Red: A Love Story
READERS’ PRAISE FOR NICOLE COLLET’S RED
RED, a quarterfinalist in the 2014 Amazon Breakthrough Novel contest, was originally posted on the digital platform Wattpad, where it became an international sensation. At the time of publication, it had received two million hits.
“I absolutely love RED. It has substance and the perfect balance between warm love and fiery passion. Brilliant plot, well-rounded and engaging characters… Collet creates worlds and enlivens the senses while encouraging readers to think critically. Bravo!”
—Patricia Franco, Philippines
“RED is rather amazing: one of the best, most intricate and consuming books I’ve ever read. It explains romance in such a captivating way, portraying love like everyone feels it. It’s hard to put it down for even one second. Unlike any love story I know… it should have its own genre because there’s nothing like it.”
—Amelia Lily Hughes, England
“Nicole Collet has a beautiful literary imagination. Her writing is unbendable gold, with unique imagery that comes to me almost too suddenly. I really enjoy this novel—the world needs to read it.”
—Emily Kent, England
“RED’s words slipped through my mind like a moving image. I felt enveloped by the writing and couldn’t quite get it out of my head.”
—Shoua Her, United States
“Amazing… Fresh and new, something I would read over and over again.”
—Marijana Đuričić, Serbia
“Terrific story, told poetically and with great cultural references. It’s rare to see the sexuality of an 18-year-old portrayed in such a realistic manner.”
—Elenira Nascimento, Brazil
“Absolutely fantastic. I’m so glad to have found a bearable teacher-student romance, although this far exceeds bearable and breaches a ‘phenomenal’ characteristic.”
—Estelle Styve, United States
“Spicy and funny but at the same time educational. Marco blew my mind with his talk about instinct and reason.”
—Cristina de Paula, United States
“A beautifully written piece. I was carried by the words and emotions. Right words, the anticipation—everything! Wonderful.”
—Kim Saldo, Philippines
“RED is an absolutely riveting read, so different from other teacher-student romances. I have actually learnt something from this book… I love that the author added intellectual aspects to the storyline.”
—Mahria Bashir, England
“Awesome. The author is able to transmit, in an unparalleled way, the development of the story and the feelings of the characters, whom we grow to love.”
—Gabriella Suzart, Brazil
“The pages of RED are filled with so much talent…
I get chills from reading it.”
—Rose Moleus, United States
“RED is wonderful and exciting and I love it.”
—Edidiong Godwin Emah, Nigeria
Copyright
RED: A LOVE STORY © copyright 2015 by Nicole Collet. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, by photography or xerography or by any other means, by broadcast or transmission, by translation into any kind of language, nor by recording electronically or otherwise, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in critical articles or reviews.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Cover design by Eleanor Leonne Bennett
Interior design by James Monroe Design, LLC
Info@SOOPLLC.com
For bulk orders e-mail: Orders@SOOPLLC.com
To Christine, Léa, Roger and Georges
Contents
A Note About Music
PART 1 | White: Welcome to the Surface
1. Drink This Moment to the Last Drop
2. Hobbits and Sexual Deviations from A to Z
3. What’s Up With Sartre
4. This Is the Text
5. Signs, Bonbons and Siderodromophilia
6. Strategic Pause
7. Tropical Rain
8. Rolling the Die
9. Dream a Little Dream of Me
10. A Prank
11. Close Encounter of the Third Kind
12. Duet Story
13. There Won’t Be Roses
14. Carnival
15. After Hours
16. The Graduation
17. Behind the Peephole
18. A Shadow of Doubt
PART 2 | Black: A Plunge Into the Abyss
1. A Well Stares at the Sky
2. The Chase
3. The Taming
4. Doctor Spitzer
5. The Number One
6. White Circle, Black Square
7. Something Different
8. Miracle Fruit
9. In the Bedroom
PART 3 | Red: Black and White Converge
1. Turning the Page
2. The Light Inside Your Eyes
3. Serendipity
4. Wear Flowers in Your Hair
5. The Kashmir Lounge
6. A New Day
7. The Leather Dream Fair I
8. The Leather Dream Fair II
9. The Ball at the Devil’s Lair
10. A Little Surprise
11.Dopamine + Pheromone = Nonsense
12. The Devil Laughs
13. Nostalgia
14. Frontiers
15. Vertigo
16. Speaking of Love
17. Two Ships Sailing the Night
18. Denial
19. Full Circle
Appendix: Poems & Works
Acknowledgements
A Word from the Author
A Note About Music
I love music and when I’m writing I can’t help it: songs pop into my head and migrate to my story. I had initially included many lyrics when I wrote this novel, some of them even threaded into paragraphs. I removed them all to avoid copyright infringement. But those emptied portions still ached for lyrics, and the solution was to create my own lyrics or use public domain material.
As an exception, small portions of Brazilian lyrics are included, under fair use in accordance with Brazil’s copyright law.
I still mention song titles and artists for an obvious reason: they comprise the soundtrack to this story and I invite readers to listen to them. Most are favorites of mine, beautiful songs that touch the soul or fun tracks that make you want to dance.
I do not wish to misinterpret the lyrics of those songs, so please keep in mind that the lyrics used in this story (except for Brazilian material) are not the actual lyrics of the songs mentioned nor hold any similarity to them, except for occasionally adopting the same general theme. They are used to enhance the atmosphere of certain scenes, or translate what characters feel and think while listening to those songs.
The four words in Urdu are merely a translation of the English title of a song with Urdu lyrics. It’s included here to give an idea of how that language sounds.
The full credits and sources for quoted material are found in the Appendix.
By the way, the paraphilia encyclopedia mentioned here is fictitious. The sexual deviations in it are not.
Red symbolizes extremes: it dresses the Pope just like it paints the Devil. The first visible color in the light spectrum, it signals passion—which is nothing more than the extremes of joy and pain.
PART 1
White:
&n
bsp; Welcome to the Surface
Spring, November
1. Drink This Moment to the Last Drop
The night was an empty house. Its lights bore lone reflections, and its sounds, belated echoes of a distant thunder. Those who came in and walked out at daytime hadn’t left any marks. Now a bluish mist lingered there carrying a green smell of moss, the herald of the storm with its unseen horn.
From the pricked-up trees, leaves fell whirling around in a rain dance that mirrored Marisa’s disquiet. Cautiously, she advanced on the deserted street with a sudden knot of apprehension. Adrenaline gripped her chest like the claws of a predator. She shivered when her coat half-opened and flapped, ready to take off. Her Mary Jane shoes stamped a solitary voice on the asphalt. Clog, clog, clog…
They seemed to be saying: Stop, stop, stop… She sped up the pace.
A grayish rat with bloodshot eyes leaped from the curb and startled Marisa. She looked to the sides as she cursed herself for not taking a cab. Rushing around the corner, she followed a wide avenue in downtown São Paulo. Her steps left behind locked buildings and dormant store windows in pitch-black slumber. Marisa only stopped when she reached a quaint building with a blue-tiled façade typical of the fifties.
She rang the bell, all the while pounding one fist on the glass door. The porter recognized her and pressed a button behind a shiny cedar counter. As the door opened, Marisa nodded to the porter and quickly crossed the green marble lobby. On her face blossomed a smile he did not see.
Marisa waited for the elevator, one Mary Jane shoe tap dancing discreetly. She ascended to the fifteenth floor, where she arrived with a slight pant. In the vestibule with no ornaments, the door did not offer resistance when Marisa pushed it to sneak into the dark living room. A shy rectangle of light guided her to the hallway. She stopped before the office, caught her breath, went inside.
As Marisa advanced, the walls lined with books receded into dimness leaving behind the smell of paper and lavender polisher. The tic-tac of a pendulum clock—methodic, impatient—dotted the silence. Marisa paused in the middle of the room, the sight of Marco imprinted in her retina. All anxiety, all guilt, all fear was forgotten.
The glass shade of the lamp on the desk glowed like a jade lighthouse in the sea of shadows. Behind the green reflection, seated on a high-backed chair, he waited. His eyes, a solid brown on the brink of black, contemplated Marisa even before she entered, picturing her at the sound of each step. In its stillness Marco’s body held a torrent, denounced by the gleam in the irises and the way one hand curled on the desk’s edge. He bore a dark rather than fair complexion, meditative forehead and mouth drawn with firm lines. His straight, black hair was parted on the side, with a hint of formality that matched his gray slacks, narrow leather belt and white shirt with a loosened silk tie.
Now he rolled up his sleeves in a deliberate manner.
“You are late,” he finally said in a stern tone.
“I apologize, Master. It won’t happen again.”
“This time I’ll let it pass. In the future, however, I will not tolerate it. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Master,” she replied in a feeble voice.
“You can remove your coat.”
She obeyed, revealing what hid underneath—a short navy blue skirt, indigo T-shirt, thigh-high white socks. In that pretended school outfit, her compact build was of a woman. Feeling exposed, slightly abashed, she played with the end of the braid hanging over her shoulder. The luscious hair was straight, the same golden brown as her lowered eyes. The visage emanated the beauty and glow of her eighteen years.
“Now turn,” he commanded.
She did as he said, but was reprehended in a sharp note.
“Slower.”
Marisa finished turning in a tense motion as he studied her. His incisive gaze paused on the interstice of naked thighs between the skirt hemline and socks. It then trailed up to the breast contours below the V collar and lingered on the lips that she nibbled. His eyes darkened; the pupils dilated. He beckoned her to move closer. Then he stood to his feet and advanced to meet her in front of the desk. Now the two were only a few inches apart.
“On second thought, I am not going to forgive this indiscipline,” he said, and now his voice almost dropped to a whisper: “Your behavior disappoints me, Marisa.”
“Master, I promise it won’t happen again.”
“Nevertheless, it already happened, Marisa. You have disregarded punctuality. What do you suggest I should do about that?”
He spoke in an affirmative tone—it became clear the answer did not matter. His gaze remained unfathomable. The well-drawn mouth, however, was pressed in a line signaling the path of his intentions.
Marisa stared at him spellbound. Voluptuousness. Uncertainty. The voluptuousness of uncertainty. Something would happen soon and she didn’t know what it was. She tingled as if hands tantalized her body in no hurry, lingering here and there… here and there… Marisa had no time to react when, without warning, he made her bend over the desk. With one hand, he held her wrists behind her back. With the other, he traced the curve of her hip, first in the front, then on the back, moving around, going up, going down. Up again. And down. Beneath the skirt. Caressing her inner thighs.
With her face on fire and chest heaving, she kept still. The slap landed on the right buttock, then on the left. Marisa clenched her teeth and suppressed a surprised gasp, which was followed by the languor of a sigh: now his fingers touched her feverish skin with the lightness of a breeze, tracing the marks as if contemplating their work. Then they followed the shape of her narrow waist, strolled on the back and twisted the braid, pulling it close to the nape of her neck.
Marisa shivered when his breath caressed her ear: “Next time I won’t be so complacent. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”
Marco released Marisa and made her turn around. He framed her face in his big hands, dark eyes sending sparks into hers, mouth hungrily inching closer and closer, until it took hers in a fervent kiss. His left hand searched for the breast over the blouse; the right one found the vertex of the thighs under the skirt. He deepened his fingers there, making her moan, devouring her moan with his tongue and teeth. He knew exactly how to touch her, in the exact measure to counter a firm move with softness. He coaxed, advanced, withdrew to make her want more.
Marisa wanted it. She wanted Marco above everything. Encircling his waist, she drew him nearer, hands sliding beneath his shirt to feel the bare skin, the well-defined muscles, the triangle of the shoulder blades. With her eyes half-closed, she drank the scent of the man and discarded the cologne’s. Marisa inhaled the air sharply as she allowed her hands to spread adrift across the strong torso, scratching the skin until they reached the fine hair on the chest… and, farther down, the navel and the zipper line.
The kiss a blaze, tongue against tongue instinctively replicating the gestures of hands, a mad spin inside the mouth consuming the entire body in successive flames that reached further and further—the body’s thirst, the body’s liqueur. Breasts pressed against the wall of the wide chest, intertwined thighs in a perfect fit. Everything was orchestrated in a sinuous synchronism: lips, tongues, fingers, hips and legs.
Slow legato. Crescendo. Staccato.
With a quiver, he lifted Marisa and sat her on the desk. He pushed aside the clothes in his way, fingers entangled in cotton and lace. Then he completely abandoned himself in her flesh. Marisa opened up to him with a fitful sigh. Her muscles molded to him, contracted around him, clenching and clenching, and he wanted more, deeper, denser, ethereal. More. In the eternity of an instant, the fused bodies pulsed with a spasm, from the core to the solar plexus, to the fingertips, to the roof of the mouth, to the vault of the sky…
They remained in each other’s arms and exchanged a long look as their heartbeat quieted.
“Happy birthday,” Marisa said, stroking his face.
Smiling, they finally parted and straightened up their clothes. Marco fixed a russet strand that had broken free from her braid. Marisa pulled him closer and kissed him, still craving. She then picked up her coat from the chair.
“I have to go home, Marco.”
“So soon? I’ve prepared dinner for us.”
“Oh, what a shame.”
Frustration transpired on her countenance. It wasn’t lesser than his frustration. Marisa tried to be practical: “But it’s late, and my mom is getting increasingly suspicious of my absences. And I still need to study for the literature exam tomorrow, remember? Truth is, I shouldn’t even be here tonight, but I had to see you… I think we’re both a bit crazy, eh?”
“Yeah… I think so, love.” Now he gave half a smile. Only half. “I wouldn’t want to harm a model student like you. Let’s go, then.”
Let’s go. Neither of them moved toward the door. They inhabited a fragile crystal terrarium, a landscape within the landscape that could come crumbling down at any moment. The coat returned to the chair, and they embraced like castaways.
“On Saturday we’ll celebrate properly. I got you something, but I couldn’t bring it along because it would draw attention.” Marisa paused. She blurted out: “I can’t stand this anymore. Having to hide is just horrible. I feel like a criminal. And what have we done, after all? We didn’t kill or steal or covet the neighbor’s wife…”
“I know, Mari, I’m not happy with this either. But didn’t you say yourself that a few weeks were nothing compared to eternity and we should enjoy the present?”
“Did I say that? See, love, the problem is sometimes I don’t listen to my own advice.” She laughed with faint conviction. “I wanted you so much, and now I’m scared of what may happen.”
“Let’s be patient. It’ll soon be over.”
Marco caressed her hair with one hand while his gaze caressed all of her. His Venus. The star that brought the colors of a new day and kept surprising Marco with the familiarity radiating from her face. He had recognized it since the beginning, even though he had never seen it before. It was the face of someone he had sought for a long time. In her arms the turbulence of the past dissolved into a distant clamor. He had a partner now, and that certainty still stunned him. Marco never grew tired of gazing at her because he never grew tired of recognizing her. His partner.