by Poppy Dunne
“Rafe. Don’t.” John, the only sober man here, is looking between the two of us with growing concern.
“Why are you telling Rafe not to do anything? I can kick his ass for himself!” Brad slurs, before stumbling into John. John grabs my brother, then nods at me. He mouths “go inside,” jerks his head towards the club door. You can tell John’s from the political branch of the McCarthy family tree. “Never cause a scandal” is engraved on every one of their headstones. His dad’s the governor of New York, for God’s sake, with an eye towards the White House one of these fine, sad days. I should probably do the smart thing and leave my cousin to calm Brad down.
I mean, I’d love to deescalate the situation. It’s Jack Daniels, that punchy bastard. He really wants to make a thing of this.
“Bradley, even when I was a toddler I could kick your ass for you.” I straighten my tie. I know, I know, I should try not to antagonize him. He’s my actual brother. Half-brother. He’s the only real blood family I have, and blood’s thicker than bourbon. I think. Or water. Which I should probably drink right now, otherwise the hangover tomorrow will be exceptionally succulent. “Now if you don’t mind, I left my date back inside. I’d suggest you try getting lucky with yours tonight, but I wouldn’t wish that kind of thing on John.”
I start back for the club door, flashing a thumbs up to John as I go. See? I know when to exit a situation. Behind me, I can hear John arguing about something with Brad. Then Brad slurs something at me. Whatever. I’m not getting involved.
Until I hear her name.
Tessa.
Oh shit. Brad hit my “drunken Hulk” button. I always like to think of myself as more of an Iron Man, but my shitty brother just activated my kryptonite. I am too drunk to care that I’m mangling my superheroes right now.
It’s impossible to stop myself. I wheel around and nearly pile drive into Brad, wrestling him away from John who’s saying something very articulate and wise about how this is a paparazzi wet dream come to life. Brad sneers as I bring myself eye level with him. I have to yank him onto his toes to make that work.
“Sorry, I missed the last dumbass thing that escaped your mouth. Care to repeat?” I growl.
“I said, how ‘bout I drive down to Staten Island or whatever and make Tessa get on her knees and blow me?” he slurs back, squinting up at me. He reeks of liquor and general shittiness.
“You can’t drive to Staten Island, Bradley.” My voice is ice; I am not going to murder him and ruin this suit. I am not. “It’s an island. Surrounded by water. You need to take a ferry.”
Brad’s face relaxes. It looks like he’s having a stunning realization of some kind. Oh shit. Him thinking is a bad idea. “What, are you fucking her yourself? Jesus, no need to get so uptight about it. Mousy little bitch like that, I’m sure she’s happy for some attention—”
Bam.
One minute, Brad’s standing upright and slurring in my face. The next, he’s gone. Vanished, like a magic trick. Except that instead of an audience’s amazed applause, I’m listening to my brother groan as he rolls back and forth on the ground. Damn, my hand hurts.
Because my knuckles are throbbing. Shit, is that blood?
“Rafe. You idiot,” John mutters, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. Oh, shit. I punched out my big brother, didn’t I? And, if the click and flash of a bunch of cameras going off around me is any indication, I did it in full view of the paparazzi swarming outside this party like a bunch of flies who have the New York Post’s Page Six on speed dial.
John backtracks the hell out of there, because he’s not getting involved in this nonsense. Can’t blame him for that. Swearing to myself, I lean down to give Brad a hand. He looks up at me with watery eyes, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Fuck.
“Sorry, man. I didn’t think—”
That’s as far as I get before he gives a wild hyena yell and bum rushes me. Cursing, I go down with his drunken ass on top of me while the cameras flash.
Seven
Tessa
I’m outside the newest, trendiest club in the meatpacking district with the red and blue flash of cop’s lights washing over me in the neon darkness. Sighing, I shoulder my way through a group of onlookers in Jimmy Choos who are snapping photos of the whole thing. I hope I don’t get caught in any of the pictures.
I catch a glimpse of my boss with his legs sticking out of the police car. This headache I’ve just started is bound to get worse. I’m sure of it.
As I trudge over to get Rafe, I pass by a stunningly beautiful, highly made up woman in a spangly club gown. She’s making duck lips as she selfies in front of the police car, flashing a peace sign. I nearly bump into her as I try to get around. “Sorry,” I say.
“Do not worry. I think is best date I have had in months.” She pouts and takes another selfie. “I would never let this crazy man ejaculate in me to make baby, but I admire his balls.”
This must be Rafe’s date. Joy. I march up to the car and finally stand in front of my boss. He’s seated in the back, the door open. His tie is loose, his jacket ripped at the sleeve. Holding an ice pack to his right hand, he winces in pain.
“You just needed another reason to see me, didn’t you?” I say, folding my arms. Rafe shrugs.
“Hey, my pretty face is still intact. That’s what matters. Poor Brad’s got a black eye.”
“Don’t sound so proud about that.”
“Why not? I take great pride in my work.” He smiles, that aggravatingly sexy expression he wears when he knows he’s getting away with something.
“You’re supposed to be playing it cool!” I whisper. He shrugs.
“Believe me, getting drunk at a club and punching my brother constitutes standard behavior. It’s almost cliché at this point.” He glances up as an officer comes to the car. The cop is a nice-looking man with a buzz cut and a tired expression. I bite the inside of my cheek. If Rafe’s going to jail tonight, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Meanwhile, he seems thrilled at the prospect. “So, officer. Am I heading to Rikers? Do I need to get friendly with the guys in cell block B? What would you say is the most popular neck tattoo?”
Of all the time to be making jokes. I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. The officer only smirks and shakes his head.
“Your father made a call, Mr. McCarthy. Apparently we never received a complaint tonight.” The cop sighs, gesturing Rafe out of the car. He obliges, dusting his sleeves and making himself presentable.
“Yeah, Scott McCarthy does hate his complaints.” I hear the ice in his voice.
“Just stay out of trouble, Mr. McCarthy. That’s all we can ask.” The cop sounds tired, and nods at me while I link my arm with Rafe’s and pull him along. At least we don’t have to hail a cab or an Uber. I was able to talk my way into his garage and grab his car. The faster I get him out of the public eye, the better.
“Thanks for coming,” Rafe murmurs as we break away from the crowd. I look up at him, shouldering my laptop bag. I was in the middle of writing when he called, and I wasn’t about to be parted from my computer for longer than necessary.
“Why am I here, exactly?” I try to keep my voice light and disinterested, but my heart beats faster just at the sight of him all sweaty and…disheveled. “I mean, not that I mind picking you up.”
“I needed a buffer against Brad, in case he made me too crazy. Also,” he murmurs, “I wanted to discuss what you found on the drive.”
“You’re going to be disappointed there,” I mutter back. I spy the car, click the keychain, and unlock the doors. I slide into the driver’s seat, waving at Rafe to get in. “Come on. I want to make sure you get home safe.”
“You’re a true humanitarian,” he says, but he’s wrong. If I were really nice, I would simply drop him off at his building and head home from there. But Mother Teresa I am not, though we share the same name, and I make a yearly donation to Save the Children. I drive Rafe’s car into the underground garage, park, then follow him out
the car and into the building, up the elevator to the nineteenth floor. I’ve never seen where Rafe lives, and I…well. After Tuesday night, I want to know more about him. See the objects in his home, spot clues to the man he’s been hiding all along.
Also, I wonder if he might take his shirt off. I’m only human.
He’s not playing drunk this time; he’s the real deal. Rafe curses as he fumbles with his keys and finally gets the front door open. We enter and he flicks on a hallway light. My breath catches in my throat as I stare straight ahead into the darkened living room, and beyond that, onto all of Manhattan. Rafe’s whole eastern wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, and the city is spread like a bauble-strewn carpet at his feet. I slide my bag to the ground and go over to the window, nearly pressing my nose against it. My breath fogs the glass, the reflection of my eye huge and disconcerting as I gaze out at the cityscape. Maybe it’s childish, but I’ve always loved high places. You get the giddy sense of flight, especially when it’s dark and the lights are twinkling in the distance.
“Like the view?” Rafe sounds warmly amused. Crap, I can feel my face getting hot. I turn to find him still clothed, sadly, but with his jacket and tie off. He’s backlit by the hallway light, a studly silhouette. He staggers a few steps, then collapses onto the couch. I find some panels on the wall next to me, and light up the rest of the living room. Rafe’s floor plan is one long, continuous sweep of space. The floors are a pale yellow wood. In the center of the living area, a carpeted square sports a few black leather couches converged around a glass coffee table. There are a few pieces of art on the walls, and I glance over at them. There’s something spare and balanced about the compositions, all surprising lines and shades of color. They look tasteful. Refined. He has a good eye.
One more key to unlocking the multi-room sexy mystery funhouse that is Rafe McCarthy. I slip off my sneakers and pad over to the couch. He’s lying on his back, rubbing a hand over his eyes. His hair is mussed; it takes everything in me not to sweep it out of his face. God, if only I could touch him one more time…
If I were smart, I’d leave now. He’s home and safe, and my job is done.
“Do you have any bandages in your bathroom?” I find myself asking. He blinks at me. “Also, any disinfectant? Can’t be too careful with cuts.”
He grins slyly. “If you wanted to play doctor, you only had to ask.”
I laugh even as a warm thrill courses up my spine. On his direction, I go down the hall and find the bathroom. Pretty sure his bedroom is the next door over; I have to restrain myself from looking inside.
Damn, the bathroom’s palatial, nearly as big as my apartment. The floor is sleek black tile, the shower large enough for two. Don’t think about that, you idiot, I remind myself as I open the cabinet and take down Band-Aids and disinfectant. I walk back to the living room. Rafe sits up as I join him on the couch, my heart hammering when I pick up his hand. His touch is warm and surprisingly callused. He doesn’t have the hands of a guy who sits on his ass in an office all day. He notices my surprise.
“Training at the gym.” He winces a bit as I clean out his wounds. “It’s what lets me stay debauched in fitness and style.”
“At least you’re committed.” I place the Band-Aids, trying not to let my touch linger. Rafe’s hand circles my wrist for one glorious second. Pulse pounding, I look up into his dark eyes. The warm scent of bourbon is on his breath, and his lips are so damn close…
He lets me go, and slumps against the cushions. I can feel how much I’m tempting fate right now, and go sit on the opposite couch. There. We have a coffee table between us. No way to bridge that gap.
“You’re good with that…thing.” He points at the antiseptic bottle, waves his hand. “I’ll remember how to talk in a few hours.”
Who needs to talk when you can have sex?
I should really, really leave.
“Well, I like taking care of people. At least, I like taking care of the people I like.” I pull my legs up, hook my arms around my knees. In my jeans and college sweatshirt, I feel sort of juvenile in this place. It’s like a grown-up lives here, a real-ass man with a job and taste and…you know. Everything I didn’t know about Rafe until forty-eight hours ago.
“It’s good to take care of people.” He focuses on me at last, and something happens. Some kind of dark, usually hidden sadness wells in his eyes. He groans and turns his face away. “I can barely remember what it’s like,” he murmurs.
“Being taken care of?” I wait until he hoists himself to a sitting position and takes a sip of water—I also stopped to get him a bottle from the kitchen. He needs it.
Rafe smirks. “You may not have been able to tell, but my family and I? We don’t get along.”
“I…guessed that.”
Rafe leans back and closes his eyes. “My ‘father’ is a real bastard.” I can practically hear the air quotes. “He just can’t let go of the fact that I’m one. You know. A bastard. Bastardly. King of the bastards.” He sits up, rubbing his forehead.
“Oh,” I say quietly. Rafe smiles at me.
“If that surprises you, you’re the only person in New York who didn’t know.”
“I guessed that, too.” I mean, Rafe and Scott look absolutely nothing alike—in Rafe’s favor, if I’m being honest. “Do you have any idea…I mean, did your mother ever tell you who…?” This is a really difficult conversation to have when one of you is drunk and the other is miserably horny.
“She died when I was four, so we never got to have that heart to heart.” He watches me with an intensity and contentment that I can’t quite name. The hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end. I can’t describe the feeling, other than it’s like I’m being seen right now, and like I’m seeing him. There’s no pretense anymore. He’s not acting like a charming jackass, and I’m not keeping my mouth shut and my opinions to myself. There’s just a lot of honesty. Drunken honesty on his part, but still. “I know Scott took her to Hong Kong for a business trip. That’s the only time she could’ve found to get away from him. When she was alive, I got the feeling he was very possessive.” He clenches his fists, drops his gaze. I imagine he’s grappling with some phantom version of Scott inside his mind. Grappling, and likely kicking his ass. “So my father could’ve been some hotshot at the roulette table with a sous chef and a personal yacht, or he could’ve been a dishwasher in a restaurant. I don’t know. Maybe if I did 23 and Me and got my genes tested, he’d pop up in a database somewhere. Odds are I’ll never meet him.”
“Why did Scott and your mom stay married?” That much I know: they stayed together until death did them part.
“Mainly because it was an election year.” He laughs, but without any warmth. “My uncle was running for congress at the time. It was the eighties. Family values were making a comeback. Everyone had to put up with the charade, even though everybody knew the truth. Personally, I think Scott wanted to torment her. If they stayed married, he’d have ample opportunity.” Rafe lays himself back down on the couch, the bandaged hand over his stomach. “I don’t have a lot of memories of her. She seemed sad most of the time,” he mutters.
“Oh.” I hug my knees tighter, because that’s all I’ve got in the way of comfort right now. Oh, I’m so sorry your not-father is a monster and your mother died. Would you like some more disinfectant? My comfort game is not strong tonight.
“But she was good, you know?” He smiles a little now. “I remember she was always good with Brad and me. If she’d hung around, who knows?” He shrugs. “Maybe Brad and I wouldn’t try to kill each other outside of clubs. I might know a little more about myself. Probably wouldn’t have kept Scott from being a shit weasel, though.”
I think back to living with Becca and Gramps after Mom and Dad passed. We didn’t have a fraction of the power or money the McCarthys do, but at least we had a lot of fun with each other. None of us ever doubted we were loved. I can’t imagine being a little boy whose mother dies, and who then has to spend his whole childhood wi
th a man who hates his very existence. The fact that Rafe isn’t an actual worthless playboy, or a serial axe murderer, is kind of miraculous.
“Well, we’ll get him back.” I finally stand, and smooth my jeans for lack of anything better to do. “I’m sorry I didn’t get any more information off the drive, but we’ll find a way.” I walk over to, I don’t know, throw a blanket over him or something. Probably a blanket made of Vicuna and money, if this apartment’s anything to go by. But Rafe’s hand reaches out and catches mine. His strong, sure grip sends a wash of heat through me.
“You listen to all my family bullshit, and still you’re in this with me?” His voice is laced with something warm, something that makes me feel close. Special, even. Then, he smiles. “I don’t think I pay you enough.”
“Trust me, you don’t.” I should go. Walk away, Tessa. Put your shoes on first, because it’s cold outside, and tiptoe out the door. But I only want to stay here, touching him…maybe do some more in-depth touching…maybe when he’s sober, because otherwise it’s creepy…maybe…
He releases my hand. Well, damn. Missed that boat. But then he says, “Will you stay here? It feels, I don’t know, comfortable.”
“Oh?” Man, I am the queen of using the word oh to substitute for actual conversation tonight. Rafe, however, doesn’t answer. He’s fallen asleep. His breathing is heavy, his hand relaxed over his stomach. It’s probably the bourbon, but he seems contented right now. Probably doesn’t have anything to do with me being here.
Still, I guess I should make certain he doesn’t roll to the floor in his sleep. Yeah. That’s why I’m staying. With a sigh, I grab my laptop bag and plop down on the other couch. Might as well finish typing up the pages in my notebook. My novel’s getting big: almost three hundred pages. Who knows? I might actually finish it one day.
