The Rain

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 2 (v.1) - White Yacht

Submitted: August 24, 2016

Reads: 90

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Submitted: August 24, 2016



Chapter 2


The beach was Charlotte Ashworth's haven in the hell, the long sloping banks of golden sand along the water's edge gave her aching body some relief. She had made her way down across the long grass surrounding her white paint flecked porch, and onto the beach. Letting her feet fall into a rythm with the grey-green waves that slapped at the concrete sea wall a few hundred metres ahead. The salt air mingled with the scent of wet morning grass filled her senses. Across from the sea wall, the mainland was little more than a thick green stripe, above it, banks of cloud were massing. 

Along the length of the beach there was a couple of benches and on the last one Charlotte perched herself slowly down wincing through the pain her ribs caused. Perching on the edge of the seat, the tension in her body palpable even at a distance, as if she was primed to spring up in an instant - flight or fight mode. She wore a parka jacket, its hood rimmed with fake fur, and one of her hands pinched the material of it close to the base of her throat, a green bobble hat pulled tightly down to her brow bone was just visible. Makeup was sporadic over her skin to hide the purpling bruises surrounding her eyes. She pulled a cigarette from the packet she had hidden under a piece of wood on the bench, and bought it to her mouth with darting movements. Harry hated when she smoked. He told her women shouldn't smoke. It was man's vice. Her long chocolate curls danced around her face in the wind. She exhaled another plume of smoke. Fuck Harry and his opinions. 

"Excuse me," he said approaching, his voice was thick and soft, "I'm sorry to ask but do you have a spare cigarette?"

Charlotte looked up sharply. The man walking towards her realised that she hadn't been aware of him in the minutes that it had taken to walk along the front towards her. Her eyes were glistening, as if she had recently been crying and was on the verge of tears again, but a flicker of interest appeared in her blue eyes that died almost as soon as it sparked. Then fright appeared in the corners but was gone like smoke in the wind. 

She reached into the pocket of her coat, Malboro Reds: too strong. He took one anyway and wordlessly she extended her lighter. 

"Thanks. Do you mind if I...?"

Charlotte waved her hand quickly over the bench, granting permission. The rain from the night previous had covered the seat with drops of water that the wind hadn't yet dried. Charlotte watched him clear the worst of it with the arm of his jacket and sit down, careful not to trespass into her space. The wind continued to swirl around them and he tucked his dark hair behind his ears to stop it whipping into his face.

Harry would kill her if he saw her right now. This man, this stranger, would suddenly be someone she was fucking. Fear creeped it's way into her stomach. A bile rose in her throat. She crossed her legs and her top foot began bouncing to a hectic rythm.

"That's a beautiful boat." The man said tentatively.

Charlotte glanced at him, surprised that he had spoken again, and bought her cigarette to her lips as her eyes followed his to the morning horizon, and the big yacht and it's huge white sail bobbing softly on the waves.

"Yes" her foot kept bounching. "Do you know about boats?" She looked exhausted, her eyes though bright, were underscored with dark rings. 

"No, not really. I mean no, not at all." he replied.

Charlotte turned to watch it. 

"Do you?" His voice was soft as he spoke.

"I used to sail." There was a flash of sadness in her eyes. 

"I should learn." 

Charlotte nodded, and flicked her cigarette in the direction of the waves. "I've got to go."

The man nodded, "It was nice to meet you.." He paused..."Sorry what is your name?"

By the time the words had left his lips Charlotte was half way back to the house, what if he was a friend of Harry's, what if he told Harry she had tried it on with him? It wouldn't take long to find a Charlotte Ashworth if he asked the other beach houses. The brutal beating of the night previous flashed before her eyes and she tucked her arms across her chest to steady herself. Whoever he was it was best he knew nothing about her.

By 12 o'clock, the air in the house was stale, as if Harry had sucked every particle of goodness from it. He hadn't always been this way. When she had met him eighteen months ago he had been everything she could of ever wanted. She hadn't been afraid the night she met him. On the way back to his house she had looked blithely out of the taxi window at unfamiliar streets. He had had his hand on her thigh, his fingers curling in to press on the soft flesh on the inside, and it seemed to weigh heavier than a hand should. She had smiled as she turned her face down to her shoulder, baring more of her neck for him to put his lips against, knowing that the driver was flicking his eyes to watch them in the mirror. 

Her best friend Miranda and her had been out for drinks. She had been tired by the time they had finished their first round but Charlotte was suddenly full of energy. They found another place around the corner. Neither of them had been there before. It was crowded with people dressed more smartly than them. They were shunted away from the bar and found themselves standing by an alcove near the door. The room was hot and airless. Miranda stifled a yawn and Charlotte felt bad for dragging her along. Afterwards she couldn't have said how it happened but suddenly they were talking to Harry, and another man. 

His friend, focused on Miranda almost immediately. He was tall and peered down at her. The first thing Charlotte noticed about Harry was his eyes. The hazel orbs flecked with gold, studied her as he watched her intently. It was strange, it should of unnerved her but instead she found herself responding to the intensity. He smiled. She smiled back, feeling the start of a bubbling in her stomach. She took a sip of her drink. He took a sip of his.

"I'll get us another. Another malibu and coke, yes?"

Before she could say anything he was on his way to the bar. She had turned to Miranda to find her pressed up against the wall with his friend, his tongue down her throat.

He was back before she could even breathe again. "That was fast, it took us ages to get served."

He made a face that suggested he hadn't noticed one way or another and took a mouthful from his glass. Then he stepped closer to her and they were back in the alcove again. He smiled and looked at her mouth. His lips were full. His hair was cropped close to his head. Charlotte remembered having to suppress the an urge to reach up and stroke it. 

Charlotte heard the front door slam shut and stirred from her musing. 


Harry's voice trailed up the hall. He emerged into the kitchen, a bouquet of red roses clutched in his left hand.  His brief case slung over his broad shoulder. "Here these are for you."

He placed them into her hand. She let them fall onto the table as if they had burned her skin. 

He took a step forward. "Oh come on, Char. Are you still mad about yesterday?" 

She said nothing. He was at her side again now. She knew he saw the bruises decorating her temple. "Please babe I'm sorry."

She nodded. Too tired to protest. In her head she was screaming. He pulled her into his chest. It smelt of his body. A light soap scent mixed with a deeper musk note and sweat. He quickly touched his lips to her forehead. "It's just you make me so mad sometimes."

He grabbed Charlotte by the hand then. Pulling her down the hair, up the stairs and into the bedroom. He pulled his shirt over his head after loosening his tie. He pulled her against him again, she felt his hardness against her hip. He yanked her t-shirt over her head ignoring her gritted teeth through the pain in her ribs. He reached behind her and unhooked her bra and seconds later, she was on the bed, the duvet rising around her like a cloud. Her jeans were gone, and then his hands fumbled over his belt buckle. He lowered his weight onto her and pulled her legs around his hips. The pain was like a white hot burning stabbing at her stomach. This was fucking. Not love making. He was rough, cruel and selfish in his approach. His hands were in her hair pulling, his lips and teeth biting at the soft skin of her collarbone. She laid there tears burning her eyes. If she protested it would anger him, and angering him led to a beating. So instead Charlotte lay there listening to the crashing of waves wishing desperately for it to be over and for the pain to stop. That was the end to it for him, a loosely strung apology and a quick fuck and she was supposed to forget all about the brutal rage of his fists.

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