Starlight Nights

by Stacey Kade

  He collapses on top of me.

  “Am I crushing you?” he asks, out of breath.

  “Not yet.”

  He shifts upward as if to pull away.

  “Not yet,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck.

  I want this moment to last forever.

  But it doesn’t, of course. Eventually, once he’s recovered enough, he pulls away, leaving me feeling empty and cold. He leaves the room, and the water runs in the bathroom a few seconds later. Then he returns with a wet washcloth in one hand and his cell phone in the other.

  I raise my eyebrows.

  He grins at me, waving his phone at me before approaching to put it on the nightstand. “I’m going to order pizza. Does that sound okay?”

  In response, my stomach gives an embarrassingly loud gurgle, all the louder and more humiliating for being naked on his bed when it happens. I clap a hand over the offending region, my face going hot. “Um, yeah, it sounds great.” I sit up and grab for the sheet at the bottom of the bed.

  He laughs. “Wait,” he says, settling next to me.

  Before I realize what he’s up to, he’s already dabbing the warm washcloth between my thighs, cleaning up the dampness he left behind.

  If my face was hot before, it’s downright radioactive at the moment. I clear my throat and reach to take the washcloth from him. “I can do that.” This feels more intimate, somehow, than what we just did.

  He nudges my hand away. “I’ve got it.”

  It occurs to me that, although he would deny it until the sun collapsed in on itself, Eric might have a secret nurturing side. No one has ever looked out for me like he has, even before this change in our relationship. And for as much as he rolls his eyes about taking care of Bitsy, it’s clearly a fond exasperation. He cares for her without complaint even though he could have easily given her up to a shelter when his mom flaked out on her. And Bitsy adores him.

  My guess is he’s putting forth the effort that he wishes someone would make or would have made for him, and it breaks my heart to think about that.

  I blink my eyes quickly to keep tears from spilling over. Unfortunately, not quite fast enough.

  When he looks up at me, he freezes. “What’s wrong? Is it too hot?”

  “Nothing. It’s just nice.” I touch his bristly jaw. “You’re nice.”

  He mock-scowls. “Don’t tell anyone,” he says, pointing at me. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”

  When he returns the washcloth to the bathroom, he comes back with my shirt, his boxer-briefs, and Bitsy at his heels. After a brief argument about green peppers—I am pro, as it’s at least something vaguely healthy and green, and he is con, for the same reasons—our Thanksgiving meal is ordered and on its way. The start of a new tradition.

  While we wait, we curl up beneath the sheets, talking about everything and nothing in particular, his arm tucked underneath my pillow and his body curved protectively behind mine. Bitsy is at the bottom of the bed with her back to us, like we don’t exist—he was right, she is pissed.

  “Listen, I want to talk to you about something,” I say in a moment of comfortable quiet.

  Eric tenses, and I turn over so I can see him. He’s watching me warily.

  “I’m going to talk to my mom tomorrow. I’m finishing what I started. What’s important to me,” I say.

  “Okay,” he says slowly.

  “Fly Girl is important to me. I’m proud to be a part of that project,” I say. I hesitate and take a deep breath, studying the stitching in the hem of the sheet covering us. “And I want to finish my semester at Blake. It’s only another month or so, and I don’t want to lose those credits. I can have them transferred to somewhere around here if I want.” I’m offering this last part in the most casual tone possible. I don’t want him to feel like I’m suddenly rearranging my life because of him. But I also would like to continue … whatever this is. I’m not ready to let it—or him—go.

  “I’m sure my mom and Wade are going to need some kind of financial help, so I’ll probably have to work and go to school. It isn’t exactly what I wanted, but it’ll be a lot easier to do that here rather than Indiana.”

  I’m not exactly expecting a shout of joy from him or a declaration of eternal love, but something indicating that he’s amenable to the idea of my remaining in close proximity would be nice. But there’s nothing but silence.

  When I dare to glance up at him, his expression is troubled. My heart feels like a leaden weight in my chest. I’ve overstepped. Now he’s going to freak out and back away as fast as possible.

  “What’s wrong?” I manage to ask.

  He doesn’t answer right away. “I hope you don’t think…” He shakes his head, seemingly struggling with words. If so, it’s for the first time since I’ve known him. Possibly for the first time in his entire existence. “I want you to stay…”

  “But…” I prompt him, my voice dull, trying to ignore the rising feeling of nausea.

  His eyes widen. “No, not ‘but’ like that. I want you to stay. Hiding away in Whereverthefuck, Indiana is a total waste,” he says, a faint hint of his familiar sneer returning. “But I…” He swallows hard. “I hope you don’t think I was manipulating you to make that happen. With this.” He waves a hand in a vague gesture over the bed and our bodies beneath the covers.

  He pulls his arm out from under me, and I immediately feel the loss of that closeness. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” he says, as though someone is accusing him of it.

  I stare at him. And it takes me a second to understand that that’s exactly what he’s expecting, whether from me or someone else.

  “Right,” I say slowly. “Because, of course. You plotted for seven years in a carefully crafted scheme to make me fall in love with you at this exact moment, never mind that it isn’t exactly the best moment for either of us, so you could manipulate me into keeping a job I want to keep.”

  He makes a face at me and yanks the pillow out from behind me, only to bop me on the head with it.

  “Hey,” I protest with a laugh, grabbing the pillow from him and tucking it under my head.

  “You know what I mean,” he says. “Someone will think that. Lori will think that,” he adds darkly.

  I sigh. There’s not much I can say to that because he’s right. “Yeah, well, Lori also thinks that gluten is evil. Not, like, just bad for you, but actually evil. Sent to test our will and make us fat.”

  He snorts.

  “Besides, as long as we know the truth, nothing else matters, right?”

  “Right.” But he sounds less than sure.

  However, before I can try to convince him further, the buzzer sounds, indicating that our pizza has arrived.

  Grinning, Eric rolls over to his side, holding his fist toward me. “Rock Paper Scissors?”

  “Um, I have no money, remember?” A fact that makes me squirm with discomfort. If Eric is worried that someone might think he manipulated me into staying, I’m worried that same anonymous someone might accuse me of staying for the wrong reasons.

  He shakes his head. “Yeah, no. I mean, who has to put on pants to answer the door?”

  I pretend to frown at him. “You put pants on to open the door?”

  He reaches over to tickle me, and I shriek. “I guess that means it’s me,” he says.

  With a faux-grumble, he shoves back the covers to stand and tug on a pair of jeans.

  “Pants are overrated,” I call after him as he steps out into the hall and heads toward the front door. Though he does look great in them, especially with the top button undone and no shirt. Hell, I’d take that as a tip, if I were the delivery person.

  “Good to know. Maybe I’ll let you talk me out of mine again later, sweetheart.”

  I sit up. “Please. You should be so lucky,” I respond, raising my voice so he can hear me.

  He doesn’t answer right away, and I think he might not at all. Then he says, so quietly I’m not even sure I’m supposed to hear it: “Yeah, I th
ink I am.”

  Squeezing my arms over my chest, as if that will somehow capture and contain his words inside me, I flop back onto the pillows, with a smile so wide it feels like it might crack my face. Or my heart.

  26

  ERIC

  It is, without a doubt, the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had. Actually, probably the best holiday in general. There was once a pretty good Arbor Day party that I threw myself—that used to be the high-water mark. But not anymore.

  Calista and I spend most of the day moving between the bedroom and the couch, eating pizza and then Chinese, taking Bitsy out, watching old movies, and touching each other whenever possible.

  I didn’t know it could be like this. This much fun. Simple stuff makes her happy, like giving her the green peppers off my pieces or remembering to mute the kitchen scene in Jurassic Park because the raptors scare the shit out of her. (She watches with her hand half-covering her face and her cold toes curled up and tense under my leg, even though I know for a fact she’s seen the movie at least twice before.)

  Friday morning comes too early, but at least it’s accompanied by Calista rolling over in my bed to bury her face against my shoulder when the alarm goes off.

  I slap at my phone, fumbling for the snooze, while Calista manages to drag herself to the shower.

  “Come back,” I mumble, blinking at her blearily.

  “Come join me,” she says, her voice raspy with sleep.

  I groan. “I can’t. If I do, we’ll never get out of here on time. I can’t be late. I’m the director.” I still kind of love hearing that out loud.

  She grins at me. “Yeah, you are. And the producer,” she adds. “So you really can’t be late.” But then she pulls her shirt over her head and tosses it at me, hitting me in the face, before strolling off toward the bathroom. Naked. I can just see the curve of her breast as she rounds the corner.

  Okay, I’m up.

  Maybe we can be a little late. I throw back the covers to follow her.

  My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I barely glance at it as I reach for it, assuming it’s the snooze going off. But when I look at the screen, it’s a call coming in. And from a number I recognize.

  Generally speaking, a call from your bank first thing in the morning isn’t a good sign.

  Dread curdles in my stomach.

  The shower turns on in the bathroom, the spray sounding like rain or one of those relaxation apps, as I answer. “Hello?”

  The woman on the other end introduces herself as my personal banker, something I didn’t even know I had. And then she proceeds, in a very understanding but firm tone, to ruin my day, and quite possibly my life.

  Ten minutes later, Calista emerges from the shower, towel wrapped around her body and her hair dripping down her shoulders. “Hey,” she says. “I thought you were going to … what’s wrong?” She stops at the foot of the bed.

  Shaking my head, I stare down at the numbers I scrawled on the back of a receipt I found in my nightstand, trying to make them make sense, with my phone pressed to my ear, ringing endlessly on the other end.

  “Eric?”

  I scrub my hand over my face, my foot jittering against the floor. “Payroll didn’t go through this morning. Insufficient funds.”

  Her mouth drops open. “What?”

  “I don’t know. There should have been more than enough. I covered it with my personal account for now, but that just about emptied out everything I have left. And now my fucking accountant isn’t answering.” I shout the last part into my phone, which stubbornly refuses to connect with a live person on the other end.

  “It’s the day after Thanksgiving,” she points out. “He’s probably on vacation with his family.”

  “I don’t pay him to be on vacation,” I snap.

  I sense more than see Calista’s recoil.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. A little too much of Rawley in me in that moment. “Actually, it sounds like I may not be paying him at all.” I smile tightly.

  “It’s probably just a weird little glitch is all,” Callie says, moving to my side. “Routing number got mixed up or an invoice hit twice or something.”

  An invoice would have to hit a lot more than twice, but I want to believe it’s possible.

  I look up at her for the first time. “Does that happen?”

  Callie shrugs. “It can.” She hesitates. “Do you want me to look at it? I might be able to see what’s wrong, if it’s something simple. Your accountant will have answers, I’m sure, but if you don’t want to wait—”

  “Yes. God, yes.” I hand her the receipt and then lead the way to my desk, pulling out my file folders of invoices and statements and random sheets of paper that seemed important.

  Calista looks at the pile of stuff and then me with a sigh.

  I hold up my hands. “I know, I know. That’s why I hired someone, okay?”

  “I shouldn’t judge. I didn’t even have my own freaking account until this week.” She shakes her head. “How about access to an online statement? Someplace I can see all the transactions.”

  Grabbing my iPad, I pull up the site, log in, and hand it over to her. Tucking her towel more securely around her—I love this girl, she’s willing to help me before doing anything else—she settles in my desk chair. She clicks through the pages, looking, her forehead crinkling as she studies the screen.

  “Anything?” I ask.

  “Eric.”

  “What?”

  “You’re looming,” she says, gently but pointedly, her nose almost brushing mine as she turns to face me.

  She’s right; I’m literally hanging over her shoulder even though I have no clue what I’m looking for.

  I straighten up and step back, holding my hands up in surrender. “Sorry.”

  “Just give me a couple minutes. Go shower, get dressed. We still have to go to work,” she reminds me.

  Like I’m going to be able to concentrate on anything else. If we can’t figure this out, then next week, I won’t have anything to …

  I shut that thought down swiftly. It’ll get figured out. It has to.

  I’m showered, dressed and back in the room in record time, so she’s still frowning over the screen when I get back. But now she has a pen in her other hand, writing down numbers on a piece of paper as she scrolls through with her thumb.

  “What is it?”

  She hesitates, biting her lip before looking up at me.

  “Calista.”

  She makes an exasperated noise. “Look, I don’t know for sure,” she says. “I’m just taking classes in this, and I’m not even close to an expert.”

  “But?”

  She sighs. “But this seems … odd to me.”

  “What does?”

  “It looks like you have a bunch of receivables being paid twice but to different companies. Actually, all of the doubles go to the same company, and I can’t figure out why,” she says with a frown.

  I force myself to take a slow breath in and then out. This is why I hired an accountant. To have an expert keeping track of everything. But now I’m wondering if that was a mistake and I should have kept my hand in it more. “I don’t understand. Can you show me?”

  She points to the screen at one transaction and then another one that posted a day later. “See? The exact same amount, but two different companies?”

  She shivers and it breaks into my concentration, making me aware that she’s still sitting here, not dressed, in the air conditioning with her hair dripping wet.

  I turn the chair away from the desk. “Callie, you’re freezing. You should go get dressed.”

  She scowls at me and swivels back. “It’s not just that one time either. But not every time either. It’s … random. But about every third payment or charge for say, camera rental, or whatever, you have an identical one to this company.” I lean over to see, and she slides her finger up the screen, showing me. “It’s the exact same amount, to the penny. And that’s weird. I think.”

  “What’
s D&G Inc.?” I ask.

  “I have no idea. I Googled them. Nothing came up. Your accountant will probably know.”

  “My accountant who is either a criminal or criminally negligent,” I say flatly. And I’m the idiot who hired him.

  “Eric.” She twists in the chair, putting her hand over mine on the back of the chair. “I don’t know that I would go that far.” She hesitates. “Not until you talk to him, at least. But I would definitely talk to him.”

  “And say what? Are you stealing from me?”

  Her silence holds a beat too long.

  “Are you serious?”

  “The only reason I can think of for there to be charges of the exact same amount is so you might not notice, if you weren’t paying close attention,” she says reluctantly. “And it would have to be someone who knows what your receivables are supposed to be…”

  I grit my teeth. Of course this is happening. Why did I think I could do this again?

  “Was he recommended to you by someone?” she asks.

  “No, not exactly,” I say. “My dad used to use his firm…” And once again, ego might be sharpening its teeth to bite me in the ass. I was trying to prove that I was good enough, to be playing on the same level in all aspects, but instead I was following blindly, possibly to the point of using someone who had been fired for a reason.

  I turn away from her, struggling with the urge to slam my fist into the door. “Goddamnit.”

  “You can’t do anything about it right now,” she says gently. “And it’s still costing you to have all of us for today, even if we’re not working.”

  All of us. Including Calista, who needs the paycheck. Unless she wants to take that job with my dad.

  My anger cools immediately and hardens into resolve, and I turn to face her. “I promise you, I will get this sorted out. I’m not going to fucking flake out on you. Not on this. Not like this.”

  Calista smiles at me, and there’s such faith in that expression that it makes me dizzy with my own unworthiness of it. “I know,” she says. “It’s okay.” She stands and starts for the door. “But we should get going.”

  As she passes me, I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her against me. I breathe in her scent, which is even stronger with her hair wet, and press my lips against her cool temple. Her feet slide between mine and her arms go around my waist, holding me tightly in return. I could stay like this forever.