by Holly Hart
“It was my fault,” he says again. It comes out a little slurred. “I thought—I thought....”
I whirl on him, ready to punch his lights out. “What? What were you thinking?”
He wipes at his split lip. “That I’d rather avoid an uncomfortable trip to The Hague, followed by an excruciating—and very public—trial. For something I had nothing to do with.”
“You still think I did?”
Starkey deflates. I can tell he wants to sit down, but fuck that. I’m still furious. He opens his mouth and closes it again. Like a fish.
“Well?”
He lifts one shoulder in a pissy little shrug. “Maybe if you’d seen fit to confide in me before it was too goddamn late, I’d have an answer for that. Am I dismissed?”
I wave him off. “Fine. Go. Tidy yourself up. And if you raise your hand to her again—”
“My teeth. Your floor. Got it.”
That wasn’t what I said. “I meant you’d be looking for a job.”
“Sir.”
I turn my back so I don’t have to watch Starkey’s defeated exit. He didn’t ask for this either. Though I had no idea he was still so angry. It’s not like he ended up on food stamps.
I flex my hand. My knuckles are already starting to swell. Screw Starkey, and the high horse he rode in on. I made the best of a bad situation. Just like I’m doing now. Like Stella’s doing at the salon with Mary. Getting highlights. I almost chuckle at the thought. She’s not vain about much, but I’ve seen her at the mirror, perfecting those long black curls. Hope they don’t fuck up her hair.
I should go pick her up later. Starkey might be up for it, but sending him doesn’t seem fair. On either of them.
In the meantime...damage control. Magnus might be a paranoid bastard, but Erik can be reasoned with. And Magnus listens to him. Sometimes. Sort of.
I skip the limo and drive myself to the country club. Erik’s waiting on the terrace, drumming his nails on a glass of iced tea. He taps his wrist when he spots me. “About time.” Asshole isn’t even wearing a watch.
“What? I’m not late!”
“You’re not early, either.”
Well, this is off to a great start. “We hitting the links, or what?”
“Nah. We’ve already missed our tee time.” He leans back and stretches his legs. “I ordered us sushi.”
Okay. So, somehow, I’ve pissed in his cornflakes. He knows I loathe sushi. And these miserable chairs. And everything about this place, besides the golf. He’s done this on purpose: set me up for a smorgasbord of everything I hate. I settle into the stiff wicker seat. “Okay. What’s got your panties in a bunch?”
“Like you don’t know.”
Dick. “The Hamptons thing?”
He makes a tchah sound. “That’s not it, and you know it.”
It’s...not? What the hell else have I done lately?
“I mean, whatever. She’s been sniffing around. I don’t love it, but what’s she going to find? At some high-society bacchanal, no less?” Erik leans forward. “Screw that. It’s you.”
Me? I press my lips together. I’m not going to hazard a guess.
“I mean, the way you’ve been following her around—it’s pathetic. Like a lost puppy. Everyone’s noticed.”
“Everyone, huh?” Our sushi arrives. All uni and ikura. Because a couple of California rolls would’ve killed him. I flick a piece of urchin off and eat the rice. “Fine. I’ll bite. And everyone would be...?”
“Who do you think? Magnus. Katrina. Alicia and Mary. Half the guests at the masquerade. Everyone.” He toys with his chopsticks. “What’s so special about this one?”
“Nothing. She’s fun. A challenge. That’s all. I’m not—” I don’t even know how to finish that thought. What does he think I’m doing, falling in love?
“So that wasn’t you at the movies, the other week, letting her sleep in your lap? In sweatpants, with her hair all....” He flaps his hands around his head, indicating a mess.
“What—you’re stalking us now?”
“Just passing by.” He plucks an ikura roll and pops it in his mouth. Nasty. I watch him chew, trying not to imagine all those tiny balls bursting between his teeth. Seems to take forever before he swallows and licks his lips. “I mean, they’re your fucking rules. And they’re working great. What are you doing?”
My rules. Right. No therapists, no priests, no close friends outside the group. No entanglements. I close my eyes to keep from rolling them. I was practically a kid when I came up with those. Fresh out of the shit and blasted on Vicodin. It’s fine for Erik and Magnus. They’ve got each other. But they’ve been irritating the shit out of me for a while. One fucking adult relationship in my life—is that too much to ask?
I can still blow this off. “What do you want from me? I was tired. So was she. We saw a movie. Who cares?”
“Magnus, for one.”
Magnus. The thought of him getting his paws on her at the end of the year... I’d sooner eat here every day. I pick apart another uni roll. “So I’m a little infatuated. It’s temporary. A sex haze. Remember, I just came off a year-long romance with my right hand.”
Finally, he laughs. “There is that.”
I should leave it right there. But it’s bugging me, now, the idea of Magnus and Stella. Or Erik and Stella, for that matter. She deserves better. Maybe we all do. “What about after these three?”
Erik cocks his head. “I don’t follow.”
“Three years from now. We going to keep doing this through our forties?”
“Don’t see why we wouldn’t.” He’s really laying into that sushi. Talking around a mouthful of uni. “I mean, why fix what ain’t broke?”
“You don’t think it’s getting, I don’t know....” Embarrassing? Juvenile? “I mean, Stella caught on to us already. The more we keep doing this, the more it’ll stand out. And not in a good way.”
“Why would it? We’re not politicians or movie stars. Stella was a fluke. She’s, like...the society page from hell. But there’s only one of her.”
This is getting me nowhere. And Erik’s starting to look at me funny. I wave the waiter over. “Sorry—could I just get a sandwich? Roast beef on rye?”
Erik smirks. “Wondered how long that would take.”
My best friend.
Chapter Thirty-One
Stella
“No. Leave ‘em on.”
I snap the strap back over my ankle. “Like these, do you?”
Jack’s encroaching on my space. Crowding me toward the bed. “I’ll like those heels digging into my back later.” His huge hands descend on my hips. “You’re so tiny and bitey. Why not fit you with spikes?”
“Already got ten of them.” I dig my nails into the back of his neck, just hard enough to tease. He shudders all over. His eyes are dark with lust already, his hair in disarray. He takes another step forward, and another, bumping roughly against me when I don’t give ground.
“Tell me what you want.”
“Your breath on my skin. Your hands in my hair. Your body pinning mine.” I flatten my hand to his chest, digging in hard. There’s almost no give to those pecs. “All this....”
“What else?”
“Your filthy mouth. Your face between my thighs.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I rake my fingers through his hair. “Eat me alive.”
He forces me back, one leg hooked behind mine to knock me off balance. My knees hit the edge of the bed and I go down hard, dragging him with me. Jack holds me in place, chest pressed to mine, one hand cupping my chin. I tilt my head back, and he growls against my exposed throat, nipping and kissing.
“Don’t stop.” My skirt’s around my waist already, and he makes short work of my panties, yanking them to my knees in one swift motion. His leg moves between mine, the coarse wool of his pants almost too much. I clamp my thighs together, trapping him where he is. I wrestle one arm free of my ruined shirt and fumble with his belt buckle. “Too man
y clothes.”
He bats my hand away and unhooks his belt himself. His fly’s already undone, and he pushes his pants and shorts out of the way. Ravenously, I drink in the sight of him.
“Let me—let me see you.”
Jack pushes himself up. He looks shameless, rumpled and panting, muscles rippling with every breath. His shirt’s hanging open, and smeared with my lipstick. His lips are swollen from kissing. I guide his hand to his erection and curl his fingers around it. He starts to stroke, eyes fluttering shut.
“Keep going.”
He groans out loud as I trail the backs of my nails up and down his inner thighs. His free hand clenches in the sheets. Before long, he’s hunched over me, gripping himself tightly, breath coming fast and hard.
“Your turn,” I breathe. “Tell me what you want.”
He fixes me with a hungry look. “Everything.”
I push him onto his back. Jack snatches me by the wrist and pulls me on top of him, reeling me in till I’m straddling his face.
“Sit.” He settles his hands on my thighs, letting the weight of his arms pull me down. And then he’s devouring me, tongue dancing and thrusting between my lips. He’s not delicate about it, the way he probes and sucks at my clit, flattening his tongue to my folds, like he could drink me down all day. I find myself moving with him, hips jerking in tiny, quick thrusts. He growls, and the vibration of his lips has me moaning out loud.
I bury my fingers in his hair, guiding him just where I want him, and soon I’m coasting on pleasure, heat surging through me with every flick and dart of his tongue. Climax comes fast and frequent, one soaring peak after another—who knew he’d be so good at that?
He doesn’t let me go till I’m collapsed on one elbow, forehead to the pillow, wrung dry and gasping for breath. I’m trembling as I roll over on my back, fingers and toes twitching as he crawls on top of me. His cock’s throbbing against me, hard and slick.
I almost scream when he thrusts inside, every nerve ending jangling at once, somewhere between ecstasy and overstimulation. I’m boneless, quivering; he has to lift my legs himself, and wrap them around his waist. I cross my ankles and let inertia hold me in position, heels digging into his back, just like he wanted.
His hand hunts for mine, and I clutch it hard. He lifts my other hand to his throat, leaning in till I’m choking him a little. His eyes roll back in his head as he starts to move, hips pistoning roughly. I’m dimly aware of calling his name, and I want to hear mine, too. Want to hear him cum. I slide my hand from his throat to the back of his neck and dig in again, harder this time, wresting a cry from him.
“That’s right. Let me hear you.”
He makes a sound somewhere between a shout and a roar. I’m pinned to the bed, breath startled out of me as he collapses on top of me, riding out his orgasm in a series of harsh, angry thrusts.
At some point, I find the strength to shove him off. He curls around me, pulling me to his chest.
“Don’t go yet.”
I relax into his embrace. Our hands are still entangled, and I give his a squeeze. He squeezes back, with a sigh of contentment.
“Don’t fall asleep,” I tell him when I feel his breathing start to even out. He grumbles something unintelligible. “Come on. I’m starving.” I really am. This was supposed to be lunch.
“Now? Really?” He flicks me on the back of my neck.
“Mm-hm. Been dreaming of churros. And a bowl of that green chile salsa—no chips necessary. Just lead me to the trough.”
Jack laughs. “What are you, pregnant or something?”
“Right.” Come to think of it, I am late, just a day or two. Must be a side effect of the pill. Messing with my cycle. “Seriously, though—we going to eat or what?”
“Don’t you want to shower first?”
Probably a good idea. “Separately, though. One look at you, all...hard and slippery, we’ll be at it again.”
I scurry back to my room double-time, sheet clutched to my chest, but I needn’t have bothered with modesty. Starkey’s not in the living room, and maybe not in his room, either. The light’s out under his door. Come to think of it, it’s been a few days since I’ve seen him. And he missed the last inspection. Jack poked his head in instead, shrugged, and gave me the thumbs-up.
Maybe Starkey’s sick. I pause outside his room on my way back out, hand raised to knock, but I can hear Jack already. Later—I’ll check on him later. If he’s not up and about.
“Nice day for a walk,” Jack says, linking hands with me as we step out onto the street.
“Still feels like summer.” As if to make a liar of me, a bright red leaf floats down from on high, coming to rest at my feet.
“But there’s that smell in the air. That fall smell.”
I know what he means: burnt leaves and mushrooms, the sweetness of blackberries ripening in the park. A memory stirs, and I laugh. “Y’know, I got in a huge fight with this guy, one time, over whether winter has a smell.”
“’Course it has a smell.”
“That’s what I said!” The WALK sign blinks on, and I step off the curb. “The stupidest part was—”
An engine roars, so close and so loud it feels like it’s coming from inside my head. I raise my hands instinctively, freezing in place. Jack shouts, but it’s too late. A black Lexus tears through the intersection, against the light. I cover my eyes to avoid the spectacle of my own death, but instead of mowing me down, the car swerves in front of me, screeching to a halt inches from my feet.
I register two things at once. First, someone screaming—“Run! Run!” Second, Richard Nixon, grinning at me from the passenger seat of the Lexus.
I take an uncertain step back. The door flies open, knocking me on my ass hard enough that my teeth clack together. Pain blooms in my hip, in my side, down my leg, but that’s the least of my worries. A man in a Nixon mask is bearing down on me with murderous intent, crowbar in hand. I shriek and scuttle away, finding my feet by some miracle.
“Help! Jack!”
Nixon keeps coming. Jack shoves between us with a yell.
I turn to run, and my heel catches in a storm drain. My ankle turns and I go down again, screaming in dismay as a fresh bolt of agony rockets up my leg. There’s no coming back from this one. I throw up my hands to break the inevitable fall, but my knee smashes into the pavement anyway, scraping along the asphalt.
“Shit! Watch out!”
Something whizzes by my head. An army boot. There’s two of them—two masked men, one taking a trouncing from Jack, the other—fuck!
I roll away from him, but it’s not me he’s after. It’s my purse, shielded by my body when I fell; now cast off by the curb. He snatches it and takes off at a sprint.
“Jack!”
Jack glances over his shoulder. Nixon number one takes advantage of his distraction to throw him off. He piles back into the car, and they’re off, weaving through traffic to a chorus of honks and protests.
“That other one—” I can barely see him. He’s getting away, losing himself in the crowd. “—he stole my purse!”
“Ssh—don’t worry about it.” Jack’s kneeling beside me. “Don’t try to move. Did he hit you? Kick you?”
I shake my head. “No, just... I fell.” I yelp as he thumbs at my bloodied knee, brushing grit out of the wound. “Don’t do that!”
“Sorry.” He scowls at the cars skirting around us, blowing exhaust in our faces. “Let’s get you out of the street.”
“My ankle—not sure I can stand.” It’s already swollen and throbbing like an abscessed tooth. Broken, maybe. I lean on it experimentally. Something grinds, deep inside, and my vision goes gray.
Next thing I know, Jack’s scooping me into his arms. People are crowding around, now the danger’s passed. Wanting to help. Jack shouts and bulls through them. My bones rattle as he shoulders them aside. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, burying my face in his shirt.
“Just hang on.” He turns toward home, setting a bris
k pace.
“My purse—he got away with my purse.” With my notes—all of them. In the wrong hands....
“Relax. It’s all right. We’ll get you a new one.”
I bite my lip hard. Need to stay alert, gather my thoughts. My notes—was there anything there?—anything dangerous? The Nagler thing—was that anything? I have to get Jack to talk, and it has to be now, soon, before—
There’s a commotion as Jack pushes into the lobby—the doorman offering to call 911; Jack blowing him off. I cling to the fabric of his jacket. It’s too much, the noise, the panic, the pain—with the adrenaline wearing off, it’s threatening to drag me under. I hear someone whimpering, and realize it’s me.
“Starkey? Starkey, get out here!” Jack’s laying me out on the couch. It’s soft and welcoming. But.... “Starkey! Move your ass!”
No—no! Not Starkey.... I paw at Jack’s arm, shaking my head.
“It’s all right. He’s got training. From the army. Raise up a second.” I lift my head and Jack slides a pillow under it. He brushes dirt off my shoulder and plucks a leaf from my sleeve. “You’re okay. It’s just bruises. Maybe a sprain.”
I look where he’s looking and wish I hadn’t. My leg’s mottled blue from the knee up. A sharp red line vanishes under my skirt—from the edge of the car door. I can feel it, now, a deep ache stretching all the way to my ribs. My hip, in particular, feels...crushed. Tender.
“Shit—shit, that’s....”
Starkey’s bending over me. He looks almost as bad as I do. There’s a sunrise across his jaw, and his lip’s split wide open. So he’s been....
I almost black out as he manipulates my leg. Jack’s holding my hand, stroking my hair, but it’s not enough. Not helping. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep quiet.
“Not broken.” Starkey settles my leg on a pile of cushions. “You’re going to need a lot of ice. And some Polysporin for that knee.” He examines me critically, taking note of my rapidly darkening bruises. “How high up do those bruises go?”
“Not sure... Hurts all the way to my ribs.”
