Cutting Room Floor: Book 5

During the writing of a chapter, there's all sorts of text that ultimately gets cut and discarded. Sometimes just a line here or there, occasional paragraphs, sometimes much longer passages as I head in the wrong direction before correcting and rewriting. These usually build up at the end of the working document. Sometimes, I like the idea and I'm reluctant to throw it away. Other times, I'm hoping to salvage the time and effort and find a way to reuse the content. They often indicate directions the story could've gone.

Here are some relics left over from Book 5. Hopefully, it'll tide you over until I get Chapter 9 sorted so that Patreon's filters no longer object to it.

(Chapter 4) Darius invites David on Blackwater Phoenix

Originally, I wrote out in full the meeting-in-flashback between Darius in David. Ultimately, it felt pretty redundant and I rewrote that encounter with more of a focus on the tension between the two characters.

Three drinks in, face flushed red, he’d eyed me over the rim of a tumbler of expensive whiskey. Still a wiry bastard, tough like old boots, his hair clipped short and the way he sat hinted at time in the military. He’d said as much as we touched on the fifteen years since we’d last spoken.

            Codename for a job, he told me, a mission, like in the old days. Nothing to do with Sakura, obviously. But… important. Very. Very. And needing men and women with specific skills. His job was to assemble the team, source the experts. He wanted me along. He couldn’t tell me much, but he’d consider any outstanding debts cleared. I didn’t have many of those outstanding, at the time—favours owing to the past. But I owed him. Are you calling in my debt, I asked him, and he said no—that the job was too big a thing, too risky; I had to join willingly. Rather, he was offering me a part in something—bigger than any of them—a chance to make a difference, again. A chance to—and here he smiled a tight little smile, unpleasant and knowing—hurt, people who deserve to be hurt; and break, things that needed breaking.

***

            He sketched out in the most ambiguous details an ambitious plan, covertly funded but big money nonetheless—government-level interest—absolutely top-secret. Months of planning and preparation, mostly abroad, and a chance to make a difference, to mean and do something meaningful, again. He all but sneered as he said this, picking out my watch, my expensive suit.

            Then, he told me how things changed, how the family started to fall apart after my departure. Dmytro first; a year later, Emma left. Sophya hung on the longest, he said, helped train up some of the next intake. But eventually she moved on, too. There were others, of course; many of them didn’t make it out, the inevitable casualties along the way. And this nostalgia Darius expressed, this feeling of some golden age where we lived together, worked together and shared this familial bond, it was as compelling as it was utter bullshit.

            Yeah, we were a family, in the sense of a bunch of people forced to co-exist with others they never chose.

***

            I saw the anger in his eyes, and the disappointment. But he didn’t understand. I wanted to go with him—God, how I’d wanted to be part of—whatever the fuck it was—I didn’t care. A chance to recapture something of those days of youth, to feel—alive, again, like I once had. The temptation was nearly overpowering.

            Idiocy. That boy of the past was dead and buried; Luke was dead and buried. He died with Persephone, with Tahir’s brown paper envelope containing everything that made the man that followed. But Darius didn’t want David Saunders—he wanted Luke—Luke, the boy who betrayed his family for a woman he loved, the boy who failed, the boy who broke and was cast aside.

            There was no recapturing the past because the past wasn’t real. The past was a construct built from half-remembered feelings and fragments of memory. A place revisited only in dreams—or nightmares. I wanted nothing of my past.

            Only much later would I realise that I wanted nothing of the future, either. Often, in the years that followed, I regretted my decision. As I grew ever more bored of the man I’d created myself to be, I wondered: what if? What if I’d embraced that last, brief opportunity for—something, anything, that mattered?

            Especially as word began to trickle back along darker threads of the internet, and the name—Blackwater Phoenix—reached me. Clusterfuck operation gone wrong, anonymous government-funded corporate black-site raid, no survivors—a few survivors—nobody had a fucking clue what the hell it was, but the conspiracy trolls loved it. And I knew: it was Darius’ mission. Had I joined him, then, would things have turned out differently?

(Chapter 5) Dmytro / Anna

I found the chapter focused on Dmytro/Anna difficult to write, with many false starts. There was originally a different origin story for Anna's name, and at one point I considered diving into her backstory a bit more. Most of it was discarded outright, but here's a few glimpses into what could've been:

It was her cousin’s name, she told me another time, a girl she used to play with many years ago when both were very young, often in secret, sometimes with dolls. Anna died, my friend told me, very early in the war: a missile strike in Kiev. It was one of the reasons why her parents sent her to America.

***

I allowed him to dress me for Darius each time. He took great pleasure in doing so, an envious but also rather sweet care in presenting me as he no doubt wished he could present. Unlike that first time, he never dressed me in bondage quite so restrictive, or lewd. Some outfits were outright elegant.

            All this came later. It came across several visits, bridging weeks and months, Jonas and Julia, Mr. Connor and Tom, work and clubbing and maid service and a final night with Caleb, Tom, Julia and me….

            But back in the time of that first visit...

***

            Over the months that followed, in exchange for Dmytro’s stories, I shared mine; with each return, I gifted the latest of my experiences as Cindy. After my first blowjob, with Jonan, Dmytro was there. The confusion and anxiety of a night with the girls? Dmytro listened. And when Julia took her revenge against me? Dmytro was there.

            In fact, each visit the question returned, though in slightly different form. Dmytro wanted to know, wanted to experience vicariously how my lived experience as Cindy evolved.

I paused, struck by a sudden thought. “Does Darius know?”

            Dmytro nodded.

            “Does he care?”

            Dmytro shook his head. “He is… trying to help me.”

***

            I put the brush down, raised an eyebrow.

            “I tried. I—” The muscles along his throat worked powerfully, as though trying to expel something poisonous. “Cross-dressed.” Having gotten the word out, he took a deep breath, smiled crookedly. “The first time, when I was at Oxford. Occasionally, in the years that followed.” He shook his head. “Every time, I felt ridiculous, I looked ridiculous.”

(Chapter 6/7/8) Jonas

Originally, I started to write an extra scene involving Jonas. Nervous to head straight home, both Cindy and Jonas take a little detour en route. It might've been a fun scene but I decided to cut it in favour of tempo.

“Done?” he said.

            I nodded.

            “If you… have to?” Go, he didn’t say, noting me checking my phone. Work tomorrow, of course. But he looked miserable, even suggesting it and swallowing nervously, unhappily. He didn’t want me to go, wasn’t entirely convinced he wanted me to stay.

            “It’s still early,” I said.

            We finished off at Edo, Jonas picking up the bill. Still galling, still appreciated; I just couldn’t afford a night out like this without someone footing the bill, not after blowing the week’s budget on those fucking nails. They were pretty, though, I couldn’t deny it, flicking the color back to red as we left. The waitress, Aiko noticed, lips set in a cute disapproving pout, crossing over to see the two of us to the door. “Gochisousama deshita,” she said. Absently, Jonas nodded, stepped through the door, and I followed. I felt a sharp pinch on my ass. Aiko stood a step back, grinning innocently, two short-nailed fingers raised in a ‘v’.

            Now, half-past eight o’clock on a Wednesday night, belly full of ramen and gripped by the unspoken expectation of what it meant, me following him home. His place was literally just around the corner, less than five minutes though walking it now flashed memories of a much longer journey. Jonas held my hand as we walked. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d held hands with someone like that. His palm was a little clammy in mine. Then, we passed a lamppost. I held him back. It looked familiar. I pointed it at. “Did I stop here?” Looking vaguely embarrassed, he nodded. “You sat there,” he said, prodding the curb with his toe. “Didn’t want to move. Then you threw up.” I didn’t remember this, but yeah, there was a vaguely discolored patch at the base of the lamppost, possibly cleared puke. When was the last time I’d actually thrown up? As Cindy, loads. Too often, really. But before that? Years. Hard to pin down, really. Maybe that time in Japan. Yes. The last time I threw up.

            “Sorry,” I said.

            Jonas shrugged. “Took a bit of work, but I got you moving again.”

            We walked on and reached the narrow side road leading to his apartment all too quickly. Side by side, we stood there for a moment. My stomach trembled, though only slightly. I’d come to terms with what was coming, with what had to happen. Not looking forward to it, but—the loathing was gone. Something about the fumble in the closet. Or the cheer of the restaurant and the table next to ours, young voices unconsciously raised in celebration of their own youth. The joy, the passion, the unthinking embrace of life in all its unspoken joy. Yes, this. Leading back to his place. A seduction of this young man, and what of it? No harm done. He’s a good kid. But still.

            He picked up on my nervousness, I think.

            “Hey, you know, there’s a place just a little further up,” Jonas said, blushing. “I’d like to show you, if you’ve got the time?”

            I nodded, maybe a little too eagerly.

            Once again, my hand in his. He took it so easily. Grudgingly, I had to admit it felt nice, walking like that, the sway of my dress around my thighs as we passed beneath the trees lining the street. His neighbourhood was a hell of a lot nicer than mine. Not quite the sheltered enclave of my previous life, but still. There was something enviably genuine emanating from the cafes we passed, evening chatter, lively music. A Lebanese restaurant, grilled meat and warm spice; a twenty-hour hour grocery store; and a wine bar, busy with young women in elegant dresses, men in crisp shirts.

            “Here,” Jonas said, white porcelain cat in the window, raised paw inviting us in. Korean restaurant, plastic menus on the way, BBQ, bibimbap, red-stained pictures of kimchi. But instead of the restaurant itself, he led me down a narrow side-corridor into the back. “They do karaoke back here,” he said, “and those silly photobooths, and—”both blushing and grinning, he indicated “this thing.”

            “This thing” was Dance Dance Revolution, speakers blaring, floor pads flashing as it cycled through its rhythmic pattern.

And back at his place, I originally summarised some of the action leading to David's success on his mission, before tossing it in favour of expanding the time spent at Jonas's apartment.

He never knew what hit him. Not that night, at Tartarus, or the nights that followed, at his place. All he understood was that out of nowhere, this sexy blonde bimbo straddled him, stuck her tits in his face. He fondled and he licked and sucked and—fuck me, but it felt good, his hands and his tongue on me felt amazing, what the kid lacked in experience he made up for with enthusiasm. Again, not part of the plan: but with me squirming in his lap, insides turning to jelly, I’ll admit to losing sight of the plan.

            To be honest, the plan went to shit before it even started. I wanted a dress I could wear a bra with, somewhere to hide Darius’s little security key. But short of sticking it up my prosthetic pussy—and yeah, I fucking considered it—there wasn’t anywhere to hide it.

***

I also tried to explore this idea of "the real you" in the scene with Jonas, but it never quite came together:

            He hung his head. “Christ, sorry, I’m sorry, Cindy, I don’t know where all this is coming from. Like I said, I’m kinda fucked up. Too much time online. Or at the club, seeing people at their worst.”

            “You said that before. But I think you’re wrong, Jonas. You’re not seeing them at their worst. You’re seeing them at their best.”

            “Am I? Was that the real you, on Saturday?” For the first time that night, he spoke with genuine confidence. His hand held mine gently, rolled it over and his thumb passed gently across my palm, tickling the center. “Or was that the real you, last Sunday?”

(Chapter 8) Japan

The flashback to Japan proved relatively easy to write, being largely based on personal memories of a visit years ago. I struggled initially with the dad, however, and how David would interact with him. This was an early attempt that I abandoned.

"A pretty girl. A fine drink. The company of an interesting stranger.” He raised his glass.

            I swirled my drink, watched the amber circle. “Marriage?”

            He laughed. “Why do men marry? They marry because they have been told to do this. My country tells our women to marry because it is tradition and there is value in tradition. Your country tells your women to marry and have children because it is their duty and there is value in duty. But is this what a man wants?” He snorted. “No.”

            “Children?”

            He knocked back his drink, hissed between bared teeth.

            “A son?”

            He nodded. He was getting quite drunk. “Yes.” His voice more serious now. “A son.” Mako laughed. “A son like you, perhaps!” He clapped me on the back, ran hand down my arms, gripped my suit by the lapels. “A son in a fine suit, with an expensive watch. Imagine!”