Star-cross'd

Chapter 6: Queen Mab hath been with you

I wake up to the sounds of a large ruckus, a few screams and the breaking of some china.

Mark is still snoring lightly, still asleep on the couch where he had been when I slipped back in this morning. He's so blissfully unaware of what happened between Ford and I on the floor of the porch, last night. Unaware for the sound of Alma Madison shouting insults at Father. Ignorant to Elsie's high-pitched harpy shrills.

When I clamber out of bed, still clad in Ford's wrinkled button-down and my equally wrinkled trousers, and make my way down the hall I am met with a scene straight out of the moving pictures.

Mother shouts wordlessly at Father, waving her hands high above her head. There is finally some fear in Frank's eyes, his age suddenly apparent in wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, deep worry lines.

Elsie makes the wrong move and it all goes down hill from there. Like a true whore at heart, she takes Frank's arm, wrapping her skinny little fashionable arms around it.


"Alma, let's be reasonable. Frank wants me. It isn't anything new for you." She pouts her pretty little lips, now longer crying out. She's a good actress.

There's something different, though, between fucking the little broad that cleans your sheets after you've stained them or the one that types up the documents at work. It's just a matter of pushing one onto the bed or bending the other over your desk. But Elsie Rexford isn't one of those girls. And Vernon Rexford isn't a poor man. Really, that's all it comes down too. Reputation.

So when Mother pulls back her hand, fingers curled neatly into a fist and socks Elsie Rexford straight in the jaw. It really isn't expected. A beautiful uppercut.

But it's hilarious. It has me clutching my side from laughter pains.

Elsie's down for the count with her expensive red dress up around her waist and her t-strap Janes over her head. And for a second, Mother's eyes glow like she's twenty and rich and a spitfire to boot. Father just stands there with his mouth curved into an O.

"Frank, I'm having a word with Vernon. And I think I'll have a word with Mr. Billingsley," Mother's coy. Mr. Billingsley's her lawyer, the one that handles the Swanson family estate and Mother's millions. It's a name Father knows well and fears. So when Elsie gets back up again and launches herself towards my mother, all he can do is hold her back. Alma Swanson-Madison just smiles to herself bemused.

Even amongst the chaos Barry is stoic, the epitome of calm as he sidesteps the broken teapot and sidles over to me.

"Mr. Henry Rexford is on the line. Should I tell him to call back at a.... more convenient time, sir?"

"Uh...no. That's alright. I'll take it in Fran--err Father's study. Thank you."

I attempt to mimic our butler when evading the feud, moving along the wall and into the study. With the door closed and chained, I pick up the black rotary phone sitting at Frank's desk.

"Hello?"

"Well, hello, Darling. How are you?"

"Your step mother is screwing my father."

"Really? How taboo. So what else is new?" Henry says. And I can imagine him. Light brown eyebrows arched high, waggling, with a wonderful smirk gracing his wonderfully full lips. And just thinking about him makes my stomach lurch. In the good way, of course. The fact that I can see him so vividly, leaning against the wall, with a hand in his brown trousers pocket and the other holding his phone, the way his hair is slicked perfectly, parted to the side today and those blue, blue eyes. Well, the fact is I'm smitten, so horribly beyond smitten.

"Mother punched her. Square in the jaw." He laughs then and it's infectious. I've caught it too, that deep, low, sexy laugh. It sounds like a growl and my imaginations off again.

"Alma Swanson? Didn't know she had it in her," he pauses, "but now I know where you get it from."

Part of me wants to ask get what from, but I let out a Bronx cheer instead. The way he says it, in a dark whisper. It stirs me again and is it ridiculous to say that he's got me aroused by just the sound of his voice?

"Mother's got some spunk in her. What did you want?"

"Nice. Just a hi, hello. No how are you? It's always straight to the point with you. No penchant for foreplay."

"FORD"

"I got it. I'm good, very good, actually. Thank you. And you?"

"Ford," I'm a bit irritated now, more out of the fact that we're talking over the telephone rather than face to face. It's only been a few hours and still I pine.

"Ok. OK. How about you come over? In the evening, have some dinner. Talk." He stresses the talk, like I'd have him in bed for dessert. So, mayhap, he isn't that far off. I wouldn't mind the latter, but he's right. We do need to talk.

"All right. Dinner, talking, see you then,"

"Seven." And the phone cuts.

Mark wakes up after noon that day, missing breakfast and lunch altogether. He saunters onto the sun porch quite casually, as if all is perfectly normal. I curse his ability to look sharp at all times of the day. Even when ailed by a liquor headache, he seems unfettered. 

"Good morning, isn't it?" Mark hums, pouring himself a cup of lemonade as he kicks his feet up.

"Yes, it was," I smile coyly until his brow arches.


"It was, was it? A good dream, perhaps?"

"Yes, quite. A real dream, I dreamt the Truth."

"Ah, I had a good dream too."

"Well, what was yours about?" I ask, curious if he had picked it up.

"That dreamers often lie," our eyes meet and I'm not sure what to say, "I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She gallops night-by-night, through lovers' brains and then! They dream of love."

His hands shake as he spews nonsensical words about soldiers dreaming of cutting foreign throats and lawyers dreaming of fees. I watch as he speaks, words of an ancient genius with emphatic zeal. His is in near hysterics, when I get up to grab him, shaking him from his tirade.

"Mark, Mark. Calm down. You speak of nothing." He breathes deep, taking a long sip of his lemonade.

"True, I speak of dreams."

I'm at the Rexford's' door at seven sharp. Earlier actually, though I've spent the last ten minutes ogling their house. It's not Tudor Revival like ours, though it's just as large. It lacks the imposing quality and rather feels like entering the temple of Poseidon with its white stucco ionic columns all prettily set in a row. The door chime is off to the left of two beautiful wooden doors with nymphs carved into it for decoration. The inside of the house it quite different, decorated with ornate antique furniture from France circa Louis XIV. It is an off combination that shows everything of the Rexford name: powerful, strong, intelligent, And Old. The last perhaps the greatest of the messages. Old money, old wealth, old power.

Their butler, an aged man with a thick white mustache to match his salt and pepper hair, has me wait in the foyer before Ford comes bustling through the doors with a smile.

"I told Mr. Wilkes to show you in but he's all about formality. Meeting a guest in the foyer and all."


I'm not really listening, did I mention that? It's because Ford looks like a bloody sheik, that's something Ben would say, with his hair fresh out of a shower. It's not slicked back or styled in any fashion and he's just standing there. So nonchalant in his trousers and shirt, just talking. He's not even trying and he already has my blood boiling.

"--- Okay?

 Huh," I respond because I've gone temporarily deaf.

"I asked if you wanted to come in. Have a tour? We have some nice pieces of art lying about that I'm sure you'd like."

I only nod because I'm still thinking about the details Mark divulged. With all the little hints, I'm left wondering what to make of Henry Rexford. The events of last night or this morning add just a bit more to the equation.


"Is your Father...?" I ask, not quite completing the thought.

"Still blissfully clueless. Elsie said she fell down the stairs, demanded to be taken out to the city for a few days with Father."

"How long have you known?" I ask as Ford points out a few older chairs and holds up a Meissen candelabra for me to examine.

"That Elsie's loose?" he asks. I nod and he smiles.

"Since the day Father met her. She clung to him after all the talk about our houses and the money he has spread over banks around the country."

"And you let him marry her?" I ask moving to exam a painted Louis XIV Style vitrine, which held some oddly shaped Oriental plates and cups.

"Let. I didn't let anyone do anything. My father knows well enough what type Elsie is. What's a few dollars here or there, if he gets a few years out of her," he fills the spot next me, standing, while I bend over to examine the marquetry with a closer eye. There is no way to respond to that. How can anyone stand to marry someone they don't love, who they know will leave them in a few years, who uses them for their wealth? I guess it's the same as Frank and Alma. A marriage of convenience, though long ago Mother must have loved Father even the slightest. In his own way, Vernon must love Elsie and perhaps just having her for a few years is better than not having her at all.


Somehow, I can't criticize Vernon Rexford at all. I know I'd have it the same way. Just having Ford for a few hours is enough, even if it brought me a lifetime of pain.

When I turn my head to look at Ford, I have little time to react. He has me pushed against the wall, quick. The vitrine and china shaking as I'm pressed up against with a hand clamped at my shoulder and the other at my waist. Ford leaves little room for me to move. Front to front, his chest bumps against mine ever time we inhale. This close his eyes are bluer than I remember, brighter than they were last night.

He just stares.

It's unnerving. The smell of his skin is intoxicating this close, making me want to bury my face into his neck. I want to tug at his shirt, run my hands through his damp hair, and pull his lips onto mine.


But he just waits, watches me without blinking with those startling eyes.

"Henry...?" I whisper, afraid to make any sound louder than a squeak.

"Mmmm," he responds, dipping his face closer to mine.

He kisses me slowly like that night in the Village. Not in a frantic, back breaking way like last night. Neither of us are zozzled off Hooch. Our inhibitions aren't down. We aren't slurred by alcohol in our veins, brave off of some liquid courage. Ford kisses me because he wants to, just like that night and the last. For some odd reason he finds me interesting, perhaps even attractive. I kiss Ford because I want to. Not because I'm ossified, not because I was drawn to him or because I built up an image of sleeping with a man. I kiss Ford, Henry Rexford, because he's him. Because he likes Neoclassical artwork and gin. Because he loves his Father despite his ill choice in wives. Because he smokes and quotes lines from Shakespeare. I kiss Ford because I want more.

We don't think about the chips of broken antique plate that Mr. Wilkes will find in the morning. Ford presses me up against a wall here and there, against the banister of his winding staircase, up to a door with a brass knob. We steal kisses like this in between our running and giggling. We sound like two flappers on an edge.

Ford opens the door to a yellow room that reminds me oddly of a meringue pie, so lemony bright that it makes my lips pucker with a sour taste. He explains how it was his nursery turned guest room. Tells me about how his mother painted the walls in her favorite color. It reminds him of her. He leaves me standing next to the bed, with a peck on my lips, as he turns to close the door.

"Let's talk," he told me over the phone and we've done little of it since. It's natural that when he turns back around I'm already on the bed, shoes and socks kicked off, with my hands undoing the topmost button on my trousers.

He gravitates towards me like magnet to metal. Snapping his suspenders off, fingers stumbling through buttons, slipping on a few before he reaches behind himself, tugging the shirt over his head. Trousers are kicked off with just as much urgency, until he's bare. A palm to my chest pushes me back, sinking me into the mattress as he presses all his weight onto me. This is nothing like last night, no stone floor or chilled night winds. We lift our hips in unison, enough to shimmy my trousers off. We writhe like snakes, entwining our legs and flicking our tongues against each other's lips. We find pleasure in each other's hands, the slow building rhythm of delicate skin against palm. Our lips meet in painfully, bruising kisses between deep gasps and pants. My fingers run across the constellation again along his arm, as he reaches into the drawer. The flash of glass tubes and metal is unmistakable, but I am lost to him when lips meet mine. We are too rushed in our passion, racing like horses to the finish line.

We both burn red in a yellow room.

There is no pleasure in pain, what comes next is neither worth telling nor describing. I am too tender and new. Too tight to feel anything other than the largest of discomforts. Everyone is different, yet Ford is skilled. We both come furiously at the end: him inside me and me against the yellow, jacquard duvet. 

I am not disappointed; first times are never wonderful. We do not float on a cloud or spew Elizabethan verse. My heart does not move and we do not become one. It is raw and there is pain. But the tenderness in his touch, the way his hands run steadily across my spine, is comforting. And if just for the look of worry in his face, I would give myself to him like this again.

There is a moment when we don't speak. We just take each other in. All the imperfections that make perfection.

The slight cracks in the marble that are still smooth to the touch.

Sometimes we're Cupid and Psyche, sometimes the Pieta.

And on beautiful, rough days we are Composition VII. A swirl of vivid colors and indistinguishable shapes, complex and abstract.

But its still there, that tight, dense pain right between the ribs.

"OK. What do you want to know?" He smiles a reserved smile, strained with tension to match. He read me too well. I pull the covers up and around, tighter because the warmth is gone.

"Those marks on your arm and the hypes in your drawer?" He sighs, long and drawn out. I know little about Ford and yet I know he ever only sighs from relief. This is different, because the tension is still tight in his face.

"Dynamite. Nothing serious. You don't need to worry about it." He slings his arm over and around me, pulling me into his side. But to me, it's not a form of endearment. He does it so that I no longer run my fingers over the marks or stare at the odd little cluster.

When it's dynamite, it's never "not serious". Morphine and cocaine go in and out of style, just like oriental opium. It's so European.Ben's tried it once or twice, to him its just another thing to add to the British shelf alongside his "ole' chap," "high tea," and "marmalade." But nothing ever stuck with Ben, I think he prefers pansies to his try-to-hard Harvard boy attitude. And though Mark's universally liked with his charm veiling imperfect looks, he has always been a man of the drinks.


"Why scar my perfect skin," he once told me. Women, minus the wo-, prefer it smooth and unmarred.

But dynamite's different. Harder to get, less popular, serious. Frank goes numb, locked in his office pretending to work. The rush, the feel he gets feeds his craving, alongside whatever floozy is there to spread her legs. He's not Father, he isn't even Frank Madison. He's some ghost of a thing. But he won't dare it, again.

It hurts when I think of Ford as a hollow shell. Empty and addicted living only for a teaspoon of white powder.

"Andrew," he says kissing the top of my head, distracting me from my thoughts, "what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking..." I can't tell him.

"About?"

"About how I want you to fuck me again." He smiles kissing my forehead again and then my temple, my nose, my cheek, the hollow of my collarbones. When he takes me again with one hand on my hip and the other holding up a leg behind the knee, it still hurts. I'm too tight, too green, not tenderized enough. I feel like a piece of meat. Even when he hits the spot that makes me cry his name between shallow ragged breathes, even though I come easily leaving a sticky mess between our torsos, even after it all, I can only think of one thing: I love him.

Love.

Mark was right. Queen Mab had visited me in my dreams.

A/N: Long, long, long overdue. I can't really apologize because life does take precedence over this, but I swear everything is ok! I will continue this! It will get finished! To make it up to you wonderful readers, I decided to combine two chapters into one (which is why this is longer than normal). I'm in dire need of a better summary, mind is kinda bland. Any suggestions? Also, I may need a beta soon.

This chapter is all about beginnings and you see why. It might be a little confusing right now, but I promise you'll see more to come. It'll all make sense.

Also huge thank you to the reviewers of the last chapter, I think I responded to you all, but if I didn't I apologize and I'm thanking you right now. That said, I've been seeing a lot of authors putting this in their chapters and while it irks me a little it is a valid point, so I'll just say this here for the first and last time: I notice this story, especially after the last chapter, getting favorited a lot. I'm exceptionally flattered that you would think this worthy of favoriting and thank you all profusely. But if you are taking the few seconds to favorite this, please also take a few more to review. Reviews help me know what I'm doing right (and wrong). If you're favoriting then obviously there is something I am doing right. So why not let me know it so I'll keep it up? I'm really not asking for paragraph long reviews or even that you review every chapter (hell, once is more than enough!). So please, please review if you are favoriting this.

20s Slang:
Floozy: whore, slut
zozzled: drunk
Hooch: smuggled alcohol
Dynamite: Heroin
Oriental: now politically incorrect term for Asian, specifically Chinese
"Pick it up": to pick up on a hint someone has dropped. (In this case Andrew wondering if Mark has picked up on his "spending the night" with Ford)

Other terms:
Meissen: a technique attributed to porcelain craft. Named after the German town where it started.
Louis XIV style: an art historical term for a style of artistry: usually within furniture but can also include paintings etc., exceptionally ornate. Named after King Louis XIV
vitrine: a glass paneled cabinet usually displaying things such as artisan handicrafts or china
maquetry: technique of inlaying material (like wood or ivory) into a wooden surface creating an intricate design; veneering.

R&J quote is from Mercutio's speech to Romeo: Act I, sc. 4 (Credit to W.S. Of course.)

Until next time, all you flappers and sheiks!