Crowne of Lies

by Reiss, CD

  I was so wet he was completely inside me in one thrust. Leveraging my hands on the armrests, I fucked him.

  “I want to show the board this,” he said over my shoulder as he reached around me and spread my lips, displaying my clit and the fullness of his cock in the mirror.

  Naughty was the wrong word for Logan. He was a completely and wonderfully debauched demon.

  I moved his hand to my clit, and he rubbed it as I fucked him. He increased the stimulation between my legs and covered my mouth as I went tight, eyes scrunched shut, clenching every muscle against where our bodies met as if I wanted to lock us together. His arms pushed me down, and he pressed his face against my spine.

  When I opened my eyes, the laptop screen was black with a green digital clock in the center.

  “What happened?” I asked, looking at him over my shoulder.

  “Call ended.” He shrugged. “Crisis averted.”

  “Have I told you how evil you are?” I twisted until I was curled in his lap with my head on his shoulders.

  “And how much you like it?”

  “And how much I like it.”

  He kissed my nose. “I should bring you to bed.”

  Holding me tight, he stood and carried me to his bed.

  “That way,” I said before he could lay me down, pointing at the door to my room.

  “You’re really hell-bent on this.”

  “Hell. Bent. That’s a funny expression.”

  He carried me to my own bed. King size. Too big. Too lonely. But all and only mine. For now.

  I got under the covers and was asleep before I could miss him.

  But I did, and I wasn’t allowed to.

  I watched the light under his door, and when it went out, I closed my eyes, falling asleep while pissed at myself for caring.

  26

  LOGAN

  Ella and I had things to talk about, but all I wanted to do was fuck her.

  The morning after our multitasking session, she was distant and I couldn’t understand why. Maybe it was all the things we were avoiding. Our impending breakup, moving out of the house, acting pissed off at me was going to be even harder now.

  “You’re coming to dinner tonight?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” She pulled down a loaf of bread. Her hair was up in a little ponytail and her fuzzy socks had a spring pattern. Rings and studs dotted the edge of her left ear, all the way to the top. Still not my type. Still sexy.

  “Mandy’s going to be there. She’ll buffer Mike.”

  I’d set up a little surprise for her. Not Mandy. Something better that might make her happy. She needed it.

  “Great.” She plucked out two slices. “You want toast?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She didn’t usually eat until after I left. The change wouldn’t have concerned me except for the sleepy, distant tone of her voice.

  “We should talk,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah?” She put the bread in the toaster.

  “I can start the buyout.”

  “Cool.”

  “We need to plan the breakup.”

  A small but loud part of me hoped she’d try to negotiate an extension. Maybe an arrangement where we’d stay together.

  “Infidelity’s the easiest,” she said with the same flatness.

  What the hell had happened overnight?

  “I’m not fucking anyone,” I replied coldly. My right hand had spent six months getting a workout before I got her into bed. I didn’t want to fuck anyone but the one woman I shouldn’t.

  “I’ll be fucking someone then.”

  Was she kidding? Was she talking about pretending to have an affair? Or really doing it?

  “You have someone in mind?” I didn’t mean to growl, but I did.

  “Are you jealous of a man who doesn’t exist?”

  I had no business in this conversation. I dumped the last of my coffee and left the mug in the sink. “I’m not jealous.”

  “Okey dokey.”

  I stood next to her, arms crossed, as she watched her toast brown. “Do you have something you want to say to me?”

  She didn’t answer right away, but she bit her lip, and I knew she was thinking about it.

  “When we split up…” She looked at me with eyes that weren’t distant at all. “I don’t want to say bad things about you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t.”

  “If it’s too amicable, it’ll look like it was fake from the start. But now, see what happened? I care about you, and I don’t want… I can’t leave you and make it look like I don’t give a shit. So it’s up to you. You have to be the one to hurt me.”

  I didn’t want to talk about this anymore.

  “We can make it work so no one gets hurt.” I touched her bottom lip, watching the tiny creases flatten as I stroked my thumb across. “Let’s discuss it later.”

  The toast popped and she turned to it.

  “I’ll get on your schedule.” She plopped the toast onto a plate.

  Leaning down to whisper, I smelled a jasmine that was hers alone, mixed with last night’s sex. “Not tonight.” I ran my fingers along the curve of her neck. “After dinner, I’m taking you home and getting inside you.”

  She paused, frozen with her hands on the butter knife.

  “Logan.” My name was a breath. “Why is this so hard?”

  The back door slapped shut, and Colton shuffled in. “Hey, lovebirds. Ready for another day at the mill or nah?”

  “Ready!” Ella chirped, scraping butter on her toast.

  “Wanna hit me with a coupla slices?”

  “Sure.” She put in two more pieces. “I’m headed into the studio early. So butter them yourself.”

  That explained why she was eating breakfast before I left.

  “Cool, hey, Loge, my buddy and I were playing volleyball and lost the ball on my roof.”

  “Your roof?” I went to the island, leaving Ella where she was.

  “Like, over on that side. Maybe one of your guys can grab it when they’re up there? Gardeners or whatever?”

  “You can ask them where the ladder is and go yourself, or you can wait until the gutters are cleaned.”

  “Damn, dude.”

  “Tough being a Crowne,” Ella said, patting his shoulder as she passed.

  “Got that right, sister.”

  She went upstairs with her breakfast without kissing me goodbye.

  I didn’t think about her all day, except during the morning drive when the thought of kissing every stud in her ear gave me such a hard-on, I almost rear-ended a delivery truck. And the morning status meeting with London, when I spaced out on the quarterlies because someone in the room wore the same perfume as her. And lunch. And the rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of fantasies. Ella on her back. On her stomach. Naked. Fully clothed. Everything in between. I jerked off in my office bathroom before my afternoon meetings.

  She’d asked why this was so hard.

  Good question.

  She wasn’t happy being the wife I wanted, and I couldn’t be happy knowing she was faking it. I had to wonder the same thing myself.

  Why was this so hard?

  * * *

  I walked into the sixth floor of the club early for the reservation. The bar was crowded, and the club area was full of professional creatives making small talk and big plans.

  The graffiti reminded me of Ella. Everything did these days.

  Mandy was already there, wearing jeans and a yellow sweater. I greeted her with a hug.

  “Take this tie off,” she said, tugging it. “You look like an uptight bore.”

  “I am an uptight bore.” I undid the knot.

  “Everything all right at Crowne?” She crossed her legs and sipped something made with cola and lime.

  “It’s busy.”

  She swirled her drink and I ordered mine.

  “What’s the face?” I asked.

  “I should have married you,” she said sourly.


  Imagining the plan with Mandy as a partner was certainly neater, but less fun. Not that it was supposed to be fun. That hadn’t been important, nor had it been the point.

  But somehow it was the most appealing part of my arrangement with Ella.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Renaldo was supposed to come tonight and he totally bailed. He never used to cancel on me, and now? Since he left his wife, he’s done it twice.”

  “He’s not for you, Mandy.”

  “What if he’s got someone else?”

  “You’d be surprised?” The first sip of scotch was the best one. The shock of the cold on my tongue and the dry heat spreading over my chest.

  Just like the way Ella looked at me. Cold and hot at the same time.

  “You’re actually saying ‘I told you so’?”

  “I’m saying you should mitigate your expectations with him.”

  “You, Logan Crowne, are the most unfeeling prick I’ve ever met. The most oblivious to how people really are. We’re not computers. We’re not spreadsheets or whatever. Things where it all adds up, okay? We’re messy and I knew he wasn’t mine. I knew the whole time I’d never have him, but I love him and I’m human.” She yanked her bag off the back of the chair. “I’m going to the ladies’.”

  “Mandy—”

  “I’m fine! Just give me a minute.”

  She walked away with her hurt feelings, and as I watched her, wondering if she wanted me to follow her and apologize, I saw Ella coming out of the elevator.

  My wife was a blazing presence in the dimly-lit room. She wore a short silver dress gathered at the bottom, with leather straps and belt. It was shredded and fringed with the loose threads, detailed in destruction, but the way she wore it was what was stunning. It was a skin, not a mask.

  Only when I saw her smile did I notice she was talking to Mike Monroe.

  Smarmy little fuck in Gucci loafers and a Tennessee accent. Trimmed beard and big silver belt buckle. The guy didn’t know who he was or where he belonged. No wonder he thought he could hit on my wife.

  “Mike,” I said, meeting them between the elevator and my abandoned drink.

  “Logan.” Wide smile. Narrow handshake.

  “Where’s Twyla?” It came out like an accusation.

  “Headache. Y’all know how it is.”

  “I don’t,” I said, putting my arm around Ella’s shoulder and laying my hand on the back of her neck. “Tell me about it.”

  “You got a few hours?” he joked with a light punch to my arm. “You need a drink?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Ella?” He raised one eyebrow at her. I wanted to rip it off and gag him with it.

  “Gin and ice. Gunpowder Irish, if they have it.”

  Mike gave her a nod I liked about as much as the raised eyebrow and went to the bar.

  “Take it easy on him,” Ella said.

  “I am taking it easy on him.”

  “Then stop talking like Darth Vader.”

  I looked down, not cowed but searching for a new topic of conversation, and my eyes found the place where her breasts met her neckline. “That dress—is that the one you wore to Crowne Jewels?”

  Her smile lit all of Downtown. “Not anymore. You like it?”

  “I'm not a fashion critic,” I said, “but I like you in it.”

  “Thank you.” She swung her hips to make the skirt twirl.

  I pulled her into me so I could speak softly, to her alone. “And it’s going to look better when I pull it up to spread your legs.”

  “Logan”—she nudged me—“we’re in public.”

  “What do you have under it? Because I’m destroying anything between you and my cock.”

  She covered her mouth, cheeks erupting in pink.

  Selma Quintero appeared from the elevator in a flowing jacket and layers of beaded necklaces that clicked when she turned to us. She’d had short salt-and-pepper hair when my parents had her for dinners years ago. Now she was totally gray.

  When she came toward me, Ella gasped.

  “Logan.” She offered her hand.

  “Selma, this is Ella.”

  My wife had a deer-in-headlights look I’d never seen before.

  “You must be Mrs. Crowne.”

  “She’s—”

  “Yes,” Ella said, letting Selma use the wrong name. “I am.”

  “Pleasure.”

  My wife shoved me away to shake Selma’s hand, then threw eye-daggers at me.

  What the hell? I’d invited Selma for her and she seemed mad about it.

  Mandy reappeared. Mike came back with drinks. Everyone was there. I followed the hostess to our table, feeling as if I’d dodged a bullet only to wind up in front of a firing squad.

  27

  ELLA

  Shredding my father’s dress had gotten easier as the days went on, and somehow I’d let my confidence with it build up enough to wear it. But as dinner went on with Selma Quintero to my right and Logan on my left, I felt as if I’d brought Basile Papillion along for a ride into failure. Then it got worse.

  “Logan tells me you’re an artist,” Selma said to me as the plates were being cleared.

  “Not… no.” I heard my nervous laugh as if I were a separate person, cringing at the high pitch of my insecurity. “I just tinker around.”

  “Oh, dearie,” Mandy said with a sway and a slur. She’d been at the martinis since we sat down. “She’s Basile’s daughter, so you know—” Mandy waved at me as if she was about to mention what everyone could see. “There’s some talent under the hood.”

  No pressure.

  Mandy was trying to be nice, and I appreciated it, but I also wanted her to shut the fuck up.

  “I was so sorry when I heard about your father.” Selma put her hand over mine.

  I believed she was being completely sincere, but I also didn’t want to talk about Daddy while I wore his destroyed dress.

  “Thank you.” I searched for a change of subject, but everything led to my father.

  Logan must have been reading my mind. He draped his arm around the back of my chair and leaned toward Mike, cutting the line of the conversation across the one that was making me so uncomfortable.

  “Mike,” Logan said, “I heard you guys got an office in Memphis.”

  Faced with something interesting, Mike put down his phone. “Sure did! Let me tell…”

  “Papillion hasn’t been the same since he died,” Mandy said with a lower voice, now that the men were engaged in a parallel conversation. “Bianca had me in to look at the high price points, and well, even the last six deliveries…” She made an exploding gesture with her hands and a crash sound with her mouth.

  Two seasons, three months each, one delivery per month. Half a year since Bianca cut the last cord to her husband—me.

  “Well, Basile’s passed,” Selma said.

  She meant dead. My father was dead and people talked about it. Society people. Art dealers. Other designers. Everyone I’d spent my adult life avoiding.

  “To Basile.” Mandy lifted her glass.

  “Are you all right?” Logan whispered in my ear.

  “Yeah. Sure.” I lifted my glass with the last of the wine Logan had ordered with dinner.

  “He may be gone from this world,” Selma said, “but he left us Ella.”

  I clicked. I drank. I told myself it was all out of respect, because it was. I knew they didn’t mean to turn a toast into a reminder of how much I’d squandered or what a disappointment I’d become.

  “So,” Selma said cheerfully, “let’s talk about your work. This ‘tinkering’ you say you do. Who are your influences?”

  David Hammons. Gordon Matta Clark. Doris Salcedo.

  I could have mentioned any of those artists or a dozen more, getting into a perfectly enjoyable conversation about anything but me and my nonexistent work.

  Logan’s hand pressed flat against the base of my neck as if he was trying to steady me, and I was filled with the confiden
ce to do something more with the question.

  “Remember when LACMA installed Levitated Mass?” I said.

  “Heizer, then?” Selma added.

  “What’s that?” Mike asked.

  “It’s a three-hundred-forty-ton rock,” I said. “Just a big ugly rock. But it’s so rare because it’s flawless inside. No cracks hiding. They brought it from Riverside on a flatbed, right onto Wilshire Boulevard in the middle of the night. They took down streetlights and signs to move it through. I went with my friends to see it. We stood there at three in the morning, watching this big, ugly rock cut through the city. Witnessing something.” I faced Selma fully. “That’s what influences me, really. Creating an experience. A relationship. I’ve been to the final installation, and it’s fine. But if I hadn’t been there that morning, it would just be a rock.”

  “Yes,” Selma said. “I get that.”

  “Hey!” Mandy said, snapping her fingers and pointing at Selma as if she was trying to remember something. “What did they call that house in Westlake? The one with the sparkly shit in it?” She looked right at me. “Who was that?”

  Mandy needed to shut the fuck up.

  “The Guerilla Arts Collective,” Selma said. “Geode House.”

  “What did you think of that?” Mandy asked.

  “Sounds like a waste of horseshit to me,” Mike said.

  The check came. Logan picked it up and everyone reached for their wallets.

  “I’ve been looking for them for years.” Selma gulped her wine as if the GAC drove her to drink. “I was there. It was absolutely stunning. A statement on the value of human experience.”

  She’d obviously read Tasha’s statement on our Twitter feed.

  “On the unexpectedness and speed of inspiration.”

  That—on the other hand—hadn’t been on any of Tasha’s Twitter threads.

  Mandy dug around her bag. “The demo guys gave out the rhinestones.”

  “They did,” Selma added, tossing her credit card on the tray.

  “Put it away,” Logan said. “I have this.”

  “Thank you,” Selma said, unsnapping a little wallet pouch.

  “I got a yellow one.” Mandy held an amber jewel in her palm. It was a cheap, silver-backed glue-on gem that still sparkled in the candlelight.