Drawn to the Flame Ch. 01

Holly shrugs. "I mean, do you need to?"

"Yes!" I say, cringeing at the intensity of my own response. Even Holly flinches a little at that. Oh God I legit want to die right now. My social standing is going to be buried. I'm coming across as a creep, a goddamn weirdo.

But Holly doesn't shout at me, or politely but coldly asks me to leave her alone. In a way, what she does is much, much worse.

She stares at me, then at the ankle boot she's holding, then at me. Then, she extends her arm.

"I can show you," she says with a smile that's maybe supposed to be inviting, but looks more like the crocodile's right before the wildebeest tries to cross the river. "It's quite simple, really. Just put this shoe on me."

I should go, but the imperious tone of her last words seals my fate before I can muster the courage to bolt out of the store. My own curiosity has doomed me, and now I find myself drawn to this redhead like a moth to a flame.

I take the boot in my hands. I own boots myself, and they've always just been clothes to me, but for the first time, the contact of my fingers with the leathers is like a brush of electricity, almost... sexually charged. It isn't just a shoe. It's a symbol.

I stare into Holly's green eyes, and she nods. I might not understand foot fetish, but if there's one thing that's clear to me is the visual symbols it relies upon, and I find myself thrust at the very heart of one of them.

Cursing the curiosity and obsessions that have acted as mile markers on my road to damnation, I get down on one knee, and slip the ankle boot on Holly's proffered foot.

It fits perfectly, elegantly, and I feel so humbled as she stands up and tries a few tentative steps in it, while I remain on one knee. I suddenly feel acutely aware that this is Frank's ex-wife, treating me like I'm a PA or something.

Hell, or worse.

Holly sits back down, patting me on the head like I'm some kind of pet. It should infuriate me. Instead, I feel a sudden warmth, and I have to admit to myself, I'm starting to run out of rationalisations for my behaviour. I feel like the answer is obvious, but I don't want to confront it. It scares me.

Unfortunately, Holly has no such qualms.

"It's perfect! What do you think, Jenna?"

"It looks amazing on you," I say with a tone of genuine admiration.

"Thanks! Be a dear, go ahead and buy it for me."

The boldness of her request stuns me. I suddenly remember why I dislike her so much -- she's a leech, a gold digger, everything I pride myself not to be. But my indignation quickly subsides. I'm literally debasing myself here, living out a fetish I don't even think I have. Well, maybe. Still, what right do I have to judge her?

In for a penny. I wince as the cashier swipes my credit card, and even more so when I notice Holly is waiting for me outside the store. I grab the bag with her brand-new ankle boots, paid with my hard-earned money, and join her outside, handing her the bag.

"Oh no," says Holly. "You're taking this to my car. Come with me."

"Yes, Holly," I say, defeated. The speed of my own downfall is so shocking I can barely process it, and Holly must be thinking along similar lines, because she's muttering to herself.

"Who knew you'd be like this." She throws me a sidelong glance, and then raises her voice. "Have you got any plans for the weekend?"

"Frank's away..." I say, too scared to venture further with my words. But where I am meek and hesitant, Holly is decisive.

"That's very good." Her eyes sparkle with sadistic amusement, so evidently cocky and superior that it sends a spasm through my body and straight to the heart of my growing arousal. "You and I, my dear Jenna, have so very much to talk about."