by Tessa Blake
Of course, she doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t even know that roses and champagne could be an option. But as I look at her, I know it wouldn’t matter. Her face is fresh and dewy, almost devoid of makeup. Her clothes are pretty but not too flashy or expensive. The only jewelry she’s wearing is the half-dozen or so bangles that ride along her forearm.
Whatever matters to Sunny, it’s not anything you can wear, nothing you can buy or own or give.
This isn’t a woman who can be bought with chocolates, or lobster at La Grenouille. This is a woman who will size you up and decide for herself if you’re worth her time — and you just might not be.
It’s intoxicating.
Maybe I’ve been hanging out with the wrong kind of woman.
Or maybe Sunny’s one of a kind.
Sunny
I don’t know if Slate’s telling the truth when he says he doesn’t do this kind of thing. I guess it doesn’t matter, really. He’s doing it now, and so am I.
His head dips down, and he kisses me again; This time it’s not gentle like it was on the dance floor. It’s hungry and rough, and I melt into it. The bricks are rough at my back, and his chin and jaw are scratchy against my face; I feel deliciously ravaged, like someone in a Janelle Taylor novel — my guilty pleasure.
His hands roam down to cup my ass and pull me against him, and his hardness presses against my lower belly. I move against him, pushing myself up on tiptoes to try and fit myself against him and feel that insistent hardness against my core.
Then his hands lift me. The bricks scrape along my shoulders — not as sexy this time, unfortunately, but I’m too far gone to care — and I hiss in a breath even as I’m wrapping my arms and legs around him.
He pulls back. “You okay?”
I nod, tightening my legs around his waist. The feel of him, rock-hard against my core, is electric. I don’t want it to stop.
But he wants a real answer. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s just … my back. I don’t care.”
He swears under his breath and steps back from the wall, still holding me up with my legs around his waist. I tighten my arms around his neck. He turns and presses me against the locker beside us. The metal is cool, and feels good against the scrapes on my shoulder blades.
Slate kisses me again, kisses me over and over until I’m breathless. Then his mouth leaves mine. I tilt my head back and fist my hands in his hair, moaning as his teeth graze the sensitive skin at the hollow of my throat.
“I have to touch you,” he says.
He lowers me so I’m standing on my own two feet again, and his hands find their way under my skirt. His fingers slip into my panties, stroking gently but expertly until I’m gasping. He presses them inside me, and groans against my mouth.
“You’re so wet,” he says. “So slippery and hot for me.”
I reach down and under my skirt, pulling at my panties. “I want you inside me,” I whisper — then, louder: “I need you inside me.”
I push my panties down and wiggle out of them, kicking them away as they reach my ankles. His knee nudges my thighs apart, then I hear him fumbling with his belt. And then he lifts me again, presses me against the locker. His hands are strong under my thighs as he spreads them further apart and moves between them. I open for him like a flower, and feel the heat of him pressing into my wetness.
“Yes,” I hiss, and then he’s inside me.
His fingers tighten on my thighs, and I feel a shudder ripple through him. “God, Sunny. Jesus.”
I laugh and drop a series of kisses along the side of his neck. I’ve never quite felt this way, never before felt the elation I feel as he draws back and thrusts again, fully seating himself inside me. I feel full — brilliantly, breathtakingly full — and tighten around him, thrilling at the swift intake of breath.
“You’re gonna want to go easy on that,” he says. “And I need you to hold on tight.”
I do, securing my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist. One of his hands shifts around to slip between us, and those clever fingers go to work again. It feels like every cell of my body is straining toward him as he plays them over my wet heat. My breath starts to come in short pants as he thrusts, then rubs circles, then thrusts again. I tighten my legs around him and jerk my hips forward and back, working myself against his hardness, as the wave builds and towers over me, ready to crash down.
I think it’s going to drown me, and I don’t even care.
His thrusts grow shorter, his fingers on me more urgent. “You need to come for me,” he says. “Come on, Sunny.”
“I will,” I gasp. “I will, I’m going to, oh God. Just … oh God, Slate. Harder. Please.”
He shifts and both hands are on my thighs again, holding them open and tilting my hips at the perfect angle for him to plunge into me like a machine. Hard, short strokes, each of them dragging the length of his shaft along all the sensitive spots that are tensing in anticipation of that wave. My arms are shaking, but I hold on, helping him keep me up as his movements grow less controlled, more erratic.
“Oh, fuck,” he growls, long and low, and I know that he’s going to come.
It’s impossibly erotic, and I bury my face in his shoulder to muffle my voice as I call his name, as the wave crashes over me, swamps me in throbbing and pulsing, and the feel of him jerking inside me.
My whole body goes limp. I know he’s having to take my whole weight, but I can’t do anything except melt into his arms and try to remember how to breathe.
He shifts me tighter against him and holds us both up with one hand extended to press against the locker. He shudders again, and lowers his forehead to mine. His is damp with sweat. It’s got to be 80 degrees, and he’s still wearing his leather jacket
“You must be dying from the heat,” I say.
“If I die,” he says, “it won’t be from the heat. You feel amazing.”
I feel suddenly shy from the compliment. “Not a bad way to go, then?”
“No complaints,” he says. “But it appears that I live to fight another day.” He lowers me to the ground and gets himself buttoned and zipped, then picks up my underwear and hands them to me.
I crumple them in my hand and look at the ground, not sure what happens now. I may not be a virgin, but I’ve never had rooftop sex with a complete stranger before, either.
He tips my chin up with one finger and isses me softly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome?” I say, for lack of anything better.
He flashes that quick smile again, dimples and all. My heart squeezes a little. He’s gorgeous.
I wonder, but can’t bring myself to ask, if I’ll see him again.
Probably not, and why does that make me feel so hollow and sad? That’s ridiculous. I don’t even know him. If this moment is nothing but a precious memory, how is that bad? I’ll treasure it.
He takes my hand and we go back through the fire door and down the stairs. The music swells louder and louder as we descend, and just before we go through the door that will bring us back out onto the dance floor, I realize I still have my panties in my hand, and that’s … not ideal. For a couple of reasons.
“I have to use the restroom,” I say. “And I really do have to go home.”
He reaches into an inner pocket of his jacket, produces a ballpoint pen, and turns my hand over. “Here,” he says, and scrawls a number on my wrist. “Not your hand, because I don’t want it to wash off, okay?”
I smile, feel my whole being just open up and soar. “Okay,” I say, looking at the numbers.
He lets go of my hand and kisses me again, just a quick, light kiss. More of a promise, really. “Please call,” he says. “I want to see you again.”
“I will,” I tell him, and then he’s gone, moving through the crowd on the dance floor.
I look at the number again, and wonder what’s starting here.
Whatever it is, I can’t wait to find out.
Slate
Ani
ello Dellacroce has bags under his eyes you could smuggle drugs in—though of course he wouldn't. That's what this whole meeting is about, after all.
“That fucking upstart Gotti just cares about money," he says, scowling. "I like money as much as the next guy, but the Gambino family doesn’t move drugs.”
My father nods. "I know this," he says. "But, Neil, what am I supposed to do when he comes around here threatening me? I pay my money to the family. I want Gotti off my fucking back."
"You think we haven't told him? I tell you, he doesn't know his place." Dellacroce slaps the flat of his hand against the surface of my father's desk. “He doesn’t know his place, and if I was Paulie I’d take him out. Mark my words, he’d kill Paulie if he could. Sometimes I think I'm the only thing stopping him.”
"If he's powerful enough to do that—"
"He's not. I said if. He still listens to me, and I listen to Paulie."
"I'll tell you, Neil," my father says, "someone like Gotti gets in here to make threats, and I have to wonder how much Big Paulie respects me."
I stifle a yawn. Positioned off to the side of the desk like I am, I could probably yawn without either of them noticing, but it’s probably not the best idea to yawn at a Gambino underboss.
Frankly, though. the posturing is getting on my nerves. I've seen it all before. My father will bluster some about how much he pays the Gambinos for protection—and for the ability to keep our construction jobs in progress—Dellacroce will tell him it's taken care of, that he'll talk to Gotti, and they'll each walk away thinking the matter is settled.
Until the next time.
Because since Don Carlo died and Big Paulie—Paul Castellano—took over, everyone in the Gambino family has been jockeying for power. Paulie's pissing off half the family, especially John Gotti and his crew, by upholding Carlo's ban on drug running; and pissing off the other half, those still loyal to the old guard, by not taking Gotti out.
And here we are stuck in the middle of what looks to be a possible mafia war.
“Do you think Paulie sent me here because he doesn’t respect you? Does he send his second-in-command to people he doesn’t respect?”
I tune them out. Bluster, posture, bluster, posture. I could set my watch by it.
My thoughts drift, as they have a hundred times today, to Sunny. Last night blew my fucking mind, and I wouldn’t admit out loud to anyone how much I want to see her again. I don’t know what it is about her, but she’s like an itch just under my skin. I’m going to need to scratch that itch, very thoroughly.
Dellacroce finally gets his ranting out of his system. My father extracts a promise from him that he’ll speak to Gotti about laying off Garrett Enterprises, and he finally leaves.
“That was annoying,” I venture.
“That’s one word for it,” my father says.
The intercom buzzes. “Your next appointment is here,” his secretary says.
“Show them in, please.”
A moment later, the door opens. Oh, right, I think, as the man enters. He’s dressed in a very nice three-piece suit, and carries a slim black briefcase.
Senator Robbins. He’s here about some legislation or something, him and — I dig through my mental Rolodex — Soleil something-or-other.
I wonder if he realized who was leaving as he came in.
Who am I kidding? Of course he did. First the mobster, then the senator. What a day.
Then she walks through the door right behind Robbins. My eyes travel up from a pair of wicked red stiletto heels, over a pair of really excellent legs, narrow black business skirt, matching jacket.
And then my gaze comes to rest on Sunny’s face.
She’s carefully but subtly made up, with her hair sleeked back and shiny, but it’s unmistakably her.
For one second, I’m struck completely dumb. How can she be here? What is she doing here? How can she have figured out who I am just from a phone number? How did she get up to the private floor of the building, and past Margot, the secretary?
And then it hits me. I lean forward and pull my father’s calendar toward me.
Senator Hart Robbins … and Soleil Pelletier.
Soleil. The French word for sun.
I look back at her and realize she looks just as shocked as I feel.
Well, I didn’t tell her my last name, after all.
My father is shaking the senator’s hand over the desk, then gestures toward me. “My son,” he says. “Slate.”
Senator Robbins nods at me, then beckons Sunny forward. She moves further into the office, her steps somehow uncertain. I’d say she was having trouble with the heels — that girl last night sure didn’t look like the type to parade around on five-inch heels — but she didn’t have any problem a minute ago. I think she’s just shaken from seeing me.
And the feeling is entirely mutual.
Robbins introduces Sunny — he calls her Soleil — and my father inclines his head at her.
“Good to meet you,” he says.
“You too, Mr. Garrett,” she says. Her eyes shift to me. “And you, Mr. Garrett.”
“It’s Slate,” I say, keeping my voice even.
Her lips twitch. “Mr. Slate.”
I open my mouth to say something, but my father speaks before I figure out what. “Sit, please. Senator, what exactly can I do for you? Your call was somewhat vague.”
Robbins takes one of the chairs across from my father, and Sunny takes the other, crossing one of those excellent legs over the other. I think about the way those legs wrapped around me last night, and go instantly rock-hard.
“We’re here about Fresh Kills,” Robbins begins.
My eyes flick to Sunny. Oh, really? Isn’t this interesting.
Fresh Kills is a landfill out on Staten Island, owned by Garret Entreprises.
On the plus side, it’s impossible to maintain an erection when people start talking about garbage, so that’s good. But in the minus column — what does Sunny have to do with this?
Robbins says, “Soleil, can you please get a copy of the bill for Mr. Garrett?” To my father, he says, “Soleil is a summer intern with my office.”
Okay, well that answers that.
Sunny bends over and picks up the briefcase. She fiddles with the combination lock for a moment, then opens it and pulls out two folders, handing one to my father, and one to Senator Robbins.
My father opens his and scans the papers inside swiftly before handing it to me.
“As you probably know,” Sunny says — her voice clear and firm, very different from the voice that urged me on last night — “Representative Florio has brought a bill before the House, HR 7020—”
My father makes a dismissive noise. “That’s the so-called Superfund?” He waves his hand, as if he truly can dismiss it that simply. “That’s got nothing to do with me, or with Fresh Kills.”
I open the folder and look at the top paper. An act to provide for liability, compensation, cleanup… I look back up at Sunny, and this time she meets my eyes, even as she speaks to my father.
“With all due respect,” she says, “it’s got everything to do with Fresh Kills. Are you aware of how thoroughly the landfill has compromised the marshland? Or how it threatens the estuary now?”
“Young lady, I am aware of everything to do with my property.” My father leans back and steeples his fingers in front of his chest. “And I’ve been hearing this speech — or some variation of it — for a decade now. Why should it concern me this time?”
Senator Robbins fields that one. “Because this is going to pass,” he says. “It will certainly pass the House by a comfortable margin, and it’s got massive approval in the Senate as well.”
“Maybe, if Carter wins reelection.”
“Even if he doesn’t.” Robbins shrugs. “Things are changing, Mr. Garrett, and too many people are supporting this. Not even Reagan could stop it — assuming he wins.”
“He will.” My father reaches out to me, and I give him back the
folder. “With what this company is donating to his campaign, he’d better.”
“Perhaps,” Robbins says. “But it will still pass.”
“And?”
“And my colleagues and I will have a chance to make some changes when it reaches the Senate floor,” Robbins says.
Sunny speaks again, cool and composed. “There will almost certainly be provisions allowing leniency for companies that have already committed to cleanup.”
“I’m not entirely sure you understand what a landfill is, young woman.” My father’s voice is full of condescension, and Sunny presses her lips into a thin line. “Fresh Kills doesn’t need cleanup. Fresh Kills is the end of the line for other people’s cleanup. It’s a garbage dump, Miss Pelletier.”
“I’m aware that it’s a garbage dump,” she says. “It’s the largest garbage dump in the world. You don’t think that’s something that deserves some … consideration? Caution?”
“I think it’s a place where we put trash. Trash has to go somewhere.” My father points at her, clearly agitated. “Would you have it pile up in the streets?”
Sunny opens her mouth to retort — and from the stormy look in her eyes, it’s going to be a doozy — but Senator Robbins intervenes.
“Perhaps we should all calm down and have some refreshments?” His voice is both soothing and commanding, which is a nice trick. “I understand your position, Mr. Garrett, but you can’t dismiss this out of hand. It’s going to pass. We need to figure out how it’s going to affect the state I represent — and your landfill is part of it.”
My father leans forward and pushes a button on his phone. “Margot, we’d like coffee service.”
“I’ll get it,” I say quickly.
My father cuts his gaze my way.
“I’m expecting a call,” I say. This is a bald-faced lie. “I’d rather Margot didn’t leave the desk right now.”
My father nods and pushes the button again, tells Margot to never mind the coffee.
I stand. “Perhaps Soleil would help me?”
