Beneath This Mask

by Meghan March

  I raised my chin and met his gaze. “No. But you can go to hell for asking.” I turned and reached for the door handle, intent on pulling it open. Simon’s hand slapped against the wood beside my face. His knuckles were raw and split open, and I wondered what the hell he’d done last night. The thought vanished as his body surrounded me. This seemed to be a recurring position with us.

  I could feel his heart pounding against my back. The heavy thud-thud, thud-thud matched my own. The sound of his harsh breaths echoed in the silence of the room. “Don’t you dare walk away from me.”

  I memorized the wood grain of the door. “Don’t tell me what to do. It doesn’t work out well for us.”

  He pressed the entire length of his body against me and spoke directly into my ear. “I can’t watch you walk away again. Last night it gutted me. Today, it will break me.”

  My forehead thumped against the door, and I squeezed my eyes shut as tears threatened to spill over. Once again, his honesty leveled me, demolishing my walls. I turned in the circle of his arms—the place I most wanted to be—and stared up at him. His eyes were closed, as if waiting for the executioner to raise his ax and swing the lethal blow. I didn’t know what to say to erase the pain etched on his features. So I went with the simplest truth.

  “It would break me too.”

  Lowering his forehead to mine, his eyes flicked open. This was my Simon. “Jesus, Charlie. You don’t know what you do to me. You could destroy me.” His words trailed off as he cupped the right side of my face and angled his lips to take mine. The kiss was hungry, desperate, and I opened to him as his tongue delved inside. I kissed him back with the same passion, but the entire time, his words echoed in my head. You could destroy me. It was true. I was almost thankful for the knock at the door that forced us apart.

  I stepped out of the safety of Simon’s arms to reach for a tissue out of the box on his desk. Dabbing at my tears, I tried to salvage my makeup. Given the amount of concealer staining the white tissue, I was doing a shit job of it. Simon took several deep breaths before opening the door a crack.

  “Simon, what the hell? Open the damned door. I just got off the phone with Arthur Jackson, and he’s agreed to head up your campaign. He’s pulling the committee documentation together, and this thing will officially be off the ground.” Simon let the door swing wide, and an older, gray-haired version of him stepped into the room, leaning on a cane. He clapped a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “You’re going to do me proud, son.”

  “Dad, could we discuss this another time?”

  Simon’s father looked up and then around the room. His posture turned rigid when he saw me. I shifted slightly so my right side dominated his view.

  “Well, now. Aren’t you going to introduce us, Simon? I’m assuming this is the … friend your mother mentioned. The one who couldn’t join us for supper because she had to work at … what was it? A tattoo parlor?” He studied me like I was a circus freak. “What was your name again?”

  Simon’s features hardened to granite. “This is Charlie, Dad. She’s my girlfriend.” Simon moved to stand next to me. “Charlie, this is my father, Jefferson Duchesne.”

  I held out a hand, and wondered if he’d deign to shake it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  He gripped my hand for a moment before dropping it. “We have important matters to discuss. If you’re finished with your … girlfriend … perhaps we could chat.”

  Simon pulled me against him, and I winced at the twinge in my side. Looking down at me, he stiffened and said absently to his father, “I’m not actually. We can talk tomorrow.”

  Confusion darkened Simon’s expression. Reaching out a hand, he tilted my face toward him so he could see my bruise more clearly. My thought about doing a shitty job salvaging my makeup was confirmed.

  “Simon, this is important,” his father insisted.

  “Dad. Not now.” Simon’s tone was implacable. His father spun, leaving the office in a huff, the door banging shut behind him.

  Simon exploded. “What the fuck happened? Did someone hit you?” His thumb skimmed my cheekbone.

  “I … I made poor choices last night.”

  “What kinds of poor choices?” He started to wrap both arms around me, but stopped when I recoiled. “Seriously, Charlie, what the fuck?”

  I swallowed. “I kind of … got knifed?”

  All of the color drained from Simon’s face, and his eyes flicked over me maniacally. “Where? Jesus Christ! What the hell?” He was roaring now, and I was glad the door was closed.

  “In the Quarter, just off Bourbon. I was drunk and by myself.”

  He looked like he wanted to shake me. He gathered the skirt of my maxi dress and lifted it up.

  “Hey—wait.”

  “Shut up.” I would have taken issue with his words if he hadn’t dropped to his knees in front of me. He shoved the bunched skirt into my hands. “Hold this.” His touch was light as he surveyed the angry red slice.

  “I’m fine.”

  He ignored my words. “Con do this?”

  “Of course not!”

  “No, I mean, did he glue you up?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I was passed out. Don’t remember anything after calling him.” I hastily filled him in on the other hazy details of the night.

  The hurt in his eyes at not being the one I called for help was obvious. “At least you had the sense to call someone.” He pressed a kiss to my stomach beside the wound. “I owe Con then.”

  After a long moment, he stood. I dropped the bunched fabric, once again covering the evidence of my idiocy.

  “You got knifed, but still put on a dress to come apologize.” He sounded a little awed.

  Embarrassment flushing my cheeks, I bit my lip and stared at the ground. “Yeah.”

  He tilted my chin up again and leaned down to kiss me. Just the barest brush of his lips across mine. And then he kissed my bruise.

  When he pulled away, his expression was serious. “For a first fight, that was a doozy.”

  “So we’re good now?” I asked.

  Simon nodded. “We’re good.”

  “I guess getting knifed means no makeup sex?” I asked, trying to interject some humor into the intense moment. But my statement knocked another question loose. “Why did you think I had sex with Con?”

  “Saw your … goodbye on the street this afternoon.” His jaw tightened. “It was … pretty friendly.”

  “That’s because Con is a friend. I’m not going to apologize for my history with him. You just … need to get over it.”

  “Let’s just say I’m still working on it.” Simon threaded his fingers through mine. “How do you feel about dinner?”

  “I could eat.”

  “Then let’s get out of here.”

  “Don’t you need to talk to your dad?”

  “No. Whatever he’s got to say will keep.”

  I took a deep breath and chose my words carefully. I was going to let him in. A little. Starting now. “You’re lucky, in the same situation, my dad would’ve gotten very quiet and given you this look that would have shriveled your balls to raisins. And after you’d slunk out of his office, he would’ve smiled like nothing had happened and continued on with the conversation he intended.”

  Simon stilled. “You’ve never talked about your parents before.”

  I kept my eyes trained on the floor, terrified I was giving too much away. “They’re not a part of my life anymore. They’re not … the nicest people. Especially my dad. And my mom … well, she only ever really cared about keeping up appearances. We were never close.”

  He lifted my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the inside of my wrist. “Thank you. For telling me that.”

  I finally met his eyes and shrugged. “I’m trying.”

  “I know. And that matters. A whole hell of a lot.”

  I tugged him toward the door. I needed to change the subject before I was tempted to tell him everything. “Feed me.”

  “Whate
ver the lady wants.”

  I smiled, but it felt forced. My confession had unsettled me. And what’s more, I couldn’t stop thinking about what his dad had said about Simon’s campaign getting off the ground. How the hell could I stay out of the spotlight and hold on to Simon at the same time? You can’t, the realist in my head whispered. The bitch was undoubtedly right. But I wasn’t giving up yet.

  Simon was holding out on me, and it was starting to piss me off. Correction: I was pissed off.

  No sex.

  For two weeks.

  It wasn’t like he and I were engaging in all out Sexual Olympics before I decided to make poor life choices, but now there was nothing. Simon was adamant about me not doing anything too taxing, which apparently included all forms of sexual activity, until he was satisfied that I was fully recovered. I supposed I should be happy that we were, after our first fight, firmly back in the honeymoon phase. Except honeymoons included sex. Well, honeymoons without knife wounds did.

  Granted, I had much bigger things to worry about, but focusing on the sexual drought I was experiencing was easier. Safer. And if it made me a coward, I could live with that. For now.

  I’d worked tirelessly trying to make progress with the notebook. I’d even considered asking Con for help. But I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him, but the need for secrecy was crushing. People would kill for the information I had. I was pretty damn certain of that.

  I also considered telling Simon the truth more times than I could count. But just the thought of admitting to all of my lies had bile rising up in my throat and eating away the words like battery acid.

  “If you keep begging, I’m going to make you wait longer.”

  I glared at him. “I’m fine.”

  We were sitting on the couch in his den, watching a movie. A movie. Like high school freshmen on a handholding-only date.

  “You’re pretty hot when you’re pissed.”

  “Then you’re going to think I’m goddamn gorgeous if you won’t fuck me tonight. Why am I the guy in this relationship? Why can’t you be as hard up for it as I am?”

  Simon’s smile turned sinister. “Did you really just call me the girl in this relationship?”

  “Hell yes, I did. You’re giving me a complex.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Charlie, you really are something else.” He reached behind the sofa and produced a large box. “If I were the girl in this relationship, I think you’d be giving this to me and not the other way around.” He set it in my lap.

  “What is that?”

  “A present.”

  “But why?”

  “Just open it, okay?”

  I looked down at the blue box with black lettering. It was from a fabulous boutique specializing in 1950s and rockabilly dresses. Eighteen months ago I could have bought the whole store; now, I could only afford to look.

  As excited as I wanted to be about what was probably inside the box, I feared we’d end up at another impasse. Or worse, another fight. “Simon—”

  “Just open the damn box, Charlie.”

  I lifted the lid and handed it to him. I parted the tissue paper to reveal a gorgeous red dress and a black and red-feathered mask. I lifted the dress out. It was one I had drooled over in the window—ruched sweetheart neckline, thick straps and a full skirt. It was fabulous.

  My heart sank as I lifted my eyes to Simon’s face. He wasn’t smiling.

  “I’m not giving you an ultimatum. I’m simply extending an invitation. I would love to have you next to me on the Fourth, but if you can’t, I’ll get over it. What I won’t get over is losing you again.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut against the sting of tears. He lifted the box from my lap and folded the dress and put it back inside. Once again the words of confession bubbled up inside of me. But when Simon pulled me close and tucked me against him, the thud of his heartbeat and my desperate need to savor the moment pushed them back down.

  I am a coward. A lying coward who doesn’t deserve him.

  I stood on the deck of the Steamboat Orleans and sipped my scotch. Derek stood next to me, leaning against the railing. We hadn’t seen much of each other since his wedding in May. Between his honeymoon and newlywed status, and my chasing after Charlie, we’d lost touch. But he was here tonight because I’d asked him to come. I was still holding out hope that the other person I’d asked to come would show up. Because of the fireworks, the Orleans was staying docked all evening. There would be no excuse of missing the boat. I’m not sure if that made it better or worse.

  “Your dad’s in fine form this evening,” Derek said. He was scanning the crowd for Mandy. She’d gone off to the ladies room to readjust her mask. Apparently, it was ruining her hairstyle.

  I tipped my scotch back, swallowing a healthy swig. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  My father had arranged for Arthur Jackson, his choice for a campaign manager, to attend. They’d cornered me for an interminable fifteen minutes before I could escape to the bar. I was here tonight to support two great causes—and to help gain support for my own. I wasn’t here to talk about campaign tactics or fundraising or any other bullshit that my dad threw at me at every opportunity. It wasn’t even time to officially kick off the campaign, and I was already sick of it all. The urge to tell my father to forget it was strong and growing stronger every day. Local politics was one thing, but the idea of jetting off to D.C. and kissing every ass on Capitol Hill to accomplish anything left a sour taste in my mouth.

  I couldn’t hold my tongue when I thought something was bullshit. I called a spade a spade. I didn’t know how my father had done it. He had some higher need for intrigue, machinations, and manipulation that I didn’t share. I’d entertained the possibility because he was so damn invested in it. I’d never been a disappointment to my father, but in this, I would be. It was time for him to face facts: I was not cut out to be a career politician.

  Gut instinct told me it was the right decision. And once I’d made it, I could focus on the things I actually wanted to do: keep running day-to-day operations of Southern Cross, continue improving my hometown on the NOLA City Council, push forward with The Kingman Project, and figure out what a future with Charlie was going to look like.

  I tossed back the rest of my scotch. I’d have to tell him tonight before he got any further down the road of campaigning on my behalf.

  “Well, holy shit. Would you take a look at that?” Derek said.

  I followed his gaze to the dock. A woman was strolling up to the boat wearing a siren red dress and black and red-feathered mask. Waves of black, red, and purple hair bounced with each step.

  I dropped my empty glass on the tray of a passing server. “I believe that’s my date.”

  Derek slapped my shoulder. “Better go after her before the sharks start circling.”

  Several heads had craned in Charlie’s direction as she made her way up to the ship. Shit. She looked amazing. I pressed through the crowd to meet her at the railing as she stepped onto the deck.

  “You’re here.”

  She nodded. Her aqua eyes stood out even more brilliantly against the feathers of her mask. I bent to kiss her cheek, not wanting to smear her crimson lips.

  “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you. And I never thanked you properly for the dress. So thank you for that too.”

  Charlie had fallen asleep in my arms that night without making it to the end of the movie. I’d carried her to my bed and tucked her in beside me. She’d been gone when I awoke, but the dress box had been missing as well. It had given me hope. Between my work schedule and hers, we hadn’t managed to see each other again until tonight. We’d spoken briefly last night, but the conversation had been awkward and stilted. Both of us dancing around the subject of tonight, and neither of us having the balls to bring it up. But she was here.

  “You’re very welcome. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Open bar?” she asked.

  “Cash bar—it’s a fundrais
er, babe.”

  “Then you’re buying.”

  “Done.”

  We ate, mixed, mingled, and bid on silent auction items. Charlie charmed everyone she met. She had a knack for small talk and putting people at ease I’d never noticed before. If I was still considering a life as a politician, I couldn’t have picked a better conversationalist. It was like she was born to work a room. But I didn’t give a fuck about her ability to make small talk; I was just happy that she seemed to be enjoying the event and had instantly connected with Kingman’s widow. Although I guess I should call her Carina. Her husband was another active duty sailor. I gave her credit for taking the same risk again. Not everyone would be quite so brave.

  I purposely maneuvered us away from my parents, not because I didn’t think Charlie could handle my father, but because I didn’t want him to piss me off and ruin the night. I’d say what I needed to say to him tomorrow. It would be soon enough.

  Then I saw a familiar head of blond hair in the crowd. Vanessa. She had accompanied her father this evening, and I could hear his booming laugh from across the ship. He was a bull of a man who liked to keep everyone and everything under his thumb.

  Charlie must have recognized Vanessa bearing down on us, because she said, “Should I be concerned that the claws are going to come out since I stole her man?”

  I frowned. “Vanessa’s not like that. At all. So sheathe your claws, babe. She’s good people. I think you’ll like her.”

  With the mask obscuring her face, I couldn’t exactly see Charlie’s skeptical expression, but I knew it was there all the same.

  My brow creased as I studied Vanessa. She was wobbling on her heels and her cheeks were flushed. She was drunk. Which was completely out of character. I’d never even seen her tipsy in public. Ever.

  I reached out an arm to steady her. Charlie seemed to pick up on the unusual nature of the situation and held out a hand. “I’m Charlie. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Her words weren’t snide; they were sincere and genuine, and I loved her for that.