start at Noir and finishes at Julia's condo), it struck me that the two scenes formed a full story arc. I'd been trying to write some shorter fiction on the side, and this seemed a good way into it. I trimmed out those two scenes and started to rewrite it as a short story. At first, I thought it would be quick and easy - just a matter of swapping names around. So, Julia became Eleanor, David became Callum, Cindy became Chloe, and Caleb became William. Easy!

But of course that didn't work, because those two scenes don't exist independently of the rest of the story of Constant. So, I made small tweaks: Noir became Reckoner, for example. Almost instantly, the differences in character emerged. Julia has thousands of words of backstory to explain why she does what she does to David; what's Ellie's beef with Callum? And as that emerged during the rewrite, well... it got complicated. What started as a copy-and-paste job has become its own thing.

So it's taking longer to rewrite than I'd first imagined--but I'm enjoying it, especially as an exercise in reduction. The two scenes combined were initially around 15k words, and I'm aiming to reduce that to around 10k - a good length for a short story, I think.

In any case, here's an exclusive preview of the first third of the story. Enjoy!

***

You Want It Darker

by

Fakeminsk

“There's a lover in the story

But the story's still the same”

You Want It Darker, by Leonard Cohen

One: There’s a Lover in the Story

That night, we looked hot. Or rather Ellie did, crimson halter top maxi dress, bare back criss-crossed by slender straps, gold chain belt, and those British museum Assyrian-themed earrings and bracelets gifted by a lover. I felt tacky next to her, flashy, younger—fidgety in a sparkly, sequined miniskirt and midriff-baring sleeveless top that hugged my breasts like a second skin. Her makeup was subdued, mine was brash; her earring classy, mine were dangling hoops. Ellie presented as confident and strong, and I was an over-compensating little sister barely in control of the flirty signals she flashed.

            “This isn’t fair,” I hissed, perched opposite her at our table. We were at Reckoner, the Radiohead-themed bar tucked away behind Holborn. It opened five years ago and used to be my favourite haunt.

            Ellie knew this, of course, and took entirely too much pleasure in my discomfort. Someone could easily recognise me here: a former colleague, a previous conquest. That threat hanging over me clearly excited her. Ellie also loved what this place said about me. Reckoner was a popular pick-up haunt for men with money to flash and aspirational girls looking to hook their claws into a success story. One look at me made it clear what side of that equation I belonged to now.

            “Why?” Her voice was a low purr emerging from the dark. Crimson lips tugged into a smile.

            “Why?” Incredulity dropped my voice to a lower pitch. “Look at me.  I look….” I searched for the word: “Cheap.”

            “Mind your tone,” she said. Her hand over mine tightened. “Mind your voice.”

            I winced. “It’s not fair,” I added, pitching my voice a little higher, a little softer, reaching for the training, the vocal instincts drilled into me over the past year. I hated how whiney my complaint sounded.

            “I think you look wonderful,” she said.

            “Why couldn’t you let me—”

            “What?”

            “Pick—” a dozen better outfits jumped to mind, and I flushed under my makeup. My foundation was too heavy, bordering on orange and left a carrot-coloured crescent at the nape of my neck, beneath the taut pull of hair drawn up into a high ponytail. My lips felt tacky. Cheap plastic bangles the colour of my nails clinked against the table. It was all so embarrassing. “I don’t know. A dress. Something pretty.”

            “You want to wear a dress?” Her smile grew and mirth sparkled in her yes. “Oh, what a change we have here! Callum Davies wishes he’d worn a pretty dress on a night out to his favourite bar. Tell me, love, what kind of dress? Something slinky? Or flowing? Maybe a nice mini?”

            “I’d rather dress like you.”

            “No.” Her lips drew into a thin line.           

            “I feel ridiculous,” I grumbled, and fluttered press-on eyelashes. They were too long, heavy with glittery mascara and driving me fucking crazy. It was all I could do to resist peeling them off my lids then and there, though I probably would’ve stabbed my eyes out with those tacky press-on nails.

“I suppose I’m not surprised,” she said, “you don’t remember.” She leaned back, half-hidden in the dim light.

            “Remember?”

            “It’s what she wore.” Crimson lips gleamed from the dark in a toothy smile.
            “I—,” said nothing; what could I say?

            “Good,” she stated flatly. “Now, a year—a whole fucking year—of presenting this way, hormones, training, surgery—a new job, a new life—and you’re still looking out the eyes of some male, privileged asshole. You’re a ditzy twenty-two year old, remember? Fucking act like it. You should be experimenting, pushing boundaries. Following trends and trying to impress. You should be filled with constant anxiety and still figuring out who the hell you are.”

            “I’ve got the anxiety part down, believe me,” I muttered.

            She stood, leaving me perched on my stool. “I’m going to get us some drinks. You sit there and touch up your makeup. Watch that influencer on TikTok. Stick those titties out and flash a pretty smile at any hot men that wander by.” The stubborn petulance she saw in my glare made her pause. “I mean it. I’ll be watching from the bar. Now lick your lips and act like a girl.”
            “But I’m not a girl,” I muttered under my breath after she was gone. I’d done everything she demanded. Pushed boundaries I hadn’t even known existed. And the anxiety was constant—the fear of recognition, the embarrassment of not passing; the anticipation of shame constantly simmering just beneath the skin.

            Forced to present as a girl was one thing, but… this? I stretched out my fingers, fanning too-long, too bright nails. Then I hooked those too-tall heels into the stool, arched my back, licked my lips and looked around.

            Reckoner wasn’t too busy, not for a Saturday night but then typically it was more of an after-work crowd. The weekend DJ played more aggressively than weeknight chill, but it was hardly clubcore dance beats. At the moment, some kind of slower, darker remix of Idioteque was playing, against a backdrop of computer-generated post-apocalyptic artic wasteland along a far wall.

            I once loved this place. I had fond memories of many nights here: post-work camaraderie; late-night drinks; and the girls—the sexy, gleaming women—so beautiful and available—like Eleanor. That’s right. Of course. This was where we first met; somehow, I’d nearly forgotten. Could it be? A year ago, tonight: Chloe and Eleanor’s first date.

            The dim lights and sombre music and glittering passage of girls unexpectedly forced me even further back, two more years flickering past, and I’m flushed with anticipation and arrogance, a wolf, the cocky strut and confident smile, striding up to the bar, leaning in, flashing a predator’s grin and an expensive watch at the wrist, tailored suit sleeve, a sharp comment, one half insult to compliment, confidence.

            And always, in return, the bright-eyed response, the curve of shiny lips, bright cheeks, and—yes, the inviting gesture, tucking hair behind the ear, swiveling at the hip, the pink tip of tongue caught between bright teeth.

            I say always, though that wasn’t how it happened a year ago. Not that first night, Chloe and Ellie’s first date: by then, I was more Little Red Riding Hood, lost and alone in the woods at the mercy of circling predators – no longer wolf, but rather the prey.

            Despite her instruction to smile at the boys it was still the girls I noticed first, the pretty, glossy and trendy women. They clustered in small groups, a few floated solo at the bar, many already paired up with some guy. String lights glinted in swirls along the wall, and at each smaller table or booth decorative tealight candles in decorative glass bulbs cast pale sphere of light. Yes, I saw the girls: painted lips and eyes shimmering, and their dresses like flares over a dark sea; we were all bright bursts of light in the darkness.

            I say ‘we’, being one of them, now. The man I’d once been seemed impossibly distant. How could I reconcile the memories of a year ago with what I felt myself to be, now? A year of hormones—at first, secretly secreted into my diet; later, when it was too late, taken freely if not willingly. A year of deportment training, vocal coaching and practice—so much practice—endless hours spent on perfecting alien skills.

            Makeup. Walking in heels. Picking out an outfit. Strapping on a bra, or suspender belt, rolling up stockings or even more complex styles of lingerie. Flirting—and I shuddered to remember—the flick of longer hair, flutter of eyelashes, and the lingering gaze over a bared shoulder. Alongside this, the inexorable changes to my body and behaviour. Softening skin and fuller hair. Dwindling muscles, weaker—weak enough that she could restrain me now, easily, in her grip and I couldn’t break free.

            Not that breaking free was an option.

            And sitting there, growing increasingly flustered, I recalled another time that seemed impossibly distant; a similar time, a bar much like this. Wearing trousers and a shit-eating grin, legs manspreading wide, pint in hand, pointing a finger at the girl opposite.

            “Trust me,” I say, laughing.

            She gazes at me, open-eyed and full of innocence.

            I’m twenty-three; this girl’s twenty, or so I thought. She sure looks it, makeup and clothes, full tits—twenty at least.

            (I was convinced she told me she was, too. She denied this. Then, I wasn’t so sure. This came up more than once afterwards during the legal proceedings.)

            “You can get me a job there?”

            “Hey, I’m an important guy,” I swagger, waggling my eyebrows, so cocksure, so stupid. I’m loud, obnoxious and don’t give a shit. I feel great. Successful. I’ve just earned a promotion. Real go-getter. Someone to watch. Initiative and hard work.

            But I’m always exhausted, frequently angry or frustrated or miserable. Ellie’s commented on this often enough. We’ve been married a year, university sweethearts finding our feet in the big city. We share a small Dalston flat and barely see each other, ships sailing past each other in the day, barely summoning up the energy to fuck at night. The firm where I work scooped me up right out of Oxford. Potential. Not quite Slaughter and May, Magic Circle big, but big enough. And these first years have been brutal, sixty-hours a week brutal, grunt work and bullshit brutal, scurrying after favour and chasing, chasing every opportunity to rise out of the cesspool and earn the prestige, the big money, the status.

            I survived, became a newly qualified associate. Faster than normal, too.

            And the night I learned of my promotion she couldn’t make it. Eleanor was busy. I was angry, resentful, petulant that she couldn’t be with me tonight to celebrate my success.

            So this bitch is with me instead. Whatever her name is. Faye. That’s right.

            But I’m feeling good, and I don’t know what to do with this unfamiliar, surging emotion. Mostly I’m staring at this girl’s lips. Imagining how she could use them. She’s got what looks like a fine pair of tits beneath that blouse, too. She says she’s a receptionist at a dental clinic. Like I care, but she’s got me thinking of open mouths, shining teeth, and I’ve gone hard beneath the table.

            She smiles, a little shyly. “It’d be really kind,” she said, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Really help, someone on the inside putting my name forward.”

            I shrug. “Hey, no skin off my back. I can do that for you. As a favour, you know.”

            “Favour?”

            Leaning forward, a toothy grin of a predator. “Yeah. A favour.”

            I go home with her that night, back to her place, a red-brick semi-detached down Wimbledon way. Instincts to never head south of the river fail that night: drunk and horny, I don’t question what a receptionist is doing living in a place like this. I notice but dailr to process the family photos on the wall, or how childish her room is with its lacy curtains and stuffed animal scattered across the bed.

            A little charming coercion and next thing I knew her lips are wrapped around my prick and it feels fantastic. When I cum, she swallows it all. It wasn’t something Ellie liked to do. But this girl—fuck—she’s an enthusiastic cocksucker.

            It’s a pity I was so drunk I can barely remember it. Had I known what would follow, I would’ve burned the experience to memory.

            When it got out that the girl was underage, the shit hit the fan. At risk: my job at the firm; my relationship with Eleanor. Worst, it brought closer scrutiny to aspects of my life I’d always struggled to keep secret, especially from my wife. Gambling, and debts. And that wasn’t the worst of it.

            I faced jailtime. Divorce. Unemployment. A once promising life, collapsing.

            And then: the deal that made everyone happy—everyone except for me, obviously. There was a fair bit of media attention. The Mail led with it one day, pushing a hack job on Labour taxation back a page. The Telegraph went batshit crazy about the failures of modern masculinity. Even the Guardian picked it up, a long and pretentious piece about gender fluidity.

            After all, how many men would voluntarily accept this punishment? It was the photo from the front page of the Sun that went viral, me dressed up in woman’s clothing for the first time, my face burning redder than the dress I wore—the shame and humiliation—even now, it endures, a tight, sickly little ball perpetually lurking in the pit of my stomach.

            The memory coiled it tendrils around me as I shifted my attention to one of the handsome young men walking past and smiled, smiled until it hurt, and made eye contact, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

            By the time Ellie returned with a man in tow, I’d glossed my lips, watched a three-minute makeup hack on contouring, and seen off two potential suitors. One offered to buy me a drink, politely; the other stared at my chest and slyly insinuated I should give him a titty wank. He fled at Ellie’s approach, but she wasn’t alone.

            She held two drinks, a flute of Champagne for herself, evanescent celebratory amber sparkling between her fingers; and something horribly bright blue on ice for me. The man, meanwhile, pulled up a stool. He was wearing a suit, and a dusting of grey coloured his temples. His smile to me was perfunctory, as he joined our table. At first his attention was on Eleanor, then on me.

            “Say hello, Chloe,” she said. “He’s joining us for a drink after so kindly buying us ours.”

            “I’m with that lot over there,” he said, jerking his thumb towards a small group of guys sat in the corner. They’ve got a bottle of Champagne on ice. His voice was familiar. He looked familiar. But I couldn’t place him. Maybe I’d seen him around here before. The bar’s dim and it was hard to focus. Ellie and I had already knocked back a few before coming out, coupled with a couple of pills, ovals and oblongs, that did wonders to ease the anxiety.

            Well, whoever this guy was, I despised him instantly.

            “Finished a big project today,” he said by way of introduction, eyes ping-ponging between my tits and Ellie’s eyes. “Months in the work.” His smile was easy-going, but there’s something I don’t like in his eyes. He raised his pint glass in salute to his table of minions. He’s drinking something enviably dark and stout. His friends are drinking Champagne, but he’s drinking beer.

            I picked up my drink. It’s too blue and smells of candyfloss.

            Ellie smiled at me over her flute. “Bartender said it’s their most popular cocktail for girls with a sweet tooth looking to get pissed,” she said.

            “What is it?” I hold it up to the light. The long drink sparkles and swirls, and the bar’s signature little fake plastic tree is floating in there.

            “A Two and Two, he called it. Guess how many units it’s got?”

            I took a delicate sip. It’s sweet, and strong, the perfect drink for stripping off girls’ panties. One or two of these and I’d be under the table.

            “What do we say to Mr…..” She trailed off, laid her hand on his forearm and giggled.  Ellie doesn’t giggle. “I never even got your name.”

            “William,” he answered. “Will Cunnigham.”

            Oh. Shit.

            Yeah. I knew this guy.

            Ellie raised her eyebrows at me. “Thank you, Mr Cunningham,” and I deliberately pitched my voice as feminine as I could. It was unlikely he’d recognise me—not impossible, but unlikely. Even with all the media attention, he had no reason to associate the young girl opposite, makeup plastered thick and miniskirt sparkling in the dim light, with long nails and slender sloping shoulders, with his former colleague.

            “A pleasure,” he intoned, his smile distant, then looked between the two of us. “You’re….?”

            “Sisters,” Julia said.

            “She’s the older one,” I added.

            “And she’s the bimbo.” Her eyes flashed happily; she’s enjoying this entirely too much. “She gets herself in trouble if I’m not around.”

            He nodded. Briefly, his eyes passed over me, taking in my tits, my tarty makeup and glittery miniskirt, hoop earrings and barely-there tights, confirming Ellie’s description. A shiver runs down my spine at his inspection, and my stomach churns. He smiled; he liked what he saw.

            But he doesn’t recognize me; at least, the way his gaze lingers at my chest suggests he hasn’t, and this offers some relief.

            “Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand.

            I returned a limp handshake, my nails bright against his skin. “I’m Chloe.”

            “Well, it’s a pleasure, Chloe,” he said, his grip lingering longer than strictly necessary, fingertips trailing along the inside of the wrist once he lets me go.

            If it’s a pleasure, the pleasure’s all his and Ellie’s. They talked. His hand rested on hers. She licked her lips and played with her hair. Julia’s eyes danced over to mine, often and each smile as she watched me watch her flirt with another man was a sliver of ice stabbing through my stomach.

            Eventually, Ellie drew Will’s fully to her and I was left to sit there, sipping my sickly drink. It tasted of vodka and rum, blueberry and citrus, a touch bitter to offset the near-overwhelming sweetness. Truth is, it goes down far too easily and I drank it far too quickly as I watched this man touch Ellie—touch my wife—first her forearm but after shifting his seat closer, his hand rested on her shoulder, drifted across her bare back, rested on her thigh. His thumb worked its way inside the high slit of her dress and slid along the hidden lacy top of stockings and the suspenders to which they were clipped.  She wore them tonight because she knew they were once my favourite lingerie to see her wear. Tonight, I’d even helped her attach those tricky clips at the rear.

            Inside, I seethed, and looked him over, picking out Will’s obvious flaws. He’d been an arrogant cock at work, a real hypocrite, big smiles around others and the first to cut them down behind their back. I took some pleasure from the evidence of an imminent bald patch at the top of his head—my hair was even more luxurious and full than ever.

            His suit was quality, though, probably Saville row. Not particularly good looking, though a strong chin fashionably darkened with stubble, and deep-set eyes. Back in the day I saw him down in the office gym often enough to know he kept in shape; I wonder if he still did? Underwhelming down below, I remembered, and hid a secret smile behind a delicate hand.

            I realize he’s watching me expectantly and I’m staring into space grinning like an idiot. Did he say something?

            “I told you she’s a ditz,” Ellie said.

            “Ellie!” I whined. “That’s not nice!”.”

            Will laid his hand over mine. His palm is either unexpected cool, or I’m running hot. His attention’s back on me and suddenly it’s all I can do to not squirm. At first, his eyes were on my tits again but this time he raised them to my face. This time, there’s something there—if not recognition, curiosity.

            “Your drink’s empty,” he said. He held up his glass and indicated Ellie’s. “Ours too.”

            “Why don’t you head up to the bar,” she said. “Get us a round.” There’s a touch of something wicked to her smile. “Don’t worry, I know you can’t afford it. I’ve started a tab.”

            Dutifully, I hopped down from the stool. “Fine.”

            “That’s a good girl,” Will said. With a sharp slap to my skirted ass, he sent me on my way.