by E. K. Blair
“I don’t need you catering to me, assuming you know what I like to eat or that it’s your right to even make assumptions about me,” I snap while I walk into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
“So, we’re back to steely-bitch Nina?”
Turning to look at him, I say, “I’m going to have a cup of tea and then I’d like my car to be ready so I can go home.”
“It’s still snowing.”
“The plows already came through.”
He walks over to the kitchen and stands by the bar, asking, “What happened to you this morning? I woke up and you were gone.”
“Your ego bruised?” I say with a condescending grin that pisses him off.
Rounding the bar, he backs me against the countertop, and hisses, “Now it’s time for you to cut the shit.” The kettle starts to squeal, and before I can turn to get it, he reaches over and slams it on the other burner, startling me, and flips the knob off. Caging me in with his arms, his tone is hard when he says, “Your games are starting to piss me off, and I don’t like being played.”
“And what about your games, Declan? The ones you’ve been playing since the night I met you?”
“Did I not apologize to you?” he questions. “Don’t forget that you came to me last night.”
“Moment of weakness. Won’t happen again. So if you were hoping—”
“God, you’re fucking aggravating.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” I say as I move to push him back, and when he keeps his stance and doesn’t budge, I bark, “Let me out.”
“No.”
Pushing my hands against his hardened chest, I get pissed. “I’m serious, Declan. Back up!”
“No.”
“Let me go!”
“Not until you stop bullshitting me. Stop lying, and tell me why you came to me last night.”
Pressing my chest against his, I narrow my eyes, saying, “I already told you. Moment of weakness.”
He grabs me above the elbows, biting down hard before saying, “And I told you not to lie.”
I fist my hands, jerking my body away from him, and he lets go of me. He stays back while I walk across the room, putting space between us, and go over to the windows.
“You think I get off on encroaching on a married woman?” he asks.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I keep my back to him.
“You think I’m an asshole?” he continues. “Join the club. I’m a fucking ass, but I can’t help how you make me feel when you’re around.”
I can feel the heat of him as he moves in behind me. His hands find my shoulders, and he gently tugs to turn me to face him, but I cast my eyes downward.
“Tell me I’m not alone here, or tell me I am because the moment I think I can read you, you flip on me.” When I look up at him, his eyes hold hope in my response. “Tell me why you came to me last night.”
“Because . . .” I begin, but let it linger.
“Tell me.”
“Because I didn’t want to be alone.”
“Why?”
“Declan . . .” I hesitate.
“Why, Nina?”
Lowering my head, my voice cracks perfectly when I say, “Because I’m lonely.” He runs his hands from my shoulders, up my neck, and to my cheeks, angling me up to him. As I look into his eyes, I add, “Whether he’s here or not, I’m lonely.”
“And when I’m here?” he questions.
“I don’t feel so alone.”
He releases a breath and drops his forehead to mine as I grip my hands around his wrists.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was a dick to you yesterday.”
“I wasn’t very nice either.”
He lifts his head, telling me, “Don’t leave. Stay. Let me make it up to you.”
“I can’t. I need to go home.”
“Why?”
With a light laugh, I say, “Well, for one, I need to change into some clean clothes.”
“So go home and change. I’ll pick you up.”
“What are we gonna do?” I ask.
“When’s the last time you had any fun?” I shrug my shoulders and he says, “So let’s have some fun.”
A COUPLE HOURS later, I’m back home. Declan called a little bit ago, saying he was on his way and to be sure I was dressed warm. So I’ve made sure to comply since the temperatures are no less than frigid as the snow continues to fall.
When the doorman calls to let me know Declan is here, I grab my wool coat, scarf, gloves, and knit hat. I see Declan standing in the lobby as the elevator doors open, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him dressed down in a pair of dark wash jeans and grey sweater under his black wool coat. He looks sharp, and when he turns towards me, his smile grows.
“You ready?” he asks as we walk towards each other.
“I’m not sure,” I respond warily. “I don’t know what we’re doing.”
“Come on.”
I follow him out the front doors and see his car parked along the street, but he leads me in the opposite direction.
“We’re not driving?”
“No.”
I slip on my ivory knit hat and wrap my scarf a couple more times around my neck while he watches with a smile and then holds his hand out for me. I don’t take it at the risk of someone seeing me, so when I begin to walk, he places his hand on the small of my back as he leads us across the street to Millennium Park.
“You know it’s closed, right?” I ask when he leads us to the ice rink. “The snow’s too thick.”
“It’s closed for everyone in the city, but you.”
“What?”
“Mr. McKinnon,” a young man greets as we approach the rink.
“Walter, thanks for doing this,” Declan says as they shake hands.
“Any time, man,” he responds and then looks at me, asking, “You ready?”
“We’re skating?”
Declan laughs, and Walter says, “That’s the deal we made. You ever been?”
Slightly embarrassed, I tell him, “Actually . . . no. I haven’t.”
“Never?” Declan asks, and when I shake my head, he says, “But you live here in the park.” When I shrug my shoulders, he jokes, “This oughta be fun,” and I smile at his mischievous grin.
After we grab our skates, Walter opens the gate to the rink, and I grab ahold of the metal railing as Declan steps out onto the ice with ease.
“Take my hand,” he instructs, seeing my nervousness.
“This is embarrassing,” I tell him.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“You’re always so uptight, Nina,” he says. “Come on, take my hand.”
“I’m gonna fall on my ass.”
He glides over to me, holding out both of his hands, and tells me, “Let go of the railing and take my hands.”
Placing one hand in his, I step onto the ice before letting go of the railing and giving him my other hand. It doesn’t take but a second before my balance falters, and I fall into his chest. He grips my waist, laughing, and says, “Relax. You’re too stiff.”
“It’s freezing out here, and you’ve got me on ice. I can’t relax,” I grumble.
“Stop bitching.” He then takes my hands again and begins skating backwards while gliding me forward. “Try moving your feet.”
“Uh uh. I’ll fall.”
With a grin on his face, he asks, “Why are you so stubborn?”
“Are you serious? I could ask you the same question.”
“Just for today, why don’t you try trusting me?”
As he continues to hold my hands and pull me around the rink while he skates backwards with total control, I question, “Is that what you like? Having someone that just obeys you and never voices their opinion?”
“No, Nina. It’s not about obeying, it’s about trusting; something I don’t think you do too easily.”
“Trust can be costly,” I argue.
“Or it can be comforting.”
He keeps h
is eyes steady on me when I finally give in, and with a sigh, agree, “Okay, fine. One day.”
His smile is cocky, and I shake my head at him, asking, “How did you get the rink to open for us?”
“Walter did some work for me at the hotel during construction. So I called him, slipped him a few bills, and here we are.”
“Is everything that easy for you?”
“No,” he says with a piercing look. “Some things I have to work for.”
He says this and I drop my eyes to cut the tension building, and when I do, I lose my balance, tripping over my toes. I grab on to his coat as I fall hard on my hip, pulling him down with me. He hovers over me, laughing, while I’m flat on my back.
“My ass is getting wet,” I say as I try to sit up, but he doesn’t allow me with his body lying on top of mine.
His fingers run through my hair, and he murmurs, “Your red hair is beautiful with the snow in it.”
A shiver runs through me from the chill of the ice, and he moves away, getting steady on his feet before helping me up.
“You done?”
I give him a nod, and he helps me off the ice and over to a bench. When we sit down, he pulls my feet onto his lap and starts to untie the laces on my skates. Slipping them off my feet, he runs his thumbs firmly up the arch of my foot, kneading along the way before repeating the same on my other foot. I watch him as he does this, and he never pulls his attention away from my eyes. The adoration he exudes is palpable, and it’s a shame that it’s wasted on someone like me, but I’ll take it and use it to my benefit.
We get our shoes on and thank Walter before we rush back towards my building. Walking over to his car, he pulls his keys out and opens the passenger door.
“Get in.”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s my one day for you to trust me,” he says. “Get in.”
I move past him and slip down into the leather seat of his Mercedes before he closes the door. When he gets in, he starts the car and pulls out onto the scarce streets of the city. I keep quiet during the drive as we head north on Michigan Avenue towards River North. Looking over at him, he turns his head to me, questioning, “What?”
“Are you taking me to your place?”
He shoots me a wink, and when I open my mouth to speak, he shuts me down, reminding, “One day, Nina.”
Turning into the building’s garage on Superior, we head inside and onto the elevator. He slips a key into the punch pad before hitting P.
“You nervous about being here?” he asks as we ascend to the top floor.
“Should I be?”
Stepping over to me, he takes my hand as the doors slide open, and we step off the elevator and into an impressive living space. He has the whole top floor to himself, and as I look across the massive living room with multiple bucket accents in the vaulted ceiling, I note the architectural detailing of the modern design. Near solid glass walls that look out over the city, and against the far wall, an enormous Archlinea chef’s kitchen.
Noticing the stainless steel staircase, I ask, “What’s up there?”
“A private rooftop deck.”
“This place is amazing,” I say as I step further into the loft. For as impressive and spacious as it is, it’s warm and comfortable, a feeling I appreciate because it’s so far from how my place feels.
“Coffee?” he asks.
“Please.” Taking off my coat and scarf, I lay my things on one of the couches and walk over to the couch that’s closest to the large walk-in fireplace.
Declan soon joins me, handing me a mug and then turning the fireplace on before sitting next to me.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Since I moved to Chicago around two years ago.”
“It’s a big place for just one person.”
“Says the woman who lives in the penthouse of The Legacy,” he remarks with a smirk, and I laugh.
“That was my husband’s place since before I met him,” I defend.
“You like it there?”
“I’ve grown to,” I answer. “It’s only me there most of the time with Bennett working and traveling so much.”
He doesn’t respond as he takes a sip of his coffee and then sets it down on the end table. Turning to me, he says, “I want to know about you.”
“What do you wanna know?”
“What did you study in college? Did you work before you married? I want to know who you are aside from his wife,” he says as he angles his body to face me.
I cradle the mug in my hands, drawing in the heat, and answer, “I was studying Art History at the University of Kansas when my parents died during my third year.”
“How did they die?” he asks. He doesn’t respond the way most people do when you mention death. He never says I’m sorry, apologizing for something he had nothing to do with, and I appreciate that, even though I’m feeding him lies.
“Tornado came through and landed on top of the house I grew up in. They were found under the rubble a few days after,” I tell him. “I was an only child, so when I found out they had been pulling loans and a second mortgage on the house to pay my college tuition, there was no money. I had to drop my enrollment for the next semester and never went back.”
“What did you do?”
Bringing my legs up and folding them in front of me, I respond, “I was all alone, so I did what I had to do to get by. I worked various jobs to barely meet my rent and pay my bills.”
“So how did you wind up here in Chicago?” he asks.
“After a few years, I was just depressed and going nowhere. All my friends had since graduated and were moving on with their lives while I was stuck. I needed a change, so I packed up what little I had and drove here. No reason, really,” I say. “I had just enough money to put a deposit down on a small studio apartment and got a job with a catering company. I used to work these fancy parties, and as stupid as it sounds, even though I was nothing but the help, I used to pretend that I was part of that world. The part that didn’t have a care in the world, being able to wear pretty dresses and drink expensive champagne. A world I would never be a part of until I was hired to work a party for Bennett Vanderwal.”
“That’s how you met him?”
“Pathetic, huh? Kinda makes me look like a gold digger, but it wasn’t like that at all,” I tell him. “For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel so lost. And when he looked at me, he didn’t see the poor girl from Kansas who ran to escape her miserable life.”
I tell Declan this lie and the look on his face is that of sorrow, but the life he feels bad about me having is a life I would’ve done almost anything to have. God, if he knew the truth about how I grew up, he’d run. It’s not a story anyone in their right mind would ever want to hear. It’s the type of story that people want to believe doesn’t really exist because it’s too hard to stomach. It’s too dark of a place for people to even consider being reality.
“And now?”
Looking down at my mug, I watch the ribbons of steam float off the coffee and dissolve in the air when I answer with false trepidation, “And now I realize that I am that poor girl who ran. The girl he never saw me as. It’s like I woke up one day and suddenly realized that I don’t really fit in to all of this. That I’m no longer sure of my place in this world.”
Declan moves to take the mug out of my hands and sets it down on the table as he closes the space between us. Taking my hands in his, he asks, “Do you love him?”
With diffidence, I nod my head, murmuring, “Yes.”
When he cocks his head in question, I add, “He loves me. He takes care of me.”
“But you feel alone,” he states.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Make me speak badly of him,” I respond.
“I don’t want that. All I want is for you to speak honestly to me.”
“That’s what I’m doing, but . . .” Dropping my head, I hesitate, and he urges, “Bu
t . . .?”
“It feels wrong to talk to you like this.”
“Did it feel wrong when you were in bed with me last night?” he questions.
“Yes.”
His voice is low and intent, asking, “When did it feel wrong? When you got into my bed or when you snuck out of it?”
I take a moment and swallow hard before answering, “When I snuck out.”
His hand finds its way into my hair, threading through the tresses, and then he guides it to my cheek with his other hand still holding mine. With a faint voice, he says, “I want to kiss you right now.”
Reaching my hand up to the one he has on my face, I hold on to his wrist, close my eyes, and weakly plead, “Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
“Why?”
I open my eyes to him and say, “Because it’s wrong.”
“Then why doesn’t it feel that way?”
“Maybe it doesn’t now, but eventually it will.”
He drops his hand from me and sits back. I hold him off because right now he’s merely hungry and I need him starving—ravenous. I need him to fall hard for me. Harder than I believe he’s capable of right now. So I’ll keep him at bay for a bit longer because it seems to be working.
BENNETT CONTINUES TO call me every day to check in as usual. He misses me. Nothing new. Let him miss me. Let Declan miss me too. Both men, eating out of the palm of my deceitful hand. Mortal puppets. Foolish puppets.
The drive to Justice is a long one because of all the snow on the roads. From the scenic display of Christmas in the city, to the muted slum of the ghetto—I miss Pike no matter where I am. I take my key when I park my car and let myself in. The sounds of a woman moaning, almost theatrically, filter through the trailer from the bedroom. The squeaking metal from the bedframe composes the rhythm at which Pike fucks her. The curdling inside my gut is sickening, and I go back out to my car to wait for the chick to leave.
If you think I’m jealous, you’re wrong. I don’t care who Pike fucks. I don’t care who anyone fucks. To me, sex is disgusting. It’s a means to an end. If you’re not miserable, I don’t see the point. My body used to reject the act, rousing me to vomit afterward. Hell, sometimes I would throw up during sex. I’ve been able to sequester the nausea, but the dirtiness of the act remains.
