Beauties and the Beast

Title Page

BEAUTIES AND THE BEAST

Eric Scott

Publisher Information

This edition published in 2014 by

Acorn Books

www.acornbooks.co.uk

Converted and distributed by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

Copyright © 2014 by Eric Scott

The right of by Eric Scott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Chapter One

There was a metallic clang as Billy Winter's guitar banged against a wooden beam that hung unseen in the dim light hovering in the passageway. Where the hell was he? Fumbling fingers traced a way along the wall. He cringed. It was damp, cold sweat damp; corpse cold. He pulled away and wiped his fingers on his jeans. What the hell was Genghis playing at?

Suddenly there was bright light; a full stage glare. He recognised it instantly as it seeped back into the passageway. Billy could almost feel the warmth, almost.

He shivered and felt his way forward. He trod carefully, afraid of stepping into... into what? There were vague patterns in his mind; vague smells. Was something rotting? Was something dead or... nearly dead?

He fleetingly thought he was living one of his more grotesque nightmares; the night terror of the ever-receding light; the desperate clawing at the suffocating, tearing sheet to halt the drop into the void. He closed his eyes and opened them. No. The light was not receding. It was moving closer. He hurried his step and finally came the doorway. He stepped through and felt the heat and the blindness. He blinked and saw the retina retained images of orange, green, blue and then the fading.

He opened his eyes again and saw the real images. He was on a stage; a small, fully lit stage. He shielded his eyes, but could not see past the glow.

He turned his back on the lights and stared round him. There was little to see; just dirty boards and footprints in the dust. Grime-covered spider webs settled over polystyrene bricks that half formed a wall at the back of the stage. He moved towards it.

There was a scuttling. Rats? Billy Winter didn't like rats. They reminded him of... images buried in the mind. Images he could not allow to surface.

He subdued the memories and looked stage right.

Among the ancient dirt he saw gleaming technology. There was a bank of glittering, flickering computers; a grey ergonomic table and three chairs.

For an instant an uncalled for image of Goldilocks and the three bears flickered through his mind. A fairytale? He shook his head. Was he going crazy?

To the left, two rows of aged green-leather theatre chairs sat in the blaze of a follow spot. That was all. No props, no amps, no people. No human sound; just the hum of the computer terminals - and the scuttling. He moved and the guitar chord tangled in his legs. He stopped. Why was he carrying his guitar - the immaculate Fender? Billy Winter didn't carry his own gear.

“Shit,” he muttered. His memory banks were full of gaps. He knew he had spoken to Genghis. He could recall the excitement. It was the gig of a lifetime. Get there, he was told, get there first thing. Get where? He shrugged. He must have known where. He was
there
. The cab! Of course the cab brought him. He shook his head. Man what a night. What smack. He smiled. He was still feeling no pain.

He walked to the rear of the stage and leaned his guitar against the polystyrene wall. The old set was dark green and grey. It could have been the remains of Elsinore Castle from a long gone production of
Hamlet
. Billy snorted. What did he know about
Hamlet
? Rock'n'roll was his game. He stroked the neck of guitar fondly and headed for the spotlight. He felt the heat and felt at home.

He stepped past the light and it was suddenly icy cold. He peered into the wings but could see only ancient paraphernalia from an ancient show and the faint glimmer of a working light. There was a door further back. It was closed, but a gentle light peeped from underneath.

He called out softly. “Hello.” There was no reply, no other sound except the slight reverberation of an echo. He shrugged and walked to the opposite side of the stage. He stopped, puzzled. There was no other wing, just a blank wall, some dusty flats, and blacks. There was nothing until the passageway.

“Fucking funny hall,” he said out loud. He jumped, startled at the resonance of his own voice. Then he laughed and bellowed the sentence even more loudly and listened for the echo. H a...l...l. Then he heard another sound, the clip clop of stiletto heels. ‘Stiletto heels! For Christ's sake, what chick wore stilettos today?' he wondered. He swirled round to check.

What he saw was quality; real, pure gold, exquisitely crafted quality.

She had her back to him but he knew that her face would be perfect. Just like the rest of her. Billy hadn't seen quality like since the old days.

She was medium height and proportioned like a centrefold. Her hair, golden, brushed her shoulders. There were no darkened roots. It was real, blissfully, beautifully real and lustrous as a slow motion shampoo commercial.

She was bending slightly, clicking on the keyboard of a terminal, and her dark navy skirt rode slightly up her calf. She
was
wearing stilettos, and her stockings had seams in them. Billy didn't need to see any more to know she was also wearing a suspender belt and that there was a cleft of silky smooth, tanned flesh between it and the stockings. Any skin that was showing outside of the crisp white shirt-blouse was tanned and it was smooth as a budding fifteen-year-old.

Billy felt a stirring he hadn't felt in a long time. This was a chick worthy of Billy Winter's time. She finished her task as Billy watched, and then she straightened up and began to walk, balanced like a catwalk queen, from the stage.

Billy slipped from his trance and found voice.

“Hey.”

She stopped but didn't acknowledge his call. Her body language spoke of caution.

“Hey, I'm talking to you.”

Then there was movement and Billy swore her shoulders smiled before she turned.

“Billy Winter!” she said.

It was a voice of early autumn, earthy, warm, and seductive with drifting undertones of decay and ice.

Facing him she was exactly as Billy had seen her in his mind. Her unlined face was immaculate. She wore light make-up, her eyes were as blue as an Arctic sky, and they swirled into depths that made him shiver inside. She was wearing a scarf. What was she; air hostess, bank teller? Her body might have been sculpted by Michelangelo. It was sun-tanned marble, soft, incandescent - and untouchable? He smiled. Not to Billy Winter. The shiver left him when he saw unadulterated lust flowing from those bluer than blue eyes.

There was more to this chick than met the eye, he thought. This was not just quality, this was a Faberge Easter egg, an Argyle diamond, a Dior gown. This was Class with a capital C.

She spoke again, voice vibrating slightly. “It
is
Billy Winter.”

Billy grinned his professionally lop-sided little boy grin, the one that had girls fainting at his feet. He hoped the old magic was back. “You got in one.”

She moved with fluid movements, swaying, hair swinging until she was arm-distance away. She stopped and her smile disappeared. The fathomless eyes swept over him. He felt naked. “They were right!” The words escaped breathlessly from full lips. No lipstick. No need. They glowed with fruit-natural redness. “You are perfect.”

Her hand reached and touched him. He flinched. The touch was hot, like holy water on a Devil's disciple. He expected a sizzle, but there was none. He checked his arm, bare under his sleeveless denim shirt.

There was no mark, no remnant of pain. Pain? What pain? There was no pain, just the lingering echo of a soft touch, a woman's touch.

He turned away. She moved closer. He flinched again and swirled round quickly.

“Here,” he said with boyish indignation. “Don't handle the merchandise.”

He couldn't believe she'd just goosed him.

She twisted her lips in a grin. It was a little girl grin, a worldly grin, a lover's knowing grin, a witches grin, his mother's grin? “I want you,” she said.

Billy took a step back. He was used to a come on, but this, from Class with a capital C?

“Yeah...?” his mind was working fast. “Yeah... well you and about a million others. You can take your turn, join the queue.” He marched to the back of the stage and picked up his guitar. “Who are you anyway?”

She strode towards him. She used a power walk. This time she was a Chief Executive. She had more sides than a dodecahedron. “I'm with management”

“What management?”

“The show.”

“What show?”

The woman was so close he could feel her heat. She began to lift her hand, long-fingered, perfectly manicured, with long fingernails. Talons? No! A drift of cloud pictures began to fill Billy's head, more of those damn vague outlines that he hated. He shook his head. Maybe he was coming down from the hit. Her hands reached closer to his face. He closed his eyes. He wanted to move but he also wanted her to touch him again, to feel the pain. No! Not pain, the soft touch of velvet.

The fingernail brushed his cheek. They burned! He jerked his head away. Angela smiled. Her teeth were perfect too. ‘Perfect for what?' thought Billy. Images of a snarling tiger rushed through his mind. He forced his eyelids apart. The images vanished. The touch was soft. There was no heat. No pain; just the cool finger-touch of a fantastic chick. Billy made a huge mental effort.

“Hey,” he said. “I said what show?”

Angela stepped back. “That, I can't go into at the moment. You'll be told in due course.” Billy's eyes flickered as his mind scanned her body. The stirring was back.

“How about you come back to my place when we've done here? We can party.”

The woman raised one eyebrow and half smiled. “Just you and me Billy?” she asked

Billy felt his confidence come oozing back. In fact he was starting to feel good. He could feel the energy, the vibes, and the stuff of stardom. He was again two metres tall. He twisted his lips into a Presley sneer.

“Think you can handle it?”

Angela let out a bark of a laugh. “You and your band,” she said.

For a moment the blissful beauty left the girl. There was something else. What? He frowned. The picture was gone. Something wasn't right. What? He shook his head and tried to focus. “One of them eh?” he said, his lips curled into a sneer. “You like a big party.”

“Sometimes,” she said

Her eyes glowed. Lust rose in them and overflowed like it was liquid. It evaporated into the air and then spread like a fog, dripping onto Billy in a fine mist. He could smell it, feel it. Then it was gone. He stared at the girl, who was still smiling.

“What's your name?”

“Angela Caduti,” she said. Now she was demur. Billy could handle that. He stepped closer and found he was taller than her.

“I don't think I've ever had an Angela.”

Her eyebrows arched. “I don't expect you meet many in your business.”

“Then I'll make up for it tonight.”

Angela lifted her head as if she had heard something. A distant bell? She turned and stared into the wings, her head nodding. Billy was being ignored.

“Hey.” His command was petulant.

Angela faced him again. Her eyes glittered and Billy could feel danger. Then the smile returned. He eyes were softly promising, promising everything.

“Sorry?”

“I said I'll make up for it tonight.”

“Oh yes,” she said, “maybe.”

Billy's jaw dropped. “Maybe! Maybe!” He searched for the right words. “This is Billy Winter you're talking to.” He stepped back. Her breath was not as sweet as it should be.

Angela sighed. “You are perfect indeed.”

Suddenly Angela was on him. Her hands roved over him like tumbling coals. Her touch was like cigarette burns. He tried to scream, but her lips, hot lips, burning lips like the songs, were devouring him. Her fingers played along his thigh. He felt the stirring. Then the touch changed. It became cold, icy cold. He pushed her away. He was sweating. It was the cold sweat again. My God, he thought, I
am
coming down. I'm hallucinating. He was going to need a fix and quick.

Then it was all gone. He could feel the touches again, soft, caressing. They were touches of need. The kiss was soft and clinging. She wanted him, needed him. He could feel that. He was the King again. Then there was no craving. He didn't need a fix. He'd never need another fix.

He grabbed her wrists and pulled them to her side. He felt reverberations of an incredible strength. But it was being subdued.

“I said don't handle the merchandise.”

She gave a small gasp, a little girl's hungry gasp. “But I want you,” she said simply. Billy felt her soften.

“So just take it easy. I said tonight, not here and now.” An amazing thought struck him. She was a virgin. He knew it. But how could she be? “Him and his band?” she had said. He looked into her eyes again. What was going on? She changed like a chameleon.

“I want you,” she said. The autumn voice had returned. “And I always get what I want.”

“Yeah... well maybe... but this is Billy Winter, and you'll get what you're given. Okay?”

The heat evaporated. She was Miss Power Suit again.

“Of course,” she said. She was businesslike, brisk. “You're a little early. Would you mind waiting?” She pointed to the row of green chairs.

Without thinking Billy walked to chairs and sat. Angela gave an uncertain smile, smoothed her hair, and walked to the wings. Billy didn't follow her with his eyes. Angela stopped and looked at Billy's back. She licked her lips. A sly look transformed her face. It was the look of a cannibal who had just sighted dinner.

When Billy did turn she was gone.

But her essence lingered. There was a pungent smell like a lightning strike. Lightning? He felt his cheeks. Burning flesh? He sniffed and then it clicked. It was Lou Lou. At least he thought it was Lou Lou.

He shook his head. He'd met weird chicks in his life, but never one like this. He sat still for a few seconds, waiting, for what? He looked at his watch - Cartier, naturally. Three am? No way. He shook it and took a closer look. There was no pulse. The watch was dead. Solar batteries never died. “Bloody lying jewellers”, he muttered, “always ready to rip you off.” Then he felt a surge of panic. What time was it? He jumped to his feet and searched for daylight; there was none.