Pretty Guilty Women

by Gina LaManna

  Emily smiled at one particular image where the four girls had smooshed together, crammed with limbs entangled underneath one teensy tiny Christmas tree they’d decorated with whatever junk they could scrounge up in their college apartment.

  Emily recalled Ginger’s playful cackle as she’d made paper snowflakes out of old exams she’d bombed from a certain history professor she’d sworn had a vendetta against her. They’d sipped spiked eggnog and belted Christmas carols at the top of their lungs until their resident advisor had pounded on their door with a noise violation in hand. Ginger had made a paper snowflake out of the violation too.

  Emily’s thoughts were interrupted as Henry glanced over her shoulder and spoke. “How old were you there?”

  She considered. “Oh, I don’t know. Twenty? This must have been junior year of college.”

  Emily knew for a fact it had been junior year because she recognized the present under the tree she’d wrapped to give to Ginger. It was a silly thing, a set of matching Christmas pajamas for her and Ginger to split. After all, they’d shared everything. An apartment, a friendship, a life…until Emily shared one thing too many and ruined everything.

  “Do you keep in touch with all of them?” Henry asked. “Seems like a lot of work.”

  “No, actually,” she said. “I mean, the occasional Christmas card, maybe. But Kate—this one, here—she lives in New York. Whitney’s in California. Ginger’s in Minnesota, and I’m in Chicago, and we don’t make a habit of meeting up.”

  “Why are you going, then? You hate weddings, you don’t talk to these people—seems like it makes sense to skip the damn thing.”

  “Maybe I should have.” Emily shrugged. “But I have a week of vacation to burn, and it’s supposed to be a very nice spa and resort. I will probably barely see them at all.”

  Or maybe that was a lie. Maybe Emily longed to be a voyeur more than anything else. To peek into the life of her ex-best friend and marvel over Ginger’s flourishing, secure marriage. To watch her chirpily dote upon three flawless, cherub-faced children. To examine in person the gifts Ginger had been given, and to make certain—absolutely certain—that Ginger appreciated what she had in front of her. (Emily had Facebook, and even though she and Ginger weren’t friends, Emily could see her profile picture of a bubbling, joyful family.)

  God only knew how Emily had suffered. And God only knew how much Emily admired, envied, desired what Ginger had. If it weren’t for one terrible decision in college, maybe things would have been different. Maybe Emily would be sitting in economy class with three children climbing on her lap, shooting knowing, lovely little glances at an adorable, loving husband. Instead, she was groveling over photos from years past, longing for simpler times.

  “Well, that doesn’t make any sense to me, but maybe it’s different for a man and a woman.” Henry sat back in his seat, closed his eyes. “You’re an adult. You clearly don’t like these women anymore, so why torture yourself?”

  Emily’s fingers shook, and she capped the marker she’d been holding so no stray flecks of ink marred the irreplaceable photos. There were no backup copies. “What makes you think I don’t like them?”

  Henry opened his eyes to glance at his watch. “It doesn’t seem like the captions are coming easily to you. If they were still your friends, it wouldn’t be so hard to write your little love notes.”

  “It’s a wedding gift,” Emily clarified. “I’m trying to make it nice for the bride.”

  However, as Emily peered down at the book again, she was surprised to find Henry Anonymous was right. She’d only written a handful of captions on a thirty-page photo album in the span of a few hours.

  “I’ll finish at the resort,” she said. “I’m not in a rush.”

  However, the truth was that Emily had been so lost and twisted in her thoughts of yesterday that the sound of Henry’s voice was disorienting as it dragged her back to reality. She pinched at her forehead as she felt the beginnings of a champagne headache take hold and wondered about the logistics of getting another glass to keep her buzz going strong.

  She leaned over the arm of her chair, glancing up the aisle in search of the attendant. When she caught Henry watching her, she gave a wry smile. “Who do I have to sleep with around here to get a glass of champagne?”

  “He’s not going to serve you again,” Henry said, returning the smile. “I think the flight attendant is a bit frightened of you.”

  “That’s ironic,” she said. “Seeing as I’m not frightening at all. I only wish he’d top up my glass, or this headache is going to get worse.”

  “Why don’t I buy you a drink when we land?”

  “I really should get to the resort and get checked in.”

  “What are the chances you’re staying at Serenity Spa & Resort?”

  Emily choked back a noise of surprise. “Did you see the reservation on my phone?”

  “You wrote the date and location of the wedding on the front of your album.” Henry’s gaze flicked downward. “It wasn’t hard to guess you’ve been suckered into attending the DeBleu/Banks wedding too. That’s where I’m headed, and I figure there are only so many weeklong extravaganzas in California at one time.”

  “That would be correct,” Emily said, somewhat mystified and quite unsure how she felt about sharing a hotel with this gorgeous and mysterious stranger. “I’m obviously friends with the bride as you saw from the photos. You?”

  “Cousin of the groom.” Henry gave a polite shrug. “We’re not close, but it’s family.”

  “I suppose you could buy me a drink at the resort, then,” she blurted, feeling a bit shy. “If the offer still stands.”

  “I’d hate to be interrupted by a bunch of family I haven’t seen in years,” he said, giving her a somewhat lopsided smile. “They say my room has a great view and a complimentary bottle of champagne waiting for my arrival. You’re welcome to join me.”

  “Oh.”

  “Like you, I don’t have a desire for small talk and mingling. I’ve got a work project due next week, so I’ll be holed up in my room most of the weekend fighting a deadline—which is fine by me.”

  “Ah,” Emily said, feeling a thrill cascade through her body at the thought of his implication. “I see. What do you do?”

  “I’ve got a big case,” he said. “But if you’d like to join me for a drink this evening, I could use a break.”

  “We’ll see,” Emily said, knowing full well that was exactly what she wanted to do. “I should probably check in with the bride first. See what’s on her agenda.”

  “Is this Whitney? I haven’t met her yet.”

  Henry leaned over, his breath hot against Emily’s neck as his finger extended in a point toward the photo open in her book. It was one of Emily and Ginger, their faces squished together with smiles of glee painted across their lips. They were sitting in a bundle of blankets in the back of Frank’s beat-up truck at the drive-in movie theater on a hot summer’s evening. If she closed her eyes, Emily could feel the warm Midwestern breeze, smell the buttery flavor of popcorn, feel the stickiness on her fingers.

  When she opened her eyes, she realized Henry was watching her curiously.

  “Sorry,” she said quickly. “No. It’s not. It’s a different friend…or was.”

  Henry passed over his glass of whiskey. Emily hadn’t remembered him ordering another, but she took a grateful sip regardless.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen these friends,” she admitted. “I’m a little on edge.”

  “Will this help?” Henry leaned forward, his fingers tilting Emily’s chin upward. He waited there, paused, his eyes telling her she needed to meet him halfway.

  Emily tipped forward, lost in the pull of him. The comfort of a man’s arms, the allure of a stranger who knew nothing about her but could make her forget it all for one tiny minute. Their lips met in a soft tes
t of wills.

  Henry pulled back first, and, if Emily wasn’t mistaken, he looked quite pleased with their kiss. She blatantly studied him, noticing the thick, sturdy head of hair. She wondered how a man as handsome as Henry wasn’t married. She wondered if he had children. She wondered if she asked, would he lie? The dark hair cascading over his eye gave him a mysterious, standoffish sort of charm. Emily itched to brush it away, as if that were the key to opening his secrets.

  What happened next was a blur. It was a mix of the alcohol simmering in her blood, the thought of showing up alone—fat, ugly, old—for the sole purpose of lording her misery over Ginger. As if Emily had been some self-sacrificing guardian angel in college.

  Maybe that was why Emily reached over and brushed the lock of hair from Henry’s forehead. Their gazes cemented a concrete bond between them. A knowing, reckless dare. The pulling of two broken souls toward each other in a poisonous, futile swirl of lust.

  Henry leaned forward, grabbed her chin roughly with his hand, and pressed his mouth to hers. They tangled together, hot, heavy, until he nodded toward the back of the airplane. Emily felt her heart race, her stomach twist. She returned his nod.

  They screwed in the airplane bathroom, Emily’s foot wedged on the sink as Henry pounded into her, his eyes—jungle green, flecked with gray—studied her with surprising intention as she moaned his name against his neck. His grip was hard, their pace fast as they fucked like teenagers, tasting whiskey and champagne, smelling a fresh, spicy cologne mixed with cheap airplane bathroom sanitizer. She grasped his delicious, buttery sweater between her fingers as they finished.

  The two shared a cab to the resort. They checked in at the same time at different desks.

  They met at the elevator.

  “I’m in 509,” he said.

  “411,” she said.

  “Your room or mine?”

  Four

  Detective Ramone: Please state your name for the record, the time and date you arrived at Serenity Spa & Resort, and your purpose for being here.

  Kate Cross: Kate Cross; August 16 at approximately 3:36 p.m.; attendance at the DeBleu/Banks wedding.

  Detective Ramone: Thank you, Ms. Cross. Now, please tell me, do you recognize this man?

  Katie Cross: Yes.

  Detective Ramone: Please state your relationship with him.

  Kate Cross: There isn’t one, considering he’s dead.

  Detective Ramone: Please state the nature of your relationship with him while he was alive.

  Kate Cross: Let’s be efficient here. You want to know who killed him? I did.

  Detective Ramone: Ms. Cross, were you acting as part of a group?

  Kate Cross: No. We were alone when it happened—end of story.

  Detective Ramone: Ms. Cross—

  Kate Cross: I’m a lawyer, Detective. I know my rights, I know you’re recording, and I know you can use this in a court of law. I hit a man over the head with a wine bottle tonight, and he never woke up. I acted alone. Now, can we move along?

  * * *

  “Where are you? I’ve got lunch!”

  “In here!” Kate called. She glanced through the window of her newly purchased condo—not quite the penthouse in her building, but close enough. This was New York. Real estate was expensive, and the fact that she had secured a two-bedroom, two-bath space with a view of Central Park said enough about her financial situation.

  The sound of Max tooling around the kitchen filtered into the bedroom. Her long-time boyfriend (she really was too old to be calling him boyfriend, but Max was skittish about getting married) had been debating moving in with her. He spent more nights sleeping over than not, but still refused to give up his own apartment.

  Part of the reason she’d bought this new space at such an exorbitant price was so they’d have room to grow here together, and hopefully ease his fears on marriage. He was forty-five, for God’s sake, and she was thirty-eight. They weren’t getting any younger, and they had both agreed to have one child. Ticktock and all that.

  “Leave the food in the kitchen,” Kate called, twirling the satin ribbon of her robe between two fingers. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  The sounds in the kitchen quieted, but they didn’t stop. She couldn’t be sure if she heard Max sigh or if she’d imagined it, but finally, the unwrapping of takeout food calmed, and he made his way to the bedroom.

  Kate’s smile faltered as he stopped in the doorway with a stony expression. But she recovered quickly; after all, she was a professional at keeping her emotions chilled. She’d made partner a year ago at William & Brooks, and she couldn’t have done so without the ability to keep her personal feelings on ice.

  “There you are, babe,” Kate said, letting the exquisite robe that’d been delivered to her work that morning drape open to reveal a flat stomach. Underneath, she wore La Perla lingerie that cost more than most Americans paid monthly in rent.

  “Kate, I’m hungry.” Max’s eyes skimmed briefly over her. “Can’t we eat lunch like a normal couple?”

  Kate felt the sting like the crack of a whip, but she forced herself not to let it show. “Come on, one little quickie.”

  “Kate—”

  “Don’t you like my outfit?” Kate preened under the lavish fabrics. She ran her hand seductively down her neck, fluttered her eyelashes, then continued her caress between her breasts and over her distinct abs (thanks to Marvin, the marvelous, bank-draining personal trainer who came five mornings per week), down between her legs. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Max rolled his eyes and stalked away from the door. “Forget it. I’m going back to work. There’s food on the table if you want—I’m not hungry.”

  “Max!” She fought back the panic rising in her chest. “Don’t you dare walk out of here!”

  Slipping her feet into gorgeous cream slippers, Kate tread into the living room, her long, bare legs failing to draw the attention of Max like they used to. Once upon a time, he would’ve come running to the bedroom and pounced on her. They would’ve torn the sheets apart in a hot and sweaty lunch date, then followed it up with a giggling rinse in the double-headed shower she’d installed exactly for such occasions.

  “Stop right there, dammit,” she said, her voice taking on that possessive, growly sound that was unlike her. “Don’t walk out on me, Maximillian Banks.”

  “I’m not walking out on you! I only said I wanted to have a normal lunch.” Max stopped in the kitchen to face her, shooting her an expression eerily close to disgust. “If you can’t give me that, I’m leaving.”

  “I’m ovulating.”

  “Congratulations.” Max narrowed his gaze at Kate. “How do you know that little detail, anyway? We’re supposed to be on a break.”

  “Max, please,” Kate said, her heart pinging with the sense of impending loss. “You can’t give up hope.”

  “Hope?” Max started to run a hand through his hair, then stopped so as not to disrupt his meticulous style. Instead, he massaged his forehead. “We agreed after the last failed round of IVF that we’d take a few months off. No temperature charting. No medicines. No pregnancy tests. It’s too much, Kate—it’s driving us both out of our minds. It has taken over our lives.”

  “I haven’t been charting anything! I haven’t taken a pregnancy test in weeks, nor have I taken my temperature. I was only attempting to be romantic. We agreed to try to bring back a little spontaneity to our sex lives.”

  “And the way to do that is by discussing your ovulation cycle?” Max’s gaze was tinged with disdain as his eyes raked over Kate’s body. “I’m sorry, but I think we both need to come to terms with the fact that we are not meant to have a baby. It’s just not going to happen.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “We’ve been through five rounds of failed IVF,” Max said. “I know that much, and so does my bank accou
nt.”

  “But the statistics say there’s a chance it could still happen naturally—”

  “I don’t care what the statistics say,” Max said. “It doesn’t matter. And even if it did, we fucked last night. So you should be good either way.”

  “Is that what it was?” She raised her voice in anger to avoid sounding hurt. It was the way Max phrased things that infuriated her. They’d made love! They were in a loving, adult relationship. Kate had tried to raise the romance factor last night too—wine, candles, a massage. “Who knows? Maybe today is our lucky day. Please—we’ve got to at least try.”

  “Do you not understand what a fucking break is? We need time to de-stress and regroup. The way you’re acting now—I don’t call this a break. Why is it so hard for you to accept it’s not going to happen for us?”

  “Well, it’s certainly not going to happen naturally with an attitude like that!” Kate cried, dangerously close to losing her cool. She was either going to snap or cry, and neither would be acceptable. “I thought you wanted this.”

  “I do…I did. But with all we’ve been through, I feel like I’m your dog—like you’re using me for breeding purposes.”

  “I want to marry you! Stop being ridiculous.”

  “Forget it,” Max said. “I’m going back to the office. I suggest you put some clothes on and do the same. While you’re at it, have a serious think about whether you’d like to focus on me or your uterus. It’s one or the other, Kate.”

  “Is that an ultimatum?”

  Max stepped close, took Kate’s hand in his. “I’m here, and I’m real. Tangible. This obsession you have with a baby—well, there is no baby. There’s never been one. Is it worth ruining our relationship over something that may never happen?”

  “Max, you’re not making any sense. Can we sit down and discuss this?”

  “There’s nothing more to say.” Max leaned in, kissed her forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “We’re flying to my cousin’s wedding, remember? This is what I’m talking about. You’re so obsessed with your cycles and ovaries and eggs that you don’t have room to consider anyone else.”