Hostage
Glass Of Milk
“Ok, sweetie, that’s a rap!”
Analeigh relaxed her face with a sigh of relief, grimacing as peach powder sifted over her laugh-lines. She raised a hand and rubbed the manicured fingers over her face. Her cheeks felt like rubber and her skin stung as her features stretched into a weary yawn. Slowly, she pushed herself up into a sitting position on the plastic turf, cringing as she felt each column in her spine click and crack back into place.
Thanking the photographer, Analeigh heaved herself off the set and ambled into the changing rooms. Her legs prickled as fresh blood surged in pulses around her body and her mind wandered to the plush, purple cushions, the silk-soft sheets and the thick, feather duvet that awaited her at home. Yawning, she threw herself into a high, wooden chair and allowed the crew to remove the cosmetics from her face and the pins from her tresses. The skin on her scalp slackened as each clip was removed and she closed her eyes, sighing in content as cool wet wipes were slicked across her brow. While the crew worked at the silver clasps on the bodice of her gown, her body sunk into the chair-back and her feet rose and perched themselves atop the metal bars under the dressing table. Soft, even breaths puffed steadily from her parted lips, the low chatter of stylists lulling her into a shallow slumber.
“Miss Belford?”
Analeigh pretended not to hear. A gentle snore emanated from the cave of her throat and she stilled the involuntary flicker of her lashes. She was too exhausted to be disturbed.
“Miss Belford,” the voice pressed, high-pitched and timid. “Miss Belford, your phone is ringing.”
Analeigh groaned, her yellow-grey eyes reluctantly fluttering open. Shooting the intern a disgruntled scowl, she swiped the phone from her patient grasp and pressed it to her ear.
“What?” she demanded flatly, tangling a mahogany lock around her index and middle fingers. She examined herself in the mirror, pinching her lips into a subtle pout and angling her jaw to the light.
“Where the fuck are you?”
Analeigh frowned and shifted herself into an upright position.
“I’m at a shoot, Nicholas,” she snapped, aggravated by his tone. “What the hell’s your problem?”
He laughed darkly and she could hear the half-crazy quiver in his voice as he struggled to contain himself.
“My problem?” he scoffed. “Well, my girlfriend just missed the most important show of my life, for a start.”
Analeigh’s eyes grew so large she could feel clumps of mascara stick to the slopes of her brow bones. How could she have forgotten? A representative from some record company was coming to watch them play- it was all he’d been talking about for months! Waving the stylists off, she scrambled to her feet, snatching up her handbag and slinging it haphazardly over her right shoulder.
“Fuck Nick, I’m so sorry, I’m on my-”
“Don’t even bother.”
And then he hung up.
Ravaging at her bottom lip, she felt a slow sink in her chest as her innards turned to slush and a growl of frustration scraped up her throat. Fuming, she smashed her palm into the elevator button, the roughly textured walls grating the skin from her fingers with a spicy lash of pain. She breathed hard, biting the inside of her lip to contain the slew of curses that were materializing rapidly behind her teeth.
By the time she got home it was well past midnight and, letting herself into the dark, seemingly empty condo, she assumed Nick had retired for the night. As she kicked off her ankle boots and slung her cashmere scarf over a hook by the door, soft canned laughter filtered from the living room and angular shadows slid over the walls as she padded to the kitchen. Analeigh opened the fridge and poured some full cream milk into a Christmas-themed glass before stirring in a teaspoon of honey and zapping it in the microwave for forty-five seconds. She watched as the green numbers counted down on the dial, flinching as it reached zero and a loud bleep! bounced off the ceramic tiles.
Though his eyes were shut, she knew he was awake. The unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the slight twitch of his bottom lip, and the too-tight clench of his fists informed her that he was only feigning slumber. Analeigh perched herself on the edge of the coffee table and balanced the glass between her knees, eyeing the boy cautiously with her lips sucked between her teeth.
“Nick,” she said quietly. She reached for the remote and turned the television off. Except for the song of crickets chirruping in the yard, silence enveloped the room. “I brought you some milk. The way you like it.”
Nick stirred, eying her with disappointment clouding his orbs. After minutes of trying to butcher her with his stare, he shifted into a sitting position on the couch and reached for the glass of milk. She watched as he took a few tentative sips, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly with every swallow. Soon the glass was empty, an opaque white smear staining the inside surface and a golden swirl of honey pooling at its base. Nick brought it down from his lips, fingernails clinking on the snowman as he drummed a testy rhythm against the glass. A white moustache was smudged above his mouth and Analeigh’s lips tweaked into a soft, adoring smile. She reached up, resting her thumb on his upper lip and he flinched back, a scowl scrunching his features. She stopped breathing, her hand hanging motionless in the air. Her chest gave a painful pang; it felt as though he’d reached out and clasped her heart in his hot, livid grip.
“Don’t,” he shook his head.
She swallowed hard, eyes pleading with his sour expression. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t act like nothing’s wrong!” Analeigh jumped, a hand leaping to shield her chest as he wrenched himself from the sofa and slammed the glass onto the coffee table. “You really crossed the line tonight, Analeigh.”
She recoiled, startled by the austerity of his reaction. “You’re totally overreacting,” she retorted, composing herself just enough to meet his glare. “I was at a photo shoot, Nicholas. I couldn’t have just not shown up!”
“Yes you could have!” he barked back, flinging his hands into the air. “That’s what freelance means you stupid cow!”
Analeigh glowered, her face growing hot. She stood up, tugging her shirt down over her stomach and rising to her toes to meet his height. “I know what freelance means, jackass.” She said lowly, prodding at his chest with her index finger.
Nick turned away from her, breaking from the angry heat that ensnared their bodies. “The one time I asked for your support, the one time I really needed you-” he ran a shaking hand through his copper mane. “You’re just so fucking selfish, Analeigh! Everything’s always about you!”
“It is not!” Analeigh spat. “I go to your stupid fucking shows all the time!”
“All the time?” He chuckled, a dark shadow casting over his expression. “You haven’t been to a single one since you started this modelling bullshit!”
“This modelling bullshit is my job!” She balanced her hands on her hips, voice cracking slightly. “Your music is just a hobby, and that’s all it ever will be!”
She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips but nevertheless, she stared him down, her chest heaving with exhaustion. She wasn’t selfish and it hurt her that he accused her of being so. She was absolutely furious with him, and every fibre of her being yearned to hurt him back.
“That’s where you’re wrong, babe,” he whispered. She felt her anger morph into dread as his eyes wandered from hers, out the window and into the night. She watched him, helpless, as he scooped his keys from his pocket and advanced towards the door.
“We leave for tour in a week.”
Analeigh relaxed her face with a sigh of relief, grimacing as peach powder sifted over her laugh-lines. She raised a hand and rubbed the manicured fingers over her face. Her cheeks felt like rubber and her skin stung as her features stretched into a weary yawn. Slowly, she pushed herself up into a sitting position on the plastic turf, cringing as she felt each column in her spine click and crack back into place.
Thanking the photographer, Analeigh heaved herself off the set and ambled into the changing rooms. Her legs prickled as fresh blood surged in pulses around her body and her mind wandered to the plush, purple cushions, the silk-soft sheets and the thick, feather duvet that awaited her at home. Yawning, she threw herself into a high, wooden chair and allowed the crew to remove the cosmetics from her face and the pins from her tresses. The skin on her scalp slackened as each clip was removed and she closed her eyes, sighing in content as cool wet wipes were slicked across her brow. While the crew worked at the silver clasps on the bodice of her gown, her body sunk into the chair-back and her feet rose and perched themselves atop the metal bars under the dressing table. Soft, even breaths puffed steadily from her parted lips, the low chatter of stylists lulling her into a shallow slumber.
“Miss Belford?”
Analeigh pretended not to hear. A gentle snore emanated from the cave of her throat and she stilled the involuntary flicker of her lashes. She was too exhausted to be disturbed.
“Miss Belford,” the voice pressed, high-pitched and timid. “Miss Belford, your phone is ringing.”
Analeigh groaned, her yellow-grey eyes reluctantly fluttering open. Shooting the intern a disgruntled scowl, she swiped the phone from her patient grasp and pressed it to her ear.
“What?” she demanded flatly, tangling a mahogany lock around her index and middle fingers. She examined herself in the mirror, pinching her lips into a subtle pout and angling her jaw to the light.
“Where the fuck are you?”
Analeigh frowned and shifted herself into an upright position.
“I’m at a shoot, Nicholas,” she snapped, aggravated by his tone. “What the hell’s your problem?”
He laughed darkly and she could hear the half-crazy quiver in his voice as he struggled to contain himself.
“My problem?” he scoffed. “Well, my girlfriend just missed the most important show of my life, for a start.”
Analeigh’s eyes grew so large she could feel clumps of mascara stick to the slopes of her brow bones. How could she have forgotten? A representative from some record company was coming to watch them play- it was all he’d been talking about for months! Waving the stylists off, she scrambled to her feet, snatching up her handbag and slinging it haphazardly over her right shoulder.
“Fuck Nick, I’m so sorry, I’m on my-”
“Don’t even bother.”
And then he hung up.
Ravaging at her bottom lip, she felt a slow sink in her chest as her innards turned to slush and a growl of frustration scraped up her throat. Fuming, she smashed her palm into the elevator button, the roughly textured walls grating the skin from her fingers with a spicy lash of pain. She breathed hard, biting the inside of her lip to contain the slew of curses that were materializing rapidly behind her teeth.
By the time she got home it was well past midnight and, letting herself into the dark, seemingly empty condo, she assumed Nick had retired for the night. As she kicked off her ankle boots and slung her cashmere scarf over a hook by the door, soft canned laughter filtered from the living room and angular shadows slid over the walls as she padded to the kitchen. Analeigh opened the fridge and poured some full cream milk into a Christmas-themed glass before stirring in a teaspoon of honey and zapping it in the microwave for forty-five seconds. She watched as the green numbers counted down on the dial, flinching as it reached zero and a loud bleep! bounced off the ceramic tiles.
Though his eyes were shut, she knew he was awake. The unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the slight twitch of his bottom lip, and the too-tight clench of his fists informed her that he was only feigning slumber. Analeigh perched herself on the edge of the coffee table and balanced the glass between her knees, eyeing the boy cautiously with her lips sucked between her teeth.
“Nick,” she said quietly. She reached for the remote and turned the television off. Except for the song of crickets chirruping in the yard, silence enveloped the room. “I brought you some milk. The way you like it.”
Nick stirred, eying her with disappointment clouding his orbs. After minutes of trying to butcher her with his stare, he shifted into a sitting position on the couch and reached for the glass of milk. She watched as he took a few tentative sips, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly with every swallow. Soon the glass was empty, an opaque white smear staining the inside surface and a golden swirl of honey pooling at its base. Nick brought it down from his lips, fingernails clinking on the snowman as he drummed a testy rhythm against the glass. A white moustache was smudged above his mouth and Analeigh’s lips tweaked into a soft, adoring smile. She reached up, resting her thumb on his upper lip and he flinched back, a scowl scrunching his features. She stopped breathing, her hand hanging motionless in the air. Her chest gave a painful pang; it felt as though he’d reached out and clasped her heart in his hot, livid grip.
“Don’t,” he shook his head.
She swallowed hard, eyes pleading with his sour expression. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t act like nothing’s wrong!” Analeigh jumped, a hand leaping to shield her chest as he wrenched himself from the sofa and slammed the glass onto the coffee table. “You really crossed the line tonight, Analeigh.”
She recoiled, startled by the austerity of his reaction. “You’re totally overreacting,” she retorted, composing herself just enough to meet his glare. “I was at a photo shoot, Nicholas. I couldn’t have just not shown up!”
“Yes you could have!” he barked back, flinging his hands into the air. “That’s what freelance means you stupid cow!”
Analeigh glowered, her face growing hot. She stood up, tugging her shirt down over her stomach and rising to her toes to meet his height. “I know what freelance means, jackass.” She said lowly, prodding at his chest with her index finger.
Nick turned away from her, breaking from the angry heat that ensnared their bodies. “The one time I asked for your support, the one time I really needed you-” he ran a shaking hand through his copper mane. “You’re just so fucking selfish, Analeigh! Everything’s always about you!”
“It is not!” Analeigh spat. “I go to your stupid fucking shows all the time!”
“All the time?” He chuckled, a dark shadow casting over his expression. “You haven’t been to a single one since you started this modelling bullshit!”
“This modelling bullshit is my job!” She balanced her hands on her hips, voice cracking slightly. “Your music is just a hobby, and that’s all it ever will be!”
She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips but nevertheless, she stared him down, her chest heaving with exhaustion. She wasn’t selfish and it hurt her that he accused her of being so. She was absolutely furious with him, and every fibre of her being yearned to hurt him back.
“That’s where you’re wrong, babe,” he whispered. She felt her anger morph into dread as his eyes wandered from hers, out the window and into the night. She watched him, helpless, as he scooped his keys from his pocket and advanced towards the door.
“We leave for tour in a week.”