Revealed to Him

by Jen Frederick

  “It’s so much, Jake.” But I can tell he wanted to do this, so I don’t make the mistake of telling him that he shouldn’t have gone to such effort. I raise my arms to him. “Hold me,” I ask. He drops down next to me and gathers me up. Into his neck, I whisper my paltry thanks: “You’re never getting rid of me.”

  His hold tightens. “That’s the idea.”

  I lick the salty skin on his neck and revel in the shudder it produces. “Take me into the bedroom and let’s see how well your performance holds up.”

  He powers up to his feet with me in his arms and strides down the hall. “You’re on my turf now. Let’s see how your performance holds up.”

  The sad fact is I can’t keep up with Jake, and after the second orgasm, I beg for him to get inside me and when he does, I nearly pass out with the pleasure.

  He leaves me snuggled under the covers while he goes to use the bathroom. I’m getting used to having sex with him while he wears his pants. It’s actually kind of deliciously sexy to be completely undressed while he’s half clothed. It’s as if we’re doing something naughty and getting away with it.

  “Okay if I go downstairs to work?”

  I nod. “Okay if I lie like a slug in my bed and fantasize about you?”

  He grins and bends down to stroke my face. “Write down a list of your fantasies and we’ll check them off.”

  “How do you know that you’ll want to do them? Maybe one of them is you wearing a French maid’s costume.”

  “I look damned good in a skirt. It might be too much for you. Besides, we both know how that fantasy ends.”

  “How?” I raise a haughty eyebrow.

  “With the feather duster up your ass and my cock in your pussy.”

  I squirm under his hot gaze. “I’ve never done that before. Maybe I won’t like it.”

  His hand pulls down the covers to stroke between my legs. “Hmm,” he muses. “You’re getting turned on just by the mention of it.” He slips a finger inside me. “Let’s feel how wet you are.” I leak all over his hand. With a low satisfied chuckle, he withdraws and then sticks his finger into his mouth and sucks as if he’s trying to absorb every drop.

  God!

  I reach for him, but he shakes his head with regret. “Sorry, I really do have to go.” He bends down to kiss me. I can taste a faint hint of myself on his tongue. “Later,” he murmurs.

  With that, he picks up his knit shirt and tugs it over his head and is gone.

  Not removing his clothes does make it easier to fuck and go. I lie for a few more minutes in bed, making a mental checklist of fantasies before I force myself to get up. I spend more time exploring.

  There’s a completely empty walk-in closet and a bathroom with a shower/tub combo, a sink, and a toilet. The single window is again covered.

  Out in the hall, I find two other doors. One is the entrance to the elevator and the other is a storage closet. I don’t open either door.

  Inside the office/living room, there’s another set of shades covering doors that Jake had explained earlier led to a small balcony. I take a seat at the desk and click on the video feed program. Each feed is labeled and my computer screen is big enough that I can watch eight cameras at once. Jake’s place has a lot of doors. The back cameras show the small courtyard where nothing is happening. The courtyard must be on the same level as Jake’s office. The front door has two views, one of the stairs and one of the street.

  I watch the street view for a long time. Cars pass by. A cab stops and drops off a passenger, and I tense but relax when I see the person go to the opposite side of the street. A black SUV pulls up and parks illegally. The driver, a big man with a shaved head, steps out and trots down the stairs. Hurriedly, I switch over to the camera marked “TSE,” which I presume stands for Tanner Security Entrance. The man walks in without knocking. I don’t hear a thing.

  Jake was right that I wouldn’t even know that there were people below unless I wanted to. Part of me wonders what it’s like down there, but as more people arrive and leave, with me tensing each time, I’m glad I don’t hear them. Eventually I have to turn away from the cameras.

  I open my emails, which consist of a few fan queries that have been screened by Daphne’s assistant and then two emails from Daphne. I don’t read Daphne’s emails. I know what they are going to say. I answer the sweet fan emails and then open my manuscript because Daphne’s right. I won’t have fan emails if I don’t put out another book. And my amazing fans deserve more work than I have done.

  I force myself to write and then, unlike before when I’ve taken diazepam, I find myself pouring out words, fun words, fun dialogue, an action scene. I barely notice when Jake checks on me later, inviting me down to dinner. I’m too engrossed to break away. When I finally look up from my screen, hours have passed and I’m both hungry and exhausted.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  NATALIE

  The smell of coffee and fried batter lures me off the third floor, down the stairs to the bright kitchen with its huge marble counters. Off-white rustic cabinets run the entire length of one side of the long room, with a long counter space breaking up the storage on top and the bottom. In the middle is a center island large enough to hold five barstools. Across are more cabinets and all the fancy chrome appliances that a person would need and then some. At the back of the long slim room, a small nook overlooks the postage-stamp-sized backyard—which, by Manhattan standards, is actually sizable. Jake is ensconced in one of the chairs with the Times spread out in front of him and a plate empty of anything but a few traces of syrup.

  A girl is standing in front of a large six-burner stovetop pouring batter into an ancient-looking cast iron pan, which is a perfect snapshot of the townhouse—a blend of new and old but all sturdy, workable items. She must be Sabrina. The similarity in their features is unmistakable.

  There are no delicate vases or strange pieces of art that you often see in these more expensive townhouses. I’ve lived in New York for going on six years so I’m well aware of the price tag attached to a place like this. It is in the millions, could even be eight-figure millions.

  Oliver and I came from a solid Midwestern background, and while we have both achieved some form of financial success, there is an air of almost disregarded wealth here, as if Jake and his family have been surrounded by this environment for generations.

  Jake lifts his head from his paper. His super-soldier hearing, as I put it, must have alerted him to my arrival. He tilts his head in invitation and I trot over to his side without another thought.

  “There you are,” he says, stroking the back of my legging-clad thigh under the overlong T-shirt that I’m wearing. It’s his. I found it folded on the top of the tufted dark brown leather chair situated in the corner of the room. It’s mine now, but I haven’t told him that yet. “Like your shirt.”

  I lift the collar to my nose and inhale Jake’s scent—a mix of sandalwood aftershave, fresh soap, and clean sweat. My favorite new cologne. “It smells good too.”

  His full lips spread into a wide smile. He fists the shirt and drags me down for a long, wet kiss. It’s almost too long and too wet to be having in front of his sister, but I’ve found I’m pretty much unable to resist anything Jake wants. Who am I fooling? I want this too. In fact, I’d like the hand that is now gripping the back of my thigh to be down my leggings. I break away from the kiss before I climb onto his lap and start grinding like a shameless wanton.

  At least he’s breathing a little heavily too. “Get some dinner,” he says and squeezes me hard on the ass.

  I wander over to Sabrina. She’s taller than I had guessed from her picture, with a willowy body that probably makes everything she buys look amazing. She’s the type who can literally wear a potato sack and still look elegant. Today she’s chosen a pair of skinny jeans and a slouchy knit shirt. Her caramel brown hair is caught up in a high ponytail, and when she turns to greet me good morning, I almost stumble back at the beauty of her unusual blue-gray eyes.r />
  She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow and I give myself an internal slap on the face. Of course she’s beautiful, because Jake is beautiful. Their beauty is different but still the same. They have the same high cheekbones, but where Jake’s jaw is more chiseled, hers is softer. His eyes are a deeper blue and hers are light. But the slope of the cheeks and the full lips mark them clearly as related.

  “Hi, I’m Sabrina.” She holds out the hand that’s not gripped around her spatula. “We’re having breakfast for dinner. Is that okay?”

  I wipe my sweaty hands on my pants, grateful that I’ve taken diazepam, otherwise I probably wouldn’t be able to do this. Maybe I should be giving the drugs a little more credit.

  “It smells amazing and who doesn’t like breakfast?” A familiar uneasiness washes over me and this time my anxiety has nothing to do with my surroundings and everything to do with wanting Jake’s little sister to like me.

  “Exactly.”

  “Sorry I didn’t come down earlier.” I search for an adequate excuse. I was busy having sex with your brother, and then I got caught up in writing, so in addition to my phobias, I’ll never act like a normal person.

  She waves her spatula to indicate she didn’t mind. “Jake told me you were going to be out of it. It’s no big deal. Want a pancake?”

  I nod enthusiastically and try not to panic about what Jake might have told his sister. Oh by the way, I’m bringing a fruitcake to stay here. She might break down and start crying if the doorbell rings. Pay no attention to her.

  “Jake tells me you’re at Columbia. What’s your major?”

  “Business.” She sounds unenthused. “My mom was a lawyer and my dad was a banker. Megan, our sister, took the lawyer position and Jake was supposed to be the banker, except he joined the army. But he owns his own business, so it’s all good now. So I guess I’m going into investment banking.”

  She sounds unenthused and resentful.

  I glance over my shoulder at the table, where Jake’s head is buried in the newspaper. His left hand is curled around a hot cup of coffee and I watch distractedly as the left arm moves up slowly to his mouth and then down again. I notice then that the markings of this prosthetic are different than he ordinarily wears. The fairings are a dark gray, and the area near the elbow bulges out.

  “That’s his DARPA arm,” Sabrina informs me quietly when she notices where my attention is pinned. A quick twist of her wrist and three more perfectly shaped silver-dollar pancakes are poured into the cast iron pan. “It’s more advanced, but it has a lot of bugs, so he wears it only at home where he can shut it down and change it out.”

  DARPA is the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. I remember doing research on robotics during my first series and coming across a lot of DARPA-related papers. They were mostly focused on creating super soldiers, but one step toward a super soldier was having amputees test out various devices. Jake would be the perfect subject. He’s very fit and active. Plus if super soldiers looked like him, all they’d have to do to win would be send in a few advance scouts to ladies’ night at the local bar. The women would fall in love and then fight to keep their new lovers in their beds—

  “You’re drooling.”

  Sabrina’s whisper catches me off guard. Turning away from Jake, I wipe a hand across my mouth. Dry. I give her a mock scowl and she winks back at me.

  “I never thought I’d say this, but it’s nice to see you perving over my brother. Some girls are turned off.”

  “By what?” I can’t imagine that there’s anything about Jake that’s objectionable. Although Sabrina has known him longer, so maybe she’s privy to some terrible personality flaws. Lowering my voice, I say conspiratorially, “Does he squeeze the toothpaste from the middle of the tube? I would hate that.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Oh no, Jake is precise. He squeezes from the bottom and he’ll go into your bathroom and straighten out your tube from time to time.”

  “Oh, so he is constantly invading your privacy?” I nod. “That would really be bothersome for me.”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “He doesn’t do that either. And he doesn’t send people to follow me all over town or watch me, like his friend Ian does with his wife, Tiny.” The side of her mouth quirks up as she flips the pancakes.

  “Ian? Oh, Ian Kerr?” I’d read about him in the Observer. Everyone in the city knew who he was, and supposedly we were all supposed to mourn that he’d been taken off the market by some down-market girl who rode a bike for a living. I was more intrigued by his bike-messenger girlfriend, or wife, I guess, than I was by some Wall Street billionaire who bought and sold half the city. I didn’t realize that Jake ran with that crowd. I wrinkle my nose.

  “Don’t worry. Ian’s not like that. He’s down to earth.” She jerks her head at Jake. “He has a low tolerance for bullshit.” Then she sighs. “All his friends are amazing.”

  The wistful tone makes me wonder which one of Jake’s friends she has a crush on. I’ll ask him later. For now, there’s just something amazing in being able to sit down in a new place with a new person and not be totally freaked out.

  I’m a little anxious. My heart rate is definitely up, and one loud noise may have me scurrying upstairs, but overall? I’m pretty damn jubilant.

  Life at Jake’s is so much easier than I thought it would be. The house is bigger and while I don’t go outside, ever, the different floors give me a sense of openness and freedom that I hadn’t experienced before. I feel like I accomplish something by going from my set of rooms down to the kitchen and back up again.

  Sabrina flits in and out, going to classes and coming home to study. The only downside is that they have a lot of people ring the doorbell. Most of the activity is downstairs, but Sabrina gets deliveries to the house regularly. I hide upstairs and watch the delivery trucks on the computer monitor Jake has set up, and I don’t come out until they leave.

  Other than that, the transition is a lot smoother than I imagined.

  Four days after I’ve moved in, a blonde woman, slim and lovely, appears at the door. I take a break from writing and am sitting on the sofa contemplating my next scene when I hear the doorbell. From my vantage point, I watch as Sabrina goes to answer it. My office door is closed, but my heart picks up, just a bit.

  Sabrina opens the door and allows the woman in. The woman gives her a warm embrace that Sabrina returns half-heartedly. They talk and Sabrina disappears. The woman removes her jacket and looks around. She smooths her hand over the iron-and-marble console table in the entryway and then moves toward the living room, out of view.

  My breathing starts to escalate and I reach for my breathing bag, but my action is arrested when Jake shows up. I hear footsteps racing up the stairs and then a knock at my door.

  “It’s Sabrina, can I come in?” she asks.

  “Yes, it’s open,” I answer, but I can’t take my eyes off the camera. The woman, back in view, has her hand on Jake’s right arm and she’s standing really close to him. Too close for my comfort. She says something and strokes his arm. That’s my arm, bitch!

  “Who is it?” I ask sharply when Sabrina settles into my desk chair. She double clicks on the video feed and it fills the big monitor screen. I’m not sure I’m happy about this new, improved vision because I see now she’s beautiful, and even in the grainy footage, her skin looks impeccable.

  She has that very wealthy, very polished look of a woman who’s successful and well off. Her jeans are skintight and her tight top is short enough that a flash of skin shows between the tops of her jeans and the bottom of her shirt. She takes another step closer to Jake.

  “It’s Laura,” she answers, as if I know what that name means.

  “Who’s Laura?” I ask Sabrina.

  “His ex. He was going to marry her before he joined the army and then broke it off. She got married, while he was deployed, to an old friend of his. Then like a few months ago, I heard she got divorced and was wondering if Jake was single. That’s what Meg
an told me, at least.”

  “His ex?” The word tastes sour and bitter. “What do you think they’re talking about?”

  “She’s probably wanting to know when she can get back into his pants and he’s telling her to go away—I hope.”

  Me too, Sabrina.

  The fear that’s spiking in my blood isn’t anxiety based.

  It’s that I just found Jake and I’m not prepared to lose him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  JAKE

  “Laura, this is a surprise.” When Sabrina came downstairs to tell me I had a visitor, the name Laura didn’t immediately ring any bells.

  “Really? You told me that we needed to get together again sometime, and I was just in the neighborhood and thought I would stop by.” She holds out her coat and I take it. In the neighborhood, I think dubiously. Laura lives on the East Side and I can’t think of a thing that would bring her over here. It’s not like she’s taking the bus. I don’t think Laura has ever put her ass on a public transport vehicle ever.

  “Do you need some help?” I ask. “My offices are downstairs.”

  She laughs and presses a hand against my right arm. When she leans in, she looks like she wants a hug, or worse, a kiss. I step back slightly and turn to disguise the rebuff by draping her coat over the console table. She frowns and looks at the closet door.

  Oh no, I’m not hanging her coat up. That would imply I wanted her to stay. Today’s been a frustrating day—I’m not getting any closer to finding Natalie’s tormenter. Whoever ordered the clown hasn’t reused the email address, and the note is a dead end. Anyone could have written it, including myself or even, hell, Oliver. We’ve followed her ex-boyfriend around—the most boring asshole on the planet. He’s not agoraphobic as far as we can tell; he just never leaves the house. He’s glued to his gaming console. Two of her former coworkers are living overseas, another couple are in San Francisco. The others are living normal lives. No one appears to be a threat there. We’ve even investigated Oliver to see if there were any credible threats against him. Right now any connection to him is tenuous. The notes, the clown, are all personal to Natalie.