Bloody Bookkeeping (A Nonsensical Gothic Story)

Out of the Dark

I know, I know, it's a silly half-Twilight-parody, half-Halloween chicklit... but it's me we're talking about here ;) What kind of a Kolmakov story doesn't have a string of ka-booms in it? :D This one's the first, and I'm just warming up *evil cackling*

Love,

K. xx

***

"What are you doing?" Oakby's purry voice asked above her, and Leigh jolted and dropped her mobile.

He bent down and picked it up. She noticed that he'd deftly flipped it screen-down and handed it to her.

"I'm googling neo-swing," Leigh said with defiance in her voice.

Said defiance had come from just a drop of guilt. Even she understood how it could feel annoying for a musician to see people play on their phones during a performance.

"Oh, fascinating! You must share your findings with me at dinner!" he exclaimed, beaming. "I confess to know little about the history of the genre. I just sort of bit into it without much preparation!" A warm laugh rumbled in his throat. "I've always enjoyed the piano; and considering my familiarity with the 1930s big bands, it was only natural to shapeshift into the neo-swing."

"Is your show over?" Leigh asked, looking around.

The landlady was chiwagging with her partner in the corner; the musicians had wandered to the bar. The hubbub of the punters drinking and chatting was rising, and Leigh quickly glanced at her phone to see what time it was.

"It's an intermission," Oakby answered. "Would you like me to drive you back to the castle? I can make it back for the second half if I do. Unfortunately, I might be the only sober person with a driver's licence in the next three villages."

"It's alright." Leigh shook her head. "I want to stay and listen more. I fancy your music!"

His grin grew wider, and he gave her a ceremonious bow. For a second she was staring at the glossy, silky crown of his magnificent dark curls. She was perched on one of those ridiculously uncomfortable tall stools - and he still was taller than her. Leigh always had a somewhat botched up relationship with physical touch - but at the moment she could just imagine pushing her fingers into this glorious mane!

"I think I need a bit of fresh air," she said decisively and started climbing off her roost.

She dangled one foot, looking for the stretcher; and it turned out there was none. She awkwardly flailed, her backside slid off the fake leather seat - and Oakby's hands encircled her waist. Oh dear, these are properly large hands! He wasn't taking her down, nor lifting her. She was just suspended mid-air - and she gaped at him.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, his voice oddly monotonous and raspy, his eyes intent on her.

"I'm alright," she reassured him and grabbed to the edge of the stool.

He let her go, and she landed on her feet, somewhat smoothly.

"Thank you for catching me," she said. "I always have an aggro with these chairs. They aren't meant for pint-sized humans like me."

Oakby's eyes boggled. "Pardon?! Pint– Pint-sized humans?!"

Leigh shrugged. "My Da used to call my Mum and me that, because we both are such wee women. He's very fond of them."

"Short women?" Oakby asked, his face still flabbergasted.

"Pints," Leigh grumbled. "He's got no specific preferences in women. Or men. Or non-binary people, actually. My parents are hippies. They have an open, polyamorous marriage."