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kelyon · 3 months

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Courtship 5: Outfit

Lacey figures out what she's going to wear on her date

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The pile of clothes covered Lacey’s twin bed. She’d spent the better part of an hour matching blouses with slacks with sweaters in a vain attempt to find the magic combination that would make her look less like the president of the student council and more like Mr. Gold’s perfect slut.

Nothing worked. So far, her best options were to wear her summer sundress in the middle of winter with no coat, or to take a pair of scissors to the long black skirt she had worn to her mother’s funeral. That last one might have been an option, if she had a sewing machine like Mara. But she didn’t, and showing up at Mr. Gold’s house wearing unhemmed rags was probably as bad an idea as showing up wearing pants. If she had a sleeveless top, she might consider wearing the skirt as it was. She could try to go for a sort of hippy, Bohemian look. But the most revealing blouse Lacey French owned had puffed-up sleeves, like a fucking five-year-old.

Groaning, she fell backwards onto the pile. Some of this stuff she had got in middle school. The fact that they still fit her had been an advantage every time she’d decided to spend her limited funds on books instead of clothes, but it also meant that Lacey had never aged up her personal style. She didn’t have anything that made her look or feel like an adult.

The purple-blue dress shimmered in her dirty clothes hamper. She had jumped the gun by wearing her only sexy outfit on her first date with Mr. Gold. She had set the bar too high. Now he would have expectations of how Miss French liked to dress. More than that, Mr. Gold in his suits had standards. If she met him looking like a mess, he’d drive off and leave her on the curb.

At least he didn’t seem to mind if she left him looking like a mess. He hadn’t minded bringing her home with a wrinkled skirt and no stockings or underwear. She wanted that to happen again, but before it could, Lacey had to look presentable. None of her clothes were cutting it. She had to take action.

She pulled a white button-up off the pile and rubbed a smear of foundation over her hickey. Then she went downstairs into the shop. Dad was sitting by the cash register, looking through a faded design book.

Mom had known all the designs for bouquets and arrangements by heart, but Dad always needed to double check with the book.

“Anything happen today?” Lacey asked.

He shook his head, didn’t look up.

“We should call up everyone who ordered from us last year and remind them that V-day is in less than three weeks.”

“They know,” he grumbled. “This time of year, no one has any money. The men at Fish King will get paid on Friday, that’s when the orders will start. But they won’t really pick up until the next payday, the eleventh.”

He was right. It happened like that every year. All the orders came in at the very last minute. Valentine’s Day weekend was two solid days of constant work getting everything put together.

And it was too far away to do Lacey any good.

“So I’m guessing this is not a good time to discuss the subject of me ever getting paid for the hours I put in?”

Her father looked at her like she had just told an offensive joke that wasn’t even funny. Had his eyes always been so bloodshot? Had he always looked like a sad cartoon dog?

“You keep your tips.” He looked down at the book again. “You have money when the store has money, when we’re not racking up daily fees from that bastard Gold.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Lacey rubbed her hands on her jeans. “Just thought I’d ask.”

Of course Dad didn’t have any money to give her. That was their whole problem. Game of Thorns was a family business, the only income any of them had. For as long as she’d worked in the store, her pay had come in the form of food and shelter. Her reward for helping keep the place open was that it stayed open. It might not have been unreasonable to ask for more, but she knew it was unattainable.

“Ask again when Valentine’s is over,” Dad said. “We get out of this hole… I’ll try to make something work.”

She’d heard that before. Her father always had all kinds of plans and dreams for when things got better. Not that things ever did get better. Not that they ever would. The only thing worse than knowing that fact would be admitting it. So Lacey gave her father a tight smile and pretended she believed him, just like she always did.

****

She made her way over to Marine Automotive, where her Uncle Manny was locking the front doors from the outside. When he saw her loitering, he beamed.

“Hey! There’s my favorite niece!”

Uncle Manny looked like Dad if nothing bad had ever happened to him. He had the same height and stocky build. He had the same curly hair that was also the bane of Lacey’s existence. But where Moe French was loud when he was angry, Manny French was loud when he was happy--and he was always loud. He wrapped Lacey up in a bear hug.

“How you doing, Ace? What brings you by?”

She cut to the chase. “Are you going to the Rabbit Hole tonight?”

Her uncle wasn’t a huge drinker, but he was the only person Lacey knew who regularly went to Storybrooke's only bar.

“I wasn’t planning on it. They’re aren’t any games tonight. But I take it you need an escort?”

Lacey raised her shoulders in a half-apology. “They won’t let me in without a parent-slash-guardian.”

“Ah, to be young again!” Uncle Manny wrapped one arm around her. “You’ll miss it one of these days, I promise you. But yeah, we can have a night on the town. I’ll even buy you a Shirley Temple.”

“Oh come on,” she gave him a playful nudge. “I am an adult, even if I can’t drink. I should at least get a Coke and Coke.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

****

The Rabbit Hole was dead. Between the lack of sports on TV and the town-wide lack of money until payday, most people were staying home. The only ones here were people like Leroy Miner, people who had nowhere else to go. Like the old song said, sharing a drink they called loneliness was better than drinking alone.

Undeterred, Lacey took her uncle-approved non-alcoholic beverage over to the pool table by the fireplace. She took off her hoodie and unbuttoned her blouse a little. This whole thing was a risky move, but it was the best plan she had. Hustling pool paid off more often than it didn’t.

Eyeing the room, she bent over the pool table, just far enough to get a little attention. She lined up a shot and missed on purpose.

“Oh crap!” she said too loudly. “Must not be my night.”

After ten minutes of staged failure, Lacey let herself land a shot. She squealed when the ball went into the pocket. The sound made people’s heads turn, and she treated them all to a too-wide, too-apologetic smile.

Only one person smiled back. Keith Sherwood turned on his bar stool to watch her. Lacey tried to remember her other encounters with Keith. Did he usually stare more at her ass or her boobs? For safety’s sake, she did both. She leaned far enough over the table that Keith could look down her cleavage, then moved around to the other side for the next shot. She stuck her ass in the air, practically humping the felt to keep his attention.

“Boys always make it look so easy,” she pouted after another ball just barely missed the pocket.

When Keith began to walk over to her, she turned her back to him. That way she could pretend to be surprised by his arrival. With careful concentration, Lacey managed to get a ball a full foot away from what anyone watching would have assumed was her target. It was actually harder to be bad on purpose, but it paid off.

“You having fun, sweet thing?” Keith leaned against the pool table, beer in hand, right in front of her.

Lacey giggled. “It’d be more fun if I had someone to play with.”

Keith chuckled. A lock of his hair fell down into his eyes. “I bet it would be. You had a lot of fun playing with me last time, didn’t you?”

How much money had she taken from Keith the last time she had tried this? Sometimes she got cocky and her marks got mad about being taken. Lacey couldn’t remember if she had ever crowed about fleecing Keith. Unfortunately, he probably did.

She fluttered her eyelashes. “It was a lot of fun,” she cooed. “I think I got lucky that night.”

“I bet you’re gonna get lucky again.” He was standing too close to her. “I bet your luck will get better and better all night, especially when we start playing double or nothing.”

Crap. She had definitely rubbed Keith’s face in it last time. Now he was wise to her. That was the problem with a small town. Oh well, at least she’d tried.

“So is that a bet?” she said in her real voice. “Do you wanna put money down on whether or not I’m actually hustling you? Cuz I’ll take you up on that one.”

Keith shook his head. He put his hand down on top of hers on the edge of the pool table. He was still smiling.

“You know there’s another game we can play together. It’s a lot more fun than pool.”

Ugh.

Lacey backed away. “It might be fun for you, but I don’t think I’d get much out of it.”

He followed her. “How do you know? Maybe it’d be more fun if you hustled me. That’d make things interesting, wouldn’t it? Twenty bucks says I can make you see heaven.”

She snorted. “Did you just say you’ll pay to screw me?”

Keith kept smiling. “You were gonna screw me all over this table and take my money anyway. I like my version better.”

Lacey’s blood suddenly went cold. This wasn’t funny anymore. It wasn’t a game. This asshole would seriously give her money if she went home with him. It would be so easy to go along with it. Twenty dollars for two orgasms--his would be real, hers would be fake.

Would that be enough to buy a new skirt? Was she seriously fucking considering this?

She clenched her jaw.

“I’m not a fucking hooker, Keith.”

He raised his arms in a pacifying gesture. “No harm, no foul,” he said. “I just don’t see how it’s any different from taking a girl to dinner first. Man pays for sex either way.”

Turning away, she slid her pool cue back on the rack.

“You’re a pig.”

“Go ahead, darlin’, keep talking dirty. See what happens.”

Lacey kept her head held high as she went back to the bar where her uncle was nursing a beer.

“I need to get out of here,” she told him.

“Sounds good.” Uncle Manny took out his wallet and tossed a few crumpled fives onto the bar. “I’ll walk you home.”

****

Outside, Lacey pulled her arms out of the sleeves of her hoodie and hugged her arms over her chest. This stupid button down was too frumpy to make her sexy and too thin to keep her warm.

“Pool wasn’t any good for you tonight?” Uncle Manny asked casually.

“No,” she admitted. “Fricking Keith threw me off my game.”

“What do you need money for anyway? That dad of yours not feeding you?”

“I need money cuz I don’t have any.” Lacey kicked at a chunk of dirty snow. “Nobody does.”

“I’ve got a little, for the smartest kid in Storybrooke.” He stopped walking and turned to face her. “You wanna tell me what it’s for?”

Lacey bit the inside of her mouth. She didn’t want to lie to her uncle, but she sure as hell didn’t want to tell him the truth. She walked in silence for a minute. He stayed with her. Finally, she said it.

“I wanna get some new clothes.”

“Like a real coat?”

She shrugged. “I mean, maybe. I could. If I had enough.”

“And this is a sudden yearning that couldn’t wait?”

She shrugged again. There was nothing like being around a parent-slash-guardian to make her feel like a complete child.

“Ace, what’s going on?”

She took a breath. “I… don’t want to tell you.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Lacey French, if you’re doing things you don’t want people to know about, then you shouldn’t do them.”

“It’s nothing bad!” Lacey pushed him away. “It’s just… personal.”

“That’s not reassuring,” he said. “What’s going on? What do you need money for?”

“I told you, to buy clothes!”

“Clothes for what? You can tell me, Lacey. I’ll help you out if you’re honest.”

“I just want to look nice on a date!” She shrieked the words out into the night. They hung in the air with the cloud of her breath.

Uncle Manny looked at her, confused and sympathetic at the same time. Eventually, he broke out into a broad smile.

“But that’s great, honey! You should go on dates. Why-- why didn’t you say so to begin with?”

She pulled her hands up through the neck hole of her hoodie to rub her face.

“I’m… It’s because of who I’m going out with.”

Uncle Manny scoffed and put his arm around her as they walked. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of dating someone. Unless it’s someone you should be ashamed of, but then you just don’t date them. It’s not a girl, is it?”

Lacey shook her head, to which Uncle Manny nodded.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that, not in this modern world. You know I’m with you no matter what.”

She nodded.

“And of course, no boy is ever going to be good enough for you. But as long as he’s not married, or some kind of asshole like that bastard Gold, there’s no reason to sneak around like--Lacey?”

She had stopped in her tracks. She looked up at her uncle and chewed on her lower lip.

Realization dawned. Uncle Manny let out a long breath.

“Lace.” His voice was rough. “Tell me you’re dating a married man.”

Lips pressed together, she shook her head. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Standing in place, Uncle Manny stomped his work boots onto the sidewalk. The intent seemed to be half to warm his feet and half to cool his head.

“Gold,” he whispered. He pointed in the direction of Mr. Gold’s pawn shop. “That Gold? The guy that has every working person in Storybrooke by balls? The guy who’s practically the reason all of us are living paycheck to paycheck? You’re going on dates with him?”

She shrugged. “It’s only been one date so far, but he asked me to come to his house on Friday.”

“And you said yes? What, does he have something on you? Is that why you need money?”

“No!” Lacey insisted. “I was telling the truth! I just need clothes that are good enough for him.”

“‘Good enough for him?’ He’s not good enough for you, Lacey! That man is a scourge. He’s a parasite. He’s--he’s old enough to be your father!”

“If he was my father, I wouldn’t be in this situation. I’d actually have a good life.”

“You have a good life.” Uncle Manny wasn’t angry anymore. Or if he was, his anger had become still and stern. “Your parents worked every day to give you a good life.”

“And where did it get them?” Lacey snapped. “Where did it get me? Yes, we work hard, but our only reward is getting to work even harder. And I’m so tired.” Her face was hot. God, she was sniffling. “Being with Mr. Gold feels like a break, and that’s all I want anymore. Just a freaking break.”

Uncle Manny’s arms were around her. He pulled her against his coveralls that smelled like motor oil and sweat. He squeezed her tight and patted her back as she tried to stop crying.

“Sorry,” she sniffed when they broke apart.

“Hey,” he tilted her chin up and looked her in the eye. “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

Despite her tears, Lacey laughed. It was an old joke for them. She knew what her next line had to be: “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

He hugged her again, kissed the top of her head. They didn’t talk until they were in front of Game of Thorns.

“I’d stay for dinner, but I’ve had Moe’s cooking before.”

She snorted at another joke she’d heard a thousand times, then she turned serious. “Um. You’re not going to tell anybody, are you?”

“About your…” he searched for the words, then shrugged, “love life?”

“Yeah. You know my dad will blow a gasket if he finds out I’m even talking to Mr. Gold, let alone--”

“Yeah, I know.” Uncle Manny cut her off. Clearly, he didn’t want to hear what she was doing with Mr. Gold.

“So, please don’t tell him? Promise?”

Her uncle sucked his teeth and slowly shook his head in silence. It took a long minute before he looked at her again.

“Okay,” he said. “You’re an adult. You know your own mind, you can make your own decisions. It’s just--be smart, okay? You are an adult, but you’re also our little girl. Me, your dad, your mom, rest her soul--we don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I promise I won’t get hurt, if you promise not to blab my business all over town.”

“Aright,” he sighed. He pulled her in for a tight hug. “I promise. Just--please, take care of yourself.”

She squeezed her uncle, then headed for the door. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

****

Lacey spent the entire working day on Thursday psychically willing the phone to ring with orders, preferably orders that had to be filled as soon as possible. Doing a rush job would give them an excuse to charge extra. She wouldn’t wish a funeral on anyone, but wouldn’t this be a great weekend for an impromptu wedding? So many of Lacey’s problems would be solved if just one panicked bride would come in and beg them to fill Dodci’s Dance Hall with centerpieces and garlands, not to mention all the bouquets and boutonnieres and flowers for the church too. Or maybe someone important could get sick and everyone in Storybrooke would send flowers to the hospital. Wasn’t there anyone in Storybrooke who was celebrating anything? Did people not have birthdays in late January? There were so many reasons people could need flowers. But this wasn’t a day when people did.

Hustling at the Rabbit Hole wasn’t an option anymore. If this were any other occasion, she would borrow a skirt from Mara or Janine, but that didn’t seem like a possibility. They wouldn’t take the news of her going on a date with Mr. Gold any better than Uncle Manny had. Mara’s store, where she also lived, was rented from Mr. Gold, and Janine had taken out a loan to pay for her beautician supplies. Both of them--really everyone in Storybrooke--saw him as the enemy. As far as they cared to think about it, he was the reason they were poor. If Lacey told her friends how much she wanted to be around him, they would think she was crazy, or morally degenerate.

Maybe she was.

Or maybe they were wrong. Had her friends ever eaten at Bella Notte? Had they ever worn a dress that made them feel like sex on two legs? Had they ever watched a hapless waiter get strong-armed into breaking a stupid law for them? Had they ever been inside Mr. Gold’s house? Had they ever taken clothes off just because a man had asked them to? Had they ever known the thrill of promising to do whatever another person told them to do? Had they ever known the peace of being an object, of kneeling silently at someone’s feet?

Could they even understand why that was something anyone would want? Let alone that it was something Lacey craved in a place deeper than her bones? Some dark, hidden part of her soul wanted Mr. Gold, like she had never wanted anything else.

And not having enough money to buy a stupid fucking skirt might keep her away from him forever. She could not abide that thought.

When Friday was another dud--a few orders came in, but they wouldn’t pay until delivery--Lacey knew that she was out of options. Since Mr. Gold would be picking her up tonight at eight, she was also out of time. So she did what everyone in Storybrooke did when they had nowhere else to go.

She went to the pawn shop.

****

Lacey had always been intrigued by the phrasing of Mr. Gold’s store. The sign said Mr. Gold Pawnbroker and Antiquities Dealer. Most stores advertised the goods sold inside, but Mr. Gold advertised himself. This was who he was, this was what he did. No one came to this store because they needed things, they came because they needed what only he could offer them. Usually, they needed it enough to pay whatever price he set.

When it came down to it, Lacey really wasn’t that different from any other desperate soul who came to Mr. Gold. The only difference was what she wanted.

It was three in the afternoon. Not technically her lunch break, but it wasn’t like she was getting paid to stick around the flower shop. Lacey changed into some gray dress pants and covered her work shirt with her least-frumpy cardigan. She stuffed her purse full of old toys and oddities that might--cumulatively, optimistically--be worth about ten dollars. She yelled at Dad that she was going out for a minute and then walked over to Mr. Gold’s.

The bell rang over her head when she walked through the front door. Mr. Gold was behind the counter, writing something in a ledger. He looked up at the sound and gave the slightest grin when he saw that it was her.

“Miss French,” he said, with just a touch of warmth. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Lacey bit her lip, but forced herself to stay cool. She looked around at the shelves and display cases, slowly making her way forward. Another time, she would have marveled at the art and jewelry and historic do-dads, but now she slunk past them.

“I…” she dragged out the word, unsure of what she was saying as she said it, “was wondering… if you have any clothes for sale.”

Mr. Gold raised his eyebrows. “Clothes?”

“Yeah.” She stopped in front of a spinning rack of necklaces. She couldn’t look at him. “You know, like vintage stuff?”

He walked over to her, behind the display case. “I’ve got some historic naval uniforms, but nothing that would suit you.”

He was in front of her now, so they were separated by nothing but two feet of glass and gadgets. She didn’t raise her head. Some of these necklaces were really pretty. One gold chain with a mother-of-pearl pendant spoke to her for some reason.

“What do you need, Miss French?”

His voice was gentle, coaxing. He understood how much she hated what she was doing. He probably talked to a lot of people who were feeling what she was feeling. At least he didn’t seem to be enjoying her discomfort.

Lacey took a breath, and looked up at him.

“I need a skirt,” she admitted. “I don’t have anything to wear on our date tonight.”

He blinked. Then his face grew infinitesimally softer.

“I see,” he said.

“I brought some stuff.” She set her purse on the counter, began to pull out the junk she’d brought from home. “I thought I might--”

“Please,” he held up a hand. “You don’t need to do that. I’m more than happy to assist you, Miss French.” He turned away from her, went back over to his antique cash register.

“I can pay you back…”

“Oh you will,” he grinned. He took a bill out of the cash register and set it on the counter. Lacey came closer and saw that it was a fifty. “Will this be enough?”

She fought the urge to snatch the money and run all the way to Modern Fashions. It was the same feeling she’d had when he’d given her the money to tip that stupid waiter. The thrill, the rush, of having cash and knowing she could do anything with it. Fifty dollars was more than she had spent on clothes in the past year. Fifty dollars could cover the bill at Granny’s for her whole family--or at least for Janine and Mara to have real lunches.

Fifty dollars was more than twice what Keith had offered her to have sex with him.

Lacey pulled her hands back. She dug her fingernails into her palms.

“I… I shouldn’t accept this,” she said.

“Why not?” Mr. Gold asked, unperturbed. “Are you worried I’ll take advantage of you? Wouldn’t you say that ship has sailed, Miss French?”

She looked down at the dirt-stained sneakers she wore for work. In a resigned whisper, she told Mr. Gold the same thing she said to Keith at the Rabbit Hole.

“I’m not a hooker.”

“Of course not.” Mr. Gold’s voice was smooth and confident. He came out from behind the counter to stand in front of her. Slowly, he raised his hand to cup her cheek, subtly forcing her to look at him. “You’re a woman who knows what she wants and who will do whatever she needs to do to make it happen.”

Lacey’s breath shook. Her eyes were hot and she was trembling.

“What do you want?” he asked her. He really was being very patient.

“I want to go on another date with you, Mr. Gold.”

“And what do you need to do in order to make that happen?”

“I need--” she stopped. I need a skirt wasn’t the right answer. Mr. Gold had asked her what she needed to do. “I need to get some money, Mr. Gold.”

“Ask me for it.” He gave the order like it was a caress. “Ask me for the money and I’ll give it to you, Miss French.”

This wasn’t like with Keith. This wasn’t being so desperate for money that she’d have sex with a stranger. This was being so desperate for sex that she’d take money to make sure she’d get it. She’d let Mr. Gold pay her like a whore just to make sure he kept treating her like a slut.

She swallowed. She had to swallow a few times before she was brave enough to speak.

“Please, Mr. Gold, will you give me fifty dollars so I can have something suitable to wear for our date tonight?”

“I would be happy too, Miss French.” He lowered his hand from her cheek and picked the bill up off of the counter. Gently, he took her hand by the wrist, placed the fifty on her palm, and closed her fingers over it.

He grinned at her.

“Buy yourself something pretty.”

Lacey clenched her jaw. Now he was enjoying this. She bit back words that would make him take the money back. Instead, she said what she knew he wanted her to say.

“Thank you, Mr. Gold.”

“You’re quite welcome, Miss French.”

He turned around then, went back behind the counter. Lacey understood she was dismissed. Facing the door, she took a breath and checked to make sure none of her tears had spilled out onto her cheeks.

Before she opened the door, Mr. Gold called over to her.

“Miss French,” he said. “If you happen to buy a red skirt and wear nothing underneath it, I will eat your cunt for dessert tonight.”

Lacey’s eyes went wide. Her shock was less for what Mr. Gold had said and more for his nonchalant tone. He was talking about sex in the same way he would talk about running errands.

“Do you understand me, Miss French?”

What about it did he think she didn’t understand? Then Lacey realized she hadn’t answered him. Mr. Gold expected an answer when he spoke to people.

“Yes, Mr. Gold,” she said. Shock had made her voice a little breathy. “Thank you for telling me, Mr. Gold.”

He gave her a nod.

Dazed and excited, Lacey left his shop and made her way down the street to Modern Fashions. She had a red skirt to buy.

#courtship #rumbelle #golden lace #rumbelle fic #golden lace fic

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kelyon · 1 month

Text

Courtship 12: Rings

Miss French talks to the florist.

Read on AO3

Mr. Gold’s fiancee tread lightly on her way up to the apartment. Her new red heels hung loosely in her hand as she crept up the stairs to the kitchen. It was barely seven in the morning. With any luck, her father would have gone to bed soon after that disaster of a phone call.

Of course, Lacey didn’t have any luck. A thin strip of light from the bottom of the kitchen door sliced through the dark stairwell like an assassin’s blade.

“Shit,” she whispered.

But she persevered. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. Just last night, Miss French had endured the pain Mr. Gold had meted out to her. She had reveled in it. She had climaxed from it. She could take any punishment, any torture. She wasn’t going to be intimidated by a man as weak and useless as Moe French.

She turned the knob and eased open the door, still trying to stay quiet. Just because she was brave didn’t mean she had to ask for trouble.

The TV was on. Good Morning Storybrooke blared out at top volume. Maybe she could sneak into her room until she had to come out to open the store. Maybe Dad had fallen asleep on the couch. Maybe she could convince him that the phone call that revealed her sleeping with Mr. Gold had been a bad dream.

She darted past the door to the living room and had taken three steps down the hall toward her bedroom when the TV abruptly turned off. The living room couch creaked and the whole house rumbled with Moe French’s plodding, determined footsteps.

“Do you have any explanation for your behavior?”

He didn’t shout. That was how Lacey knew she was in real trouble. His voice sounded old and tired, the crumbling stone of a ruined castle.

Biting her lip, Lacey slowly turned around. They stood at either end of the hall, facing each other. In the old West town that made up their arguments, it was high noon. Both of them had their hands on their six-shooters, neither one sure who would draw first.

She swallowed.

“I am a consenting adult,” she began evenly. “We live in a free country. I should be able to date anyone I want.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

She gave him a look. “Because I didn’t think you’d celebrate the news.” Turning, she opened the door to her bedroom and placed her shoes on the floor inside. Then she shut the door again to continue the conversation. “As a matter of fact, I thought you might be pretty pissed.”

Moe took a step forward. “Do you have any idea how worried I was when you didn’t come home?”

Lacey held up her hands. “I am sorry about that. But in my defense, I got in after midnight twice this week, and you were asleep both times.”

“Yes, because I trusted you.”

“You only trusted me because you thought I was with Hunter.”

“I thought you were responsible.”

“I am!”

“Then why are you sneaking around like a criminal?”

“Because I knew you would freak out, I already said that!”

“What the hell are you doing with a man like that?”

A bitter laugh burst out of Miss French. “Don’t ask questions when you don’t want to know the answer.”

Moe shook his head. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe my own daughter would--would--”

“Would what, Dad? Would be interested in men? Interested in fancy dinners and nice cars? Interested in sex?”

He made a face and shook his head. Rolling her eyes, she pushed past him to get to the kitchen. He stepped back into the living room to let her go. This hallway wasn’t big enough for the both of them.

Without thinking much about it, she opened the cupboards and pulled out the supplies to make oatmeal. Mr. Gold hadn’t served dinner last night and she was fucking starving.

“I don’t understand,” Moe said as he stood in the doorway. “Why Gold?”

“They could fill a library with things you don’t understand,” Lacey muttered. She slammed the door to the fridge and dumped milk onto her oats. “I didn’t start dating Mr. Gold just to piss you off,” she said more loudly. “He asked me to Bella Notte, and I said yes.”

“And you slept with him after three dates?”

She bit her lip, didn’t answer. She carried her bowl over to the microwave and turned the dial. Then she looked at her father.

“Do you want me to lie to you?”

Glowering, Moe crossed his arms over his chest. “No.”

“Well, then, the truth is that I slept with Mr. Gold on our first date.”

Dad’s face screwed up. “Oh, for the love of God, Lacey! I thought you were smarter than that!”

She dug her nails into her palms. “Well, obviously, I’m not! Obviously, I’m a stupid slut who wouldn’t know a bad decision if it fucked her in the ass!”

“Lacey!”

Eyes burning, she turned away from him. She stared at the microwave, watched her oatmeal bubble. Mom always made them oatmeal on cold winter mornings like this, in a big pot on the stove. It sticks to the ribs, so it’ll stay with you all day.

When the microwave beeped, she found a clear spot on the kitchen table where she could set the bowl down. Neither one of them really cooked, how did this place get so messy? She grabbed a clean spoon from the crowded dish rack and started stabbing at the oatmeal to mix in some brown sugar.

“What…” Moe began. He drifted off, then tried again. “Why would you choose to be with a man so heartless?”

Lacey sighed. Leaning against the counter by the microwave, she scooped up a spoonful of oatmeal. “Just because he asks for the rent on time doesn’t make him a monster.”

“No, it’s the fees that make him a monster. It’s the interest. It’s the contracts and the fine print. Lacey, you know this! That man has no mercy, no pity. He isn’t even human!”

“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes and took a bite of oatmeal.

The reaction was instant. As soon as the milky goop hit her tongue she started to gag. She didn’t even taste it at first, her body just recoiled. She spat the oatmeal back into the bowl.

“What the fuck?” she shrieked. “How fucking old is that milk?”

Moe snorted. “So it finally turned, huh? You could have smelled it first to check.”

“Or you could buy groceries often enough that we don’t need to worry about things rotting in our fridge.”

“With what money?” he shot back. “Your boyfriend bleeds us drier and drier every day.”

“It doesn’t cost anything to throw things away when they go bad!”

“Then why don’t you do it? I’m trying to keep the business afloat, is it too much to ask for a little help around the house?”

“Yeah, sure! I’ll be an unpaid maid along with being an unpaid florist!”

“I pay you in food and shelter!”

Then why am I still hungry?

Without a word, Lacey scraped her bowl into the overfilled trash can. Globs of spoiled oatmeal dripped over empty boxes of TV dinners and envelopes from unpaid bills. She tried to breathe, tried to pull herself together, get herself under control.

She rinsed out her bowl in the sink and dropped it on the pile of plates and mugs. Then she took a glass and filled it with the cloudy, chemical-smelling water that poured out of their faucet. With her back to her father, she rinsed the sour-milk taste out of her mouth. She spat it out into the sink full of dirty dishes.

Only then did she turn around and talk to Moe.

“I’m gonna get some sleep before we have to open the store.”

He gave a nod. He looked as tired as she felt. “Just promise me you’ll never see him again.”

Miss French winced. “I… can’t do that.”

Moe looked up. “Lacey…”

“He asked me to marry him, Dad,” she said quietly. “And I said yes.”

He gaped at her. It probably wasn’t good for the man’s cardiovascular system for his face to go from red to white in less than five seconds.

“At least I didn’t lie to you about it?” she tried.

“Lacey.” It was barely a whisper. “Why would you do that?”

She bit her lip. “Nothing good is going to happen if we keep talking about this. We should both cool off and--”

“How long have you had that dress?” Moe jabbed an accusing finger at her walk of shame outfit. “It’s new, isn’t it? When did you get it?”

Would it be worse to lie or worse to tell the truth? “Saturday,” she said quietly. “I bought it over the weekend.”

“With what money? You haven’t done any deliveries since Christmas.”

Digging her nails into her palms, Miss French forced herself to look this florist in the eye. “Mr. Gold gave me some money so I could buy nice clothes for our dates.”

“After you slept with him?”

“Yeah.”

Moe shook his head. “Well,” he said. “I guess that answers that question.”

Slowly, he turned away. With shuffling steps, Moe French retreated to his bedroom and left his daughter standing alone.

****

It was a tense day at Game of Thorns.

By the time Lacey cleaned herself up and found some edible food, it was time to open the store. Moe stayed up in his room, which she counted as a blessing. She went through the mind-numbing routine of unlocking the front door, turning on the lights, counting out the money in the cash register. It felt good to be useful, it always had. She didn’t mind working. All she wanted was some Goddamned compensation for it.

Call-in orders came in throughout the morning. A few customers stopped by--mostly well-off married women with nothing better to do on a Monday morning. They gushed over the displays but didn’t buy anything. She didn’t begrudge them, she knew how it worked: A woman couldn’t buy Valentine’s Day flowers for herself, but she could scope out what arrangements she liked best and spend the first two weeks of February dropping hints. It happened every year. Lacey put on her best fake smile for the customers, knowing full well she’d be “surprising” them with flowers soon enough.

Around noon, she started hearing the groan and squeak of ancient floorboards as her father moved around upstairs. Her chest tightened and didn’t release until he came in from the back. Unusually for him, he didn’t have anything in his hands. He wasn’t carrying or planning or working at all. His face was a gray nonexpression, same as when they used to take Mom to her doctor’s appointments.

Dad stood for a minute, looking at her quietly. Then he asked, “Do you love him?”

Miss French burst out laughing. “Do I what?”

“Do you love him?” Moe raised his voice. “The man you say you’re going to marry. If you love him, there must be some good in him.”

Still shocked from the out-of-the-blue question, she cackled. “Oh, there is plenty of good in Mr. Gold!” Her voice sounded deep, lusty. From Mr. French’s changing color, he knew exactly what she was talking about. “But no, he doesn’t want me to love him.”

“So you don’t think he loves you?”

“Why would he?”

“If he’s going to marry you, he’d damn well better!” He pounded his fist against the countertop, rattling the shelves of vases. “Hell, even if you’re just screwing, there should be something there, some… liking.”

“I like him fine! I think he likes me too.”

“You think? Lacey, are you thinking at all?”

Miss French shut her mouth so hard her teeth hurt. “You know what?” She pushed herself off her stool by the register. “I did the morning shift, I’m gonna take my lunch now.”

“Don’t think we’re done talking about this madness!” Moe yelled after her.

“Talk all you want,” she muttered as she went up to her room. “You don’t get to decide what I do or how I feel.”

****

She changed out of her work jeans and into the red skirt from her date on Friday. Thank God she’d had the presence of mind to buy something machine washable. It was still fucking freezing outside, so she put on leggings and covered her top half in layers. She covered her long-sleeved t-shirt from work with her white button-down, then covered that with an ash-gray cable-knit sweater she had borrowed from Andrew once and never returned. Her dead cousin’s sweater hung on her like a loose smock, but Lacey didn’t mind the look. Maybe Mr. Gold would think it was cute to see her swimming in men’s clothes. For now, it was the best she could do.

When she got to the pawn shop, Mr. Gold was over by the side door. He was talking to a bald man in a black coat. The man was so tall he had to hunch under the door frame. Between them, a large piece of wooden furniture lay on its side on the ground. It took Miss French a minute to see that it was a wardrobe. The thing was lovely and old-fashioned and big enough to contain a world where it was always winter and never Christmas.

“Put it along the wall by the door,” Mr. Gold was telling the tall man. “There should be ample space on the parlor side, but if you must put it in the bedroom, that’s acceptable.”

The tall man nodded and began the process of picking up the wardrobe and getting it out the side door. The fact that he was even able to make the attempt was impressive, let alone how he made it look so easy.

Mr. Gold noticed her standing in the middle of his shop. His eyes crinkled and he licked his lips. Wordlessly, he nodded for her to come to him. Miss French happily obeyed.

“Miss French, have you ever met my gardener, Mr. Dove?” He held out a hand indicating the tall man.

The wardrobe was halfway through the door, but Mr. Dove stopped what he was doing to give her a deep nod.

“You helped deliver my hot water tank, didn’t you?”

“Mr. Dove performs many services for me,” Mr. Gold said. “And, of course, Mr. Dove, this is Miss French, my fiancee.”

The tall man nodded again, implacably stone-faced. His voice was the deepest she’d ever heard. “Congratulations, ma’am.”

As someone who worked with an often-irate public, Lacey French had been called ‘ma’am’ plenty of times. This was the first time it seemed actually respectful. This Dove person actually thought of her as ‘ma’am,’ as an adult woman, as someone worthy of marrying Mr. Gold.

Miss French smiled at Mr. Gold’s employee. The man nodded a final time and carried on with his work.

When Dove got the wardrobe outside and shut the door behind him, Mr. Gold turned to her. He looked her up and down, frowning.

“You need more money for clothes.” It wasn’t a question. He was already walking to the cash register.

“No,” Lacey said. “Well, yes, obviously, but that’s not why I’m here. You said you had things to discuss with me.”

“Indeed I do.”

He took some bills out of the register and laid them on the counter in front of her. More fifties. She took them without comment, trying to forget Dad’s accusations. Mr. Gold was going to be her husband, it was perfectly reasonable for him to give her money.

“Come here,” Mr. Gold tapped his hand on the countertop, beside where he stood. Miss French hurried to obey.

With a ring of keys, he unlocked the back of the display case and pulled out a black velvet tray. He set it in front of her, but covered the contents with his hand.

“If you ever see anything you like in the shop, just let me know.” He grinned at her. “I’ll make you pay for it, but not in money.”

Miss French giggled.

“For now,” he went on, “I want you to pick out an engagement ring.”

He pulled his hand away, revealing rows and rows of rings. Miss French licked her lips. Her breath shook. So many jewels, right at her fingertips! Emeralds and sapphires on gold and silver bands, inlaid diamonds twisting around each other, rubies and peridots and one stone she didn’t recognize that seemed to be blue and green and purple all at once.

“They’re all so beautiful,” she whispered. “How could anybody pick just one?”

Mr. Gold shrugged. “You could try wearing all of them at once, though I imagine it would impede dexterity.”

She gave a breathy laugh. Imagine it! Lacey French the unpaid florist wearing a full jewelry store on each hand!

She looked up at Mr. Gold. “Which one do you like?”

He shook his head. “I’ll give you what I want you to wear. This is your decision, my dear.”

Overwhelmed by choice, she looked for her birthstone, aquamarine. When she didn’t see any, she scanned the rows for pearls, to remind her of her mother. No dice on that front either. She was on her third or fourth pass when something finally stood out.

“Maybe that’s it,” she whispered.

“What?” Mr. Gold murmured into her hair. He had stayed by her side, standing close but never directly touching.

“These two.” She put her fingers on a pair of unadorned gold bands that were side by side in the bottom corner of the tray. “I think I need to wear one of them.”

“Awfully plain,” Mr. Gold said. “I thought you might want something more ostentatious.”

“Just because I’m from Old Town doesn’t mean I’m complete trash.”

“Yes you are.” He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her in close to him. She gasped at the sudden delight of his touch. He nipped along her jawline and growled into her ear. “Of course you’re trashy and greedy. You want all of this, everything. You want to show off my wealth, you want to flaunt your excesses. You want to flash diamonds in the faces of everyone who ever overlooked you.”

Denial sat on Miss French’s tongue. She wasn’t like that! She didn’t care about stuff. She wasn’t vindictive or greedy or a show-off.

Or was it just that she’d never had anything to show off before? Did she only not care about possessions because she’d never had anything worth caring about? Those ladies that were in the store this morning, they wouldn’t think twice about displaying the jewelry their husbands gave them. Mr. Gold was richer than any other man in Storybrooke. His wife should flaunt his wealth.

Despite all that, the plain rings still stood out to her. For some reason she couldn’t name, they were the only real option.

“Like I said,” she tried to talk while Mr. Gold was kissing her neck. “I want to wear all of these. But I can’t wear them all at once. Plain gold will match with anything.”

“Except silver.”

“Well, I’m not gonna be Mrs. Silver, am I?” She turned around to face him. “I like the idea of always having gold on my body.”

He grinned at her and bent down for a kiss. When he was done and she could breathe again, she pulled both rings out of their slots in the velvet tray. She wasn’t sure why she needed both of them, but she had the oddest feeling that they were a matched set.

One ring was visibly smaller than the other. Miss French slid it on to the third finger of her left hand.

“Wow, it fits!” She held her hand out in front of her to admire her engagement ring. Plain as it was, it gave a new definition to her fingers. The ring changed her hand somehow. It changed her. Did every bride-to-be feel this way the first time she looked at her wedding ring? It was the simplest possible adornment, but symbolized the biggest event of Miss French’s life.

Buzzing with excitement, she took the other ring and held it in her palm for Mr. Gold.

“This one is bigger. I bet it would fit you.”

Mr. Gold cocked his head at her. “Why would I need an engagement ring?”

“Well, then, it could be a wedding ring. Lots of men wear wedding rings. And you can’t say you don’t wear jewelry.” She looked meaningfully at the large ring on his right hand. He always wore it.

Her fiance gave her a look that was half-scowl and half-grin. He snatched the ring out of her hand and slid it onto his finger.

“Hmm.” He sounded genuinely surprised. “Fits perfectly.”

For a long moment, Mr. Gold stared at his hand. He flexed his fingers and seemed to be pondering.

“It’s weird, isn’t it? To wear a ring? It all feels so much more real now.”

Mr. Gold made a noncommittal noise. Then he shook his head briefly, as though to clear it from hazy thoughts. He took his normal ring off his right hand and slid it onto his left, just over the golden band. With the large pale stone, the other ring covered his wedding ring completely. No one would ever know it was there.

No one, except for him and her.

Mr. Gold cleared his throat. “How were things with your father?”

Lacey rolled her eyes, trusting that Mr. Gold would know her disdain wasn’t aimed at him. “He’s not happy, but the argument wasn’t fatal for either of us. He asked me if I loved you.”

Mr. Gold raised his eyebrows. “What did you tell him?”

“No,” she shrugged. “I’m pretty sure love is the last thing we need in this marriage.”

“Correct,” he said smoothly. “Marriage is a contract, a deal. There’s no need to let emotion interfere with judgment.”

“A deal, huh?” she gave him a grin. “Is this deal like all your others? Are you gonna screw me over?”

“Of course I am.” He wrapped his arm around her, pressed her against the back of the display case. He kissed her, dark and deep and hungry. “I’m going to screw you over every flat surface in this town. I’m going to screw you over and under and in every other direction you can think of.”

“Fuck,” Miss French gasped as Mr. Gold drew her into him.

His hand groped at her thigh, plucking at her leggings. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s cold,” she said. “I can’t be bare-skinned all the time. I’ll freeze!”

“You’ll bare yourself for me whenever I ask you to.”

“Then ask!” she laughed. “I’ll do whatever you say, you just have to say it first.”

“I’m saying it now,” he purred into her ear. “At all times, you’re going to have as little as possible covering that sweet cunt.” Reaching under her skirt, he cupped her over her leggings. His strong fingers pressed into her slit. God, he could probably feel her wetness through two layers of fabric. “This is mine.” He squeezed her. “All of you is mine. You’re not going to let anything get between me and what belongs to me. Yes?”

“Yes.” It was barely a breath.

“Good girl.” He took his hand away, stepped back enough for her to move. “Pull them down,” he ordered.

Miss French hitched her thumbs into the elastic waistband and pulled her leggings down to her knees. She did it automatically, before she could consider that the store was still open, the front door was still unlocked.

“What if someone walks in on us?”

“Then they’ll get a hell of a show.”

Mr. Gold’s hand was hot on her bare thigh. He stroked her with his palm, then raked his nails against her skin. Miss French gasped.

“That’s my pain slut,” he praised her. “That’s my lovely little deviant.”

Finally, his hand traveled up to her ass. When he felt her faded cotton underwear, he tsked. With one hand still touching her, he opened the cash register and pulled out yet another fifty.

“This one,” he said patiently, “is only for you to buy suitable undergarments. Just panties. I’ll give you more for lingerie sets later. Like I said, this cunt is mine. I want it looking nice and pretty.”

“Yes, Mr. Gold.” Miss French’s cheeks burned. It hadn’t occurred to her that she would need to be so prepared. It’s not like he had told her this was a date! But he was right. She was his fiancee now. They could fuck whenever they wanted.

“Turn around,” Mr. Gold ordered. “Facing the door. Put your hands on the glass, palms down. Don’t move.”

When she got into position, he stood behind her. His left hand, the hand with his ring, crept up beneath her red skirt, and then down under her panties. In the middle of his store, in the middle of the day, he grasped the bare skin of her pussy.

Miss French stayed as he had ordered her to. She stared at the door, at the back of the sign that said “Open.” The lightbulb inside the display case made the glass warm. Her hands were sweaty, but she didn’t move them. Her engagement ring shone softly with a golden glow.

Mr. Gold’s fingers started to move. He rubbed against the cleft of her mound, roughly brushing past her clit. He dove into that secret well of wetness, into the heat he always made in her. The heat that offset any winter cold.

“Fucking slut,” he whispered. “You gorgeous whore.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He fingered her silently, briskly. Her breath came out in jerking pants, but she didn’t move. Her feet stayed where they were--spread as far apart as her bunched-up leggings would allow. She didn’t let her fingers curl on the glass, no matter how much Mr. Gold played with her. Her body pushed against the display case, leaving only enough room for his hand.

Her eyes never left the unlocked door.

“I’m not going to let you come today,” Mr. Gold breathed into her hair. “I’ve been far too indulgent with you on that point. My wife is going to have to learn some discipline.”

He grabbed her on that last word. His fingers pushed inside her, the heel of his palm forced a bruising pressure on her clit.

She started to shake. Was that pleasure or pain? It didn’t matter with her, she could come from either. God, she really was no better than an animal in heat. God, she was disgusting. She was such a stupid slut.

Miss French’s teeth ground together as she tried to keep herself from coming. Her hands tried to grip at the smooth glass, but there was nothing to grab onto. Nothing to hold her together while Mr. Gold was pulling her apart.

“S-S-S-S--” she shook. “S-stop! Please! If you don’t want me to come then stop!”

“You stop,” he growled. His fingers moved all the faster. “If you want to please me then you stop.”

Gasping and shaking, Miss French tried to let go. She tried to distance herself from her body, from the pleasure that Mr. Gold was so good at creating in her. She tried to float.

It was like last night--God, was that only last night?--when he had flogged her. The pain had been too much, but she wouldn’t disappoint him by making him stop. She had solved that problem with an orgasm. Now she had to solve this problem some other way. She had to find some inner strength. Last night she had let pain pass through her. She could do the same with pleasure, even while he was working his magic.

Slowly, Miss French straightened up. She took deep breaths, trying not to shudder. She willed her heartbeat to slow down. Mr. Gold kept up his movements, but even they had become slower, calmer. He knew--he could feel--that the crisis in her body had passed. This time, at least, she had been able to stop herself.

They stood like that for a moment, her back to his front. They breathed together, deep and slow.

“Good girl.” Mr. Gold placed a kiss on her cheek.

Miss French didn’t let herself react. Somehow, she felt just as dazed and exhausted as she would if she had come a dozen times in a row.

After a final squeeze, Mr. Gold extracted himself. He took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and began to wipe her wetness off his hands.

“It is a lovely cunt,” he said offhandedly. “A pleasant thing to have at my disposal.”

Miss French breathed a chuckle. Her hands were still splayed out on the countertop. She stared, unseeing, at the front door until Mr. Gold moved her chin to make her look at him.

“You’re not going to play with it,” he said calmly. “Until you see me again.”

Slowly, Miss French blinked. “What?”

“Your cunt,” he explained. “Your whole body, actually. I don’t want you touching it without me.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “Okay.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, Mr. Gold.”

“Yes what? Say it out loud.”

“Yes, Mr. Gold, I won’t touch myself until I see you again.”

“And you’re never going to come without permission, are you?”

“No, Mr. Gold.”

She made the promises automatically, said the words like they were something she had memorized, like the Pledge of Allegiance. These were her pledges to Mr. Gold. Only unlike when she had recited the Pledge of Allegiance in school, Miss French actually gave a fuck about what she was saying to Mr. Gold. She would do what he said, of course she would. He made the rules for these games. She had to follow them if she wanted to keep playing.

“Get yourself in order,” Mr. Gold said, not unkindly. “I can’t release you back into the world looking like such a fuckstruck mess.”

Miss French gave him a smile that was loose, almost sleepy. Fuckstruck, that was the word alright.

“You’re right, Mr. Gold,” she breathed. She began to pull up her leggings, made sure her skirt wasn’t caught in anything. “Thank you.”

“For teasing you?”

“For teaching me,” she said. “Every time I’m with you, I learn something new.”

He snorted. “You certainly have lots of room for improvement.” He walked with her to the front door. “Are you going back to the flower shop?”

“I think I should, just to prove that I’m still useful. I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason my father didn’t kick me out altogether--with Valentine’s Day coming up, he needs me to work.”

“Well, I hope he can spare you on the twelfth.”

“The twelfth?”

“Of February. Saturday after next. I thought it would be a good day for our wedding.”

“What, in two weeks?” Lacey gaped at Mr. Gold.

“One week and five days, yes.”

“I thought engagements were supposed to be longer,” she said. “Don’t weddings take a long time to plan?”

“Not if you have money and connections and a determined will--all of which I have in abundance. I’ve booked Dodici’s Dance Hall. They’ll do the catering and decorations as well.”

She had to chuckle. Even Mr. Gold couldn’t change the fact that every reception in Storybrooke was held at one of two places.

“You didn’t want to rent the social hall at St. Meissa?”

Mr. Gold frowned at the mention of the local convent. “No,” he said. “And if you always dreamed of a church wedding, then I’m afraid you must accept disappointment, my dear.”

Miss French shook her head. “It doesn’t matter to me. The only thing I care about is that we don’t have real flowers.”

“You don’t want to give your father the business?”

“I don’t want to give him a hernia!” She smiled, but it didn’t last long. “Besides, there’s nothing worse than making a flower arrangement for your own function. At my mom’s funeral--you’d think people would know better, but…”

“I see,” Mr. Gold said smoothly. “Very well, no flowers.” He held open the door for her, letting an icy blast of wind into the shop. “We’ll talk more as decisions are made. Feel free to come to me whenever you need money.” He bent down to kiss her cheek and whispered, “Or whenever you need me to make you come until you cry.”

Miss French turned around to say something, but he had already shut the door behind her.

#courtship #rumbelle #rumbelle fic #golden lace #golden lace fic

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