The Fall of Legend

by Meghan March

  Probably because I’m waiting for an answer to the couriered message I sent over, and her leaving for dinner fucked that all up. I should have sent it earlier so she’d have to respond to me instead of spending time with Captain Dickwad.

  Tomorrow. I’ll hear from her tomorrow.

  And if I don’t, she’ll find out Gabriel Legend is not a man to be ignored.

  Seventeen

  Scarlett

  After wiping away my tears and taking off what’s left of my makeup, I put tonight out of my mind. I don’t know why I’m going to go to the appointment Chadwick booked for me on Friday, but I will.

  To distract myself from whatever I’m getting into then, I should scroll my usual social media feeds or check to see if there’s a new #LifeIsMessy photo of the Winston triplets, but instead, I do something stupid. Something really, really stupid.

  I open my laptop and click over to YouTube and pick a video to watch. In this one, Gabriel Legend is shirtless and wearing tight-fitting black shorts that highlight every muscle in his thick quads, along with the bulge of his cup.

  “You might as well be a fucking block of ice.”

  Chadwick’s words come back to me, and I grit my teeth because he’s wrong and I can prove it. No, no more Chadwick tonight.

  I put him out of my mind as I watch Legend trade punches with the other man. I wince at every hit that connects, and I wait for the moment when he shoots out and takes the man to the mat, sweat turning his rippling back muscles into a work of art deserving of a place of honor in the Louvre.

  My nipples peak, and heat builds between my legs. I am not a block of ice.

  The bottom of my fuzzy robe slides open, and I trail my fingers up my thigh. My inner muscles clench at the sensation, and my hand keeps moving. I go higher and higher as he wrestles with the man, changing positions and taking control.

  In my mind, though, the picture changes, and I see him on top of me, pinning me to my bed or any nearby flat surface. Those blue eyes stare down at me, burning with desire.

  He wants me.

  My fingers hit a slick of wetness, and I can’t contain my moan.

  I shove the computer off my lap, drop my head on the pillow, and give in fully to my fantasy. Arching my back, I stroke my center, teasing myself by not touching my clit because it just makes me even hotter.

  A deep, gruff voice fills my head. “You’re mine, and I decide when you come. Until then, you’re going to have to beg.”

  Soft whimpers spill from between my lips as I rock my hips against my hand, wanting more. Wanting to be taken. Owned. Dominated. By a man who knows what he’s doing. A man who knows what I need.

  I fling out my hand and yank open my nightstand drawer. Inside is a toy I’ve been testing—for research purposes—and a bottle of lube.

  It takes no time at all before the vibrator buzzes deliciously against me, teasing my clit and giving me just the tip. Over and over, I bring myself to the edge, imagining it’s a blue-eyed devil hell-bent on destroying every barrier I have to get to the core of me. To make me lose all my inhibitions until I beg for what I really want. To give me what no one has given me before.

  “Please, please.” I moan out the words, my vivid imagination taking things to the next level.

  He hovers over me, a wicked smile tugging at the corners of his full lips. “You beg so pretty. I want to hear you louder.”

  I buzz the vibrator across my clit before plunging it inside myself. A scream breaks loose as I shatter.

  “Oh. God. Gabriel!”

  As soon as I realize the name on my lips, I freeze. The aftermath of the orgasm wraps around me, even though I can’t believe what I’ve done.

  Holy. Shit.

  I’ve just made a terrible mistake.

  Eighteen

  Scarlett

  When I wake up Friday morning, heat from the rising sun warms my face . . . and then I remember what I’ve been doing lately at night. My face ignites with embarrassment. I already beat myself up yesterday, and told myself I wasn’t going to make it a habit . . . but apparently, I lied.

  For the love of God, why can’t I stop thinking about him?

  The questions circling my brain go unanswered because I can’t think of a single logical, rational reason for that.

  I roll out of bed quicker than normal, because if I stay, I’ll dissect the situation, and since there is nothing useful left to consider, I’m ahead of the game if I just don’t think about what’s been transpiring in my bed late at night. Ever again.

  Instead of leisurely taking my time, I rush through my morning routine like I’m already late for an important appointment. That’s probably why Amy’s cherry-red mouth opens in shock when I fling the door open on her first knock.

  “Shit, Scarlett,” she exclaims and clutches her heart.

  “Sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you. Busy day ahead. I’m trying to get a jump on it.”

  She scans me from head to toe, taking in my blue-and-white-checked gingham sundress that couldn’t be any more innocent looking if I tried. Yesterday, I wore an all-white ensemble to hide my guilt, but I ended up feeling like I was wearing a scarlet letter. How apropos.

  Why am I trying to hide it? I don’t know. Probably because I have a big guilty splotch on my conscience, requiring me to be extra proper to make up for my misdeeds.

  Except it felt pretty freaking awesome, hence the replay.

  This comes from the voice in my head that I’ve now assigned the name Bad Scarlett, for obvious reasons, but mostly because she has very few inhibitions. Bad Scarlett would love nothing more than to crawl back in bed and spend the morning moaning the name of someone whose name should never be moaned in this apartment, ever again.

  Good Scarlett disagrees, obviously, but that girl is weak when it comes to he who shall not be named, and she’s easily swayed.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Amy carefully steps inside, like she’s afraid to spook me by moving too quickly. “I swear, something’s up with you this week.”

  “I’m fine. Ready to tackle everything on the to-do list. Hit me,” I say with a bright, wide smile that feels about as strange as the look she’s giving me.

  “How much coffee have you had?”

  “Two cups.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “With a side of cocaine?”

  I jerk back like I’m avoiding a punch. “Excuse me? I’m not that kind of party girl.”

  Her face softens with an apology immediately. “Sorry. I just mean that you seem more on edge than normal, like something’s wrong. Are you nervous about your self-defense class today? I know you hate being away from the store on Fridays, but I think it’s for a good reason. We can hold down the fort. I’m way more concerned about your safety anyway.”

  Clearly, my manager requires a rational explanation for my behavior, and since I can’t tell her the truth about half the stuff that has happened this week, I lie. “I am nervous. I know it’s a big day, and I’ve never done this sort of thing before . . .” I trail off, letting her make her own conclusions to keep my lie less guilt-filled.

  “Things are changing, Scar. Really fast. It’s a lot for me to keep up with too, and I only share part of the burden you carry. I can’t imagine how much pressure you’re under.” She leans against the counter and drops the stack of folders she carried in. “Seriously, if there’s ever anything at all I can do to take more off your plate—maybe somehow give you more breathing room—all you have to do is ask. I promise I can handle it.”

  For a moment, I imagine an alternate reality in which I tell my manager that I was kidnapped earlier this week, and not only did I not tell anyone, but I didn’t call the police or FBI. And on top of that, I agreed to help my kidnapper save his business.

  Oh, and I got off fantasizing about him last night and the night before.

  Even in that alternate universe, I sound insane. Like, there’s a good chance Amy would be concerned for my mental health. Best-case scenario, she’d c
all Ryan and Christine to tell them I need a vacation, stat.

  Because what happened this week was crazy, and my reaction to it was even more so.

  Why didn’t I call the cops? Because he let me go without hurting me? Because I can’t say no to a challenge? Because I’m apparently way too attracted to Gabriel Legend to see him in shackles and being led out of the courtroom onto a bus bound for prison?

  I am not attracted to him.

  The lie sounds hollow, even in my own brain. Especially considering my newest guilty pleasure. Still, I should have called the police. Actually, I still can. There’s no statute of limitations on reporting a kidnapping, is there? It was only a few days ago, anyway.

  I glance up at Amy, who is waiting patiently, but with an expectant look on her face. Shit. She said something to me, and I’m supposed to answer her.

  Fuck. Umm, what was it? Something about taking more off my plate? Yeah. That was it.

  “You work your butt off, Amy. I see it every day. I’m already so grateful for everything you do, I won’t weigh you down with more.” I deliver the oblique statement, hoping it makes sense in the context of the conversation whose thread I’ve lost.

  “I’m always ready for more of a challenge, Scarlett. I promise. Whatever you need. Just hit me.” She climbs onto the bar stool she usually perches on in the morning and crosses her matte-black leather pumps and very chicly covered legs.

  “I really appreciate that. If there’s anything I can delegate, I promise you’re the first name on my list. How is today’s schedule looking?” I sit across from her and finish my fourth—so what, I lied about something else—cup of coffee.

  She shuffles through her planner and then swipes a few times on her iPad. “I don’t have anything for you until your self-defense class. I do have the report from your pickers—I’ve highlighted everything I think we should buy—but I wanted you to see it for final selection. Also, there’s a designer’s rep who wants to swing by and meet with you to discuss dressing you for one of your events.” She leans in to whisper excitedly. “He dressed Meryl Fosse a few months ago and said he could do ten o’clock, if that works for you. I know we open at eleven, so that doesn’t give you much time, but—”

  “Fuck,” I say on a groan.

  “What?” Amy jerks her head from side to side, as if she’s looking for something jumping out of the walls at us. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have an appointment at nine with someone. Chadwick made it for me.”

  “On a Friday?” The surprise in Amy’s tone expresses exactly how unwelcome an appointment on this day is.

  “Yeah. I know.”

  I go to the small table where I leave my keys and various items removed from my pockets, and find the card. There’s just a woman’s name, an address, and a phone number. I’m tempted to call and cancel, but a small part of me is curious who Chadwick thinks I need to talk to in order for us to have a chance at saving this relationship.

  Maybe it’s couples counseling? Maybe he’ll be meeting me there but was embarrassed to suggest it in front of my dad? Wouldn’t that actually be somewhat sweet and thoughtful?

  Skepticism swats that thought away since it would also be totally outside Chadwick’s normal behavior.

  Hmm. With my curiosity piqued, I grab my phone, intent on googling the woman’s name on the card, but Amy snags my attention again, holding out a manila envelope.

  “I totally forgot to bring this to you yesterday. A bike messenger delivered it late Wednesday afternoon after you already left, and there was no name or return address. Seemed kind of shady to me, but I didn’t want to call the police or anything until after you open it and see what’s inside. If it’s something from those trolls on social media . . .” Amy goes silent as I study the envelope in my hands.

  Do I want to open it? What if it’s another one like the last time? The time I haven’t told Amy about because I didn’t want her to worry. At least Christine knows about the photo from my social media account that showed up with horrible things written all over it. Hence, why she didn’t care about interrupting my Friday with self-defense lessons.

  I walk to my small writing desk in the corner, grab a letter opener that looks suspiciously like a dagger, and slice the envelope open. Holding only the corners, I dump the contents onto the desk.

  It’s a folded piece of white paper. No photo.

  That’s a plus.

  Amy’s fingers flex by her sides, as though she’s dying to grab it and read what it says, but she holds herself back. I pick it up and unfold it carefully.

  Words written in heavy, bold pen strokes mark the page. I wouldn’t call it neat handwriting. More like, utilitarian. One thing is for certain—it’s distinctive.

  Finally focusing on what it says, I read.

  * * *

  Ms. Priest,

  If you have special requests for Saturday, please let Zoe, my assistant manager, know. She can be reached via the number or email below. We’re looking forward to hosting you and your friends on Saturday night. Thank you for handling this discreetly. We’ve been watching.

  —L

  * * *

  Oh. My. God.

  It’s from him. Legend. And they’ve been watching?

  Oh. My. Freaking. God.

  The piece of paper almost falls from my hand, but I keep my wits together, along with my grip.

  “Is everything okay?” Amy asks, concern in her tone. “It’s not something creepy, is it? Can I see?”

  I refold the note, tuck it under a stack of correspondence on my desk, and turn around with what I hope is a decent impression of a cheery expression. “Nothing creepy at all. Just a reminder that I committed to an event tomorrow night, and they want to know if I have any special requests.”

  Her brow furrows. “What event? You had me keep your Saturday open.”

  “A club appearance. It’s time for me to get out and live a little. Kick the all-work-and-no-play persona for a night.”

  The apprehension on Amy’s face fades and a smile takes its place. “Amen. You need a night out. It’s about damn time.”

  Thankfully, her phone rings before she can ask any more questions.

  “Do you need me? Because . . .” She holds up her phone.

  I wave her off. “Take the call. I’m good. I’ll be gone until at least ten. Back to help on the floor, and then gone again by 3:30. Talk later.”

  Amy nods and then answers her cell, snatching her things off the bar, and is already speaking on her way out of my apartment. It’s not until the door shuts behind her that I run back to the desk, unearth the note, and read it again. And again. And again.

  Then I lift it to my nose and sniff. He wrote this. He touched this paper.

  Stunned at myself, I freeze. And what in the fresh hell am I doing right now?

  I put it down, but my gaze stays locked on the handwriting. It’s neat enough to be legible, but there’s no elegance to it. No soft edges or lazy lines. It’s straight to the point. Each line and slash is confidently deliberate, just like the man himself.

  Okay, so when did I become a handwriting analyst?

  There’s one sentence on the page that keeps repeating in my head. “We’ve been watching you.”

  I drift to the living area window and stare out at the street and the sidewalk across from me, and wishfully look for him before I can talk some sense into myself. He’s not there, and a shaft of disappointment chases me away from the glass and back to my desk to rearrange everything on my blotter as I try to pull myself together.

  Of course they were watching. Why didn’t I think of that?

  Oh, I don’t know, probably because this was my first kidnapping?

  It’s a damn good thing I didn’t call the police, because if I had . . . whoever was watching me would have seen the cops show up at Curated.

  The subtle threat in the note hangs in my mind. But instead of it freaking me out, I can’t stop thinking about him standing out there in the dark of night, watch
ing the light in my window, waiting for a glimpse of me.

  What if he was out there while I was getting myself off to him?

  Oh. My. Shit.

  My nipples peak and moisture blooms between my legs, and the urge to go another round, ending with me moaning Gabriel Legend’s name, comes on strong.

  What in the actual fuck is wrong with me?

  I drop the pens in my hand, and they bounce on the antique wood and leather. My reorganization efforts turned what was a neat workspace into a haphazard mess.

  I’m going stir crazy. Although I’ve never felt like this before, the sudden impulse to get out of this building and into some fresh air overwhelms me. I should walk part of the way to my appointment and burn off this pent-up energy. Maybe that’ll help.

  Then I remember that one of the places I’m going today is self-defense, and maybe I should wait until I have some skills in my back pocket before I start roaming the streets while I’m being watched.

  I grab the note off my desk for one last glance before folding it back up and hiding it as I carefully re-reorganize everything on the surface of my desk for the next fifteen minutes. Lining up pens and making sure the blotter is perfectly even helps the knot constricting my chest to loosen.

  Everything is going to be fine, I tell myself as I take a deep breath.

  Ten minutes later, I punch the address into my phone from the business card Chadwick shoved in my hand, and slip into my white espadrille wedges that will need to be put away after Labor Day. Then I make my way out through the kitchen to my private entrance to the building, and sneak out to the alley to avoid the line forming on the front walk.

  As I hail a cab and slide into the back seat, I have a foreboding feeling.

  This week is changing everything. Even me.

  Nineteen

  Scarlett