by Holly Hart
“I—” That...wasn’t what I thought he’d say. I fumble for a rejoinder. “My mom’s friend’s out there. She’s a smoocher. That’s what I’m doing here: hiding.” And babbling, apparently.
“Oh, yeah? Who’s your mom’s friend?” He hasn’t taken his hand away. He’s sort of stroking my face, tracing the shape of my cheekbone. It’s distracting—intimate, or maybe threatening. I shouldn’t be letting him this close, giving him the idea he can touch me whenever he wants, take whatever he—
He’s looking at me expectantly.
Oh. Right. He asked me a question. “My mom’s friend...uh, Francesca Lombardi.”
Jack whistles. “Seriously? How’d that happen?”
“We were neighbors, way back when. Her house was three doors from ours. She’s like my aunt.”
Jack shifts closer, drawing himself up. He’s playing with my hair, now, not quite gently, twisting my ringlets around his finger. “So you grew up having milk and cookies with the Harpy of Wall Street.”
Weak coffee and cannoli, actually, but.... “She’s not that bad.”
He thrusts his hand into my hair. It pulls and stings, where it’s twined with his finger. “You’re mine, you know.” He makes a loose fist. My entire scalp tingles, and a chill races down my spine. “My pick, I mean. I get the first year with you.”
Well...that was easy. Maybe. Sort of. I’m trembling all over, hot under my skin. I can smell him, this close: strong soap and Creed Pure White cologne—underneath that, red wine and sweat. He smells almost...edible. I swallow the irrational urge to bite him.
Too close. This is...too close. Too soon. I conjure up a brittle laugh. “What would people think?”
“Do you care?”
No. Yes. My head’s swimming: I feel drunk. I grope for him, meaning to push him away, but he’s so tall—instead of his waist, I find myself manhandling his cock. His very thick, very hard cock. The blood rushes to my face. I let go and turn to flee, but he’s still got my hair.
“Ow!—Damn!”
Jack loosens his grip and I back away, mortified. At least he’s not laughing.
“Well, that was.... Sorry.” Should’ve gone ahead and bitten his shoulder. It’d have come off less desperate.
“Aw. Let me just....” He brushes my hand away where I’m massaging the sting out of my scalp. I cringe, afraid he’s going to humiliate me somehow, but he only kisses the top of my head. “Better?”
“Everything but my ego.”
“I hear that grows back.” Jack pushes the hair off my face, almost fondly. He’s smiling, humor twinkling in his eyes. I don’t resist when he puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me around. “Time for you to rejoin the party.”
The party.... “Right. Yeah. Nice to meet you.”
When I don’t move, he gives me a push. It’s not rough—more of a suggestion than a shove—but I can feel his strength, coiled and waiting.
“We meet at Coney Island, a week from Saturday,” he tells me as I drift back across the bridge. “That’s the story. For when people ask.”
I nod, not looking back. I’m warm all over. A little dizzy. Maybe I should’ve gone for one of the others—Erik, with his boring blond flattop. Or Magnus, with his permanent frown. Jack’s going to be one hell of a distraction. If he’d fixed me with those bottomless brown eyes and told me to hop on his pole, well....
I slam the door behind me and press my back to it, breathing hard. I can indulge myself later, back in my own...wait. Am I even going home after this? Or did I just pass the point of no return? Is this the part where I get plucked from my cozy little life? Transplanted to a world of magically restocking fridges and impossibly shredded bedmates?
Should’ve asked about that prior to signing. Should’ve asked about a lot of things.
I peel myself off the door and head for the ballroom, suddenly exhausted.
Chapter Fourteen
Jack
Stupid dark thirty. Wake up. Jerk off. Shower. Move-in day today. Starkey’ll be all over that shit, after the fiasco with Anne and her million boxes of crap. I’m still policing her odds and ends.
Zero six hundred hours. Work out. Work out. Work out some more. Ten minutes in, I hit the zone. My world narrows to sweat down my neck, burning in my arms, the rattle and clank of weights. I fly somewhere above it all, not thinking.
Zero eight forty. Hate this scratchy towel, harshing my post-workout mellow. I drop it on the floor and rub the itch off my neck.
Zero nine twenty. Conference call.
Ten...thirty....
I’m not here.
I squinch my eyes shut. Bad idea. The smell of burning plastic and sulfur fills the air. Ash and concrete dust billows over me. I cough, but the air’s thick with it. There’s a second explosion—a deep, bellowing roar from inside the inferno. The blast wave hits and I stagger, sweat drying on my back.
It’s a dream. A waking dream.
I feel for the console. I know it’s there. It’s all there. My desk, my chair, my fucking coffee—I can smell—
Smoke, black and acrid.
I cough again. My lungs burn. I can see them, two figures running from the blast. Coming right at me. I duck into an empty doorframe. Shoulder my weapon.
“Charlie team, this is—“
He’s in my sights, tearing off his balaclava, and he’s one of ours. I hesitate. Surely....
My radio crackles.
“Sir?”
What? That’s not....
I blink, confused.
“Sir, we’re at the door. Advise?”
Starkey. Of course. Starkey. I let out a long breath. I’m clammy under my shirt. In need of another shower. I hit the intercom.
“Go ahead, Starkey.” Not a hint of a quaver. Good. I focus on the monitors, watching them move from screen to screen. Stella’s dragging a wheelie suitcase. Starkey’s got a duffel over his shoulder, and a cage in his arms. Birds. Since when does she have birds?
She doesn’t. Starkey went through her place twice. Accounted for everything in it. These are spite birds. Living things she’s brought into my home, expressly to annoy me. Bitch.
My cock twitches in my pants. Fucking traitor. He’s why I didn’t put her in her place when I had the chance. He’s why those birds are here now.
At least she looks nervous. She’s rubbernecking like crazy. Trying to figure out what kind of person I am by my decor. I smirk. Hope she’s getting a nice, accurate read on Katrina.
She says something to Starkey. I turn on the sound.
“—right back.”
Starkey nods. “Let me get these guys situated.” He stands on a chair to hook the cage to the ceiling. It sways lightly. The birds twitter and squawk. “All right. I’ll take you down.”
“I’ll go myself.” Stella starts for the door.
“Sorry. Can’t allow that.”
She stops in her tracks. “You what?”
“The regulations are clear.”
“I’m going to the 7-11. Not visiting the mole people under Grand Central.”
“Even so.” He holds up her jacket. She waves it off.
“All right, Jeeves. Salty snacks or sugary treats?”
Jeeves. I swallow a snort. He’s got to be hating that.
I follow them from monitor to monitor till they hit the lobby. Zero nine fifteen. Perfect.
Chapter Fifteen
Stella
There’s not going to be any safe haven. Nowhere to collect my thoughts, plan my attack. I’m practically a prisoner. I can feel Starkey out there, guarding the door. Wonder what he did with the super-sized sour Skittles I forced on him? Can’t picture him eating those, somehow.
For a prison, this place isn’t bad. I’ve got my own suite: bedroom, living room, kitchenette, bathroom. Even an airy solarium, stretching along the north and east walls. I can’t see any cameras...but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. I glance at my shiny new iPhone. There are apps for that, for sniffing out hidden bugs. But they�
�d know right away if I got one. They’d especially know if I did anything about it.
There’s always the bathroom. No one’s going to stick a camera in a bathroom. Well, no one sane, anyway.
I start to unpack. There’s not much to put away: most of my clothes don’t fit the dress code, and I’ve never been much of a junk collector. I stash my nightie under my pillow, and a bag of birdseed in the freezer, where it won’t attract moths. Already, my new friends are tweeting up a storm. Hope Jack can hear them loud and clear.
Shoes go in the closet; books on the nightstand. I separate one out for “bathroom reading”: a copy of Leopardi’s Canti. I’ll jot down my observations—on Jack, on the whole experience—in the margins. Plenty of blank space in a poetry book—and this one has the advantage of being in a language neither Jack nor Starkey understands. Hopefully, they won’t feel the urge to flip through.
After a moment’s thought, I grab another couple of books for camouflage, and pile them on the towel basket by the sink. I’ll wait for the first inspection, make sure they’re not disturbed. Then I can start my mission in earnest.
In the meantime, I’ve got the place more or less to myself. Might as well check out the rest of it.
“Headed somewhere?” Starkey’s right where I thought he’d be, standing at parade rest. His lips are kind of orange. Guess he did try the Skittles.
“Just exploring.”
He nods. “Front door pings me on opening. Don’t get any ideas.”
Sounds about right. “Got it.”
It’s a nice place. Tasteful, if a bit impersonal. Doesn’t quite fit its owner. Like he flopped open Architectural Digest to a random page, and went with that. I’d expected something post-war, brutal, all hard lines and points, but this is...bland. High-end office décor.
I take in a set of floating shelves, filled with books in varying shades of beige and tan, spines never cracked. A fireplace, free of ash. A violin in a glass case.
He doesn’t live here. Not in this room, and not in the next one. I drift down a wide hall lined with orchids on glass swings and taut-seated wicker chairs, unbowed by any ass. The first door opens on an empty study. The second’s some kind of observatory. There’s a huge telescope, an array of star charts—antique and modern—and a reclining chair positioned under an enormous skylight. So he likes stargazing. Or somebody did. One of the exes, maybe.
The last door’s closed. There’s a painting to one side, the only one in the penthouse. It’s ugly, crude, some moldy old ruin with....
My gaze lights on the placard underneath. Château de Tiffauges.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Bluebeard’s castle? So what’s this—the Room of Blood?
I reach for the door handle. It twists in my grasp, and for the second time I’m staggered by Jack’s sheer size. He’s looming over me like an ogre. Or...Bluebeard, I guess.
“These are my quarters.”
Of course they are. “Didn’t think you were home.”
“So you were going to snoop.”
“You’re going to. Don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
“Don’t you?” He closes in on me, lips tight. Not a hint of a smile. I can’t give ground now...though engaging him in a staring contest seems childish. Not to mention futile. Already, I’m lost in those smoldering eyes. I fish for something to say.
“What are their names?” He beats me to the punch.
“Wha—whose?”
“The birds you brought into my home.”
Shit. Hadn’t thought of that. “Oh. Them. Uh, Bella and...Padulo.”
He gives me a long look. “You should get them a bigger cage. It’s cruel, if they can’t fly.”
I look away, embarrassed. He has a point. And now I’m truly off-balance.
“I’m going to lunch. Want to come?”
“Uh...sure?” I haven’t eaten since six, and it’s creeping up on midday. I don’t even think to ask where we’re going.
Chapter Sixteen
Jack
Ha. Found a weak spot. Trigger her guilt, and she turns to putty. That could prove useful.
“Hope you like Indian.” I know she does. I’ve seen her Instagram.
She nods, glancing over her shoulder as Starkey falls in behind us. “Anything but IHOP.”
“What’s wrong with IHOP?”
“Doesn’t it make you sick?” She grimaces. “It’s like, I don’t know...swallowing pure suet.”
Well, cross that off my list of places to try.
We wind up at my favorite table, out on the patio, in the shade of a planetree. I lean back in my chair, enjoying the breeze. Stella reaches for a menu. I intercept her hand, skimming my thumb over her knuckles. “Let me guess: veggie pakoras, raita, and... How hungry are you?”
She scowls. “Starving.”
“And an aloo paratha.”
“Enjoying my Instagram, are you?”
She’ll have to try harder if she wants to embarrass me. “I like the jewelry posts better. Everyone does food.” I tap her foot under the table. “What do you do, go to Cartier, try things on, and blog ‘em like they’re yours?”
“Pawn shops, actually. I go for antiques. So Countess BeeBee doesn’t have the same shit everyone has.”
Not bad. But she’s getting too comfortable. “What’s she like in bed?”
“Excuse me?”
“The Countess. What’s she into?”
Stella runs her finger around the edge of her water glass. Stalling.
“You know you’ve thought about it.”
“Maybe....”
I stare at her till she meets my eye. Her cheeks turn pink.
“Hungry. Uninhibited. Devour you and come back for seconds.” She picks up her glass and sloshes the water around. “She’s...there’s not much she wouldn’t do. Doesn’t bother her what people think. Strap-ons, swinging, exhibitionism...she’s done it all. She’s waiting for....”
I lean forward. Fuck. I’m way too interested in where this is going.
“...for someone to show her something she hasn’t seen. Hasn’t even thought of.”
“Such as?”
She shrugs. “Fuck if I know.” Her foot taps mine this time. “It’d have to be kinky. Scandalous. But not just shocking for the sake of it. She’d need orgasms—lots of them. Spectacular ones. Wring her dry.”
“Well, naturally.” I sip my own water. Getting warm out here.
The waiter sidles up. I order for us both. Cheesy, but I do know what she wants.
“And a mango lassi,” she adds.
“One for me, too.” This is going better than I thought. She’s relaxing. Having fun, I think. Maybe that hard edge isn’t all there is.
“So, what’s with Tiffauges Castle, on your wall? You got a collection of your exes’ fingerbones back there? Maybe strung onto a necklace?”
Or maybe it is. I kick her a little harder. “Yeah. And a rack, and a Catherine wheel, and an iron maiden. And the biggest box of pears of anguish this side of de Sade’s pit of tears.”
That gets me my first real laugh. It’s a nice one. She throws her head back, gives herself over to it.
“Really, it’s just a picture.” I wink. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”
Stella turns a little pinker—not from embarrassment. Her pupils are blown wide, lips slightly parted. She wants me. She’s rolling her eyes, trying not to let on, but I can practically smell it on her. I finish my water, and decide to make her work for it. I want her panting for me by the time I take her. Wet and begging.
Besides, I might need a couple of days to dream up something...scandalous enough.
The waiter sets down our drinks. Stella starts a little, like she’d forgotten where she was. She clears her throat. Eyes up my tattoo. “Dog person?”
I raise my brows and leave an uncomfortable silence before answering, letting her know I’m on to her. She can change the subject, but she can’t hide her thirst. “Used to be. But—” –They die too soon. �
��But I don’t have a yard. Or time to walk one.”
She nods. “That’s why I have birds.”
Oh, liar! She’s good at it, too. I stare her down, wondering how much I really know about her, and how much is smoke and mirrors. Her background check coughed up the basics, but she barely has an online presence under her real name. She might have a few things in common with the Countess, but that’s not the whole story either.
She smiles at me, toying with her ringlets. I smile back reflexively. She didn’t wear her hair like that before. It was down around her shoulders at her interview. In a loose braid on her Facebook profile. The way she does her makeup is new, too: brighter, less conservative. This face is just for me.
I want the real one.
I have a year. That mask’s coming off, along with everything else.
Chapter Seventeen
Stella
Starkey takes a bite of his sandwich. He’s looking kind of glazed. I’ve been dragging him from shop to shop all morning, loading him down with books and wines and fancy soaps—bag after bag of the heaviest shit I could find, and all to get him to this point.
“How are your feet?”
He just looks at me. Wounded. Hateful.
“Aw. Sorry. Here: try my chicken.” I push my plate his way, expecting him to wave it off, but he grabs a drumstick. This guy doesn’t say no to food.
“Not bad,” he says. “What’s that spice?”
“Thyme. And a little lemon juice.”
“Mm.” He chews thoughtfully. “I like that. It’s tangy.”
“Tangy, yeah....” I watch him smother a yawn behind his hand. This is my moment. “So you’ve known him a while, yeah? Jack, I mean?”
He nods around a mouthful of chicken.
“From Blakemoor, right?”
“Blakemoor, mm.” He snakes another drumstick, like my one-time offer was an open invitation.
“How’d you end up working there?” That’s not what I want to know, but I’ll get there. Let him get comfortable....
