Burn Me Once

by Clare Connelly

  ‘What, Ally?’

  ‘He was trying to buy the painting for her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His wife.’

  The words are torn from me and I close my eyes for a long moment, not wanting to see what I know must be on his face. Judgement. Surprise. Pity.

  None of those emotions are good.

  ‘He was married?’

  I nod slowly. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Hell, of course you didn’t. You think I believe you’d get involved in something like that?’

  His instant understanding is the last thing I expected and it’s everything I need.

  ‘You’re not that kind of person.’

  ‘I’m not that kind of person,’ I agree urgently. ‘He never told me. He didn’t wear a ring. And he was so available. I mean, I saw a lot of him. His wife travelled a heap for work, and his kids were at her mom’s a heap of the time.’ I shake my head. ‘It doesn’t change the fact that I broke up a family...’

  Ethan lifts his hands to my face, cupping it and making me face him. ‘You didn’t break up a family. He did. And he broke your heart in the process.’

  I nod softly. ‘And not just because I loved him—I did, Ethan.’ Colour floods my cheeks. ‘But he made me into something I despise and that took away every good memory. I have no right to look back on any of the fun we had and smile because it was all wrong. All of it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs.

  And then he kisses me. It’s a soft kiss, gentle and slow. An apology and an explanation and it’s everything I need. I surrender to it, and in that moment I am weak, because my heart surrenders too.

  * * *

  Later that day my assistant Lesley pops her head into my office. ‘Ally?’

  I put aside the Christie’s brochure I’m leafing through and give her my attention. She’s holding a huge bunch of tulips—huge. At least one hundred flowers crammed together and wrapped in brown paper. They are my favourites.

  They can’t be from Ethan, can they?

  The very idea makes adrenalin course in my veins and flavour my mouth. I hope—and I know I shouldn’t—that he has sent them to me. And yet if he has? I’m scared of that possibility too.

  ‘What are those?’ Suspicion is obvious in my tone, my inner conflict apparent in the question.

  ‘Flowers. For you.’

  ‘Who are they from?’

  She shoots me a quizzical look. ‘I didn’t open the card. Do you want me to?’

  ‘No, no, that’s okay. I’ll do it.’

  I take the flowers from her with a dismissive smile and place them on the edge of my desk as if they might burn me.

  Lesley is hovering inside the door. I understand her curiosity. Occasionally I get gifts from clients—bottles of whisky or champagne, the odd paperweight.

  Never flowers.

  And these are my favourite flowers.

  My heart accelerates as I finger the card. Surely they’re not from him? Then again, how can they not be?

  ‘Are they from him?’ Lesley prompts breathily and I realise she’s seen it.

  She’s read the papers. She knows about me and Ethan.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say dismissively, sitting down without opening the card.

  And, though she’s probably still dying to know if they’re from him or not, she steps out of my office and closes the door behind her.

  I cannot rip the envelope open fast enough. I tear the triangular back and lift the card out, my eyes running over the neat florist’s typeface.

  Your immortal moral soul is not in danger.

  I groan, dropping my head forward. My soul might not be but I think I am.

  All my good intentions, all my boundaries, are crumbling.

  He’s leaving soon.

  Less than a week.

  I need to be strong and then I need to move on.

  That’s all.

  But... Ethan Ash is in my blood, my bones. I see him when I blink and I inhale him with every breath I take. He has become a part of me—and not just of me, but of all that surrounds me.

  I reach for my phone on autopilot.

  How did you know tulips are my favourite?

  I can practically feel him grinning through the phone.

  Lucky guess. What time am I seeing you tonight?

  I smile as I shake my head. I should say no, but the reminder that he is leaving soon fills me with something like panic.

  I finish around six.

  His response is swift.

  Great. Let’s do dinner. I’ll pick you up.

  My heart races. Dinner? And he’ll pick me up? From work?

  He texts back before I can respond, before I can demur. After all, dinner is not in our rules. And now, more than ever, I think we need to stick to them.

  Don’t worry. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just more foreplay...

  I put my phone into my top desk drawer as though it’s a lit stick of dynamite, slamming it emphatically shut. I should be glad.

  It doesn’t mean anything.

  Those words are important. Those words show that he and I are still focused on keeping our boundaries in place. It shows that we can engage in ‘high-risk’ activities like dinner and flirting and flower-sending-and-receiving and not run the risk of forgetting.

  Because it doesn’t mean anything. None of this means anything. It’s just fun.

  Panic is what I feel instead of gladness.

  I do my best to concentrate on work, but every time I pause my mind wanders to Ethan. To his body. His kisses. To the way he held me all night. To the way he made love to me, hard against the sofa, taking me from behind and playing me more expertly than he does his Fender.

  To the way he listened to my heaviest confession and held me tight. Better—to the way he saw past the facts and understood. He absolved me of all guilt with one simple smile.

  It wasn’t my fault.

  I couldn’t have known.

  I reach for my phone almost guiltily and load up Twitter.

  He’s still trending. My cheeks flush as I click guiltily into the hashtag. The concert videos are still going strong, being re-Tweeted and liked ad nauseam. But there are new photographs as well. Photographs of us.

  I stare at them and read a few comments, smiling—until I find the comments that are calling me a whore and other less nice things. Someone called @DreamingOfAsh really has got a thing against me.

  I push out of the thread. It’s a timely reminder of why I would never choose to be involved with a man like Ethan. The paparazzi. The fans. The pressure. The constant fear that he’d actually go for one of those groupies after a concert one night.

  @SiennaandEthanforever has commented on the pic: Rebound Fuck. I smile, pleased on some level that an outsider can identify us for what we are. Yet the smile is brittle, and I find that not all of me is pleased by the description, even though it’s accurate.

  Like watching a train wreck happening before my eyes, I click back into the comments. There are one thousand and twenty-three.

  He’ll never stay with her. He’s always loved Sienna.

  Dude, Sienna’s engaged to @TheRealTomBanks didn’t you see?

  Engaged...whatever. This is just to promote her album.

  Sienna and Ethan are made for each other. Always have been, always will be.

  I can’t look away. I click out of Twitter and load up a browser, and before I know what I’m doing my fingers corrupt my intent to remain uninvolved.

  Ethan Ash + Sienna Di Giorgio.

  I only have to type the ‘S’ of Sienna’s name before I’m prompted with the full name. I click and wait.

  In seconds my screen is populated with articles, blogs and pictures. I click hungrily into the first blog. It’s by a popular blogger who runs
a mostly benign site with occasionally mean-spirited posts about celebrities he’s taken it into his head to hate.

  Apparently he hates Sienna. And loves Ethan. Which makes me smile again—more naturally this time. The photo on my screen was taken in broad daylight. They’re obviously fighting. She’s crying, but still looking like a beautiful porcelain doll, and Ethan is looking pissed off.

  And sexy.

  For a moment I let myself wonder what they were saying, what their fight was about. I can see that Ethan is tired and angry and frustrated and annoyed. I can imagine the roll of his voice as he implores her to be reasonable. I can hear him as though he were standing in front of me.

  He looks exhausted, and I want to reach into the photo and smooth away his worries. It’s a silly fantasy—one that is out of place in our arrangement.

  A shudder runs down my spine, reminding me of the way he dragged his lips down my back, nipping me at the base of my spine before rolling his tongue over the bite mark.

  There are new photos of just Ethan, too. From today? Ethan stepping out of the hotel, baseball cap tugged low, covering his eyes. Head bent. Even in the still images I can see the swagger in his step.

  Desire throbs in my gut.

  I scroll to a concert video and tap to watch it without realising.

  It goes full-screen and I press the volume higher, then lean back in my chair to watch. It’s from the start of a concert. He’s walking on stage and the crowd is going wild. The noise is deafening. He raises his hands in the air in greeting and whoever is filming lifts the camera to the big screen, so that I can see his smile as he lifts his guitar.

  He slips the strap over his head, turns to face someone just off stage and nods, then strums the guitar. Once. Loudly.

  The crowd erupts.

  ‘How you doing, New York?’ he calls, and the crowd’s screaming is louder. ‘We’re gonna have some fun tonight.’

  He launches into a song—one of his earlier hits. I am mesmerised. I watch the whole thing twice, my heart throbbing, my body craving, and then my eyes lift to the tulips.

  Tonight can’t come soon enough.

  * * *

  ‘I’m impressed your attention span’s lasted this long. She must be really in good in bed.’

  I stare at the screen in frustration.

  ‘Is there a reason you’re Face Timing me, Sienna? Other than to show more than a natural interest in my sex life?’

  She swishes her hair over one shoulder—a gesture that used to drive me crazy. I can imagine the way it will smell, like flowers and vanilla. You know that weird way smells have of binding themselves to your core memories and triggering them whenever prompted?

  ‘We were together a lifetime, Ash. Am I not allowed to care about who you’re with now?’

  I laugh. An instant dismissal. ‘Not really.’

  I unbutton my shirt, my eyes on hers mockingly. There is a part of me that knows how fucked up this is—that acknowledges I’m playing with fire and that someone’s going to get badly burned.

  But it won’t be me. And I won’t let it be Ally.

  ‘So?’ Sienna slowly runs her eyes down my body, her admiration something she doesn’t bother to hide. ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘No.’ I grin, but something like pain clutches inside me. ‘It’s fun. A whole lotta fun.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  I lean closer, so that my face is all she can see. ‘It means that Ally and I are having a whole lotta fun. And that’s it.’

  Tears sparkle in Sienna’s eyes and my reaction is instantaneous. Guilt.

  What am I doing? I’m not this guy. I’m not going to flaunt it over my ex that I’m fucking someone beautiful and hot and sexy and distracting. What Sienna did is beyond forgiving, but that doesn’t give me a free pass to be an A-grade dick.

  Besides, whatever satisfaction I thought I’d get from rubbing my sex-life in Sienna’s face is non-existent. What I’m doing is about Ally and me and the way she makes me feel. Sienna is incidental.

  ‘You’re engaged,’ I say slowly. ‘None of this matters.’

  ‘I just...’ She wipes away the tears and her lower lip pouts. ‘I miss you.’

  Fuck.

  The words hit me square in the chest—like little missiles that pull me apart from the inside out.

  ‘You miss me?’ I repeat, pulling away from my phone and reaching for a fresh shirt.

  It is everything I needed to hear a month ago, and yet now those three little words fill me with a chasm of unease. I pull the shirt over my head and come back to the camera. Then I change my mind and pour a measure of Scotch. It’s two in the afternoon, but I don’t give a shit. In that moment I need something to straighten my head—or to un-straighten it. I need something to calm me down.

  ‘You don’t get to call me out of nowhere and say you miss me.’

  ‘Don’t be angry with me.’

  ‘Angry with you?’ Incredulity makes my voice sound amused when I’m anything but. ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘I was under so much pressure at the end, you know. The tour and the album... I think I might have...’ She shakes her head and leans closer.

  I don’t know if she deliberately pans the camera down but I can see she’s only wearing a bra and lace panties. I look away, the feeling guilt and betrayal of Ally making my breath short.

  ‘I took it out on you. I was such a bitch.’

  Yeah. She was. She was a nightmare. But that doesn’t change the fact we were together for six years, that I shared twelve years of my life with her—six of them as her lover.

  ‘We’d been growing apart for a long time,’ I say, trying to take my share of the blame. ‘We spent so much time apart. The end was inevitable.’

  ‘Was it?’

  It’s a sad question. One full of heartache and hurt.

  ‘You ended this. You ended us.’ I throw the whisky back and place the glass down a little more heavily than I should. ‘And you got engaged to Tom.’

  ‘That was a mistake,’ she says, and then she sobs.

  And those six years spent caring about Sienna, wanting her to be happy, damned well loving her, make me forget the hurt she’s inflicted.

  ‘Can we go back in time and fix it, Ash?’

  * * *

  I feel a tiny bit like royalty as I step out of my office onto the busy twilight streets of Manhattan and see a sleek black car waiting for me. Grayson is beside it, dressed in a suit. I flick a smile at him but then I look lower instantly, towards the heavily tinted window of the car, behind which I know Ethan will be sitting.

  Just like last time.

  My pulse is thready and I feel sensual tension running through me like a powerful car idling at the lights. One hint of green and I will pounce.

  I walk slowly, glad I made the effort to slip home at lunch and change into something fresh. I’ve gone with a black jersey dress that falls to my ankles, with sleeves which bell to my wrists. The neckline is demure, but it hugs me like a second skin.

  I love this dress.

  Small fact: I destroyed every piece of clothing I owned after Jeremy. Everything. Anything he had seen me in, and obviously anything he’d given me or touched me in—which was pretty much everything. I could no longer bear to associate who I was with who I’d been, and every time I put an outfit on I heard his voice. I felt his hands.

  It was, perhaps, the first stage of my eight-month-exorcism—the first step in preparation for this. The final erasing of the man I once loved.

  It’s silly, I suppose, but I like feeling that no other guy has touched me in this dress.

  I like it that it’s all for Ethan.

  That thought is running dangerously close to breaking our rules, so I fold it away and push a bright smile to my face. It doesn’t falter when Grayson opens the door.
>
  I move into the car and Ethan is there, overpowering me with his presence, all that I need, all that I can sense, and he’s just sitting there, staring at me.

  ‘Hey.’

  He holds a hand out and I reach for it as I step in, sitting beside me. Am I imagining it or is he frowning?

  I must be imagining it, because within a minute he smiles at me, and pleasure reaches right down to the bottom of my toes.

  ‘How was your day?’ I ask.

  He leans forward, brushing his lips to mine. ‘Better now.’

  ‘I have a bone to pick with you,’ I murmur.

  ‘Yes? What’s that?’

  ‘Flowers.’ I lift a finger in mock admonishment. ‘Flowers are expressly prohibited in our terms of engagement. Clause One, Part A.’

  ‘Ah.’ He grins as he catches my finger and brings it to his lips. ‘I remember. I’m revising that clause.’

  His eyes hold mine and my heart thumps, and I am grateful that Grayson chooses that moment to slide into the driver’s seat.

  ‘Where to?’ Grayson tosses over his shoulder.

  ‘The hotel?’ I whisper in Ethan’s ear, smiling conspiratorially.

  He laughs, wrapping an arm around me and holding me close to him, keeping me cradled to his side.

  ‘Belle Nuit,’ Ethan contradicts, naming one of the hottest eateries in New York.

  I’ve heard of it, of course. It’s just over the bridge, hooked into Brooklyn, with a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline—and Brooklyn Bridge.

  ‘Ethan,’ I say softly. This is another rule that’s being flaunted. ‘Why don’t we just grab takeout and go back to yours? Or go to Benji’s diner...?’

  ‘Because.’ His eyes glint as they meet mine. ‘This place is nice.’

  ‘Nice?’ I roll my eyes. ‘It’s better than that.’

  ‘Have you been there?’

  ‘Well, no, but I mean it’s the place...’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s breaking even more rules?’ I push, concern obvious in my question.

  ‘I’m leaving in a few days, Ally. Does it really matter?’